Charming sounds

What is it about the sound of a bike wheel spinning that is both so familiar and charming? …like an old reel to reel film set into motion with the audience sitting on velvet flip down chairs, a fishing line being cast off into the depths of the water with a beautiful lure attached to its hook, the slight scratchy sound as the needle drops giving a kind of introduction to the constant static as a record turns….

A Pickletator: Castro Drives an Opel

Tonight a man stopped his car after I indicated in biker talk by sticking out my arm that I desired to turn. I think it is nice to give a nod of recognition of thanks when someone stops. As I gave my usual thank you glance and nod, I looked at the man who stopped. I was astonished as you may be right now reading this… but it was Fidel Castro. What does one do when the Cuban Dictator presents himself in this way? I really didn't know what to do. So I continued to give my nod of recognition with a smile and went down the ramps to my cushy bike parking space in awe.

I'd like to note two observations. One, I would have thought that he would have been driven by a chauffeur but no Fidel chose tonight to drive himself. And two, I thought he would have been driving a hybrid car or at least a motor bike, but no, it was just a regular white Opel.

At any rate, President Castro, thank you for letting me pass. Nice beard.
Very distinguished, I must say.

A Pamplona Style Pickle

Every morning I pass by the same intersection in front of the Virgin Macarena Church. It is said that the Macarena protects bull fighters so it is to her I would like to send a shout out, "hey Macarena, aye." If she is reading my blog, I also would like to thank her for this morning's near death miss.

Directly in front of her church is where the "corrida" breaks out. There are multiple cross walks that pass over the bike lane and no real traffic lights that tell a biker when and when not to proceed. At this hour, hundreds of people are scrambling around trying to get to work. Here in this tiny corner of Seville there is much less order than in a bull ring, yet all players seem to make it out alive.

Today, as many mornings, I starred as the bull, slightly tired from fighting the "picadors" found along the ride up until this point. As I pulled up with flaring nostrils, I saw him, the Matador. His real name is probably Juan or José and he passes out free newspapers. His theory is if he stands mid cross walk he can hand out more papers than if he stood a few feet to the left. He swings them around like a bright red "capote". People either avoid him or take the paper.

I was turning up dust when I got to him. Steam may have been coming out my ears. Every morning he stands there in front of me with his "capote". Today, I was able to dodge all the people, or so I thought. He lifted his cape, and there they were, the evil swords that one day will kill me, teenagers crossing out of the cross walk. My wheels squealed, my eyes rolled towards the Virgin Macarena Church, and then to toreador Juan.

Like a Toro Bravo, I turned my bike around and went for him. I was not going to let him think he was going get the crowd to say "olé" for his guile manoeuvre, oh no, they were waving white handkerchiefs before I was done with his sorry ass. Lucky for him and for me, the Macarena looked kindly on all of us.

A seemingly medi-evil pickle

As a biker, you are not a pedestrian nor are you a true vehicle. At least I think that is what we like to think as bikers so that we can get away with anything and go just about anywhere. We ride on sidewalks along with dogs and their owners, wedge ourselves between buses and cars and cruise over greenways. There seems to be a common belief or rather a common denial among us that we always have the right of way.

Two days ago, a man looked at me shaking his head. I thought, what is your problem buddy? Then I realised, I had just gone straight through a cross walk on the red light. I felt like crap. No time to apologise, since I had already sped past. A friend of mine confirmed this trend by telling me she was almost hit by one of us two-wheeled maniacs while walking down the sidewalk.

Have city bikers become bullies of the streets and sidewalks? Is it possible that the reason that people stay clear of the bike lane is out of fear of us Biker Bullies?

This morning, it became more evident than ever. As I turned the corner, I realised that I was leading, no kidding, in "V" formation, a flock of mad bikers. We spread out, almost galloping like a band of battling horsemen straight from the middle-ages, taking up the entire street, blocking traffic from getting on the bridge. This was not the type of power I wanted to feel on my bike. Had we gotten so ballsy as to take on the city buses? It appeared so. For one second, Seville was our Kingdom, The Majestic Kingdom of the Bikers that said "Bring-Bring".

We all learned in grade school that bullies do not stick together. The point of being a bully is to ultimately rule the weak. So even though in this moment, we had formed this V for victory against the city bus, everyone wanted that "V" for themselves. The "V" quickly disintegrated and transformed into a multitudes of I's. The I´s began to whiz by, leaving me to fend for myself amongst the fumes of the now passing bus.

This has become the city's cyclers' epitome for at least the last month. I no longer dread hitting pedestrians or cars hitting me. Now I fear that other bikers, travelling at top speeds on sidewalks and in the lanes, will meet me face to face, and challenge me to a joust.

