Had the overwhelming desire to pen ode to my bike yesterday after seeing all the healthy folk riding out in the sun-drenched Philly world. Unfortunately, realized I’m no Shakespeare and the result resembled more of “there once was a bike from Nantucket” than a sappy love sonnet.
Was coming home from work when, at a stop sign, extremely hot LeMond rider with tasty tattoos crossed my path. Same yum-yum I’d chased last year on my complimentary-hued blue Zurich. Turned. Followed him. Followed him. Chickened out as visions of restraining orders flashed in my head.
Gotta’ get me some balls!
It’s hopeless, really. I’ll disregard perfectly good single male specimens upon discovery that they don’t find being clipped into a sleek piece of plastic and metal, flying like a bat out of hell with nothing more than a sliver of spandex between them and the asphalt, foreplay, and yet I’m too chicken to make eye contact with a perfect fantasy match! Pathetic…