I'll never be a biker babe

I was stopped at the traffic light at Grant’s Trail. I saw a young family engaging in a healthy activity. Mom and dad sandwiched twin bike-riding munchkins. All wore helmets; the five year olds teetered on training wheels. The dad was panting and red in the face, the little boys were royally flushed and complaining; the big bottomed mom’s face was beet red, and I could see that she was questioning her sanity as to why she’d thought it was a good idea to hit the asphalt with beginners and bellyachers and a husband who couldn’t hustle across the cross walk.

I cringed thinking that I should be getting some exercise too. So, I dashed home, searched five rooms, my purse, the junk drawer, the silverware drawer and even the refrigerator for the shed key. Couldn’t find it, tried to remember the combination lock code on the garden box, but none of the fifty combinations I tried worked. I said a few choice words, finally found the key and got the shed open. I gawked at my bike hanging on a hook four feet off the ground alongside the crammed in garden tools, and the jillions of jars of nuts, bolts, screws. My husband organizes his shed as meticulously as Betty Crocker does the spices in her kitchen.

I dragged the step stool out from under the fifty pound bag of fertilizer. Climbed up on the stool, tried to lift the bike off that meat hook, but my left shoulder shouted stop! Even if I’d had the strength to lift the bike up, I couldn’t have found a place to drop it down, as the mower, the blower, the hose stower and the gigantic generator consumed every inch of floor.

I hopped down and locked that shed. I sat my big bottom on the porch swing and pumped my legs until I was hot, sweaty, red in the face and winded. I looked just like that bike riding mama.