The Wait May Kill Me

I have been watching cyclists go by my house ALL SUMMER LONG. Very soon I will be one of them. Now that I am very nearly a bike owner again, all I can hear through my open window is the shifting into lower gears or the rhythmic whur-whur-whur-whur as the stronger cyclists push hard up the hill towards Main Street. But I am aching to be among the ones just starting their ride down Bay Road, hearing the relaxed, steady whisssssssss as they coast down the hill.

I want to be outside. I want to fly over the road, my feet never touching it. I want to feel the cool humidity on my skin as I ride down tree-lined back roads. I want to negotiate traffic from 40 lbs of steel instead of 2,000.

I am sitting in my house wearing my brand-spanking-new helmet as I write this, with the anticipatory frustration of a kid who just got a bike for Christmas when there's 4' of snow on the ground.

Giles at Alternative Bike Shop says it could be about a week until my new wheels get here from the West Coast.

The wait may kill me.

My sexy, sexy new bike