The Two Hundred and Twenty Eighth Story

This is my bicycle. His name is Chupwallah, Chup for short. He's been with me for over ten years. I bought him at a police auction the day after I graduated from college; also the day after my shitty old peugeot was stolen. I've had him for longer than I've lived in any state, longer than the total time I've owned all cumulative cars, longer than I've ever stayed with a human partner. When I first got him, I joked that I rode my bike in the city not because I wasn't afraid to ride my bike; but that I was afraid, and I was also afraid to drive (hell, I was afraid to approach my car. There might be someone hiding in/under/behind it) and I was afraid to walk (someone might accost me) and so, being equally terrified by all options, I took the most convenient one, and that was the bike.
But Chupwallah and I managed to overcome the transcendental fear that had been the background noise of my entire conscious life. The self propelled endurance and constant forward motion made me feel like a badass. The fear faded slowly; so slowly that I didn't notice until years in, when that confidence had already started to spread to other aspects of my life: I started to make the same joke about fear and bikes and realized I was lieing. I wasn't afraid to ride in the city, and I wasn't afraid to drive, and I wasn't afraid to walk. I am still an anxious person. I'm still afraid of strangers and undefined social situations and sometimes I am still afraid of shadows. But Chupwallah taught me what it felt like to not be afraid, and once I learned that, my life fundamentally changed.

the hundred and sixty third and hundred and sixty fourth story

Once upon a time there was an abandoned bicycle who didn't have much to do. One day he saw a hen walking down the road, struggling to carry a whole basket of eggs. He offered to help, but it's difficult for a bicycle to balance alone. The hen climbed up to help with that, and they wove off into the sunset, no longer abandoned for him, and, well, moving faster, for her.

Once upon a time there was a chicken in love with a bicycle. She's been brought up to think she needed a coop with a door and a roost and all that, but after a bit of thinking she decided she didn't need all that, and they just rode all over the country, with her sleeping nights in his basket.

(the birds fourth and fifth for-profit stories. They tried to get fancy and link them. Four the two stories they were given the words chicken, bicycle, kindness, and simplicity)

the Fifty First Story

When I was first riding a bicycle in Boston, it was a little old upright English three speed. She was a great, easy little bicycle. Her name was Daphne. Riding to work one day, I was hit by a car. There was no serious damage, either to me or my bike (those things are tanks) and the driver was not confident in her legal status, so I sent her on her way. The biggest issue with the bike was that the seat post had bent, so I pulled up onto the sidewalk to try to straighten it enough to continue on my way. In about 3 minutes, the BU cops showed up. I said I was fine, and sent them on their way. Then a Boston city police car pulled up. I explained that I was fine, and they left. About 30 seconds later a firetruck pulled up. I explained that my bicycle was unlikely to explode, but while we were still talking, another firetruck and an EMT guy showed up. Yet again, I explained that I was fine. Then another policeman showed up- the EMT guy took over the job of pointing out my lack of injuries. Finally, about 10 minutes after the crash (longer than I would have been held up there if not for all the interruptions) an ambulance showed up. The EMT guy told them I was ok, and just fixing my bike. They wanted to take me in just to check things out. I was already late for work, knew I was uninjured, and was not going anywhere. They tried to insist. I said no. Then one of them piped up with "well, at least let us clean your road rash". I was going to work and didn't have a  full first aid kit with me, so that actually sounded ok, until he followed it with "just step into the back of the van, and we'll get it cleaned up right away. I looked at the EMT guy. He shook his head and mouthed "no". I said I'd be happy to sit on the curb while they did it. They looked really quite pissed. I am utterly convinced they would have kidnapped me to the hospital.

the twenty third story belongs somewhere about 3/4 the way through the twenty second story

It's been so long since i've been on google+ that part 1 of this story has long since passed into memory, but here's part two. Or, maybe it's the middle part.

Picking up from the middle of the last story: I had a small section of leg missing, and was about 15 miles from home on a bicycle. I did have a cell phone. I only knew two people in the Boston area with cars; Case and Dustin. I didn't really know where I was, and Dustin seemed like a better candidate for figuring that out, so I called him. I told him I needed to go to the hospital and get stitches, and needed a ride. We didn't know each other well then, but we'd met in the foundry, and he'd seen me pretty badly hurt, yet refusing to take off the few minutes to get a proper bandage, so he knew this meant serious. He said he'd be right there, and asked where I was. I got as far as "there's this one set of unlit ballards" and he knew just where I was. He asked if I could walk at all, and I said yes, and he told me he'd meet me in the nursery parking lot about 500 yards towards Boston. Sure enough, it was there, and I waited, and he was there pretty quick. When he arrived, he asked if I really needed stitches, or if I just wanted a ride home. I said no, I really needed stitches. We went to Mt auburn hospital, and I walked up to the check in desk. It is important to the story that a) I have a clumsy tomboy's pain tolerance- VERY HIGH, and b) I was still flirting with Dustin, no way I was gonna admit to weakness in front of him. So I walked up to the desk, and, when asked what I was there for, said, with a smile, that I had misplaced a bit of my leg out on the bike path. I suppose this was not the right approach, as we then sat in the waiting room for two hours before I even saw a triage nurse. When we finally did see her, she asked me to unbandage the leg so she could see it. I did so. She, of course, was unshockable, though she did berate me for not complaining and getting into her earlier. Dustin leaned over, took a look, and said "Whoa! That's BIG", and both she and I laughed. I was immediately taken into a room. They insisted on taking xrays, while I was arguing that we could see the bone with our bare eyes ( I imagine they were right). After that, the actual stitching started. Now, while I am totally cool with pain, doctors kinda freak me out, and, at some point post triage nurse, I had started acting like a normal young girl with a portion of leg missing- there were tears and whatnot. Dustin was holding my hand, and i was looking away from my leg. I guess he was looking at me leg, because, about half way through the stitches, he passed out. I mean, actually fainted. It was hilarious. All the sudden we're all looking over the side of the bed, figuring out if we need to do something for him. He got up pretty quickly, but the nurses insisted he go into another room. This, of course, was the best thing he could have done in the situation, as the nurses and I were now laughing our asses off, and all anxiety was well gone. I was out of there, with a big bag of complimentary gauze, only about half an hour after seeing the triage nurse.

