I found this bike abandoned, in the woods near my house. I nursed it back to health and, although still a bit rusty around the handlebars, I’ve been riding it around on the 5-mile path which I usually run, and which snakes around a beautiful lake and through nice, thick woods. I’ve been thinking about holding on to old, elemental things like my typewriter (which I also recently resuscitated and have begun to use in writing letters) and my turntable which I miss dearly. I have a huge collection of vinyl at my father’s house. It sits on a shelf collecting dust. This bike is so dear to me now; I know it’s a woman’s bike, but I’ve never cared about things like that. In fact, I’m grateful that bloody horizontal, menacing bar isn’t staring at my crotch any longer. The path on which I ride/run is very popular for bikers–but they’re all high-tech guys and gals wearing the traditional Tour de France type garb, and riding $6,000 machines. You should see me on this thing, wearing long pants (it’s still a bit cold), and one of those newsboy caps, as I get blown away by Lance Armstrong wanna-bes. I think I may be reverting. Soon, I will own chickens and pigs and make my own sausage, grow my own veggies. Something about everything distracting us that is revolting for me; computers, devices, the online world is killing me. I don’t desire to speak to people any longer because they’re constantly checking their phones. This is turning into a rant, and I promised none of this. I am ecstatic about this old bike. It makes all kinds of noise when I pedal it. It has one speed, and the brakes are applied when you reverse the pedaling motion. Everything old is new. And good. Even if a bit rusty.