Spinning My Wheels

I spent the weekend in Baltimore for no reason other than to purchase a bicycle. I'd say bike but I'm trying to maintain a serious overtone for why I'd spend a weekend in a completely de-charmed place known as "Charm City."

Mom and Dad, I love you. (Egg and sperm providers reside in Baltimore.)

My inner hippie has been beating her drum to the tune of "You Spin Me Right Round Baby Right Round," while my inner badass has developed a craving for disturbing pedestrians, namely my inevitable and imminent proclivity for riding my new bicycle on D.C. sidewalks.

I ventured into the Performance Bicycle shop and found myself in a pronunciation war zone. Where's a speech pathologist when you need one most? Baltimore locals (affectionately, Baltimorons) interchange the letters "T" and "D" and sometimes forget the letter "I" altogether. When a local utters his city of origin, "Baldmore," the listener whose ears bear such phonetic fallacies wonders whether the speaker has a speech impediment or is simply (literally) stating his preference for additional baldness.

Grammarians not so much, but knowledgeable bicycle salespeople Baltimore does have. And their patience for a big city gal with a lot of questions and no certainty for anything but the bicycle's color - endless.

The first question posed was whether I wanted a unisex bicycle or a "ladies" bicycle. I guess I left my feminist badge at home because they didn't initially perceive my "I prefer to have platonic crushes on amazing women than date half-broken men" philosophy.

My 5'2" frame was better suited to the "ladies" bicycle, though, as swinging my leg over the equality bicycle proved difficult. Perhaps it was my attire. Who wears Diesel jeans to test ride a new bicycle? Story of my life.

As the very tattooed salesman rang up my new bicycle, helmet, pump, carry-on pouch, heavy duty (at least 6 lbs.) lock, and kickstand (can you believe they charge an extra 8 bucks for that?), I calculated that if I ride to work 35 times and avoid metro fare, I'll break even. August - you're my month.

A final lesson in how to lock up the bicycle ended on a sour note, for me at least. These crazy linguists want me to remove the front wheel in order to lock it up with the back wheel and bicycle frame. Did I buy the top of the line lock with an extension cord or not? Can't it wrap around the frame, through both wheels, and around the pole?

Stacy (men with female names...oh, brother) seems to think not. As he gently demonstrated the psychotic removal of the front wheel, beginning with the separation of the brakes wire from this bolt of sorts, he told me I was then going to do some subsequent crazy maneuver, to which I fiercely shook my head no, in a very Sally Field "Not Without My Daughter" manner.

I won't do it Stacy; I just won't.

After the three hour ordeal, my mom informed me that she's, "bought cars in less time." Yeah, and you live in Baltimore. I'd trust your judgment as much as I'd trust my ability to remove the front tire and then connect it again to the bicycle.