Saturday/Sunday/Monday:

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.

*sigh*

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…

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