Stop the Presses column by Chris Graham
I haven’t wrecked yet.
(The sound that you hear right now is me knocking on wood.)
But that’s not the best news related to me recently purchasing a bike.
This is: I’m finally over the saddle sores.
(Now there’s a visual that you didn’t need.)
Yes, ladies and germs, I’m officially a kid again.
The missus and I both bought bikes a couple of weeks back – after threatening to for, oh, the past several years.
“If we don’t do it now,” the wife said as we marched through the Wal-Mart with our bikes at our sides, “we never will.”
As if you needed me to tell you this, no, Lance Armstrong has nothing to worry about with respect to his record at the Tour de France.
I’ve gotten up to being able to bike 12 miles virtually nonstop – which is saying something, considering where I live.
For those who haven’t been to the palatial Graham Manor for a while, we’re right at the foot of the Blue Ridge – meaning if we go out our front door and turn right, we’re mountain biking.
“These hills are doozies, ain’t they?” a walker asked me the other day as we made our way up the steep elevation.
And no, for the record, the walker didn’t pass me.
Almost, but I caught her and left her in the dust – eventually.
Ahem – I digress.
It’s not all guns ‘n roses – I feel really, really bad for my poor bike that it had to get me as its owner.
Seriously, I weigh 245 pounds. The average cyclist, judging from what I’ve seen from years of passing them in the World’s Fastest Geo Metro, goes about 135 dripping wet.
Meaning, well …
“I’ve never seen a low-rider bike before,” the lady of the house said to me the other evening.
Yes, I have a big posterior.
It’s getting smaller – imperceptibly to the naked eye …
(Another visual that you could have done without.)
But it is.
And as it does, my chances of getting involved in a wreck get … larger.
Hey, it’s going to happen. As long as I can figure out how to get the little helmet that my biking partner bought me to go on right, of course, I’ll be OK.
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