Chick magnet
I’ve encountered the first detriment to being a bike commuter. When on or even near the bike, I’m apparently a chick magnet.
On three separate occasions yesterday, I attracted the attention of bitches in heat. The first was a rather embarassing exchange while I was locking it at the store, when I was told I by a soccer-mom type that I really need to wear something in black spandex.
“I don’t have a spandex body,” I told her as I stood up after checking the lock.
“Oh, I think so,” she replied.
Next was waiting at a stoplight with a chick on a road bike. “Oooo, nice bike,” said she.
“Thanks. Yours too,” I replied. “And I like your shoes too.” She left me in the dust, but was waiting at the gas station across from the library.
“See ya around,” she cooed, as I coasted by.
I put my bike in the rack temporarily while I had a smoke before going in to work. She kept looking over at me, even after her boyfriend arrived in a Subaru Outback and loaded her bike in the back. I swear I saw her wink at me.
Still leaning against bike rack, which would put me in profile if you were driving up the street, two soccer-moms in a minivan slowed (considerably) after crossing the intersection. Rolling by no more than ten feet away, one leaned out the window and called, “Hey, good-lookin’. What’cha doin’?” And laughed and waved as her friend accellerated away.
I wonder if I’d become a gayboi magnet if I had it repainted pink? Or maybe I should look into an Electra Townie or Hellbilly for those trips to the café.
