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September 30, 2005
Critical Ass
Well, that was cute. The sitting sleep still in my car for fifteen minutes as a horde of Hipsters On Wheels swarmed around me. It had slipped my mind what day it was-- last friday of the month, i.e. Critical Mass-- and that, returning somewhat later than usual (I had to stop to get some Critical Gas, and also to put some air in my tires), I would be plum in the middle of it just as I started to turn left up 15th to look for a parking spot, always a Critical Task. Oh, I could see the glimmer of superiority in their horn-rimmed eyes. One man, cycling past to me, lowered his head and stuck out his tongue.
Apart from the irritatingly art-school-junk-store(-damn-I'll-never-look-that-cool) chic of the crowd, I don't have any strong feelings one way or another about the event. Yes, I know I'm "progressive," "a writer," and "infrequent taker of showers" who "has a blog" and "lives in San Francisco," in fact in "the Mission" that "bastion of hipster and Mexican." With a track record like that, you'd best bet on the side of my being a dedicated, community-loving, eco-aware, D.I.Y., proud rider of a '70s vintage Ladies Schwinn. But, in fact, no.
I did have such a bike-- hipper, in fact; an old white Peugot with a big wire basket. I'd ride around on that thing feeling like Odille, and then I'd fall. Oh, how I'd fall. Not in the serious-enough-to-legitmately-warrent-concern-and-doting-and-Vicoden style of the Tess (who if she hadn't already had my undying love and admiration would have won it on the drive back from the ER when she took a picture of arm in plaster and sling slung across her fantastic rack and sent it to her-- at the time new-- beau with the text message, "Ever done it with a gimp?"). No, no tragedies through which my Admirable Strength, Stoicism and Wit might shine. Bicycle, name of Rocinante, ever my noble steed, was a few inches too tall for me with howling, rusty breaks that never breaked. I'd fall at least once a week. With the exception of a few falls that left me with respectable bruises and one fall which busted my lip, requiring stitches, my mishaps happened slowly. I'd have just mounted or have just braked and ever so slowly, my bike would fall to one side and deposit me on the ground. They were the kind of falls that, rather than elicit the sympathy and concern from bystanders, caused onlookers to look away, embaressed for me, embaressed for themselves for witnessing such pathetictude, just all around embaressed. When I was finally rewarded with a flat tire, I never bothered to put air in. I just rolled my bike alongside my hip with all my books in the basket. It was, essentialy, wheeled luggage. When the basket was stolen, I abandoned it with the lock ajar. That was eight months ago. Last time I drove past that bike rack was about two months ago. Rocinante, poor thing, was still there.
But I digress; Critical Mass. I don't feel part of the cool-kid bike-gang that is Critical Mass, but I don't have anything against it, either. I'll even say it's kind of charming, in its way, so long as you are not trapped in your car during it feeling like a total ass. And I know part of the point is to choke up traffic to punish drivers for consuming gas (ok, they probably wouldn't phrase it quite like that), but, guys: it's a friday afternoon, I've just made an hour's commute from penninsula, and gas is more than three bucks a gallon. Now-- and here I am addressing you, Man Who Impudently Extended His Tongue In My Direction-- did you think I was out for a joy ride, because it is so much fun to cruise around on a Friday evening? Do you think I wanted to idle my engine for fifteen minutes and waste all that gas? I didn't
Posted by hissycat at September 30, 2005 08:15 PM
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Comments
That was a critical blast.
(Also, for some reason, this made me think of caltrops, but I'll be damned if I can figure out how to work that into my comment.)
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