First, apologies for not having written in so long. Much has happened these past six weeks and I must admit I am a wee bit pixilated right now, between the demands of work and personal life. I thought I should at least check in so you wouldn't think I'd gone completely off the deep end. Also, I'm not quite ready for the deeper emotional stuff, so you get comedy relief--for now.
I went to my parents' house yesterday, on my precious day off (they have been few and far between of late, let me tell you), to celebrate my father's birthday, which was last week, and also to take possession of a new (or nearly-new) bicycle that belonged to my mother. He'd bought it for her on one of his bulldozer impulses--he thought it would be good for them to take rides together--without bothering to consult HER as to whether she actually WANTED a bicycle...a little while later, she fell at home and seriously injured her knee, which put an end to THAT ambition. So, the bike has been gathering dust in their garage for lo, these past twelve years, until I happened to mention in a phone conversation that I was thinking about buying a bike as a commute vehicle for work. Suddenly, I was summoned to receive said bicycle, complete with all pomp, circumstance, accessories and equipment below:
1 bike helmet
2 locks; a kryptonite and a coil (with stern instructions to use BOTH. at once.)
FOUR (count'em; he did!) blinking lights, two with VARIABLE speeds, to clip to self and bike for night riding
The owners' manual, hermetically sealed in a zip-loc bag along with--get this--
The RECEIPT. (Does ANYONE keep EVERY receipt he's EVER gotten? My dad does. No joke.)
TWO pumps--an enormous heavy old steel foot-pump (Gee, thanks, dad--I don't need to actually RIDE the bike--I can just use the foot pump to get my exercise!!) and a compressor that plugs into my car's lighter jack (in case I should get a flat while riding away from my car...)
A pants cuff-holder (so I don't have the same sort of hem issues I had in Rosenkavalier)
etc. (as in, I can't remember it all...)
As I was strapping on the helmet and cuff strap (I didn't care if I looked like a dork; I haven't been on a bike in fifteen years and my skills are more than a little rusty) and preparing to mount, my dad tried to fill my head with a steady stream of detailed information on the bike, its gears, and so on, but forgetting that he'd never bothered to give me so much as a rudimentary education in mechanics, and since I've not been bothered to obtain one since (it's on my to-do list, right up there with 'Improve spatial relationship visualization'...), most of his explanation about how one side of the handlebars, which has three gears on the grip, was the 'engine' and the other, with seven, was the 'drive', went right over my head. So, too, the warnings about registering the bike (with the paperwork that he'd included with the manual, mais oui), and making sure I parked right in front of my house to unload the bike and that nobody was watching me while I did, in case they might bop me on the head and steal it from me, and "Shift like this, no, don't do that--Jesus, you're as bad as your mom, no, like THAT, that's better, oh don't forget to get one of those tire pressure gauges, a good one'll set you back about ten bucks, and DON'T go cheap, you'll regret it, the brake pad's touching the front wheel see if you can get that fixed or else you'll ruin the tire--you can ask them about it when you take it in to get a tune-up..". My mother, as I was leaving later on, also grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear;
"PLEASE promise me you won't ride through the Mission District at night!"
Between my mother's over-protectiveness and fear-mongering, and my father's overwhelming anal-retentiveness and refusal to give me any time to actually retain any of the information he was throwing at me with the speed of a drill sergeant...sometimes, I quite frankly find myself amazed that I am able to function as an adult at all.
I had an odd sense of lateral deja vu, though, as I watched my dad adjust the seat for me: I remembered that as a kid of about 5 or 6, I had taken my older brother Jesse's old, seatless bike from the side of the house where dad had put it to throw away with next week's garbage, and taught myself to ride it. Probably fearing the hideous infection and scarring possible from impaling myself on top of the rusted-out seatpost in a crash landing (not to mention the embarrassment of having to explain to a doctor exactly WHY I needed tetanus shots in such a delicate region of my anatomy), my mom insisted that my dad buy a new seat and GIVE me the bicycle, so he did--a bright, sparkly purple banana seat. Now, thirty-odd years later, here he was again, adjusting the seat to give me a bicycle that another family member no longer wanted.
....which is why, in spite of all the frustration and therapy bills, I still love my parents and would do just about anything for them, including giving up my one day off to go through all this.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I am off...in search of a bicycle bell and a big, sparkly, purple banana seat. ;-)
RM
