I bought a bicycle last weekend. I got it at this place called bicycle farm, which is kind of a bike graveyard with lots of abandoned parts and full bikes in iffy shape. I actually went to five different bike shops with a bike in mind - I wanted a road bike, with taped handlebars and a thin frame. The cool ones, you know? All the bike shops said that a bike like that would cost at least $500. Bicycle farm was the last place I went. They had bikes like the one I thought I wanted, but then the guy showed me this big clumsy white bike. I don’t know why, but I liked it better. It’s got weird silvery splatters all over it, and I’m not sure what the brand is. The frame is wide, and the wheels aren’t particularly thin. The handlebars don’t curve downward, nor do they have tape. They’re just normal handlebars. Really, it’s a pretty average bike.

Today I went to wheatsville and picked up a crate to strap on to the back of my bike, but we’ll see if that works. The rack on the back is close to the seat, and I’m not sure whether the crate will fit on it.

For some reason, lugging this bike with me from place to place, fighting up dean keeton with it, taking it onto bus after bus, all these things have made me feel strangely close to the bike. It kind of feels loyal, in a way. Gets me where I want to go, makes it easier for me, friendly, too ugly to be stolen…

I’m pretty glad I have this bike. I thought of naming it, but there’s really no reason to name a bike. Maybe this is how people feel about their cars; I’ve never been able to relate to people who call their cars their babies or whatever else. I think I see it now. Also, I like the bike a lot better now that my butt bruises have subsided…