Tomato Can

I’ve recently rediscovered the beauty that is my bike.

I’ve had the same bike since I was 12 years old. I remember using it in grade 6 for the bicycle safety unit we had to do in gym class, barely able to keep the thing upright because it was way too big for me. The bicycle safety guy commented on that and said that it wasn’t safe to ride a bike that I can’t control. Eff him. I love my bike. I was particularly happy to have a new bike at age 12, because the red wonder I rode before, that I adored, was so old that the kids called it the Tomato Can. I laughed it off, but those snide remarks cut deep, man. Although I can also remember forgetting that I had rode my bike to school and leaving it locked up in the schoolyard overnight on more than a handful of occasions, so perhaps my memories of fond feelings for the ol’ TC are a little off.

I haven’t really been able to use it much over the past few years as I’ve lived in apartments where there is either no safe place to lock it up, or no room to store it inside. This past weekend I decided to hell with that, I’ll find a place to keep the damn thing. I told my parents that I wanted to come and pick it up (it’s been hanging up in their garage for years), so on Sunday, after spending most of the morning battling a beer-induced hangover (never again), I decided to walk over and pick it up. My Dad had, in his awesome fatherly way, gone to Canadian Tire to get me a new front tire, install it, and give the bike a tune-up. Good thing, since I know little to nothing about bike maintenance, except that when the chain falls off, it’s gonna be a greasy half hour putting it back on.

After taking it for a spin down the back lane at my parents’ house, I was good to go. My Dad gave me his old carrier (the device you see on the back of bikes that is reminiscent of something an early 1900s school kid would use to carry her algebra books) to hold my lock, as the various attachments that came with the bike have since broken off and remain bits of black plastic screwed onto the frame. I think there was a water bottle holder there once as well, but it’s now broken down to about the size of a flash drive, so it could be anything.

I got it home in probably about 10 minutes, which is awesome, because I love being able to zip around the city without wasting time on the bus or walking. I realized that the U lock I have wouldn’t fit around the wooden support beam outside our back door, so after two nights of the bike sitting awkwardly in our kitchen, my parents surprised me with a cable lock so that I can lock it outside. Our neighbourhood isn’t the safest for bikes, but my hope is that since it’s locked up right outside our door, with two locks, in a well-lit area, that nobody will steal it. It is 15 years old, after all. Then again, last summer the apartment above ours was broken into in the middle of the day while the tenant was asleep in his skivvies – he woke up to some dude in his kitchen packing all of his worldly possessions up in garbage bags.

So, for the past three days I’ve been able to ride my bike to work and back, and to the gym and back, which has saved me all kinds of time and bus fare (I’ve decided that I won’t buy a bus pass in the summer months as it’s nice enough to walk, so the bike makes my life easier). The only thing I’m missing are the two machine screws I need to properly install the carrier – which is presently being held to the bike by cable ties that I bought at Dollarama, which need to be replaced after every bump I go over – and a bike helmet.

I can remember being younger and HATING that I had to wear a bike helmet. Often times I would put it on as I left the house, but as soon as I was a block away I’d take it off and hang it over my handlebars, for fear of anyone seeing me look so incredibly dorky. You know, being safe and all. Because having a huge helmet swinging from my handlebars is much cooler. My parents used to always tell me, in response to my insistence that wearing a helmet would completely destroy my social standing, that it may not be cool to wear a helmet, but that wouldn’t matter once I smash my head and end up drooling in a wheelchair. Now, I am actually nervous riding without a helmet, and I find myself constantly thinking about how much I really want to live and not end up with a smashed bean. I really WANT a bike helmet, like, as soon as possible (hello payday). It might be the fact that the carrier keeps coming un-cable-tied and jamming in my gears, or that Pembina Highway on the way to the gym isn’t exactly conducive to NOT getting struck by an SUV, but it’s funny how what was once the bain of my teenaged existence is now something I yearn for in order to feel comfortable riding around town, without fearing for my life at every lane change or pothole.

That said, it really is amazing how many drivers pay so little attention to cyclists – all you bastards gotta do is move over a few inches, for fuck’s sake! I’m skimming the damn curb as it is, motherfucker. Besides, you’re in a metal safety bubble, and I’m a few layers of skin away from my innards. So watch it. God.

But, outside of the constant fear of metal-crunching death, my bike has been a glorious addition to my life. The bike to work is just a bit over a mile, and to the gym is just over 5 miles, so if I can manage to avoid catapulting myself from my gel seat any time soon, I can clock about 10 miles every day that I go to the gym. Which I think is pretty good. My legs were sure feeling it yesterday on the way home after doing a double Power/Step at the gym. And, although it took me a while to figure out what was causing the mad case of crotch-bone soreness, my body is slowly adjusting to that bike seat.