Fast forward fifteen years and here I am, dating a, granola eating, tree hugging hippie freak who races mountain bikes. And who, I would proudly like to add, just won his third race in a row on Tuesday. Cute little thing isn't he?
So. This is the part where I briefly deviate from the actual point of the post because I'm immature and crass and have a woefully lowbrow sense of humor.
When E2 and I go to the climbing gym, I wear tight, form fitting pants so I don't get tangled up in myself and fall to my demise on the soft, cushy mats below. After one such evening at the gym, I got up and walked past E2, blissfully unaware of my public disgrace that was happening down under...if you get what I'm saying. Oh. You don't. Okay. I had some major camel toe going on. The likes of which required at least 5 of the 7 dwarfs to go prospecting with the jaws of life to extricate the thing. Not sneezy though. His snot spraying, germ spreading little self can stay the hell out. I don't need that sort of thing going on. Clearly I was already having enough problems with my crotchal region.
But as I said, at this point, totally ignorant of my bagina fashion faux pas. Not to worry. E2 was kind enough to discreetly bring it to my attention by pointing, laughing and blurting "Nice camel toe!"
And so, with that, I'd like to bring to your attention the tight little number E2 is wearing in the picture above. I can never remember what it's actually called but I refer to it as his unitard, singlet, or fruit cup. He does not appreciate or condone these references. Girls, imagine your tightest sports bra and how it mashes the girls together so tightly they're practically compressed into your chest cavity. Same concept with the unitard. It's a tight little holding facility for the dangly bits. Which is just fine for riding but creates one...or two, problems. Look closely. Oh yes. We've got MOOSE KNUCKLE PEOPLE. And that right there is called payback.
But back to me and how I despise mountain biking.
He's been trying for months to get me on a mountain bike and yesterday, I finally caved. After spending at least an hour getting it tuned up for me, adjusted properly and even sawing off the metal stick thingie that holds the seat in place (whatever, I don't know bike terminology. It was too high. That's all I know) I was ready to go. He shows me how to shift gears and which brake to use. I stick my feet in the pedal holder thingies (again, I don't know what the damn things are called) and away I went.
I rode up and down the street a few times to get the feel of it. Remember, it's been years since I've been on a bike. I'm feeling relatively comfortable and decide not to push my luck so I pull up to where E2 is waiting in front of the house by the curb. I glide on over so I'm parallel with him and the curb, come to a stop and put my foot down on the curb to balance myself.
Oh. Except what?
My foot's not moving and as if in slow motion I tip over onto my side, crash onto the curb, and the stupid heavy 1984 mountain bike lands on top of me. I had forgotten to slide my foot out of the pedal holder before trying to stop.
E2: "Holy shit! Are you alright?" As he's trying to pull me up off the ground.
Me: "Yeah. But I think I bent your bike".
E2: "Forget the bike. You sure you're okay? It looks like you got a little scratched up" he says while pointing to my leg.
I look down and realize I've been mortally wounded. I must have punctured an artery...above my ankle...cause we have arteries there. There's blood gushing everywhere but I was able to get a picture before he staunched the tsunami-like tidal wave of gore oozing from my leg.
|Don't worry...I plan on buying a tan later this week.|
So, yeah. The mountain bike. On a flat, paved road. I tipped over. While not moving. I went down like a bag of dirt.
Tomorrow we head up to Little Cottonwood Canyon. Where there are steep dirt trails. That have rocks. And trees. And moose. It's cool though. I have pretty good insurance.