Have I ever told you about the night L and I bought our mountain bikes?

Back before we had kids, and when I say before we had kids, what I mean is back when we had money, we were getting ready to move, and by getting ready to move, I mean moving the next day. So while we had plenty of things to do at home, we instead ventured out to a local outdoor sporting goods store to look at bikes. And we decided to buy a couple. 'Cause that's the kind of people we were back then, in our carefree days with lots of disposable income. We spent some time in the store, being instructed in how to take the front wheel off and put it on, how to change gears and what-nots. We looked at some accessories, and opted to skip helmets and instead get a little baggie thing to carry stuff and a speedometer or something like that.

Since we were moving the next day, and our new house closer to the store than our house we were spending the night in, we decided to take them to the new place and stick them in the garage. It was about ten o'clock when we got there, and there a was a fine light mist falling outside. It was October, and the night air was cool and crisp. We took our bikes out of the back of the SUV and each put our front wheels on. In the dark, cold rain. I couldn't stand to not ride our brand new, shiny bikes, so I cajoled L into riding up the street and back before going home to pack.

We hopped on our bikes and took off up the hill. After a few yards, I started peddling harder and made some smarty pants remark about him not being able to keep up as I zoomed past him. When I was just a few feet in front of him, I suddenly felt a big jolt and heard this horrible scraping sound. The next thing I knew, I was lying in the middle of the street and L was yelling at me to answer him and was I OK or not?

As you might have already guessed, I was not quite as proficient as I thought at putting on the front wheel of my bicycle. As soon as I really got going, it flew out and the forks planted in the asphalt, and I flew over the handlebars and went skidding down the road. To this day, my North Face Fleece (which was new at the time), wears a burn mark on one sleeve where I skidded across the pavement.

I was very, very lucky. Though I don't believe in luck. I had no breaks, minimal road rash, and a big scratch on my pretty new bike. I cried real tears over that.

We took my bike back in the next week for repair (I messed up the spokes on the wheel that flew off), and you'll all be relieved to know that both L and I purchased helmets on that trip.

Remind me to tell you about our second trip out sometime.

(P.S. - this post was written on Penelope, the new love of my life. How did I live without a Mac?)