Pete’s a cyclist. He’s sitting on the living room floor now, greasing a chain, and I’m not even talking dirty. Months ago, he tried out a friend’s folding bike and for me it was like watching a fish get back into water. With the end of winter, he feels confined indoors, as do I. Some time ago, he decided that for my birthday we’d pick out a bicycle for me. We studied catalogs and the net. Today, we drove all over Central New Jersey, looked at a handful of bicycles and rode a few, too. I’d ride a bike, then he’d ride it. If it was comfortable for me it looked like a circus tricycle under him. Finally, we found one in Princeton for a price we liked and the bike lacked a mysteriously femmy paint job found on most of the women’s trail bikes. The bike guy at the bike shop liked Pete’s talk about cycling across Utah and when it turned out they’d had the same bikes growing up I declared them separated at birth.
The bike guy will build my bike and it’ll be ready tomorrow. I’m so thrilled to pieces with the promise of getting outdoors I let them talk me into a helmet.
Pete: Go pick out a helmet.
Tata: I cannot deny my high-hair heritage. I can’t wear a helmet!
Bike Guy: This one is less than $100 and won’t obscure the hair.
Tata: I feel glamorous. Note my extreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeme beauty!
Bike Guy: It looks great.
Tata: I can’t wear that. It clashes with my maroon bike. Got anything in silver?
Bike Guy: Here you go!
Tata: Dude, that was eight feet off the ground. You should audition for Cirque du Soleil.
Bike Guy: That one’s got a visor. It comes off!
Tata: Pete, the silver helmet looks like it’s going FAST!
Pete: It’s going, all right.
Tata: See the thing that’s keeping brains inside my head?
Pete: Ah, yep.
Tata: It’s flattening my hair!
Pete: My dear, that’ll never happen.
The kickstand comes separately.