Rebel on Wheels

OKAY! Fine! Let's talk about it.

I have a bike now.

If you actually know me, you can be classified into one of two thoughts on the subject. One of the groups is probably thinking something along the lines of: "so what?", "haven't you always had a bike?", or "why is this a big deal?"

The other group thinks this is really exciting. They think it's great that I've finally come around, and some of this group may even think I'm assimilating into bike culture. This group, however, may continue to be baffled by how someone of my pedigree has made it into adulthood without a bike (to which I respond -as if it's a defense- "I have a bulky old mountain bike that I keep at my parent's house and never use").

The back story here is that I've been around bikes and "bike people" my entire life. My childhood consisted of cramming into the backseat of a blue mini van named Pewee, or a red jeep with a porcupine rack loaded up with bikes of all types. We'd travel throughout the state listening to books on tape, and playing I-spy Alphabet, until we came to whatever location in which the lycra-clad were convening that particular weekend. At races, you might have seen me running around collecting rocks or pine cones to sell to my neighbors (no joke). Or I'd hop into the passenger seat of the follow vehicle with a My First Radio blaring the soundtrack to Beauty and the Beast, in order to help my mom by writing down the numbers of riders who fell off the back. Heck, to this day the basement of my parent's house is like an episode of Hoarders: Cycling edition.

One SMALL corner of my parent's basement.

For some reason, my unwillingness to get on a bike and ride confuses people who know my past.  I think it's obvious.  It's like the summer that I discovered bologna sandwiches. I thought they were delicious!  I ate them every day for a ridiculous length of time.  Then, one day I woke up, and just the sight of that Oscar Meyer package started the bile production going. It may not be that extreme with bikes, but the point still stands.

Also, we can't discount the rebel theory here.  I'm a good girl, and I get along with my parents really well, but everyone's got to rebel somehow.  It's a natural part of life. But, how does a good girl rebel?

When you're a Murray it's simple.  Don't get on a bike.

So, about two months ago, I was sitting in my apartment, which seems to be located right in the center of Portland bike-culture.  I was reveling in the irony of my existence at this particular location.  - In my neighborhood I'm surrounded by hipsters on color coordinated fixies doing track stops at every intersection and acting as though they don't want attention for it. Well guys, I'm not impressed.  I've seen it all before. -  I started to come around.  I thought, "maybe commuting on my bike isn't such a bad idea."

About two weeks later, after consulting with my father, I wind up with, of all things, a modified track bike, that has been christened "Mindy's Man Chaser." -- The story behind that title is a bit long, but I may share it at a later date. Now, I'm tooling around my neighborhood, and running errands on my bike.

What has happened here? I'm experiencing some kind of identity crisis. For one, I'm a Murray.  That means I should know what I'm doing right? Wrong.  It means I know what I'm SUPPOSED to be doing. I'm like the ultimate poser, and coming to grips with that has been quite an experience.

I am playing both the part of the official, and the dork with the big helmet and the older sister starter.  Check out my brother the speedster on the left though!

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