As George and I were trundling down the street on our evening walk, I looked up and saw my wife, Jessie, riding home from work on her Schwinn. I could see the insistent flashing headlight mounted next to the wicker basket on her handlebars, as she turned the pedals at a measured pace, her work week done.
And I remembered how happy I was when she first asked me to help her find a bike of her own, a bike she could ride comfortably and easily, a bike she could ride to work or the park or anywhere really, and as I started telling her - just off the top of my head - of models with split top-tube step-through frames, and internal gearing, and hammered fenders, I could tell that none of the bikes were quite right. None of them were the one. She was going to have to find her bike herself.
Which she did, a week later. It was in the window of the tiny bike shop nearest our house. "And it's yellow," she said. When we went in and were helped by a sweet old man who clearly owned the shop since the fifties, I knew the deal was done. Jessie has a fatal weakness for little old men. I directly went home to grab my Ritchey and we left the shop to go for her first ride on her new bike, and at our very first stop she was immediately vindicated when we dismounted next to a group of little girls on the sidewalk and they were entranced, gathering close, saying in awe, "Oooh, your bike is bee-yoo-tiful." Jessie just smiled and thanked them, victorious.
Now she rides everyday to work, confidently and easily through the city streets, because even at a deliberate pace it's way faster than the bus. She declines to ride in the winter, although sometimes her good sense and self-preservation are nearly overcome by her hatred of public transportation. She patiently waits until spring. It's simply more fun that way, on the perfect yellow Schwinn.
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