A couple years ago I was riding my bike up Woodstock and as I finally rounded the top of the hill (huffing and puffing all the way) I saw a man experiencing a moment of cosmic bliss. Yes, it was a dude in full office regalia -- a white button-down shirt straining to contain a visible paunch, baggy yet sensible-looking wool-blend pants, gogglebug glasses, and a graying ponytail that clung to the the back of his neck like a lovestruck squirrel. He had a bashful, academic air, and he reminded me of Penn of "Penn and Teller" fame. He was standing upright yet moving forward in space without a single visible muscular twitch. He was cruising along on a Segueway -- you know, those machines that riot cops and bored househusbands get. They are like the Hummers of the scooter world; steroidal and amoebic at the same time, and looking to me as if they are clumsy, difficult to steer. So this Ponytail Guy was ZOOMING up the hill, at the very edge of the bike lane, almost veering into the regular car traffic, when along comes a real rough red-skinned Motorcycle Papa on a mile-wide Harley. See him: Crudely tattooed arms, beat-up leather vest, Okefenobee mutton chops and the whole nine yards. The two men on their respective vehicles were nearly parallel to each other though it was clear that the Harley would overtake Ponytail Guy in seconds. And what does Ponytail Guy do? He gave a hand signal -- yes, a hand signal, of the sort "riders" give other riders -- as if to say, "Hey brother, I hear you, I am WITH YOU; our spirits howl like two lone wolves in the wilderness of this Armageddon Planet." This was done WITHOUT IRONY. The ability to purchase and ride his Segueway made Ponytail Guy feel as adventurous as the ancient motorcycle Papa -- and why not? We are all figments of American folklore in the end, cruising up the eternal hill with our face-holes guzzling the Idiot Wind...
Posted on: Fri, 27 Sep 2013 07:16:33 +0000
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