Confession: I stashed my bike in an astronomy lab last fall and only just got around to retrieving it. (Sorry, Dr. Moffett). But now, after a year apart, my bike and I have finally been reunited. The feeling is sweet.
My bicycle is a bright-yellow, super-heavy cruiser with zero gear shifts. It is in no way an energy-efficient vehicle — every time I pedal uphill, I end up screeching in pain or giving up to walking. (This is admittedly terrible on a campus as hilly as Furman’s, but hey — gear shifts were an extra 75 bucks, and your boy is on a budget). Any proficient cyclist would take one look at my bike and gag. But I am not a proficient cyclist — I once collided with a moving car while riding across campus — so I feel that my imperfect bike is a perfect fit for me. We have weathered storms together, this bike and me.
I spent some months in North Village two summers ago, but had since forgotten how removed it is from the rest of campus. I mean, without my bike, I would have to budget an extra twenty minutes in order to arrive anywhere on time. (Word to the wise for savvy freshmen: take Wellness as an underclassman. You will not enjoy the Herculean effort of getting from North Village D to the PAC). So far, my bike has saved me from countless missed classes and tedious treks to the gym. Also, old couples love it. I guess they like the cute paint job or maybe the little basket. It is an adorable bike, if occasionally unusable.
Perhaps the most triumphant moment for my bike to date occurred earlier this week when I was biking down the Promenade to Trone. It was high dinnertime; the freshmen were flocking out of Soho in search of DH cuisine. I, however, had places to be. As I barreled through a crowd of freshmen, I heard one say:
“Dang. She’s zooming.”
I was indeed “zooming,” as I was on my way to P2X to pick up a somewhat urgent shipment of bras (a long story that is perhaps better for another column). Still, I arrived just before P2X closed for the day, and I got to catch up with Russ for a few minutes after I picked up my mail. And hey — if that isn’t a great ending to a day, I don’t know what is.
