Dulane

Most recently I flung a shiny new road bike over the yawning ledge of my aching emptyness. I've wanted a road bike for eons. And, as per usual, I researched them unrelentingly for months, looked at many, decided I did not need one and then immediately bought one.

It was the test ride. I shied from the test ride. I averted my eyes from his penetrating gaze like a blushing bride. For I knew that should I allow myself one ride my fate would be sealed. And I was right.

You don't ride road bikes. No, nothing so vulgar takes place. You and your bike have a conversation of minds. She knows your needs, you cooed them to her as she explored your mind through the door naked lust left open. You and she, in a state of one-mind, have but the single thought: Go over there.

And go you will! My first couple of blocks are lost in a haze of mingled acceleration and exhilaration. The next couple of blocks left me truly afraid of what possibilities had been opened up. The remaining blocks saw a maniacal grin curl underneath tearing eyes.

That was the first ride. I rode 3 in the end. The last being Dulane, the bike I had to have the store build since it wasn't on the floor. While riding I heard a sort of high pitched hum coming from the tires on the road.

Like good lemon meringue pie, an insatiatable thirst for good movies or voracious readership, singing is a feature that, if found in a woman, I am immediately prepared to propose.

My Bike sings to me as we go.