Jer offered our bikes to the neighbors and they accepted. What he didn't mention is that I've forgotten my lock combination and someone has to either smash or cut the chain to free it from its bonds. I once saw a video of a bike thief using a hacksaw, but I don't have that kind of patience or skill. I don't even know if we have a hacksaw. This is why for two years my bike lived on the side yard and I lived the pretense that bikes make better spiders' nests than a means for transportation.
I also gave away my roller blades, because hey, I'm not fooling anybody. I never figured out how to stop. Sure, I can go really fast and sometimes I can even go in the direction I intended, but my usual means of stopping is to sit down and tear a hole in the butt of my pants. Although a successful and creative solution, it requires an infinite supply of fresh pants (and buns of steel). I've got neither.
Roller blading reminds me of my attempts to ski. It turns out that I am not very good at either sport, because to be good you have to have control. Mostly I just scream and flail my arms and have little heart attacks each time I slam into bigger, less flexible objects. This is not the way to earn respect from your peers, or even nine-year olds who skid next to your fallen, mangled body, lean close and say, "It's not safe for you to lie here." As if it were my choice and not gravity that forced my legs behind my head.
In the interests and safety of mobile athletes everywhere, I relinquish the bike, the roller blades, and add ski goggles and bib pants to the donation pile. You may now breathe a collective sigh of relief. There is one less mobile menace in your way.
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