Janie? Josie? Katie? Karen? I can’t for the life of me remember her name. It was this interchange that did it:
her: “We have to name the bike.”
(referring to the two seater bike we were rescuing from a party for a ride around the neighborhood.)
me: “OK, yeah.”
her: “My name is Daffodil.”
I thought she was saying her own name was Daffodil, and that confusion somehow erased the memory of her actual name. I started trying to think of a name for myself; for my half of the bike.
me: “My name is Chrysanthemum. We’ll call her Daffo… Dafforum.. Daffodi…”
her: “Daffothem…. Daffo… Chrysanomil….”
me: “Daffo… Daff… affomum…”
her: “santhom… aff… aff…”
me: “Chr… Chrysanthofil… Chrys…. Chrysanffodil!”
her: “Chrysanthodil!”
We walk Chrysanthodil out to the street and started to climb on, in our underwear. I didn’t mention that we were in our underwear. It’s a whole other story. And no, it’s not the obvious story. If it were that it wouldn’t be a whole other story, it would be a disgusting wink.
We climb on the bike, me in back. Two seater bikes put you up close and personal with whomever is in front of you. Your knees inevitably bump into their rear every now and then. She starts to pedal. I’m scared to pick up my feet, as I perceive them to be providing an important stabilizing function. Like training wheels.
I get over it, and pull my feet onto the pedals, preparing for chaos.
Being in a two-seater virgin, in the back of a two-seater bike, with a two-seater virgin at the helm… it is a little scary. There’s the swerving of course, and the flashbacks to recent bike crashes. But there’s also the laughter. There’s the woman with a mustache drawn on her face pedaling in front of you. There’s the night sky, and the empty streets. There’s a seemingly endless supply of cul-de-sacs.
We switch places, so she can experience the terror that is the back seat. She says she feels out of control back there too, but she’s less of a fraidy cat than I am, it seems. Good communication is at the heart of double-bike riding. Like sex. We create jargon. “I’m going to make a big sweeping turn!” “OK, sweep!” “Look a cul-de-sac!” “Sweep!”
We turn down a street and a huge downhill opens up in front of us. My heart beats a little faster. We haven’t taken a downhill yet. We talk excitedly about heading towards it, approaching cautiously, and releasing the brake. Riding a double-bike is an ongoing discussion about consent. We agree to go for it. The street steepens and we let go.
The bike hums, the houses stay silent, the world blurs, the city lights spread out in front of us. We feel the wind on our faces, and we fall silent for a few seconds, enveloped in our sensory experience. “This feels wonderful,” I hear from behind.
I still can’t get over how often there are clear nights in San Diego. There aren’t a million stars, but there are some. There are enough.
