More Fun With Bikes

My mom loves bikes. And jet skis. And four-wheelers. None of which she has. Whenever she's on one of these contraptions, she gets this look on her face like a six-year-old girl--gleeful and mischievous--and then flashes off, blond hair streaming out behind her.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" my brother asked me the first time we put her on a jet ski out on Smithville Lake in Missouri. As we watched, my mom gunned the throttle, zipping out across the water. We could hear her laughing from the shore.

We looked at each other. If we had done the same, she would have screamed at us to "Be careful!" That's what moms are for, after all.

"You know, I think so," I said.

Anyway, when my mom came to visit for Mother's Day, Tiffany and I decided to take her for a bike ride--indulge her wild side. That's what daughters are for. We were a little protective of her, though, given her propensity for speed. We had to pedal through the city to a ferry to get to Angel Island, a safe zone where we would have only pedestrians and other bikes to beware of.

Tiffany rode in front; we put my mom in between us, and I followed her. We were like a family of ducks trying to cross a busy street.

The first problem revealed itself early. My mom's rented bike had a finicky easy-gear--as in it was so easy it didn't work. My mom kept getting stuck in that gear. Her legs were pumping like crazy, but she wasn't moving anywhere. She looked like something out of an old Charlie Chaplin movie. Passersby on foot easily outpaced her, staring quizzically at her blurred limbs.

"I'm not moving!" she cried as we approached an intersection.

"Try changing gears," I offered.

Tiffany turned to look at us with a worried expression.

"Alright, to the sidewalk we go," she said, circling back.

Eventually, my mom got her gears to work in a way that allowed forward progress. We made it to the ferry and the island and rode around without incident, stopping to enjoy the views and some beers and Dr Peppers.

On the way back, though, my mom crashed twice in a span of about 90 seconds. First, she panicked when a group of people blocked the sidewalk ramp we needed to get down onto the street.

"Mom, use the ramp," I suggested, exactly as she toppled over a two-foot curb, jamming her left shin into her pedal.

Then, as we were still laughing from that, I saw another possible calamity.

"Mom, watch out for the trolley tracks!" I yelled, exactly as her front tire slipped into one. She went down like a felled tree, knocking her left ankle into her pedal.

After that it was slow-going, especially on the hills where the injuries, premature initiation of Charlie Chaplin-gear and laughter held us back a bit.

But we made it home. And when we got there, my mom pulled up her pant leg to reveal a pair of purplish bruises. And that, my friends, is what frozen peas are for.

Bicycling 101

Remember when you first learned how to ride a bicycle?

Remember how (hopefully) nobody strapped your feet to the pedals before giving you a push and saying, "Go"?

There's a reason for that.

Loyal readers will remember, I recently acquired a bike. It's fancier than any bike I ever owned because it has gears. Anyway, Tiffany and I took it to Mike, the husband of one of her clients, so he could fix it up for me. Mike knows everything about bikes, and, therefore, could tell in an instant that I know nothing about bikes. He is also kind enough not to point that out.

Mike put the right kind of pedals on for me after I bought the wrong kind of shoes (they were so pretty--pink! Also, they were on sale.). He made the bike more accessible to my short-ish body. And he put on ergonomically-friendly hand-brakes so I don't have to ride all hunched over like a pro.

What he couldn't do was teach me how to ride the bike.

While his worried wife begged me not to clip in to the pedals (I'd only clipped in three times previously), I clipped in to the pedals.

And then, to demonstrate how adept I was at clipping out of the pedals, I clipped out.

Or tried to. I couldn't clip out, and, instead of riding off for a bit to give myself more time to clip out, I panicked and promptly fell over, narrowly missing a brick wall with my un-helmeted head (Mom, I didn't think I would need a helmet on a practice ride.).

I fell in slow-motion.

No, seriously, I actually fell in slow-motion because it turned out Tiffany caught my rear tire in her hand and substantially slowed my approach to the cement. As I untangled myself from my bike, I laughed, the way you must laugh when you fall to let worried people know you are okay.

"I'm clipped out!" I called from behind the brick wall.

When Life Gives You Lemons... Squeeze the Sh*t Out of 'Em

Two nights ago, Tiffany picked a squished slice of lemon out of a ziplock bag and held it out between her thumb and forefinger like it was dirty.

"Did you use this and put it back in my baggie?" she asked

"Yes," I answered.

She rolled her eyes.

"What? I thought it probably still had a couple good squeezes in it--enough for tea at least."

By now, Tiffany is used to my bizarre forms of eco-frugality. She knows to check the power surge before she turns on the TV or computer because I've most likely turned it off to save electricity. She knows she'll find my dirty-but-not-dirty-dirty clothes strewn across chairs to "air out" when I think I can get away with another wear before I waste quarters, soap or water in a load of laundry.

