Fred and I bought bikes last week. Said bikes are used, ancient, rusted, and together cost less than $150. My bike has stem shifters and rumbles in agony when I turn left. Fred's bike was evidently made in an era when neon pink was considered an emblem of masculinity. It also pops and clicks every block or so. Fred claims it's because it has "bicycle incontinence" (I'm not sure he knows what incontinence really means), and it just has a hard time knowing what speed it wants to go.
We guard our bikes with our lives. So far we've refused to let them out of our sight because Davis is notorious for stolen bikes. At the very least, we're convinced someone will steal parts from our bikes (although admittedly we're not sure which rusty parts someone would want to steal). This newfound paranoia has presented several interesting predicaments, such as rearranging our entire living room furniture to accommodate the bikes as permanent fixtures and the mocking looks we receive when we insist on wheeling our clunkers inside restaurants. We even plan on riding them to church. We're in love. Oh, with each other? Right, and our bikes too.
Don't mind the construction paper Christmas tree donned with string "twinkle lights" and (not pictured) an origami star colored with a yellow high lighter marker. We realize Christmas was two months ago. We also realize a construction paper tree is a pathetic poor man's excuse for a real tree, but in case you didn't already know, paper comes from real trees. See, they're practically the same thing anyhow. We can even smell pine needles if we pretend hard enough.
*What Fred said when he meant "bicyclists."