Bike-riding Blues, Part II

In an environmentally and fiscally-conscious effort to conserve gasoline, I recently decided that, instead of driving my car, I will walk or bike-ride whenever possible.

I live in a centralized location, just off of (as irony would have it) Central Expressway in the center of Dallas. This great location affords me the opportunity to complete most of my errands without ever turning on my sedan. The neighborhood pub, the chain drugstore, the ice cream shoppe, the dry cleaners... everything is within walking or riding distance of my apartment!

And now that we in North Texas are in the middle of our 14 days of autumn, pedestrian travel is even more appealing to me.

On my way to work earlier this week (I must still drive to work, as my school is 12 miles across town and smack dab in the middle of an unsightly barrio), I dropped off a pile of dirty laundry at the $2.19 Dry Clean Supercenter on the corner of Fitzhugh and Travis.

Yesterday afternoon it came time to pick up my dry cleaning.

Since the Supercenter is no more than a mile from my house, I determined that I should ride my bike to retrieve my load of clean clothes. The weather was crisp, traffic was light, and I needed the exercise.... What better time to run some errands on my bicycle?! The only problem I could imagine arising was what method I was going to employ to successfully transport my bundle of freshly-pressed button-downs and flat-fronts from the Supercenter back to my apartment while simultaneously trying to navigate Knox Street on a bicycle at 5pm.

"Minor details... I'll figure it out when I get there," I thought to myself. I mounted my MeanMachine and off I went.

The ride there was uneventful. It was so mundane that I even decided to perform some light sketch comedy, by utilizing the drive-thru lane on my bike. I succeeded in making the counter women chuckle (though the other cars in line were less than amused, as evidenced by their incessant honking and the unusually high number of dirty looks shot in my direction), but that's when the comedy routine took an unfunny turn.

The moment of truth had arrived. How would I carry home my laundry?? I first tried riding with my right hand on the handlebars and my left hand carrying the clothes. This did not work, due to the strain that holding 20 pounds of lightly-starched fabric put on my arm, and the inherent danger present in trying to steer and brake with only one hand.

I tried draping the clothes over my shoulder while riding slowly and carefully. This was also unsuccessful; the bundle repeatedly slipped off and forced me to stop. I was running out of options... Just that second, I reached a moment of clarity: Years of scolding children to "use your brain!" and "solve it yourself!" had apparently paid off. Eureka, I figured it out!!

I removed my helmet and slid the 14 hanger hooks through one of the slits at the back/center of the helmet. I then put the helmet back on my head and tightly fastened the chin strap. The clothes were securely attached to the back of my helmet, and both of my hands were free to safely operate the bicycle. If you were cruising the northern edges of Uptown yesterday afternoon, you undoubtedly saw me. For those unlucky few who didn't, I'll try to describe what I must've looked like:
With the helmet re-applied on my head, the dry cleaning actually fit rather well. The hangers fit perfectly into the back-center slit (too perfectly, as it would turn out) and, with my head held high and my neck outstretched, the plastic wrapping bags rested a good two inches above the chain mechanism.

The only problem (that I could foresee) was the sheer absurdity (Ok, stupidity) of my appearance: Riding slowly, with back and neck super-erect, with the helmet's chin strap cutting into my neck, with 5 pairs of pants and 9 shirts wrapped in plastic dangling from the back of my helmet, blowing in the wind like some not-so-superhero's cape.

Why was everybody honking and pointing???

Whatever. They're just jealous...
I was nearly halfway home by now, and--truthfully--rather enjoying the attention I was getting. Everything was fine and dandy until I approached the intersection of Knox and McKinney, just past the Apple Store and before I got to Chuy's. In the middle of the intersection I felt a sharp tug on my helmet. My head instantly snapped back and my bike immediately stopped.

(i experienced that phenomenon in which you have a hundred different thoughts in a span of .03 seconds, and you don't realize all of the thoughts you had until you look back and analyze what just happened...)

As my head jerked back and I was pulled off my bicycle in the middle of the street, I remember thinking:
"Did somebody sneak up behind me and yank my dry cleaning?" then:
"That's not funny. Who would have the nerve to do such an act?" then:
"I'm about to crash, and now I surely have to fight whoever it is that pulled me down." then:
"Damn, do I fight in the middle of the street?" then, as my arm and butt and legs skid on the street and the moment sinks in:
"Now I really have to beat up whoever did this. I hope he is not much bigger than me."

I am fully prepared for a tussle, but when I turn around, nobody is there.

I immediately glance up at the traffic light, and it is still green (for me). I look at my bike laying prone in the middle of McKinney Avenue, and one of my shirttails is tangled in the chain!! The plastic bags holding my designer cargo were ripped to shreds, hangers were tossed to and fro, shirts were strewn up and down the intersection, and I'm just sitting there on the street, wishing one of these honking cars would hit me and put me out of my misery.

As I start to rise, the car two feet from my head starts to honk. The light had turned. Now I was holding up traffic on McKinney.
"I hope they saw this whole ordeal unfold, and they are a bit understanding of my predicament," I thought. But all I got was horns and screams. I was humiliated.

I started gathering my shirts, but they were literally all over the intersection. This was going to take a while. My pants remained in their bundle, but I still had to gather them up, pick up my bike, collect my shirts, and limp to the curb while carrying all of my disheveled payload. The cars were going to have to wait at least one light-cycle for me to get out of the way.

I couldn't look up. I was too ashamed to even acknowledge the Jeep-load of girls cheering for me. I could not even muster a self-deprecating smile. Not only was I embarrassed beyond belief, but I was in physical pain also. My entire left side was scraped, my arm was numb, and my chinstrap had almost decapitated me.
My lightly-starched shirts were soiled with asphalt and dirt and wrinkled beyond recognition.

I staggered to the curb and a family entering Chuy's offered assistance. They seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being, and even invited me to eat with them. I knew they were just being polite, and would rather be enjoying their salsa and margaritas, so I declined their help. How badly I wanted a shot of Cuervo and a stack of hot buttered flour tortillas, but what could that nice family have done, anyway?? FEMA, OSHA, and the NTSB could not have helped me. The physical and emotional damage was done.

After closer inspection, it seems that 13 of the 14 hangers were operating correctly. But one of the shirts somehow became dislodged, slipped off the helmet, and its hanger snagged onto the front of another shirt. This started a chain reaction in which the tail of the wayward shirt dropped low enough to get caught in the chain/gear thingy. This pulled the shirt, which pulled my bundle, which yanked my head, which caused the Great Spill.

I called my friend with an SUV to come and pick me up, he laughed at me and, yes, he will let me hear about this for the next 15 years.

If anything good came of this, I guess two important lessons were learned in this whole episode: Always use your car when picking up your dry cleaning, and never--ever--turn down an offer of tequila and tortillas.