1.03.2005
bikers
The following post was written offline and added later with a revised timestamp
So I’m meeting my friend Sarah for coffee at a delightful Starbucks in Concord, Massachusetts. Concord’s a beautiful place: it’s bordered by Lincoln, which is my own hometown, and both towns are classically gorgeous New England hamlets with narrow roads winding through rolling hills, and autumn foliage like you wouldn’t believe. On the border between Concord and Lincoln is Thoreau’s own Walden Pond, which is as picturesque as it must have been in his day, except for the parking lot and visitor’s center. All else, though, is lovely.
Which is what brings bikers to this nice suburban haven: not the Hell’s Angels bikers, no. I mean the eco- or health-conscious freaks who ride their bicycles and wear their lycra and tend to congregate in packs of four or more. Occasionally, there is the single biker, who is out for a nice ride, but invariably this one is a local. Today, on my way to Starbucks, I found myself behind a quintet of these out-of-town scenery addicts who were obviously friends, as they clumped together as they rode, slowly, through the above-mentioned narrow and winding roads. I was very effectively trapped behind them as they continued, quite oblivious to what they were doing. When you’re riding along on a nice road with your friends and there aren’t any cars coming in any direction, I don’t care if you ride five abreast and block traffic in both directions: you effectively own the road. But if, for any reason there are cars coming up from behind, the courteous and SAFE thing to do would be to fan into a single-file line and to allow cars to pass. Instead, these muppets stayed in the middle of the lane riding two and sometimes three wide, forcing me to follow at a snail’s pace for approximately two miles.
When I was in high school, I played bassoon in a music festival on Cape Cod, for which I stayed with a host family who, incidentally, manufactured their own jerky by salting and dehydrating generous inch-and-a-half thick cuts of prime steak – heartbreaking. Once, their father was out on his own, just cycling for his daily exercise when a couple of locals who’d decided that they’d had it with out-of-town bikers came up behind him in a pickup truck and leaned out the passenger side window and whacked him in the head with a rolled up newspaper. He got their license plate number, though, so all ended up well. I was sorely tempted today, but although I was driving a pickup trip, I did not have another passenger who might be so kind as to lean out the window to deliver the blow.
So back to the peanuts for a moment: one paltry pound of dry-roasted peanuts was hardly enough to satisfy my craving, so I went back to the store for another quick fix. And wouldn’t you know it, I picked up the wrong jar, not noticing until I’d gotten home and hurredly downed a handful of lightly salted dry roasted peanuts. Ruin.
Or, as my friend Graham would say, in imitation of countless cartoon villains, curses! I mention Graham because I was in Border’s yesterday and I came across a book that he’d been telling me about this past summer: Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader, Political Edition, for which he is a contributor. Very cool, Graham: you’d have a tip of my hat, if I were wearing a hat.
Oh, and I met this girl, right? A long time ago, and we dated for a while, and then I was stupid and dumped her. And then we kinda-sorta got back together, but I wouldn’t commit even to calling her my girlfriend, and she got fed up with my using her as an emotional crutch, and she dumped me. We have since stayed the best of friends, and despite having dated other people in the interim, we never really got over each other in full. Like I said, I got dumped for not committing myself to having her as a girlfriend. And I’m not making that mistake again. Introducing my best friend in the whole world, and my new girlfriend, Diana. :)
So I’m meeting my friend Sarah for coffee at a delightful Starbucks in Concord, Massachusetts. Concord’s a beautiful place: it’s bordered by Lincoln, which is my own hometown, and both towns are classically gorgeous New England hamlets with narrow roads winding through rolling hills, and autumn foliage like you wouldn’t believe. On the border between Concord and Lincoln is Thoreau’s own Walden Pond, which is as picturesque as it must have been in his day, except for the parking lot and visitor’s center. All else, though, is lovely.
Which is what brings bikers to this nice suburban haven: not the Hell’s Angels bikers, no. I mean the eco- or health-conscious freaks who ride their bicycles and wear their lycra and tend to congregate in packs of four or more. Occasionally, there is the single biker, who is out for a nice ride, but invariably this one is a local. Today, on my way to Starbucks, I found myself behind a quintet of these out-of-town scenery addicts who were obviously friends, as they clumped together as they rode, slowly, through the above-mentioned narrow and winding roads. I was very effectively trapped behind them as they continued, quite oblivious to what they were doing. When you’re riding along on a nice road with your friends and there aren’t any cars coming in any direction, I don’t care if you ride five abreast and block traffic in both directions: you effectively own the road. But if, for any reason there are cars coming up from behind, the courteous and SAFE thing to do would be to fan into a single-file line and to allow cars to pass. Instead, these muppets stayed in the middle of the lane riding two and sometimes three wide, forcing me to follow at a snail’s pace for approximately two miles.
When I was in high school, I played bassoon in a music festival on Cape Cod, for which I stayed with a host family who, incidentally, manufactured their own jerky by salting and dehydrating generous inch-and-a-half thick cuts of prime steak – heartbreaking. Once, their father was out on his own, just cycling for his daily exercise when a couple of locals who’d decided that they’d had it with out-of-town bikers came up behind him in a pickup truck and leaned out the passenger side window and whacked him in the head with a rolled up newspaper. He got their license plate number, though, so all ended up well. I was sorely tempted today, but although I was driving a pickup trip, I did not have another passenger who might be so kind as to lean out the window to deliver the blow.
So back to the peanuts for a moment: one paltry pound of dry-roasted peanuts was hardly enough to satisfy my craving, so I went back to the store for another quick fix. And wouldn’t you know it, I picked up the wrong jar, not noticing until I’d gotten home and hurredly downed a handful of lightly salted dry roasted peanuts. Ruin.
Or, as my friend Graham would say, in imitation of countless cartoon villains, curses! I mention Graham because I was in Border’s yesterday and I came across a book that he’d been telling me about this past summer: Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader, Political Edition, for which he is a contributor. Very cool, Graham: you’d have a tip of my hat, if I were wearing a hat.
Oh, and I met this girl, right? A long time ago, and we dated for a while, and then I was stupid and dumped her. And then we kinda-sorta got back together, but I wouldn’t commit even to calling her my girlfriend, and she got fed up with my using her as an emotional crutch, and she dumped me. We have since stayed the best of friends, and despite having dated other people in the interim, we never really got over each other in full. Like I said, I got dumped for not committing myself to having her as a girlfriend. And I’m not making that mistake again. Introducing my best friend in the whole world, and my new girlfriend, Diana. :)
