cheat

I'm involved in an affair, neglecting my faithful companion for a sleeker model.

I'm speaking about my bikes, of course.

For several years my personal local transport was attended to by a handsome, chromed commuter cycle. It has a leather seat and matching grips, a 3 speed hub and coaster brake that operates as well in the rains as the sunshine. It's fold out baskets can handle a bag of groceries each, or a case of beer. It's quality steel frame tips the scale at a hefty 45 pounds, and even in the highest gear only lumbers along at a slow jog.

Several months back, I picked up an old road bike from a coworker in exchange for a crumpled $20 bill. First came the uncomfortable adoption, the wobbling uncertainties of this funny new posture. Just when I began to gain some confidence, a skidding spill dampened my relations with this new machine.

I feel a little pang of guilt hopping atop this slick roller as my trusty, chromed warhorse leans neglected. But I can't help myself, and the reason is simple. I like to go fast. I do draw the line at some things: I do not believe that my bodily hair causes any noticeable drag and therefore will be keeping it. Spandex is very unforgiving and is better left to superheros and people I do not have to look at.

Perhaps I will tire of this new fascination and return to the comfortable rumble of my dutch bike. Maybe.