And now she knows that I will save a slice of lemon, no matter how smushed, on the off-chance someone else can get a few last drops of juice out of its pulp. (She also knows, coincidentally, to re-use her designated lemon baggie--I hate to waste a gently-used ziplock bag.)

Once I put the left-over rind of a triangle of brie cheese in a tiny tupperware.

"What is this?" Tiffany asked when she was cleaning out the fridge a few days later.

"Oh, I forgot about that!" I said happily, reaching for a single cracker to spread it on. "Want half?"

World's Longest Party

Yesterday morning, Tiffany got out of bed a bit before me. A few minutes later, I awoke to the sound of techno music. It was 7:45. I went into the living room to find her sitting in our armchair with the paper piled around her, glaring at me.

"What is that?" I asked, glancing at our stereo. I couldn't believe Tiffany would be listening to music so early in the morning. Or that she would be listening to techno music at all, for that matter. But our stereo was dark as night. It wasn't on.

Tiffany gestured angrily with her chin at the windows behind her. I padded over in my slippers to look.

"Oh my god," I said. "Please no."

"Yes," she said, popping the A-section of the paper in fury.

Our backyard--the one we don't have access to--was littered with drunk San Franciscans and San Franciscans about to get drunk. They were all dressed up in ridiculous costumes. At first glance, I saw a cavewoman, a bumblebee, an 80s tennis player, Nemo of Finding Nemo fame and several scary-masked men and scantily-clad women--all that and more just three floors down. At least a dozen plastic tubs full of iced down beers were placed strategically around the apple and redwood trees.

"We have to get out of here," Tiffany said.

I took a deep breath to stop myself from banging my helpless hands against the window pane. Some of you may remember, one of the reasons Tiffany and I moved to this apartment was to get away from noisy neighbors. But mostly to get away from my angry reaction to those noisy neighbors. I couldn't get angry now. I had used up all my angry-cards.

We left the apartment as fast as we could scarf down some toast with butter and honey. On our way to the farmers' market, we passed Tigger, a gigantic bunny and a string of people dressed in faux-leopard skin.

"Classy," Tiffany said drily as we edged around a mass of people wearing one-piece lycra suits. They were chugging beer out of red solo cups at a bus stop.

"Woooooo-hooooo!" a girl shouted somewhere near my right ear.

We shouldn't have been surprised by the display. The occasion--an annual road race from the eastern side of the city to the western side--draws an amazingly diverse crowd of actual runners and people who tag along for an excuse to be naked or in costume.

When we got back to our apartment a few hours later, the yard was mercifully empty. Well, empty of people. It was full of trash.

Then, just when we were relaxing into the silence, the revelers returned. Our windows began to vibrate as the techno music came back on. I hate to reveal just how grandma-like we are, but, on a gorgeous and rare sunny San Francisco day, we actually prayed for rain. God laughed at us.

"Wow," I said peering down at the scene. "Cavewoman just picked her thong out of her butt. Like, I literally saw the thong come down from her crack."

"That man's peeing!" Tiffany giggled. "That man is peeing in the corner."

Indeed he was.

Classy.

You know what that say. If you can't beat 'em...

I'm just kidding. We left the apartment again and went to a movie.

*The party finally ended 14 hours after it began.

Moms Know Best (Even About Tiny Winged Things)

A couple of weeks ago, I bought Tiffany a hummingbird feeder. Aside from our crazy people neighbors, we have a few species of bird neighbors living in the yard space we don't have access to. We like the birds better--especially the hummingbird.

As far as we can tell, he shares the redwood tree with a family of noisy crows and a pair of mourning doves. The hummingbird(s)--if there are more than one, we can't tell them apart--fascinates us. So we decided to feed him.

Hanging that feeder, though, was a pain in the butt. We took turns leaning out our third-floor window to hammer it into the wood on the outside of our building. Tiffany was very dramatic about this:

"I'm risking my life!" she cried, her little toes gripping the carpet in our living room while she engaged her core (that's trainer talk) to hammer while leaning backwards out the window. "Hold my ankles!"

I obliged, but it wasn't so much the height that bothered me. I was more concerned with the (probably lead) paint chips flaking off our building and into our eyes.

After we hung the hummingbird feeder, we waited patiently for the tiny thing to drink from it. For a week. We were hurt and a little annoyed by his disappearance. We risked our lives, for crying out loud, and he couldn't even show his long skinny beak!

Then my mom came to visit, and all of a sudden the bird was back. Maybe as a special Mother's Day gift, I don't know. When he showed up on his favorite branch of the apple tree where he takes most of his meals, Tiffany and I dropped to our hands and knees:

"Mom! Get down!" I hissed "You'll scare him!"

My mom stayed right where she was, brushing her hair in front of the window with the feeder.

"You have to let him get used to you," she said calmly.

