My Wyoming County Island Bicycle

 "I want a bike," I announced a few weeks ago.

"You wanted a yoga mat too, and look how successful THAT was," my husband muttered from across the room.

"What?" I asked.

"What kind of bicycle would you want," he responded.

"I want an island bicycle like the ones we rented on Nantucket," I said with enthusiastic delight.

He sighed (Have I mentioned that he does that a lot?). "First of all, you do realize that we are not on an island. You live in a very hilly countryside."

I ignored him, continuing, "I want handlebars angled so that I can sit in an upright position and I want pedal brakes, no gears, as well as a basket with either a bell or a horn."

Brad stared at me. "Wow! That was REALLY specific! Gears would help you navigate the hills though."

"I've mapped out a route where I don't encounter any hills," I told him, "I'll be fine."

"Great," he said uncertainly, "then buy a bike."

The first model that I spotted cost $80. "It doesn't have a basket OR a bell," I whimpered. Brad assured me that he would attach these necessary accessories later. Yet still, I wavered. "Eighty dollars is a LOT more than my yoga mat," I explained, "What if I end up not using it?"

"If?" Brad muttered.

"What," I asked.

"What if you treat it like a rental bike...say you pretend to charge yourself $10 per ride. Then you've paid for your bike in eight rides," Brad said.

Genius.

Until.

Until I was surfing the inter-web and found the most perfect island bike of all time! It had a basket! It had a parrot-shaped horn! It sported a bottle-opener on the frame!

"It's double the cost," I moaned.

"No," Brad assured me, "it's only double the rides."

"Look," I squealed, "free shipping!"

So my bike arrived by mail in a big box that blocked admittance to my own house. My daughter Savannah was due to arrive the next day. Perfect timing.

"How is that perfect timing," Savannah asked warily.

"Because you're an engineer," I explained.

"Mom, I'm an electrical engineer," she clarified in a way that only confused me more.

"Engineer," I repeated.

"Mom. I am NOT going to assemble your bicycle for you."

The next day, I excitedly held my basket as Savannah and Brad assembled my bicycle. I carefully set my parrot horn to the side to preserve its virginity.

"No one blows this until it's attached," I declared as I handed Brad the wrong tool for the zillionth time, "And by no one, I mean that the first person to blow the maiden parrot will be me."

"Is it time for the basket," I asked again, helpfully offering it to Savannah as she wrestled the braking line into place.

"I thought you wanted pedal brakes," she gasped.

"Concessions had to be made," I admitted, "Do you want the basket now?"

Brad paused as he adjusted the gear unit. "Consider the basket like the star on the Christmas tree," he suggested.

Suddenly, I heard the climatic sound of a cheap rubber parrot horn. I spun to catch Savannah "accidentally" blowing my horn. "It just happened," she said, blowing it unapologetically again as she mounted it on the handlebars. Just like the cow can't be unmilked, my horn can't be un-honked. Clearly, my bike was ruined.

But as that old proverb says, When you fall off your island bicycle in the hilly countryside, you need to get right back on again...even if you're wearing pajama bottoms and your horn has been recently de-flowered. I can't remember the phrasing exactly. Did Ben Franklin say that? That guy just GETS me.