I just rode my new bicycle to my milk-dealer’s house, which is six blocks down and three blocks over, not very far at all, to return an empty jar and pick up a fresh one.  Which is slightly terrifying, carrying jars of milk in a backpack, in the sense that ‘what if I fall over, if I am forced to a sudden stop by a car pulling out of a driveway or because of my incurably wobbling starts, and the half gallon of milk is shattered, leaving shards of glass and pools of milk, perhaps mixed with my own blood, and I am bruised and wounded and must get myself home as the unpasteurized goodness flows down the street, lacking only a drizzle of honey to stop me from being escorted to heaven?’  Because these are the things that go through my head when I throw one leg over the bike and push off.

Thankfully, no.  The ride was as smooth as an incredibly bumpy, perhaps paved in the early days of the last century, road can be.  There are smoother streets certainly, but they involve trickier street crossings, more stop signs, and more pedaling down congested streets.  Congestion makes my heart rate soar and while that perhaps results in better exercise, it often leads to increased wobbliness.

But.  I love coasting down the street.  There is nothing like it.  Or the thrill of a incline (down, not up).

While I was conducting my milk-dealings, the children inspected my bike, declared it to be used (duh) and put it into every possible gear, asking questions I couldn’t answer and showing off the features of their own bikes.  Oh, to have the inexhaustible (but exhausting) enthusiasm of children.

Speaking of the benefits of being 25 (the bike was my birthday gift, have I mentioned this?) I recently got a letter from my auto insurance agent which contained the delightful phrase: “your premium for the current policy period has been decreased by a total of $104.70.”  I am now a proper adult in the eyes of the automobile.