Race Day Baby

My friend Stef is a chick magnet—among other things. We had lunch and he rode his fixie to meet me. He loves it—Stef and Bike are One. I have not seen the light, but may convert the Raleigh Marathon Bike into a fixed-wheel. Then I could be more Stef—


A Boy and His Bike

See, I want to be like Stef, Gentle Readers of This Blog—wait. I want to be Stef (sans his kids, which are cute and fun—but probably too much work for Yours. Every time I go over to his place for a visit and I end up playing with the kids, I get exhausted!)

Fixed Wheel Nonconformist

I’m not sure why—well, I know why—(genetically gifted) but every time we hang out, attractive women, not just pretty girls, but actual good looking women, flock to our location. Those kind of woman that you see the scrawny stage winner standing at the podium with—you know, they guy gets the flowers and the trophy, and there’s these two beautiful women there to kiss him.


Ce c'est bonne!

I call them Race Day Babies. But really, since they’re no doubt Française, they’re attractive, sophisticated, well educated, and have lots of poise and class. They just seem to be there when Stef shows up—like at our lunch stop.

Riding a bike in this town like I do and like Stef does—being in the seam of what binds society—makes us Mavericks in a way. It feels like some people hate you for that; so when for example you make a small infringement on the rules of the road, car drivers go ballistic. If you so much as dare to be outside of that little strip of bike lane, you must die—if a drunk driver runs you down, and you were without a helmet—you deserve to be slain. I say kiss my fat but rather muscular nonconformist ass…

Magnet Des Femmes, et le noncomforist maverick, mes amis!

When Stef and I get together, fun ensues, and I think that’s what draws people in—Stef’s confidence and hint of raunchy humor. A lunch counter suddenly becomes our theatre.

The young girl at the counter is taking our order—The sandwich place is packed.

Yours: We’re together…

(Pause)

Stef: This is our first date.

The your girl at the counter gives us a look, like she’s wondering if she heard us right: Too much information—what did he just say—are these men gay—they don’t look gay—are they kidding—should I laugh—I want to laugh—oh I get it!

Everyone in the place has paused to sort these thoughts out as well—when they see we’re playing, everyone takes a sigh of relief and goes on eating and visiting or what ever they were doing. Yeah it was fun. I miss working at UofA sometimes… Mainly the eye candy.