The Bike Shop Incident

By Little Sis, 8-14-06

Thank you for you interest in our column debut! We’re working on a way to make it a little more interactive. I’m taking the reins this week, so hit me with your best psychoanalysis.

Rather than tossing you without a lifevest into the sea of connections that makes up my single life in Missoula, I’ll immerse you slowly so you can get used to the water at your own pace. Some people just have to jump in, and you may be one of those people. But then, where’s the suspense?

So here’s a short episode to get us all comfortable. Maybe we’ll just get in with floaties today.

A couple months ago, I went to pick up my bike at Missoula Bicycle Works, where I’d left it to have fenders put on (in Missoula, this is the equivalent of acquiring silver spinning hubcaps on your ride). I got this bike in exchange for a pint of Double Haul, and the fenders will increase its value by 400%. Because they were still working on it, I decided to use the time to run another urgent errand: having my nose piercing removed. This was a phenomenally bad decision that resulted in never being able to show my face at Bicycle Works again.

I returned from the minor surgery sporting a red, leaking wound on my nose, which is obviously in the center of my face and a portion that sticks out, making it impossible to miss. While attempting to casually hide the carnage behind the latest Independent, my bike comes out, escorted by a guy I’ve classified as a failed dating attempt. This always happens when you have leaking wounds on your face. We’ll call this dude Drummer #1.

I met him a few months before at Snowbowl (one of the main social hubs, remember?). His dad single-handedly hit on my entire women’s ski class as we were “debriefing” over beers. Drummer #1 and his friend approached to take advantage of his father’s self-imposed presence at our table. (Father/son tag-teams: effective or slightly uncomfortable?) After a couple beers, the drummer and I exchanged numbers on classy Miller Lite napkins.

I called him with wild encouragement from my two best girlfriends after a giant bottle of wine, and we agreed to get a beer that Saturday. Have you all noticed that in Missoula, beer always takes precedence over an old-fashioned dinner date? Yes, we have fantastic beer, but I have to admit I’d appreciate a whole meal a lot more. But that might be due to the fact that I live below the poverty line.

Drummer #1 called on Saturday evening to inform me that he was playing drums in his friend’s band instead. Does this remind you of high school yet? Of course, I didn’t go to his show. Of course, he walks into the Rhino later where I happened to be luckily surrounded by male friends, looking deceptively busy. Determined to show him what a wanted woman I am, I didn’t acknowledge his presence for at least a half hour (did I mention yet how good I am at handling awkward situations?). Needless to say, Drummer #1 and I now have odd tension every time we run into each other.

This is why the Independent stays glued to my ravaged face for as long as possible while my bike approaches along with Drummer #1. To add to my embarrassment, my bright yellow bike looks like a kid should be riding it and is colossally dirty, rusty, and noisy. The shiny new fenders look pretty ridiculous. With my aforementioned skill at gracefully handling awkward situations, I grab my bike from him while keeping my head casually craned to one side, and yell “Thanks!” over my shoulder as I run out the door with the pedals banging against my legs. I’m really mature.

This would never happen in L.A. No one rides bikes, for one, and there are probably 78 bike shops to choose from where you haven’t tried to date the guy who works there. This explains my lack of preparedness for such a scenario, although not my subsequent behavior. Would I really prefer that Drummer #1 think I’m a bitch rather than temporarily ugly? The irony here is that he most likely saw the gross burst-pimple effect left by my absent nose ring anyway.

Even more ironic is that the chain just broke on my clunky bike and I can’t fix it myself. Luckily my face is free from giant red bumps.

So how are you doing? Do you wish you had just jumped in? Sometimes floaties are just a fun accessory and not really functional. You can tell me, you won’t hurt my feelings. Trust me.


Question of the week
-Does your bike get a better spot in the garage than your car does? Does your car even fit in the garage with all your gear?

Quotes of the week
-A recent dinner conversation with some girlfriends on the joys of being single:
Friend #1 (who has a serious boyfriend of 2 years): “Your lives sound so fun. I wish I could just be free like you two.”
Friend #2: “The guy I just slept with won’t call me back.”
Friend #3: “I’m pregnant.”
Friend #1: “Huh.”

[End of article]