Bicycles and Me

I never really learned to ride a bike.


["WHAT. Howwww is that possible??? YOU HAVE TO LEARN Oh my god it's the best thing ever it's so fun and amazing and sooo many reasons bloo blee blah blah!!!"]


I know you were thinking it. Everyone in the world has that response (yes, that EXACT response. It's eerie) when they learn this particular factoid about me. What can I say? I know everyone is right. 


I tried to learn once. It was a rather ill-fated attempt. My dear friend Morticia (that is not her name, but it has the right number of syllables) tried to teach me during Spring break of our sophomore year of high school. We were spending the week at my grandparents' house on Sanibel island. The plan was that my family would drop us off at the bike rental place, head over to the Sanibel Cafe for brunch, and Morticia and I would meet them there. The distance was roughly half a mile. 

All the tables at the Sanibel Cafe have different designs of sea shells in them. It is completely charming. There was once a time when I could identify every sea shell.

Well...we met them there. OVER AN HOUR LATER. My most vivid memories consist of repeatedly crashing into the same giant hedge in a parking lot along the way. 


So no, I never really learned to ride a bike. Another, no less significant reason that I never really pursued this particular hobby: I fear death. I reeeeally don't want to get hit by a car. I know more than a few people who've gotten in serious bike accidents. But I will gladly acknowledge that this is just the teensiest bit insane, and not a good reason to write off biking.


But today I had a thorough change of heart. Here's what happened: 


I was all set to go to this new yoga class after work. I've only been to the studio once before, and it was the most challenging yoga class I've ever been to. I could feel an addiction coming on. I left my house with more than enough time to get to the studio before class, when some horrible quirk of the bus system and living at the end of line caused the first bus driver who passed to open the door, make a "You just stop right there, Missy!" hand motion at me, and yell out "I'm going home for the day!" before speeding off, and the second bus driver - who would have juuuust gotten me to the studio on time -- to pull over, open the door, and say nonchalantly, "You can sit down in the bus but I'm not leaving for another ten minutes," before strolling off to have a smoke break. Long story short: there was just no way.


There are few things in life as deeply infuriating as being completely thwarted by public transit. A bike would have gotten me there in ten minutes.


So! I have a new project. Wish me luck.

Lies I Told My Taxi Driver

The time? Midnight. The place? 4th & Geary. Hardly a seedy neighborhood, and I'm sure public transit would have been a perfectly suitable life choice. But when a cab presented itself, I figured...why not? I've only been in this city for a week, and I would hate to be one of those tragic "she was only in the city for a week before she was _____ed by a ______!" stories. And I am nothing if not extremely cautious about my personal safety. Some say paranoid. I prefer "street smart."


The taxi driver: Russian. Extremely smiley. With a big ol' silver tooth. 
"Your name...is Sonja?" He smiles at me through the rearview mirror.
"Yep."
"You Russian?"
"Well...way back when my family was Russian."
"You speak Russian?" Still smiling. Why isn't he looking at the road?
"I know one thing in Russian. Ya Lyublyu." [Why did I just tell my taxi driver that I love him?? Argh!] "My mom used to say it to me when I was little." [Yes Sonja, mention your mother!! That should neutralize the situation!]
"Ahhh ya lyublyu!" He grins & his tooth flashes. "Sonja. Sonja. Beautiful name. Beautiful girl. I love Sonja. Yummy yummy."


...Interesting development. I would have to say that "yummy yummy" was the turning point. It was then that I decided that everything out of my mouth would henceforth be a lie.


"Where do you go Sonja?"
"To my boyfriend's house."
"Ah. You have boyfriend."
"Yes. I do."
"You live in Presidio?"
"My boyfriend does."
"Where do you live?" [Jewish mother lesson #1: if a stranger asks you where you live...LIE.]
"The Richmond." [At least I was coming from that neighborhood....semi-plausible.]
"You have roommates?"
"Yep."
"How many?"
"A boy and a girl."
"Your boyfriend have roommates?"
"Yes he does."


And on & on. This continued for about ten minutes. In the end, he did not kidnap me and take me back to Russia with him. It felt very bizarre to lie so confidently to a total stranger. And...wait a minute, what's that faint sound that I hear carried on the breeze? Is that my mother patting herself on the back all the way in Philadelphia? That'll do, mom. That'll do.