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| Yes, it's a girl bike - but it only cost $100 |
I lay in bed at 3:30 a.m., having just remembered that it
was a cheese-making day – and I had an inner conversation as to whether or not
was going to be worthwhile to try and get an extra twenty minutes of sleepytime.
“Stay up” won the battle, because I wanted to enjoy a frosty
cold diet cola before going over to the farm.
And then another when I got there, because I don’t fully wake up until
that second caffeine hit.
And, I would be driving to the cheeseplant, my dears. The path isn’t well lit, and I can’t do
uneven muddy ground without falling flat because of the ticky knee. I couldn’t even jump down from the cattle
trailer the other day, tripped on some driveway scree face-first into a box of
frozen meat, and then tripped again over a bucket of eggs trying to get into
the house.
Need to commit more time to physical therapy.
Or wear lower heels.
The ground comes up a lot faster than it used to, and my
motivation to get up again instead of just laying there looking at the stars or
the cobwebs or the cartoon tweety birds circling my head – has been lost.
Back to the story.
Things went well at the plant, relatively speaking – except
for the cooler in room three shitting the bed.
The temperature was too high and the humidity too low for curing
cheese.
Called the repairman.
After a successful morning make, I left seventy-odd blue
cheeses to drain, and my husband Dan and our friend Myron Collins to do the
washing up.
I invoked executive privilege (one of the few advantages to
being my own boss) and went home. To
exercise. If I don’t schedule time away
from work to do it, it doesn’t get done.
I wasn’t far out than the back door of the plant before
Maggie and BB (Myron’s dogs) came up to me, wagging tails and looking for dog
treats. I had them, of course.
I got in the truck, put it in gear, and tried to work the
Ziploc closure on the goodies while driving away. The darn thing just wouldn’t close. What the heck! Re-sealable plastic bag, my ass!
I hit a pothole, and kept going.
Except that I didn’t hit a pothole. And rest easy; no dogs were harmed.
I had run over Dan’s bike.
He told me about the incident thirty minutes later, while I
was in the living room, dry-rowing hard on the Concept 2 and watching the movie
“Them” (black and white, with James Arness).
I didn’t believe him.
“You hit and ran over my bike.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did, we watched you do it.”
“Whatever.”
He rifled my wallet, grabbed some bills and declared that I
would be footing the bill for the damages.
Porter’s Bike Shop called hours later and gave me the bad
news: I had bent the frame.
I owe him a new bike.
