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.