"Sure," we answered, crawling to her side.

But, wouldn't you know, while we watched, that hummingbird zipped straight up from his branch and right over to our feeder. He took a drink from each of the fake red flower spouts and then he peered in the window at my mom, as if to say hello.

The Wheels on the Bike Go (As Fast As I Can Make Them Go)

I bought a bike. Actually, Tiffany bought me a bike. A used road bike, with those clip-on pedals so that I can push and pull and be faster.

I'm very excited about how fast I can get places on my bike. But even if I wasn't, I had no choice in the matter of getting it. First off, it was my birthday gift from Tiffany two birthdays ago. The lag time between the birthday and the gift is my fault not hers. I had to get over my fear of getting run over in traffic.

Anyway, the second reason I had no choice in the matter of the bike is that, if I don't get the bike, I'm likely to never see Tiffany. That's because she has a road bike, and she wants to start riding it actual long distances to train for triathlons and such. We know this couple--the husband does Ironman triathlons, and he's gone so much on long rides that his wife basically only sees him at transition points of aforementioned triathlons.

I can just see it:

"Hi Tiffany! Here's your helmet! Love you!"

"Hi Tiffany! Here are your running shoes! Love you!"

I'm sorry, but I need more face time than that. So I see the bike as an investment in our future together. I bike therefore I see my girlfriend. Now, it may be that all I see of my girlfriend is her cute little butt pedaling away from me since Tiffany is infinitely faster than I am (at least for now--I'm only just learning how to clip in and out of my new pedals).

But at least that's seeing something.

Stuck in the Middle With You (Or Not)

It was so gorgeous here the other night that when Tiffany and I got home from work we decided to go for a walk to enjoy the long-lingering sunshine. And then we promptly got in a fight about how to use my dwindling supply of vacation days. It was sad, really, to waste such a beautiful evening on such a small (literally) and pleasant issue, but what could we do? Sometimes we fight.

I decided to stand my ground on principle AND to make a symbolic display of that stand by only meeting Tiffany half-way across the space that opened up between us at the apex of our argument.

Unfortunately, the space between us was an intersection.

I boldly stepped across to the half-way point.

"I'm only going this far!" I called to Tiffany on the other side of the street.

She didn't hear me over the roar of oncoming traffic.

I looked nervously to my right and left to see the approaching cars.

"I'm only going this far!?" I repeated, nervously.

Tiffany turned to look at me. She was smiling.

That was all I needed. With a little wave of apology to the waiting cars, I scuttled the rest of the way to her.

Sometimes it's good to stand your ground.

And sometimes it's better to give it right up and cross the street.

The Contested Cookie

Tiffany and I split everything right down the middle. Bills, chores, meals we share at restaurants, and, as it turns out, cookies.

Our evenhandedness is annoying sometimes. To other people and, quite frankly, to us. Sometimes we each order one thing and go half-and-half. Or, if we're not too hungry, we'll share one thing. We pass our plates back and forth, splitting a piece of cake or an omelet or an order of pancakes bite by bite until it's impossible to split the bite any further:

"You take it," I say, pushing the plate back to Tiffany's side.

"I couldn't possibly," Tiffany replies, politely shoving it back to me.

"No, seriously, babe, it's yours."

At which point our fellow diners begin to give us dirty looks and, finally, one of us becomes so irritated by the other's generousity that we stab the piece with our fork:

"Mmmm, great, thanks... check please!"

Once Tiffany and I passed an apple back and forth after my good family friend Brett picked us up at the airport for the Thanksgiving holiday. He raised his eyebrow at us.

"Want a bite?" I asked, thinking he was hungry.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Are you really sharing an apple? You couldn't each eat your own?"

Our opposite-sex couple friends tell us this sharing does not fly in their relationships because the men unconsciously eat more than their fair share. I've seen wives elbow husbands out of their plate-zone before.

The other night Tiffany and I baked four tiny cookies (this is a simple mind-trick--who wants to eat just one cookie? And yet, who wants to feel guilty about eating more than one? We make two that add up to one, problem solved.). I put them on a plate between us while we searched for affordable flights to see our families. Distracted, we lost track of our cookie count. At one point, we both reached down for the remaining cookie.

"Oh!" I said. "Is that yours?"

"Did I eat two?" Tiffany asked. "I don't think so."

"I don't think I did either," I said, not willing to relinquish my claim to the last tiny cookie either.

"Maybe I did..." we both said, speaking over reach other. "You take it."

Would you believe that cookie sat there uneaten while we both stubbornly refused to eat it out of the goodness of our hearts?

Well, for about 10 minutes anyway. After that amount of time, I considered the cookie totally fair game and ate it.*

*The pictured cookie is not one of our homemade tiny cookies. It is one of the cookies that came in a package that came in one of the baskets the E.B. left us last weekend.