Fried & Convicted by Fay Jacobs

Author:Fay Jacobs [Fay Jacobs]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Lesbian, Memoir, Humor, Rehoboth Beach
ISBN: 9781612940946
Publisher: Bywater Books
Published: 2017-03-28T04:00:00+00:00

August 2015

EASY RIDER, OR LOOK MA, NO HANDS!

My new bike was delivered yesterday.

That I bought one at all is odd, as I have a very speckled history when it comes to biking. I didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was 32. I still see my adult self, wobbling down the street with a cadre of other adults running behind me yelling “You can do it, you can do it!” It was right out of the film Kramer vs. Kramer, only in that case Dustin Hoffman cheered on a six-year-old.

Quite pathetically, I had forced myself to learn to ride a bicycle to impress a new love in my life. My novice biking status unshared, my amour and I took a total of two ’round the block rides and one jaunt on the very flat Eastern Shore of Maryland before I made a tactical error.

Still in the glow of this new relationship, I agreed to take a vacation where we’d abandon the car on Cape Cod and take our bikes and backpacks on a ferry to Nantucket.

I did this despite never once feeling stable on two wheels and, in fact, certain I had an inner ear disorder preventing me from staying upright. That I’m a math moron and could balance a checkbook better than balance my butt on a bike scared me. Further frightening me was my riding style. Not once while previously pedaling did I ever look at any scenery, staring instead the entire time at my front tire and praying I would not wipe out.

So this liar, liar handlebars on fire went on the bike adventure anyway. I have to say, I felt uncharacteristically sporty and even a bit smug standing with my bike on the ferry, luggage hanging from my back. I loved thinking that the auto passengers saw me as somebody who would take this kind of excursion.

My self-righteousness was short-lived. We docked at a cobblestone ramp, followed by an even bumpier cobblestone street. It was, literally, a rocky start. And our hotel was four blocks straight up a steep hill. I attempted to ride, but after two grunting false starts, a close call at T-boning a parked car and almost taking out a family of four, I wound up walking my Schwinn up the entire ghastly hill.

We finally arrived at the Lucretia Mott House Hotel, named for an American women’s rights activist and social reformer. Noticing my considerable distress at schlepping the Schwinn—perhaps it was the wheezing—my companion said, “Let’s lock the bikes up and go get a drink.”

Clearly disgusted, I replied, “Let’s not lock the bikes up and hope mine gets stolen.”

Things were not going well. But at least the Mott House had a handy cocktail lounge. Lucretia may have had many social causes, but I’m guessing that the temperance movement wasn’t among them. So the bikes were locked and we got loaded.

The next morning, we bounced our bikes down the cobblestone grade and set out on a nice, flat, paved road to the ocean.

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