So I’m riding to the coffee shop because I really need an espresso. Like, I just can’t go on without one need an espresso. I hop on my townie, which is a blue 1956 Schwinn Tornado. It’s vintage. It has rust spots and everything. I’m rolling along the block along the courthouse almost to the coffeeshop. It’s so close now, I can almost taste the espresso. And a man rides up next to me, and he says, you know, if you raised your seat, you could get a lot more power on that bike. And I look at him, and I don’t even know what to say. Because I need more power to get to the coffee shop. I really need that. On my 1956 Schwinn. Power, that’s so totally what I need.
Posts tagged ‘blue bikes’
I took my IF out for a long overdue jaunt around the neighborhood. She’s the first blue bike, Little Bike Blue. I actually have three blue bikes, but two makes for a far better rhyme. I certainly didn’t set out to be so monochromatic. Next time, I’ll have the orange one, thanks.
I have sinned. I have badly neglected Little Bike Blue and she felt free to show her displeasure. Born in Massachusetts, a land of rooty, twisty single track, the first blue bike likes to go fast and turn quickly. She reads my mind. Which is not always a good thing. A high bottom bracket, short chainstays, and short wheel base make tight single track a joy. Except when I forget what to do and get left behind. Uh, dude, where’s my bike?
We went out to one of the local hills and went up. Up went great. Little Bike Blue likes to climb things. Down went less great. We had a few directional disagreements, the blue bike and I. When it’s cold and winterlike, I’m not so quick. Being of the east coast persuasion, Little Bike Blue has no problem with cold. She was way ahead of me. I feel certain it was all the weather’s fault. No, really.
Perhaps I should stick to my Schwinn, who rarely gets ahead of anything. The Schwinn is the third blue bike, for those of you keeping score at home. The third blue bike is a 1955 Schwinn Tornado, a name that sounds far more exciting the pedestrian pace we generally achieve. I even put on a nice spineasy gear, since the original gearing was bigger than my legs. Maybe women were just burlier in the 1950s. Or maybe they wanted to ride their cruisers on the freeway.
Having digressed this far from the original point, which may or may not have existed, I should not neglect the second blue bike. I really don’t have much to say about the second blue bike. She came second. And she’s from Santa Cruz, a place I would very much like to be from. (I’d like it ever more if there weren’t a preposition at the end of that sentence. Alas.)
But I am trying to get back down the hill, and can’t be bothered with prepositions just now. The descending part wasn’t smooth, and it definitely wasn’t pretty. Like, how long have I been riding this bike? (A really long time, in bike years.) I really race on this thing? (Yes, I’m afraid so. There are even pictures to prove it.) Let’s just say, I’ve got just a little ways to go before I’m ready to see any starting lines, and maybe I better hide out in the hills for a while where no one can see my utter lack of grace and finesse. Certainly, I should stop neglecting the first blue bike.
But at least I made it back home at the same time as my bike.