And to think, I almost didn't ride my bike today!
I caught up to it just past Wrigleyville (after scaring the pedestrians--they deserve it for walking backwards, drunk, into oncoming traffic), near Irving Park. There in front of me was a braid. From beneath a blue Specialized helmet cascaded a thick rope of light brown with generous streaks of silver. At the bottom of this 18 inch monster were gentle curls, as if the woman attached still felt the need to express some femininity. I'm not saying the woman in front of me was rough or manly, she just exuded woman power. Her age, I would guess, was 50. 55? No makeup. Simple pink t-shirt and khaki shorts, sturdy legs, and rippling triceps. They rippled. That's usually a word reserved for bulky trainers, or Olympic swimmers--physiques which she didn't possess, but I can't think of any other way to describe it.
We were still at this stop light at Irving, and after all of 15 seconds, she had already become my hero. I decided I needed a name for her. Jane Goodall. No, that's already taken. How about Dian Fossey? Dian went ahead on the green, and I stayed behind her. I learned from Wii Sports Resort that you can reserve power by "drafting," or riding right behind someone. That's probably a more useful device when traveling 40 mph, but I liked riding behind Ms. Fossey. At the Wilson light, I really wanted to tell her that she was a great alpha bitch, but I thought she might get offended. I mean, what if she was a granolian nun? Do those exist?
We passed Carol's Pub, approaching a difficult intersection. I have a tough time here, because there's a park to the west, traffic coming at you in four directions, wily children, and distracted parents parallel parking quickly because they're late for the game. This is an intersection where pushy bikers make careful bikers look bad. Many a cyclist flies through without hesitation. A mother with a stroller walks west as myself and Dian slowly creep north. The mother slows her pace, protecting her cub. What would Dian do? I'll tell you. She came to a complete stop and gave that mommy the go ahead. At this point, I decided Dian was a childless hippie woman who dedicated her life to helping orphans learn about nature. She didn't care about the new liquor and candy tax hike because all she eats is twigs and berries. While we waited for the stroller, I examined Dian's legs, free of spider veins and cellulite.
We rode on, passed young bikers, male bikers, road bikes, we were unstoppable. I knew this trip would be over soon. The urge to tell her she was a badass was overwhelming, but I couldn't express myself perfectly without the aid of my pottymouth. Would she be the type of woman who has a great recipe for oatmeal cookies? Or does she know how to change the oil in a 65 Mustang? Maybe she watches French documentaries. Oh, the fun times we could have together! But at the intersection of Clark and Ashland, near Gethsemane nursery, I almost lost her. For some reason, I let myself get hung up behind a very noisy Harley Davidson at a red light. Not Dian. She curled right around that large hairy man, and took advantage of the unspoken bike rules of the road, carefully advancing through that pesky red.
The stale green at Clark and Ridge was in my sights. I would have a chance to express my gratitude and admiration for Dian's braid, and legs, and ability to accelerate through a yellow light. This was it. A full, rush hour red light complete with green left arrows, and I said... I said nothing. There was room for both of us in the turn lane. I could have easily sidled up to her and at least said, "Nice pace." No, I chickened out. I was on the fence a little about going straight to the gym from work, but Dian pushed me in the right direction when I saw her bolt northward. My jaunt was done, her journey had probably only begun.
Go alpha bitch badass, go.
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