Brown Bag Biking

One of the nice things about small town living is that you can get almost anywhere by bike. I had an appointment in town and decided to ride the mile and a half distance on my bike.

There are two genres of bike riders around here. The ones decked out in biking clothes and helmet with little rearview mirrors. They say things like "On your left" as they zip by in a blur on the bike trail.

Then there are the riders who bike because the Chevette finally crapped out or that fifth DUI was a deal breaker with the judge. Their bikes are on auto-pilot for the local UDF and the discount tobacco store. They wear NASCAR caps instead of bike helmets. Some of them bike with their water bottles wrapped in discrete brown paper bags.

I have an entirely different bike image in my Mind of Make Believe. Aqua blue bike with a cushy seat, easy to reach handlebars, a wicker basket on the front (with wildflowers in it) and a bell. I think it's on an ad for an osteoporosis drug; toned and trim middle aged woman pedaling her bike along a small town street with a bag of healthy produce peeking out of one of those baskets on the back. And the bell on the handlebars. The bell really factors large in my Make Believe Bike World.

Sometimes I get bit in the ass by my own fantasies. And I don't mean that kinky fun way we all secretly love.

I'm riding home and see a man selling sweet corn out of this truck. I want another dozen ears for the freezer so I stop to buy some. "This will be very cool," I think, "riding my bike home with my fresh sweet corn..." I like the fantasy so much that I buy TWO dozen ears of corn and the guy selling it is so taken with the novelty of selling sweet corn to the lady on the bike that he chucks in a few extra ears as he's quadruple bagging the stuff.

First pinprick in my cloud of fantasy....I don't have a basket--either front or back--on my bike. Mr. Sweet Corn and I MacGuyver the bag handles around my handlebars. Steering is now a bitch but I tell myself it's pretty much a straight shot home, I can just sort of lean to the right when it's time to turn off the highway.

They don't sell sweet corn by the pound and now I know why. No one could afford it. Thirty ears of sweet corn weigh about as much as a small child and balance half as well on your handlebars.

And somehow the ride home, the one that looked so level in my mind when I thought about it early this morning, is slightly uphill. I explained a few days ago that I am gravity challenged when it comes to uphill travel. My bike is wobbling with the hill effort and the effects of draft every time a car whizzes past on the highway. In my Biking Land of Make Believe the drivers cruise much slower. Probably so they can hear my little bell ring back at them when they wave a cheery hello. In Real World Time the cars zip by at 60 miles an hour which leaves them unable to hear the loud expletive I shout in their wake. I would give a one fingered wave but it takes both hands and some serious shoulder work to keep the bike on the road.

I know people driving by are looking for my discretely brown-paper-bag wrapped water bottle.

An ear of corn falls out of the bag. Then another. And another. I don't stop. What's the chance of being able to get this machine moving again? Each time my knee smacks the bulging bag another ear of corn falls to the ground.

I get home with 24 ears of corn and less of my dignity. I drop my bike in the grass and drag the corn through to the patio. I may have creamed corn in the freezer this year.

Back outside to retrieve my bike. I see a bike rider go past, a guy with a frequent flyer card from UDF. He's got a brown paper wrapped bottle in one hand, an ear of corn in the other and corn sticking out of each pocket. There's another ear of corn shoved down the front of his wife beater T shirt. He looks like an animated scarecrow as he gives me a wave with the ear of corn.

Make Believe Bike Land shatters as I imagine beaning the guy in the back of the head with my little bell. I grab a brown paper bag wrapped drink of my own to nurse my fractured dignity while I clean two dozen ears of slightly battered corn.