You may have noticed the ads.... just trying something new.
Maybe a check will show up in the mail (IF people click on them - just click - no need to ingest any of the information.)
Or maybe no check will show.... we'll see.

Woo Hoo! A new tattoo!

10 situations under which 10 blocks can feel like 10 miles:

1. The fender you so lovingly polished - falls off.

2. That skin on your thumb, you didn't need that right?

3. It's only 6 a.m.

4. The stoop-loungers watching you can't help b/c they haven't gone to bed yet.

5. The sidewalks in your city haven't been repaired since the days-of-yore.

6. The bike trail - loose gravel in an old railroad bed. Your bike - wibbly.

7. The gentlest of slopes proves to be too much for the single-speed you posses.

8. You're wearing a helmet - while walking the bike.

9. Even though the peddles are fine, with each pump you're sure they'll fall off.

10. Once you're home - your burning lungs convince you the few cigarettes you've ever smoked were a bad idea.

Operation Spit-Shine (Done and done!)





Maiden voyage was fine.
I ran into my neighbor as I was wibbling (this should say wobbling, but how funny is wibbling?) out of my driveway for the first time...
"Just take it kid-style," he said "You know, ride it up and down the street until you get the hang of it."

Seems to have done the trick.

BTW - It appears that $3(+) per gallon is my breaking point for fuel. I will be riding this baby to work tomorrow (the coffee shop that is 10 blocks away, that is.)

We'll see how round two on ol' Hollywood goes. (Any other name suggestions for my new companion?)

Please be my friend (and don't think I'm not talking to you):

This is my new favorite Website.
Thanks to it, I can't stop reading.
And when I read, I can't stop wanting to be a writer.
Which I am.
But you know what I mean.

So join me! Sign up for an account (search for my gmail address, or my name)and let me know what's on your book shelf. I will visit my favorite neighborhood library and CHECK IT OUT!!

I WANT TO RIDE MY BICYCLE (i want to ride my bike)

Picture this:
A throw-back Schwinn.
Magenta.
Hollywood Edition.
Basket up front.
"S" for "Sarah" (alright, "Schwinn") stitched into the fatty seat.

Love it!
LOVE. IT.

This is my new obsession, purchased off of Craigslist from a graduating U-Penn student. I imagine riding this bike with a nice flowy skirt and the basket filled with flowers and fresh produce.

I feel like a little girl, all pig-tails and streamers and pink, pink, PINK!
Unfortunately, I also have the confidence of a 10-year-old, as I haven't rode a bike in years.

The last bike I owned was swiped off of the back-porch of my hillside home in college. I saw a hobo riding it weeks later with the tires still as flat as I'd let them become.

But not this time.
Oh no.

I have yet to ride it farther than one block.
See, the thing is, the brakes (which are back pedal) aren't working. Quack found this out when he took it on a test drive down a little hill. He had to use the soles of his shoes to come to a screeching halt.
"When I was a kid, I was really good at going fast, but not good at braking," he said. "I liked to bail instead."
"Just jump off?" I asked.
"Yeah. You know, I just let it slam into the garage door."

Seeing as how I have no garage door, I guess I'm going to have to get the brakes fixed.
Which is okay by me. Because to honest, I need a little time to warm up to it.
I walked it up to the air pump at the neighborhood gas station, and walked it back. Soon I will get the chrome polish out and make sure she's a-shining.

I am still debating about a helmet.

This whole bike thing takes me back to what I remember to be my 10th birthday.
I had just lost my first tooth (while eating vanilla ice cream of all things) and my folks bought me my first "big-kid" bike.

It was in the garage with a bow on it.
A red street racer with handles that curled like a ram's horns.
Slight frame.
10-speed.
FAST!

My mom says she'll race me around the block (which if you know my mom is terribly out of character for her.)
She gets on her mom bike (much like the magenta Hollywood Edition, I might add).
We set off around the block, riding with helmets IN the road (for the first time in my life).
We round the corner and my house comes back into sight. I see that my father has used side-walk chalk to make a great finish line in the road.
I decide to see what this little mama is made of. I start pushing the pedals faster.
I'm cruisin' and the gears are click, clicking against my sneakered feet.
I figure my Ma will let me win, but I guess when you ride a "big-kids" bike, your Ma doesn't just let you win anymore.
I see that she's gaining on me (and on her 1-speed, fat-seated mom bike!)
I'm standing (sprinting if you will).
I'm closing in in the chalky line drawn into the roadway from the base of our driveway.
50 feet,
20 feet,
12 feet.

I can still remember my dad smiling near the line, beaming as his girl is sailing in.
And then, oh yeah - you saw it coming -

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!

I fall hard and swiftly onto my left side. My ankle, knee, hip, elbow, shoulder and face is tenderized by the black-top.

Dad sprints from the finish line. Mom bails off her bike (strangely a skill she and Quack have in common.)

I am a screaming mess. It hurt, but I cry mostly for the ruined finish on my apple-red bike.

I walk the bike across the finish line, with dad and mom (and mom's bike) in tow.

I push the racer into the garage, hang the helmet on the ram's horn handles and don't touch it for the rest of the summer.

Let hope things are different with the Hollywood's maiden voyage...
I'll let you know how it goes.