The Twenty Second Story

While I'm on bicycle accident stories- here's the velveteen rabbit story. A warning- while I think this story is funny & uplifting, there is one gruesome passage. this story takes place rather a while ago, when I first got my first "adult" bike, in Boston. He was a 1960's Peugeot road bike, named Squirrel.

For Yom Kippor, instead of fasting, I decided i was going to go on a very long bike ride, all by myself. I started from Massart, and rode all the way to the end of the minutman trail, and then kept going to that funny little petting zoo/ icecream stand out in new bedford somewhere? I don't know. Then i went swimming at a little lake near Walden Pond. Then I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark, and I considered just staying there, but it's not really an isolated location, and I didn't have a well hidden spot, so, I got ready to start home. I had a cheap little plastic flashlight in my bag, but no headlight, so I taped the flashlight onto my handlebars with medical tape. Technically, the bike path is closed after dark, but I didn't know any other way home, so I went back to it and started down it. At the very first road crossing, my flashlight fell off, and was promptly run over by the only car i saw the whole night. Still, things were going well- the moon was out and lit the path in silver, like some sort of magical route that would lead me to the Last Homely House. The only obstructions were ballards. The ballards at that end of the path are formidable- made of cast cement and topped with the sharp remnants of cast bronze bike seats; but the ballards are at street crossings, which are well lit. Except for this one set at a driveway. It turns out that, the way these ballards are spaced, a bike will just about fit between them- but not the rider. So I hit them, and flew through the air for a bit. No doubt, I yelled. Then I laid quietly on the ground, and thought about what hurt. Only two spots- something on my back, and something on my right leg. I felt my back- no big deal, a little raw, probably hit a pedal. I felt my leg. There was a gap. There was definitely no flesh in a place where there should be. And remember- I had no light. So I stood up, rolled my pants down over the spot, picked up my bike and, in the scariest moment of this whole story, knocked on the door of the house whose driveway this was and asked to use the bathroom. They gave me a lecture about proper headlights on a bicycle, which pretty much set me at ease that they were ok people, and let me in. Once in the privacy of their well lit bathroom, I took a look. Sure enough, there was a big chunk of leg missing, and a 1inch by 2 inch section of bone showing, but it was the front of the shin, and wasn't bleeding much at all. Still, I put some gauze over it, and taped it up. I rolled my pants back down, thanked the folks, and walked out. There is a separate, and also very nice, story about my getting a ride, but this one's already too long, so suffice to say that I made it back to the city and got stitched up.

That night, I dreamed that my piece of leg, with bunny ears, was hopping around the trail, free and happy as could be. The image still makes me smile. And while there are many bunnies on that path, and thus I am quite certain it is coincidence, every single time I use that trail, I always see a bunny right at that point on the trail. I like to think the bunny is my liberated chunk of leg.

the twenty first story

I haven't been writing up stories- I have been too busy making them in copper. So here's the pie story:

First, context. A few years back, I signed up for the Downtown Crossing Holiday Market. It was insane- seven days a week, outside in Boston in December, and the thing was open for something absurd like 11 hours a day. I was set up across from a farm stand staffed by a delightful young fellow who made the whole thing bearable. Also, I had good boots, and it was close enough to home that I could ride my bike back and forth. I rather ended up enjoying myself.

The day in question, the lad over at the farm stand unpacked fresh baked pies in the morning. As he was unpacking them, he announced to us what they were. Pumpkin, Pecan, Apple, and one blackberry. I think I squealed. It's possible. I love blackberry pie. He asked if I wanted it, and I said I'd have to see how the day went. I talked to eighty bazillion people that day, and he talked to a least three times as many as I did, and i forgot that conversation. Towards the end of the day, he came back over and asked how my day had gone. I made a sour face, but someone walked into my booth before I answered. Appleman went back to his booth, picked up the pie, carried it back over, lifted a corner of my tablecloth, and slid it underneath, with his finger over his lips in the universal symbol for "we shall never mention this". I smiled very big.

Now, the pie had to come home with me.I was on my fixie- no rack, no basket, mustache bars are terrible to balance anything on, and my riding position is leaned so far forward that putting the pie in my bag was not even an option. So I tucked it under my left arm and road home. We lived in Somerville, and it was not a long commute- perhaps four miles? Certainly less than six. The bridge was an adventure, what with the wind, and the large flat box, but I made it all the way to my street with no real problem. I turned into my street, and hit an enormous pothole that had been there all winter and which i knew all about. I flipped over, landed with one leg through the frame, my bag tangled on the seat, my arm, still holding the pie box, stretched out in front of me. I was entangled in the bike, and unable to get up, but I was just able to reach the box and open the corner.

The pie was right side up, and uninjured. Life is awesome.