How better to accept and appreciate living in the suburbs than riding your bike through quiet neighborhoods of tasteful houses and smooth, paved roads, no hands, lilacs and lawnmowers in the air, sitting high above your handlebars, pedaling, arms stretched out, balancing even through the tiny thrill of leaning into a corner and turning onto the next pretty block, no hands, no hands. What a pleasure. And the smooth paved road changes to a shortcut plank neighborhood connector and in your blind oblivious pleasure you misjudge, and your front wheel dives from the boardwalk into the soft earth and you toss over the handlebars and splat upon the ground, popping up quickly as possible from the embarrassment. You hear voices from the house closest and the guys are out in front grilling and drinking beer and maybe they didn’t see you but they probably heard you yell FUCK! when you fell.
Who Needs Handlebars?