bike, saveth me from the clutches of fine-ness

i got a bike this past may.  as a true patriot, i do my part to stimulate the economy, however small.  anyway, i’ve recently (read: as i type) decided to call it … “bike.”

"bike"

a trusty steed, indeed.  we get along famously. i’ve put bike through the paces — although a biker’s town, phila. has true city streets, with all the potholes, trolley tracks, and cobblestone streets one could ever want — and, by and large, it’s held up.  when my little nightmare is over, i’m going to get bike some new handlebars and a tune-up.  i’m more than a little distressed to not have bike with me in austin (to think of all the lonely nights bike will have to spend in airless, inhumane storage!), i’m excited to give bike the kind of riding experience it deserves around kings county and other points unknown.

as you will note, bike has a maroon frame, with white lettering. this was my small attempt at showing school spirit. the little red clay hill has not only gone through me, but bike as well. we hum “i’m buildin’ me a home” when we start our morning commute. after a long day, bike wails “fix me” in the summer rain.

bike is also a fixie (no pun intended) — bike has only one speed, and has a ‘fixed’ gear. bike keeps my legs somewhat limber, as i must pedal all the time.  my legpower and bike’s single front brake are deepening their level of discourse, finishing each others sentences in a noble effort to make complete stops at busy intersections.  although bike was the largest frame available, my mangled but somehow elegant stumps need a little more space to really crank. raising bike’s seat would be in order.

in some ways, bike knows the experience of “other-ness” that i and some of my other sepia-toned brethren have curdling our milk and sweetening our tea at the same time. bike is hip; but to some, bike is too hip. bike is so hip that bike serves as some sort of indictment of its rider and the rider’s sensibilities.   bike is just a bike.  bike looks good — damn good, in fact.  bike deserves to be judged on the quality of its workmanship and the graceful lines of its frame, not its lack of seven to twelve unnecessary gears, or laughably fat tires.

bike, as a machine, has taken the place of a pet, which, for many people, would be a placeholder for a significant other.  well, let me tell you — bike is by no one’s estimation a young judith jamison or vonetta mcgee (circa the eiger sanction) or liya kebede.  bike is not in its mid 20s, fresh-faced, and long-legged.  bike does not have dimples or a husky, syrupy contralto.  bike cannot sing like mavis staples and kathleen battle and lalah hathaway in turn whenever the mood strikes it.  bike does not listen to andrew hill or robert byrd or roy ayers.  bike will not snuggle with me on the couch as i run my fingers through its fro, locs, or natural press. bike will not let me watch soccer.  although bike will take me to prospect park, bike will not sit with me on a blanket, with each of us pretending to read our dog-eared copies of some novel or another while really being too engrossed in a game of thumb war or i’m-not-touching.  bike cannot quote voltaire.  bike will not occasionally make fun of my many moles or incessant nose twitching, even though i hate it, because it finds it endearing and cute.  bike will not tolerate meeting me for a quick bite on power lunch alley near the office because i can’t watch that movie like i thought we might because there’s a meeting tomorrow morning.  i cannot go to bike’s opening exhibition downtown, or, alternatively (and probably), the benefit at the rainbow room that bike’s [fill in your social organization here] is holding.  i cannot “show bike off” at any of the several mini-homecoming events that aren’t quite like the real homecoming that occur up and down the amtrak corridor.  maybe i can’t show bike off since because bike already frequents the same mini-homecoming events; stranger things have happened.  i cannot host intimate dinner parties with bike.  my parents haven’t asked me if i’ve met the bike of my dreams yet, because i always say no. or maybe i already have, and, like harry, i will run back to to the new year’s eve party and lay a big one on bike (read: sally) after a really dramatic period of dialogue that borders on emotional vapidity but somehow moves me to man sniffles.

as you can tell, bike is a bit of a bag lady right now.  i put such a big load on it, and bike now suffers from the weight of great expectations.  ever since a cousin made it into a trace mag feature in the black girls rule! issue detailing the funky, tapped-in, down, soulful, irresistable, all-encompassing je nes sais quois of that which stalks the concrete sidewalks in fort greene, bed-stuy, crown heights, et al., and took me to the selfsame issue release party (summer, 05), i made a decision.  from the bedroom window of my cramped sublet later that night, i looked out upon the dusk diffused with the light from the bodega signs that lay beyond the low brick wall and tree cover of fort greene park across the street. i banged my fist against the windowsill where an air conditioning unit should have rested, mumbling to myself in my best texas blues voice, “here.  this is where i must find me a woman . . . here.”  i’ve had no occasion to eat my words in the times that i’ve gone back to that corner of the earth (almost always in the summer, which may be misleading, given the unique nature of the season).  i’m not sure why i staked my “future” there. surely, there are other repositories of beauty in a yet larger city.  i quickly deluded myself into thinking that they just weren’t the same everywhere else. the times that i’ve been in harlem (mostly to crash or be ‘observant’) were wonderful and life affirming — yet they were not the “same.”

i thought it was a phase. fast forward two years, summer 07.  i had to descend into the franklin C with trepidation and a pre-loosened collar, for i knew that, if there was not a reason for contemplation minding her own business while doing some light reading, a reason or five would surely appear before we got to jay street.  i took this as a matter of course.  first saturdays at the museum were no better — or no worse, depending on your point of view.  i foolishly considered squatting in the botanical gardens so that i could ‘bloom’ when the time was right and take in the view. the view!

bike will keep me on the upright path, however. bike is going to make an honest man out of me — an observant one. a respectful one. a non-obsessive one. a man with an eye toward other things, like buying art and college football and crate digging and starting a netflix queue and developing a bourbon selection and visiting my classmate down the street, since he is the only other buddy in the area with which i will be able to talk about mundane things with our legal stylist lexicons with a knowing snicker and a droll sneer.  i will have to bring a book with me on the subway and keep my eyes to myself.  go to my one watering hole, order the usual pint, pay my two bits and leave.  go to rose cinemas only on monday nights.  do anything to keep me from losing my bearings and gazing dumbly outside of the window of a few choice eating establishments, watching one of the many lives i might have had keep walking down the street, or, worse yet, snapping myself back to attention after hearing one of the many lives i could yet experience ask me if i would like a refill for my coffee.

i’ll say no thanks. i’ll pay the check, free bike from its stop sign hitching post, and ride away, thinking of the myriad other ways i could possibly spoil a perfectly good sunday afternoon.

-full stop-