In which the author is witness to a great tragedy...

The first time it happened, I was happily pedaling to work on a blissful Friday morning thinking how nothing had hardly happened recently that would merit writing a blog about (this was in the "early" days while this was all still in "development"). Having about a month of bicycling on my new less hazardous route and hardly a spill to report, I thought, "What have I to write a blog about? All the adventures to be had, have been had."

I have come to realize this is very dangerous thinking, because that is precisely the moment adventure is imminent.

I crossed the street, happily looking forward to those first red poppies of spring, more springing up by the day. This always ensued a violent argument in my head. Raging between all appearances of the poppies being wild and no one missing a couple poppies to adorn my room and the undiminished childhood memory of motherly admonition, "If everyone picked a flower, there would be none left for everyone else to enjoy." Usually the practicality of--if I picked a flower, I will pick it on the way home--won out. But then biking home, there were no poppies on that side of the road, and between the logistics of having to cross the road twice and my eagerness to be home, all the poppies had been left for everyone else to enjoy, as far as this bicyclist was concerned.

So, I crossed the street with eager expectation, and they were all gone! All the poppies gone--mowed down in their glory!

Crestfallen, shocked, stunned, appalled at the number of vases all of those poppies would have filled. How could they be gone?! The waste! The great tragedy of it all! Why was I not given forewarning? Someone could have at least put up a sign, "Please pick the flowers, they'll all be gone tomorrow!"

The one consolation, I sighed, it is still early in the spring, perhaps they have time to grow back. I strode along, amazed at the things that keep happening and contemplating how I must write a blog. About that instant, a squirrel jumped to the sidewalk from a nearby tree, ran into the road straight in front of my wheel. With absolutely no time to react, I winced in anticipation of a horrible horrible crunch. His timing was slightly off; he hit the rim of the wheel and violently bounced and scrambled away with an unpleasant squeak.

Heart pounding, reeling over this second near-tragedy, I finally strode into work. Having relayed my amazement at the peculiar events of the morning, my boss replied, "Indeed, crazy squirrels on campus!"

On mon Bicyclette...

In which there is a shortened sequel...

Dear Reader,

My profound apologies, but I have decided not to go into great detail on my birthday sequel. It is really too depressing to dwell upon, beyond mentioning the barest facts, I'd rather like to forget.

The barest facts being...

Talking on the phone while biking will have to be conquered in the year to come (before my next birthday.) Conquering riding hands free and talking on the phone while biking, was perhaps a bit ambitious to tackle in the same year.

My wounds, the solid evidence of the above stated fact, are just now almost disappeared. (Though this has given me great occasion over the last week, in all my biology nerdiness, to ponder the wonder of cell growth and it's marvelous role in wound healing.)

And finally, I'm pretty sure it was one of the saddest things the car behind me had ever seen to see this person on a bike happily flying a birthday balloon strung out behind them, severely wipe out on the corner right before their eyes (and I appreciated the concerned inquiry as to my state of being from the driver).

My day went on to quite happier events, and this incident rather unimportant in determining the outcome of that birthday. For now, however, my cell phone shall remain securely in my backpack where it cannot tempt fate and my well being by ringing, oh just a hand's reach away, in my pocket while riding.

On mon bicyclette...