Thank God the cold snap seems to have finished, and I can go back to just three layers under my coat, rather than five. I even managed to venture out on my bicycle yesterday: admittedly it was only as far as Blockbuster for Bones DVDs (my new obsession) but, still, it felt like a valid effort.
I never thought that I’d be a Manhattan cyclist, but I’ve taken to it like a duck to water, relishing the speed & ease with which I can get around the city. I am, however, on bike no 4, owing to their propensity for getting nicked from the lampposts to which they are chained. At $100 a pop it’s not a tragedy, but what I do mind is that the locks that they saw through cost the same as the bloody bike.
I did learn a valuable lesson on Saturday regarding bike maintenance. I got on the bike to whiz down to Prada and within a block was huffing & puffing like a grampus. The bike felt heavy, my heart was pumping and my lungs were screaming. I was aghast at my unfitness.
Then I looked down: my front tyre was flat. I felt such a girly idiot. $5 later and the bike shop had reinflated both tyres and raised my seat. The difference! And I got the pyschological boost of discovering that I am not quite as unfit as I had thought.