I am ready, you mad wheeled knights. I am prepared to defend biker chivalry and those poor peasant pedestrians that I once cursed. I have my bike chain ready to knock you off your high bike.

It is my hope that one day Seville will be the The Majestic Kingdom of the Bikers that say "Bring-Bring" excuse me.

Frozen pickles: Picicles

I have to sadly report that these Spanish people have just lost their fight. It is funny how they eventually conform to most anything. You can no longer find the grand masses of drivers travelling over 180 km/hr. They seem to also be giving up smoking and those who continue are only smoking in the designated areas. At least they are still double parking.

To top this all off, and make my life a little less exciting, most of them, it seems, have stopped walking in the bike lane. Where are the rebels? Has the government taken a cattle prod to those who just a few weeks ago refused to not walk in the bike lane? The frisky construction workers also seem to be on a continual coffee break; none to be seen. And it seems that I may have recent evidence that the Spanish news may be correct in that the country's youth is turning into a bunch of alcoholics with bad hair cuts (the bad hair cut part is my take on things since yes the mullet seems to be back "in style"). Since I no longer see them on the streets yelling, I must assume they are in a drunken stupor some where or passed out on their parent's sofa. The nuns are definitely busy in the convents making Christmas pastries and thinking about the naughty things they could do to a Jew girl like me next summer (hey nuns, you stole our marzipan recipe).

This morning I was fed up. I haven't been hit or yelled at in almost a month. SEVILLE, I challenge you. What? Are you a bunch of pussies? Where are the conquistadores?

A pickle haiku

a crisp dill pickle
crunchy sounds of happiness
bike ride through the leaves

Pete and Repeat were riding their bikes

Seville calls itself a city, the capital of Andalusia but I will tell you riding your bike you run into the same people day after day. I can honestly say that I recognise all of the homeless people of Seville and when they suddenly disappear, I begin to think, where did Pete go? The woman on the corner that sold tissues for over a year has been missing for 6 months now. I always hope that she is well and has just found a more lucrative corner to sell her merchandise. Unknowingly, she offered me inspiration to face my job. Who are these people that we repeatedly pass? We know them by face but not by name. In a way, we share our day to day lives and sometimes they touch our hearts or just make us think.

I saw Bearded Barney yesterday and thought, there he is Bearded Barney. He is a funny looking, old, bearded guy that I often pass on the bike. He also rides his bike, but is a rebel against the bike lane and is usually found midst the traffic. He looks like he should be navigating the ship in the Gorton's fish sticks commercial. Maybe for this he is more at ease in the crashing waves of traffic than in the "steady stream" of the bike lane. This morning he made a hissing sound at me from across the road. Most girls hate this but, it touched me that he noticed me and made me begin to think of the random people I cross every day. Did they remember me as I did them? Do they think, oh, there goes the girl with the orange panties that always is being hit by cars?

This blog is dedicated to Beared Barney. Thanks for the inspiration. HSSSSSS and Kisses.

V. Caper

This was a caper number 4.

It is true that not all of my experiences are true pickles. For this reason, I have decided that less eventful moments should be called capers.

Last night, cycling home, zigg-zagging through the cobble streets of Seville at 12:30, I ran into a caper. It sounds romantic I suppose but when you ride a bike on a cobble street you will realise it can be truly unpleasant. With all the bouncy bouncy, Millie lost a screw. It wasn't a very important one but it impeded my wheel to spin properly.

I got off to inspect the situation. The only solution I could see was a bar within a few steps. I stole all their tooth picks and jammed them into the hole where the screw once was and secured it with a rubber band. It continued to work this morning so why bother getting a new screw?

Caper

verb (used without object)
1. to leap or skip about in a sprightly manner; prance; frisk; gambol.
2. a playful leap or skip.
3. a prank or trick; harebrained escapade.
4. a frivolous, carefree episode or activity.
5. Slang. a criminal or illegal act, as a burglary or robbery.

Did you stop? No - I just drove by

I have to admit in the morning I press the snooze bar at least three times until I get myself finally on two feet. I believe in personal hygiene. So, my morning routine does consist in brushing teeth and putting on clothes that don't smell. However, much more than this is pushing it. Five to ten minutes late is the norm leaving the house. I get on the elevator, pick out the eye boogs and notice the sheet impressions on my face as evidence that just 10 minutes ago I was still in bed. By the time I get downstairs to get Millie from the garage, I am not much more awake than I was 10 minutes ago. I hop on my bike and ascend the 2 ramps in my garage. These days it is still a bit dark as I leave so I am careful pulling out to the oncoming traffic.

