I rode my bike to work yesterday. Yes. Yesterday. Sunday. I worked 60 hours from Monday to Friday and then another ten on Sunday. The only thing that feels unusual is the fact that I don't stop working on the project to go to class.
But the important part of that paragraph is the first sentence. I rode my bike to work. I don't think I've ridden my bike since last Equinox, when UNAVCO moved out to Gunbarrel. I pumped up the back tire, but I still need to lube the chain. And I should really raise my handle bars so I don't hurt my back.
I spent almost the entire month of February sitting down. Betweeen long hours at a computer, nearly an hour commute both ways, and driving to lunch, my primary exercise for the month was walking up stairs to look at apartments. And that was even minimal, because the real estate folks would have me follow their car for a whole block before parking.
This seems to be life as usual for suburbia. As far as I can tell, nobody in Lakewood crosses the street. I saw a pedestrian one afternoon and got very excited. Suburbia: where they take out all the trees and name the streets after them. Suburbia: where the people are straight and the streets aren't. Suburbia: wide sidewalks, narrow minds. Cul-de-sacs are the capilaries of the city. Without pedestrians as a regular sight, I seemed more exciting than usual walking over I-70 wearing a Robin Hood hat, a Green Man shirt, and green pants on March 17th.
You never forget how to ride a bike. I had, however, forgotten how hard my seat was. Or did I somehow manage to lose ass fat by sitting? My legs certainly haven't strengthened by sitting in a chair for 13 hours straight. I spent a considerable amount of time on my easiest chain ring on the way down South Golden Road. Which is only slightly uphill. I rode about 5 miles in 30 minutes, or 10 miles an hour. When I rode to high school every day, uphill both ways at much steeper angles than I saw today, I'd do 7 or 8 miles in 30 minutes. Of course, the fact that my toe feels like it's fractured doesn't help.
Leaving work at 7:45pm (on a Sunday, whee) with a toe that was not being friendly with its toe clip, I opted to take the bus from Colorado Mills. Not thirty seconds after I got on, some teenagers in the back mention the fact that I look like Jesus. One of them, wearing a mechanic's work shirt, sits across from me and asks if I'm Jesus Christ. "Yes." "I'm Lucky, nice to meet you." He was full of questions and came up from the back several times to ask new ones that came up. "Did you come on a white horse?" "No, I came on a bicycle." "Where's the Holy Grail?" "I don't know, I haven't seen it in years." "Why did you let those guys kill you?" "I came back. No harm done." "No, but why didn't you create a dragon or something? Why didn't you have your dad do it?" "The dragons were all hanging out in northern Europe." "No, but why'd you let them kill you?" "It wouldn't have been a very good myth otherwise." "What did you think about that Passion of Christ movie?" "I haven't seen it." "Really? But you're in it." "I lived through it, I know how it goes." "Are there blunts, forties, hot chicks, and longboards in heaven?" "Sure." "How about marshmallows?" "Lots of them. We've got all these clouds, you see..." "But are there hot chicks in heaven?" "Sure. Being sexy doesn't count against you." "Are there lots?" "You'd be surprised how many people have died. A percentage of them are hot chicks." "Does a forty cost more than $2.78 in heaven?" "I don't know. I've been down here for a while. It might have changed."
A gray-haired Hispanic guy in a suit watched the conversation with a small smile from the seat in front of Lucky. After Lucky returned to the back of the bus, the old man spoke, revealing two missing teeth from his bottom jaw. "He's coming sooner than they realize." "Perhaps he's already here," I say. As much as I love religious debate, I can tell it wouldn't be as fun with this fellow as it is with red-faced street preachers. So I let him talk as I smile. "Read the book of Revelation. Jesus is coming." "There's a book called With A Pale Horse. I don't know the author, but everything in there is true." I don't mention that I read On A Pale Horse in 7th grade.
The bus driver yells at Lucky for smoking on the bus. "It's out, man. I'm sorry. I'm just so stupid I'd do something like that." He appologizes to everyone on the bus. The old Hispanic guy says he saw a bus driver down town call the supervisor for that and throw someone off the bus. Or maybe the person was arrested. He was a little hard to hear.
A teenager with light skin but Hispanic features boards the bus in front of the low-security fences of the Jefferson County Department of Corrections facility. He sees some friend and bums 15 cents from them, to add to his dollar for fare. He gets off two stops later, after slapping hands with his peeps.
There's funk in this city. You just have to know where to look. Like I always say, "Interesting people ride the bus."
funkyGodspeed You Black Emperor!