I’m going to start this story with a statement that’s hard for me to say.
I missed brunch because I was hungover…
I missed the meal that makes all other meals look like Cheyenne Kimball ‒ good, but just not good enough.
You know I’m in bad shape when I say no to eggs benny.
When my other less degenerate friends came to pick me up a la 12:30 in the afternoon, I was finally ready to leave the dark enclosure of my bedroom and enter into the surprisingly sunny San Francisco air.
Because this was the first sunlight I had seen all day, I was hit with a sort of euphoria. I was alive. I was walking around. And I didn’t feel like I was going to throw up. It was wonderful.
It was in this state of momentary bliss, that the subject of a bike ride was brought up by my best friend’s boyfriend.
Ahhh my mind cut to the giddy bicycle scene in Wedding Crashers and I pictured myself as a Rachel Mcadams gliding along through a sunny golden gate park laughing as I swirled my bicycle along the road.
It seemed a realistic dream despite the fact that I was wearing the clothes I went out in last night (which consisted of a pizza-stained muscle-T with a cat wearing a crown, a flannel, and yoga pants) my hair was stringy, and I had last night’s mascara smeared under my eye.
As long as I didn’t look into any mirrors I could totally be Rachel McAdams doppelganger.
Oh, yeah. There was that other little issue of me not having my own bike and having not ridden a bike in at least a year.
But that shouldn’t matter, right? Riding a bike is just like… riding a bike. You don’t forget.
I am perhaps the only person to put that saying to shame.
If there was ever someone who could forget how to ride a bike it would be me. And it was.
I borrowed a bike from a friend down the street and knew right away that this was going to be brutal.
First of all, when I think of a bike, I think of a sweet beach cruiser that is lowered to a height that’s acceptable for an eight-year-old child. I’m talking my feet can rest completely on the ground and to stop I just have to push my back on the pedals. I’d say the tires are about two inches thick and belong on something closer to a monster truck than a two-wheeled mode of transportation. That is my ideal bicycle.
Of course, those are not the types of bikes that you find in San Francisco. I mean this is a city that has an entire biking community or road or whatever called the wiggle. They don’t mess around.
So, I borrow this bike from a very sweet and trusting friend. I see that in order to hold onto the handles I’m going to have to be bent over like I’m going to jump a horse or meet the Triplettes de Belleville and I’m like… well shit. This can’t end well.
Then there’s the whole issue of me trying to get on and off the bike when I have to, god forbid, stop. Because I have basically forgotten how to ride a bicycle (which NO ONE should be able to do) and my feet barely touch the ground, I keep trying to launch myself forward in order stop.
Half the time this results in my parts getting hit by the metal or the end of the seat. Not. Fun. So what I find myself doing is desperately trying to never have to actually stop and get off the bike.
This works for a while until we start hitting traffic lights and I have to focus on timing myself correctly so that I will always hit the green. Do you remember that episode of Lizzy Maguire when Gordo enters the slowest bike rider race (17:20). This, apart from the massive crush I had on Gordo, was one of the strangest parts about that show and yet there I was, imitating it.
Anyway, that was me at every red light. As for stop signs I just kind of went and prayed that no car would be coming at the same time.
Also, let’s add in the fact that I had yet to eat anything all day and was wearing nothing but a flannel as the fog rolled in and stole all the warmth the Richmond had to offer.
So, yeah. That was my sunday re-learning how to ride a bike.
And you want to know the weirdest part.
Now that it’s over, apart from the sore booty (i’m pretty sure it’s bruised) I think I had a really good time.