Today was not the first time that someone has yelled at me half laughing, "Wake up" but it was the first time the car slowed and rolled down the window to follow me making comments for more than a block. They were two young guys. In New Jersey, where I am from, we call these folk guidos. When I was younger, they would frequent mall and movie theatre parking lots, driving back and forth in camaros looking for stupid girls that didn't know any better. They usually sported a Mr. T starter kit gold chain. I know you know the type because every culture and every generation has them. Here in Seville they are called "Canis". So there they where, two canis, yelling "hey girl wake up", holding up the morning traffic behind them. What was a gal to do? I noticed their red light ahead and since bikes in my opinion can go any where, I sped up to leave them at the light. As I passed them, since there was no wet carp to be found to flog them with, I settled for flipping them the bird as I left them in traffic to wait for their light to turn green. Who has the last laugh now, suckers?

Did I say take a seat?

At the rate I was going I was going to need some spanking new pairs of panties. So I took Millie and we headed towards the centre to go shopping. I locked her up with the heavy chain I have to secure her safety and ventured into the store. I spent less than 10 minutes in the store. There were no pretty panties to be had. Upon exiting the store, I saw him, Señor Scruffy Toughy. He was sporting some pretty shabby clothes and had hit quite a few beers prior to wrenching off my bike seat. He walked with a determined swagger and carried my bike seat in his hand. I looked at Millie to confirm what I was witnessing. Yes folks. It is true if it is not chained down they will take it. I had learned this previously when two kids dismantled my bell and I had to threaten them with some other types of dismantling—I think it is called dismemberment. There were many spectators just staring at Señor Scruffy Toughy carry my seat away. In shock, I did what I could do. I went after his sorry ass screaming, "You have my bike seat". At this he turned, I suppose at this moment he realised his limitations against me, the tough girl that just ran out of the panties store. Well, what ever it was, he handed me my seat with a grunt and walked off to find other spare parts.

Bad habits on wheels.

It was 10:30. I was trying to avoid the trees that are planted in the middle of the bike lane. Yes. Trees. No they are not there to provide shade. It just so happenes that the city decided to strategically put the bike lane where there was a line of trees. The environmentalists and some residents were up in arms that the city would have to cut the trees down so they compromised. They left the trees and made the bike path go right through. So, where was I? Oh ,yes, dodging these trees when all of a sudden I come to an intersection where, yes my friends, the cars have a yield to oncoming bike traffic. I slowed, and like winged animals they came flying at me. It was a car full of nuns. What they were doing out of thier nunnery is still a question at large. There were at least 6 in the car and they were not buckled in. Talk about holy sister. They almost hit me. As I pedaled away, I swore I heard one say "After the cycling jew girl. She is getting away". I was just glad to make it out alive.

Introduction

It all began one day. I was walking by the shop window and I saw her black and shiny slender frame. She smiled at me and I smiled back.

Ok. Actually, it wasn't love at first site. I in fact wanted one in cherry red but she was the only one in the store and I had to have her that day. She was a nice bike. She had a big basket, a silver bring bring bell, and a light that glowed as I rode at night. The basket and bell I figured out how to use immediately but I have to admit it took me 2 months to figure out the light.

I started off gentle, mounting her with ease. But soon my mounting became banging and the poor girl ended up a bit tattered. I would ram her against curbs and take her through pot holes. This I learned hurt her as much as me. I ended up doing quite some damage to my coccyx until the point I could no longer sit down. My tuchas hurt so badly I ended up having to endure long sessions of new age music, incense and a woman's finger up my derrière to re-adjust my tail bone.

Our abusive relationship was cut short by the end of the summer. She was stolen mid-day from my patio. It was then I realised how I had taken her for granted. The following day I was determined to find her, rescue her from the evil person that had stolen her from me. I went to the police station and filed a report. The officer suggested that I take a look at the black market that takes place every Wednesday morning near the prostitute section of town. He told me all of the stolen goods were sold early so I would need to get there around 4 if I ever wanted to see my black beauty again. I decided to take the officer's sound advice for a young lady to go at 4 in the morning to the prostitute section and search through stolen items the thieves were selling.

That Wednesday I dragged my ass out of bed at 4 and went down to see if I could make bid on my bike as if some slave being raffled at auction. I made my self up like a whore so I would not be suspect as a sad little girl looking for her stolen bike. Blankets lined the street with the goods people would soon wake to find missing. I walked up and down in the dusky light trying to make out the figures of the bikes. Mine was no where to be found. It was then I realised she was gone. The next day she would probably be riding down the river with someone else's ass split across her black shiny seat, painted a different colour to hide her true identity, maybe cherry red.

Take 2. My mother in law was there to pick me up as always from the train station. This time she wore a bigger smile than usual. In the back of her car there she was a new black bike, my next victim.

We have now been together for over 3 years running, rather riding, and have many stories to tell. Hopefully, they will not be cut short by the C3 bus plastering us to the hot Seville asphalt.

