I was riding home from work yesterday afternoon. The bike: my neo-vintage '87 Schwinn Technium with the Scott bars, and rear rack. You may have forgotten it.
Old Town, Pasadena. Just past the techno-dorks waiting outside the Apple Store for their 3G, and well beyond the IndyMac meltdown debacle.
Its 90 degrees; mild, given the time of year. Me, waiting for the light to change, daydreaming.
A young woman is crossing in the crosswalk. She's easily 5'10", with the approximate confirmation of a corsetted water-balloon. Wearing flip-flops or sandals, and sucking down the remains of a coffee-whipee milkshake. The wind turns and I catch a whiff of her apple-candy perfume—like she'd been run through the Bratz Sheep-Dip Trough.
This fearsome valkyrie is not alone. As she passes me, she turns to her friend, then looks at me and says
"Your bike. Sucks. Balls"
Damn! She is in love.
I turn to her, and say "See ya next time, honey!" and ride off into the heat.