I was riding on a Lesbian bike

It must be a May-day thing, because while Taiga was getting her new toy, so was I, on May-day just after I finished work. (Thank god for the rules that allow shops to still open late on Bank-holidays if they want to).

I've got back onto two wheels again with a brand-new mountain bike. It was surprisingly cheap, in fact what I paid for the bike, a pump, and a crash-helmet is what I would have spent on meals and beer in three or so weeks in the pub. That might suggest I eat and drink a lot, and I won't deny it, but it does also show just how expensive eating out has become lately. I don't have much choice about it, because I live away from home during the week, and up until now I had used the evening meal as a treat to make up for the lack of cats to stroke and keyboards to tickle. Being honest, I actually miss being able to get online and share myself with you all more than anything else.

But I have to stick this contract out to the bitter end, and I also have to regain some of my former fettle. Fat man on a bicycle is not a title I would choose willingly, or even answer to. Walking is pleasant, but oh so slow, and I have always been a speedy one. Cycling was my great discovery of the eighties, it transformed living and working in London from a dreary grind of tubes into a sparkling rush of lights and sounds and smells.

I did try to get back onto a pair of pedals three years ago. On an impulse I bought a mountain bike from a garage clearance sale that we happened upon. It was a nice enough bike, only just too small for me, but it was a ladies bike. I should have known there'd be trouble, I read "The Third Policeman" all those years ago, and remember the stern admonishments that the Sergeant delivered on the outcome of uncontrolled cross-cycle concupiscience. I changed the saddle for a male one, but the bike steadfastly resisted my efforts to fuse it and I into a joyous union. No matter how often I mounted it (her?), there was always the feeling of resistance, of lessons un-learned, of a desire to fight and bite and scratch. And then, as if to say that if I wouldn't change to that which she desired me to be, I could not have her, she hid. For nearly a year I couldn't find the female bike. Her bell finally gave her away when I was tumbling large empty carboard boxes around the store, and one of them slid down behind a car and forced a plaintive tingle from her.

I dragged her back out into the light, squeezed her front and rear and pumped them up until I felt a determined resistance, spanked her saddle several times to warm it up, and then wheeled her outside for mounting. But this was not to be a joyous re-union. Along the road I tried in vain to make her tyres sing with delight, but all I could hear where sullen moans.
"What is it?" I pleaded with her, "what do I have to do to make you feel pleasure?"
"Try getting off me and floundering around on something less delicate."
"Is there no way we can be together like normal man and bike? Is there nothing I can do to bring back the love and lust into your life?"
"You could give me away to someone else, hopefully much lighter, and preferably a woman."

So that was the end of my experiments, I had unwisely fallen for a lesbian bicycle, and nothing short of a sex change was going to make her ring her bell for me. I was once again forced to spin my own wheels and make tingling noises in my own imaginary spokes.

My new acquisition is a total change, the tyres purr with pleasure as we glide along the tarmac, rising to a loud contented hum when a following wind or downhill stretch gives us more speed. Only the saddle has given me some cause for concern. I stopped in the woods for a breather, and found to my horror that I was neuter. There was no feeling at all between my legs, not even pins and needles. When I cupped my hands around the poor shrivelled trio of walnuts they felt unfamilar, disconnected. I dropped my trousers and stood in the rays of the evening sun, waiting for a little warmth, and gradually felt myself come back to life. Was this a last jealous act of vindictiveness on the part of my female bicycle? I had no spanners with me, but a desperate wrench tilted the saddle downwards a notch or two and I managed to complete the rest of the journey without any more unmanly moments.

And so my new challenge is to design a bicycle saddle for men, with a recess or perhaps a billiard table-like pocket, so that my prime qualifications, (two O-levels and a budgerigar) can ride with me in the style and comfort they deserve.

The title of this post derives from the Jonathan Richman song 'I was dancing in a Lesbian Bar', which hopefully can be found at this link (halfway down the page is a wmv file). If not, then I'll have to upload my copy to a myspace account.