Bluebell in the evening after a long, hard day of rusty, screechy pedaling. You’re a pain in the ass, Bluebell. Also, I secretly love you.
Almost every day I pedal from Mount Rainier, Maryland, to either DC or Virginia from Maryland, and roughly 47 times en route I swear that never again will I ride Bluebell. This is it. I’m done.
Pedaling Bluebell is a challenge even on flat ground. I can be out of the saddle for minutes at a shot to climb the area’s many hills. She squeals and moans and fights me the entire way.
And if you need to hit the brakes? God bless you. Also, forget about it. If you so much as think about braking, Bluebell comes to a dramatic halt, slingshotting your body into the oncoming traffic you were desperately trying to avoid.
“That’s some bike,” the driver the next lane over said to me yesterday.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I mean that bike’s loud.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it’s creaky and old.”
“I appreciate the compliment.”
“It’s not exactly a compliment.”
“Thank you.”
“Lady, what do you hear me saying?” he said.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
And yet for some reason I keep on keeping on. Each day I march out the door with every intention of boarding the bus, and for some reason I instead unhitch Bluebell from her post.
Yes, Bluebell is locked up on the front porch. Maybe for her own protection?
Is the idea of riding the bus so terrible, or do I like Bluebell more than I let on? I think I know the answer.
I do know that pulling up to the house in the evening gives me the most gratifying feeling. Bluebell in the evening is the best, because she’s parked and quiet and I get a glass of white wine. Some days I seriously don’t know how we do it. But somehow we make it home.
