the keys to my heart

There's an odd painting hanging in my sister's apartment. A man and woman are facing each other, playing poker. The man is fully dressed, the women completely nude. And yet, you can see the man's hand, while the woman keeps hers [cleverly] out of sight from the viewer.
Ah, men. So predictable [if you replace "common sense" with "what would make sense if you just wanted to get laid"].
Unfortunately, I sometimes feel like I'm completely naked and showing off my hand. I make it too easy, I guess: I perk up at the mention of bikes, I gush when anyone asks about cycling and training rides. I even smile and giggle.
Talk to me about bicycles and there's a good chance I'm going to walk away loving you.

And while those less closed-minded than me might entertain the prospect of dating a non-cyclist, [assuming I had the time for a relationship] for me...well...that's not really a possibility. Because cycling ends up seeping into your skin and permeating every aspect of your life if you get as addicted as I have. Cycling doesn't become a smaller part of your life. You just end up rearranging life around cycling.
And I don't even race [yet].
Sure, I'm predisposed to guys that ride hard [pun intended], but that doesn't keep me from thinking that it's great that newbies are out there these days, testing the Boston commuting waters. Because it is, and the streets seem to be crowded with strings of slightly blatantly inexperienced commuters. It's just that, even if that means more eye candy for me, a lot of them are simultaneously breaking my heart.

Call me neurotic...but...really? Sure, a bike is just a bike, but like a trophy wife/husband/girlfriend/whatever, that doesn't mean you're allowed to blatantly parade around the fact that you think it's dispensable. I think it actually took more time for my brain to process everything that was wrong with this picture than it would to cut through the lock and steal the bike.
Yes, I love cyclists; but no, I could never date this guy [assuming he was hot and interesting].

And apparently it's not just isolated to male cyclists. It's good to know that if I wanted a relatively new pale blue cruiser, that I could have one within 5 minutes. It's a cute cruiser, too, and one that probably gets its fair share of love. Just, maybe not enough from the right source. And though I don't doubt that the owner has good intentions, she's never going to realize what she had until she loses it.
We've all been there. With things possibly more precious than a bicycle. And there's really no point in setting yourself up for unnecessary heartbreak. Which is why I don't like to make it easy. I'm not condoning playing games; that's a waste of everyone's time. Just, you know, make it a little more challenging to steal the object of your unconditional affection.
Seriously. U-lock that shit.

rose sky

It's in the 40s today, which means that the cyclists are out in full force. I saw my morning older-bearded-dude-on-road-bike-with-bright-yellow-wind-jacket and the girl-on-hybrid-who-always-looks-really-really-happy-to-be-coasting-down-the-hill-I'm-trying-to-struggle-up. Those are the only cyclists I usually see. Older-bearded-dude usually does either the slight hand raise or nod of what I like to imagine is a seasoned cyclist salute of mutual respect for commuting through the winter. The girl just ignores me in her happiness.
Using the warmer weather as an excuse, I flew out of school after class to drop by therapy IBC [yes, I am quickly becoming the persistent, eternal customer that just stops by to "hang out," i.e. annoy the too-nice employees into listening to my banter when they have real customers to actually pay attention to who probably have more money than me]. I ended up pedaling from Brighton to Allston behind two kids on fixed gears, and was actually able to keep up! And by "keep up" I mean I wasn't trying to act cool with one hand off the bars while my nostrils flared in my attempts to suck in enough air to keep me from passing out. Like, I was really able to keep up.

On my way home under a rose tinted sky, I saw at least four other cyclists - roadies, hybrids, and last but not least, a black cruiser with full fenders and a pretty wicker basket in the front, full of groceries. It was pretty enough to make me sort of want one - despite my slight aversion to step-through frames.
The image sort of slowly died this sad, cringe-inducing death as I watched [and eventually flew past] the woman on said cruiser attempt to crest a slight incline in heels with no helmet.
Maybe I'll file that cruiser for when I move to a European city.