Lumpy Old Sod
Sometimes in the summer, when I’m riding my bike in shirtsleeves, I imagine I’m a bike messenger. On the singlespeed Quickbeam, with jeans cuffed into knickers on the rare occasion when I leave the house without my helmet, I can pretend I’m a youngster, racing around and through traffic fearlessly, rocking my bike back and forth as I climb one hill after another hardly breaking a sweat.
In these dark and chilly fall days, however, with three layers of wool—undershirt, Pendleton, and vest and armwarmers—underneath my plastic shell, with two layers of hat, one for my head and one for the helmet, I see myself as an old guy who just happens to get around on a bike. The Saluki grounds me to earth; I’m like Zorba on a mule, relentless, determined; I’ll get where I’m going as long as I keep pedaling no matter how long it takes.
The phrase that kept going through my head on the ride home tonight was “lumpy old sod.” Here I am, this sort of screwy gray-haired gent still getting around on a two-wheeler; I’m not trying to be cool—that would be futile—I’m just doing what I do, even if it isn’t (and even if it is) stylish in any sense of the word.
This made me also think about the tenor of relations between bikes and cars, which these days, seems to be getting (at least in Seattle) a little bit uglier. If I were a younger man, hurrying to get where I was going, I would be apt to see cars as something of the enemy on the streets. As a lumpy old sod, though, just poking along, I’m inclined to view cars as simply big babies who have to be given their way or else they’ll start crying and leaking oil and blowing their radiators all over the place.
In the words of Homer Simpson, another lumpy old sod, “Let the baby have its bottle.”
In these dark and chilly fall days, however, with three layers of wool—undershirt, Pendleton, and vest and armwarmers—underneath my plastic shell, with two layers of hat, one for my head and one for the helmet, I see myself as an old guy who just happens to get around on a bike. The Saluki grounds me to earth; I’m like Zorba on a mule, relentless, determined; I’ll get where I’m going as long as I keep pedaling no matter how long it takes.
The phrase that kept going through my head on the ride home tonight was “lumpy old sod.” Here I am, this sort of screwy gray-haired gent still getting around on a two-wheeler; I’m not trying to be cool—that would be futile—I’m just doing what I do, even if it isn’t (and even if it is) stylish in any sense of the word.
This made me also think about the tenor of relations between bikes and cars, which these days, seems to be getting (at least in Seattle) a little bit uglier. If I were a younger man, hurrying to get where I was going, I would be apt to see cars as something of the enemy on the streets. As a lumpy old sod, though, just poking along, I’m inclined to view cars as simply big babies who have to be given their way or else they’ll start crying and leaking oil and blowing their radiators all over the place.
In the words of Homer Simpson, another lumpy old sod, “Let the baby have its bottle.”
posted by Professor Dave at 9:30 PM
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