On the first day of spring, before the snow returned, I had visions of grandeur. As I have in years past, I dreamed of becoming physically fit.
The photo that accompanies this column doesn’t adequately illustrate that I am not a medium, either in size or the ability to talk to folks in the great beyond.
I’m a large. OK, extra large. Depending on what third-world country an item is made, sometimes I am an extra-extra large.
I thought about how I would go about my new mission to become fit.
I was walking through a store and saw a treadmill. I have used a treadmill in the past. It works on the same principle as the conveyor belt on the checkout at the grocery store … only faster.
I also thought of my friends who own treadmills. Most of them have found that the nice handles on each side of the walking space of the treadmill make a dandy place to hang up items that need to drip dry.
Then, like a bolt of lightning it hit me. I will buy a bicycle.
When I was a kid, Santa acquired bikes for us from Sol Cohen’s bike shop in Atlanta’s West End. I remember the smell of the bike shop. It smelled like rubber bicycle tires.
Sol had bikes of all shapes and sizes. One year, Santa, in his arrangement with Sol, brought a Schwinn Stingray to our house for Christmas.
There wasn’t a Schwinn dealer in Social Circle. The only choices were the ones they sold at Western Auto.
I thought I was hot stuff riding along the sidewalks of Social Circle with the Cadillac of bicycles.
But I digress.
So I decided to go to a bike shop.
I walked in the door and the smell hit me. I closed my eyes and I was back at Sol Cohen’s. I was home (or so I thought).
Bicycles have changed a bit since I bought my last one. This was a place that sells the kinds of bikes that Lance Armstrong would ride.
They are sleek, have skinny tires and are so lightweight you can pick them up with a single finger.
These bikes cost more than my first car. No, they cost more than the first three cars I owned, combined.
This place also had a vast selection of spandex bike pants and tight-fitting shirts. For the sake of time, I refer you back to paragraph two.
The saleswoman, who was very nice, quickly figured out that I was looking for bikes with big tires and big seats.
Not cheap, either.
I walked out dejected. Sol Cohen is probably in that bicycle shop in the sky and I’m destined to join him.
I did what all working Americans do. I went to one of those big box stores. They have bikes literally hanging from the ceiling. The only one that was the right height and price was purple and had a silver design on it.
Two things I know: I don’t wear spandex and I don’t ride purple.
I don’t know where you find a plain old bike in a muted color with a seat made to accommodate a wide load.
Harris Blackwood is the author of “When Old Mowers Die.” His e-mail address is firstname.lastname@example.org