The bike saddle, that is.
I made friends with one of the nurses in Vancouver who had the exciting job of taking my vitals every hour during her 7 p.m.-7 a.m. shifts and fetching random things for my pain in the ass room mate on the other side of the curtain. When I mentioned how I would miss riding a bike during my recovery, she inhaled sharply and looked away. A polite Canadian show of disapproval. After a few minutes of prodding, she admitted she didn’t think I’d ever ride again, given the psychological implications of my accident.
Well, I bought the Panasonic I’d been riding in Seattle from Sam and she shipped it last week. My palms still hurt from falling on them after being hurled to the pavement, but I’ve taken the bike out for a couple of short rides already. There aren’t many places to ride around here–the streets end in culs-de-sac or busy highways without shoulders–but there’s still something mildly freeing about self-propulsion. I’m a little worried about falling, now that falling has new implications, but I have an expensive new helmet and am so thrilled to get my legs burning. Even though it’s really, painfully flat here.
I have also learned that bicicletta is a Tuscan slang word for a loose woman. Don’t you hate it when your favorite words end up being euphemisms?