One of the most pleasant memories I have of my preteen and teenage years is spending it on a bike, riding the bike paths in my neighborhood for hours. Those trails seemed to snake to nowhere, and it was the first time I had the chance to experience getting lost and then finding my way back home again — a feeling I cherished and still do because it challenged me to watch landmarks and street names and to hone my sense of direction.

I would ride all the way down my street, take a right, then a left, cross a semi-main road and head into the neighborhood across the way, where the trailhead started. That neighborhood was older and had a lot more trees than mine did, so riding the trail, which ran partially along the backsides of a set of houses with the trees canopying overhead, was a wonderfully wooded, serene experience from the rest of the asphalt suburbs. It was my time to explore and think. I would be gone for hours, on the black 10-speed bike with neon highlights that my parents bought for my 13th(?) birthday. It wasn’t long before I knew all of those trails by heart and could take them all, without backtracking, in about two hours.

I would also ride my bike to school, just under two miles. The public school busses didn’t pick kids up if they lived within two miles, so I had no choice but to bike (or walk, and I was usually running late, so walking wasn’t really an option). I don’t remember whether that black bike was a boys or girls frame, but I do remember the frustration of catching my long peasant skirts in the gears more than once. I ripped a lot of skirts, and derailed a number of chains. I started wearing long johns under my skirts, so I could hike the skirts up around my thighs while riding, but steering one-handed proved a little too dangerous. So one cold November day, I skipped the skirt and showed up to school wearing long johns and a pair of Montage boxers (apparel fundraising for the school’s literary magazine…) pulled over top. No more torn skirts! I’m still surprised that (1) I had the nerve to wear that outfit, and that (2) I didn’t get kicked out of school. So I kept doing it, and if I remember, others did to. (Maybe I copied it from one of the cool girls. But my story sounds more plausible.) Riding a bicycle with a skirt has always been a priority for me, especially in the summer since I don’t prefer shorts and own lots of sundresses. It’s a little challenging in Illinois, though, because of the gusty breezes. I believe I may be investing in some skorts pretty soon.

Sadly that black bike was stolen when I was in my early 20s and had moved to a rough part of town. Stolen bikes are a theme in my life, and are always my fault… although I am at a good 15 years without incident — a trend I’d like to maintain. Soon after, Fred entered my life and changed my relationship to bicycles, turning them from mere transportation into nameable compatriots with personalities. In fact, my biggest challenge and my biggest concern with the new bike is naming it appropriately and having it stolen. This bike will be Fred’s girlfriend. She’s kalamata olive-colored with subtle brown trim, similar in build to Fred, but sturdier and lighter. I believe she’s French, which is ironic because my car is also French (Gigi). Perhaps they are cousins. Tomorrow, I get to ride her for the first time, and I cannot wait! This time, though, no long skirts. Goofy padded grandma underwear (~$24) that’s cycling-specific, capri yoga pants, and my cuty short black polyester skirt with the geometric shapes on it. I think the bike shirt I bought (although not at all flattering) might even match! hehe.

When I bring her home tomorrow, she’ll be properly locked to Fred, who is simply too heavy and cumbersome to move when attached to something else, and it will be time to start figuring out the name.