This is where my blog really starts. It is called "I don't want no pickle I just want to ride my bicycle and other coccyx cracking tales".

If it is not just a myth that people really do sit down and read other people's blogs, I hope you enjoy mine. (Note: I don't claim to be a grammar queen)

I have gotten myself into quite a few pickles.

Hit me with your best shot….

The spanking brand new bike is now a "well matured" bike. Her basket is no longer square but rather a contorted rendition that has been smashed and reformed several times. Actually, this number is three times. Millie and I have been hit by cars three times.

The first time, I admit was my fault and I will tell you now that drivers do not appreciate the element of surprise. I did not see her and she did not see me. These damn white cars are a danger. I have a new appreciation for the pimped up cars that thump as they go. At least they warn "here I am motha". I pulled out from between parked cars. I yelled "surprise" but she didn't seem to hear.

Before I knew it Millie and I were under her bumper. I was bleeding and Millie's tire was folded in half and her pretty basket scrunched.
I picked myself up. I had to get to work. I had no time for losing at "surprise the car". She asked if I was ok? Sure, lady. By the way I think your muffler is loose and you may need an oil change. That will be 20 euros for the diagnostic.
After the "incident", I decided to be a safe biker, one who looks both ways and wears a coconut on her head.

After a few months, I was back to my old self without the darn helmet. This is for pussies. I like the wind in my hair and flirting with fat workman and this was just cramping my style.


The second time I was hit was not my fault. However, before I get into this I must tell you about the new lovely bike path.

Now they have built this beautiful bike lane, aka the death trap. It is really a political cause rather than a usable bikeway. Late at night you can be confronted with an almost see through fence that seems to appear out of no where. The only cause to put these here in my humble opinion is to block off where workers have dug up the path to look for buried treasure. Then there are the metal rods that have been hit several times by busses that stab into the path. The game seems to be that you must avoid these while avoiding the pedestrians on the other side. Often I feel like I am on an old game of frogger with tons of crocodiles. I am still waiting to be on the high score board but I usually do pretty well. I have only hit one pedestrian and she deserved what was coming to her. Ha. (If you don't remember frogger, well you shouldn't be reading this.)

Ok, my hit. As folks around here say, "drivers and pedestrians have to get used to the new bike lane". But what I really want to know is how any of us have to get hit? I was in the lane minding my own business. I thought Señor Jerky Pants saw me because, duh, his light was red and he looked me in the eyes. I proceeded and so did he. Did I mention his light was red? He hit me. While down, I checked the status of his bumper. "All good", I said, dusted myself off and went on my way, reforming the basket on poor Millie. I left the mass of angry men to yell at the guy. I had no time to argue. I had to get to work. I am always late.

Three is a charm. Now my mother always told me, Alexis, you never know when you are going to have an accident. Clean and good underwear is a must. That morning, I thought maybe I will get lucky, so I put on my bright orange underwear and a pretty skirt and mounted Millie. I love wearing skirts on the bike. Sometimes there is a pleasant breeze that wisps up and takes you by surprise. I was pedalling, late again to work but was being alert because it had only been one week since the last dumb dumb hit me. A white van was parked in the middle of my highway to heaven. I slowly advanced around it only to find Bimbo Bonny. I suppose she yelled "surprise, it is I Bimbo Bonny" but I could hear her. I tried to stop but it was too late. Millie and I went flying; my skirt was up over my head. What a breeze. Who would have thought? As Millie and I lay on the ground before the car, I asked Millie "Are you ok? I can't live without you." She didn't respond. Then I became aware of the spectacle I was supplying to the onlookers. My underwear was there for all to see, bright traffic cone orange. Lovely, I suppose other cars will take the necessary detour around by redirecting orange bottom. As I continued in the horizontal position, I tried to digest what had just happened. Bimbo Bonney came running out of the car. "Are you alright?" And all I could think is "gee I am so glad I am wearing good underwear". I picked myself up. Wiped the blood from my knee and checked out my bike. "Yes, I am fine. I am late to work." and rode off.

Ding ding ding goes the trolly... honk honk, get out of my way goes my bike...

This bring bring bell is very cute and sylish but when it comes to practicality it serves only to flirt.

Many still don't realise of this. A picture still comes to mind of a girl on a bike. She got pissed at me because I was slightly in her lane, displaced by those pesky pedestrians. She gave me a dirty look and started ringing her silver bell. All I could think was, sweet heart do you really think I am taking you seriously? No. That bell is not serious. So I went and bought the most God awful electic bell known to the market. It has 3 different, but equally obnoxious sounds: ambulance, spaceship and horn. At the press of a button you gain instant respect. Honk honk. With this sound those goat-like pedestians fear for their life. Without looking, Millie and I sound like a motor bike. Yes we are two biker chicks and we are going to mess you up.