Phone Call Number 1:
- 6:55 am
- My husband called me.
- He explained something about having taken my keys that morning so he couldn't lock his bike at the T.
- Would I please use his keys - which include the bike lock key - to lock the bike at the T?
- Yes, okay, of course I could do that.
About five minutes later, I looked for his keys to add to the pile of Things I Have To Have With Me Before I Leave In The Morning Or Else...
Phone Call Number 2:
- 7:10 am
- I called my husband.
- I explained something about not finding any keys at home.
- Did he have both sets of keys with him?
- Yes. Yes, he had all of the keys to our life.
- At work.
- In Southie.
Actually, not a huge deal. I had my laptop so I could work from home. We live a fifteen minute walk from daycare, and we have walked before. Plus, I could grab the bike and take it home so it wouldn't sit unlocked all day at a T stop.
My husband suggested it would be fine to leave the bike unlocked for the day; I insisted it would be easy to take it home.
Because, after all, riding a bike five minutes from the T to home did not sound all that daunting.
The morning continued as usual except that Bug, Squish, and I got to daycare/school on foot (or in the stroller), which was very, very pleasant. It definitely was nicer than sitting in traffic.
After their drop-off, it was time to get the bike. I found it pretty quickly - thanks to the Kenyon College bike registration sticker from 1996. Yep, 1996.
Then I was faced with the task of taking the bike without looking like I was taking the bike.
I started by pulling on the bike lock. I thought it was unlocked (See Phone Call Number 1.), but I also thought that it was connecting the bike to the rack. So I pulled and pulled. About ninety long seconds later, I realized the lock was not connecting anything to anything. It was just on the handlebars - I could slip the lock off the bike. Feeling foolish but wanting to seem like I owned this bike, I pulled it out from the rack.
Next step: put on my husband's bike helmet. Perhaps this is no great surprise, but his helmet was a little big on me. Not unsafe big. Just a little roomy. And the straps to tighten the helmet were complicated and difficult to manipulate. In light of my fear of looking like I was taking the bike home, I opted for a loose helmet.
Helmet on, it was time to get on the bike and ride it home.
But to be candid, I have not been on a bike since the new millennium.
Nevertheless, convinced of the truth of the old adage, it's like riding a bike, I swung one leg over the seat.
I looked down at the pedals and saw each pedal had what look like a muzzle, which worried me because I don't think I have ever put muzzles on my feet - in this millennium or the last.
I put one foot in one muzzle and soon realized I had to put the other foot in the other muzzle, which was starting to feel like a bad idea. An idea that would lead to my very literal downfall.
In the midst of my foot muzzle quandary, I noted another issue that needed addressing. Galumphing along - only about eighteen inches from my starting point - alternating feet in muzzles and feet on ground - I realized the seat was too high for me.
Starting off for maybe the fifth time since I had appeared at the bike rack, I managed to get my feet on both pedals and to get going on the path home - albeit as a wobbly, middle-aged lady with a crooked, oversized bike helmet on her head, hunched over to reach handlebars that are about four inches too far away, while a neon green reusable bag from Habana Outpost was swinging from my wrist.