The Chronicles of Marge

The First Thought

This morning on the way to work, I pulled up to an intersection to wait at one of the longest stoplights in Durham, I kid you not. Anyway, I heard the car beside me pull up a bit and a noise as if a window was manually being rolled down, and the first thought that came to my mind was, "Dear God, I hope he's wearing pants." I know, it's a sad world in which we live when that is my initial and only thought in this situation (but those of you who have read this Web site long enough UNDERSTAND WHY). Luckily, he was in blue jeans (as well as a shirt, thank god, because Man Boobs are also a crime). He asked how far I rode. I told him. Then I asked how he was doing. He was good. And then, as the light turned green, we both wished each other a pleasant day and went our separate ways. 

As I pedaled onward, I pulled an imaginary pencil out of my pocket and put a check mark in the column of my life labeled "Moral Victories." You see, I don't ride a bike to bring attention to myself, but I admit that I do it to bring attention to a cause. And maybe that man will never saddle up and hit the road on two wheels, but sometimes it's enough for me that someone has the curiosity and the courage to ask a complete stranger about it. 

As long as that someone is wearing pants.

Public Service Announcement From Marge: Look Into Pants

I've waited 2 weeks to tell this story because I wasn't sure how to say it. It's one of those stories that could shock, dismay, offend—depending on how I tell it—or cause gales of laughter. However, I've shared it with at few people, and I think I can handle any feedback I may receive. Also, if you feel the need to laugh, please do. That's where I am now with this and where I will probably remain for a long time.

The date: April 2, 2009. The time: 7:13 a.m. The location: 2.5 miles from where I live. The truth: everything I share with you now.

So I was biking to work on a crisp gray morning a couple of weeks ago, down the same road I always take and experiencing nothing out of the ordinary. I noticed a dark green minivan pulling out of a townhouse complex on my left. The van got in the far left lane going my direction, and I didn't think anything of it until I approached the stoplight at the intersection, and the van pulled quickly into the right lane—the lane beside me. The van stopped about 4 feet shy of the white stop line, to which I rolled up to and stopped. The van then suddenly pulled up to line, which caught my attention. My brain automatically went into cyclist defense mode: does this guy see me? is this guy going to turn right and cut me off? I looked back to check for a turn signal, which I didn't see, and then I looked at the driver, and said to myself, "That man isn't wearing any pants." And then I said to myself, "And that's not a Coke bottle he's playing with in his lap." And then I said to myself, "Oh holy shit." I didn't know what to do. I'd never been in this situation before, and at that moment, all I wanted was out. So I rolled my bike back so that I was at the back of the van, out of sight of the man without pants and unable to see the offending object. 

World, it was huge. It was also the longest red light I have ever experienced in my life, and never before have I looked straight ahead with such purpose and determination. Once it turned green, I hesitated for a moment, hoping the guy would just get his show on the road, but he didn't move—I mean, I guess it's kind of difficult when you are dealing with all that—so I pedaled on by and was relieved when I looked back and noticed he had turned right and was not going my direction. 

Once I got moving, my brain started working. Should I have called the cops? What if this was a sex offender of the verge of offending? What if he shows himself to a child? What if I see him tomorrow? I admit to The World now that I didn't call the cops because I was so shaken and disturbed at the moment. I mean, I'm 30 years old; I'm used to a stray penis every now and again, but this was a new experience for me. I've seen on the news or on TV crime shows that people like this are out there, and as much as I know this happens, it has never happened to me, and because of that, I've retained this idea that I'm immune to this, that good is the first emotion that people have, that no one is going to whip out a penis and show it to a random lady on a bicycle. But there I was, one ordinary lady on one ordinary morning, having one of the security blankets that guard my perception of the world being quickly ripped from me. There I was, being used by another human being in a fairly disgusting way. It was clear to me from the movements of the van and THE FACT THAT HE WAS PANTLESS, that he wanted me to see him and that he wanted to watch me, and I felt icky and cheap and a little sick inside. I mean, come on man, why not get a copy of the Victoria's Secret catalog and spend some quality time in the toilet like any normal person? Is that too much to ask?

But then again, I'm just now beginning to understand the level of pervert that roams the streets of Durham at 7:15 in the a.m. I admit that I still don't understand much, even after this experience, and that I don't really want to understand any more than I do because, at the end of the day, this is a man who consciously got into his car and took off his pants or else walked to his car in the fresh morning air without wearing any pants at all. And folks, that is just not something that I need to think about any more than I already have.

Number Twenty-Three

Dear Single Women of the World:

I come in peace, and with what I hope is a great gift: How to Attract Yourself a Man Without Even Trying, Technique #23: Bicycle and Spandex. My true story follows:

On Tuesday evening on the way home from work, Miss Betty Blue and I are working our way up a hill in the bike lane on MLK. As I approach a small side street, I notice a man emerging from his car, which is parked at the corner. The man is walking in my direction and wearing this "I hope I don't have to wave my arm for you to stop and talk to me" grin, and I'm all, "Great, if he thinks I carry jumper cables on my Trek 1500, then he is gonna be a sad sorry case of Shit out of Luck, and furthermore why on earth would he stop me while I am going UP A HILL, as if that is ever the way to start a relationship, buddy." Anyway, I stop because what's a girl to do when she knows that Said Man will find her in the exact same place the next day.

Anyway, he says hi and asks if I want some bus passes. He pulls out what looks to be a thin set of cards and offers his gift. And I'm all, "Is it possible to flee and be gracious in the same moment?" And not because he was foaming at the mouth or apprising me of his preference for boxers over briefs, but more because I am awkward in social situations, particularly when they involve single men who don't know that I'm married. So I explain to him how I have looked into the bus routes many times and would have to ride the DATA bus downtown and then transfer to the TTA—pardon me, now known as the TT bus because apparently demonstrating "authority" when it comes to transporting people publically is not what marketing officials think of as "good PR" but rather referring to a big-ass bus system with an abbreviation that reminds me of what little children do in the potty is just fine—all of which is to say that taking the bus to work would take more than an hour, whereas riding in the rain or cold on my bike still gets me home sooner. So I tell him that his offer is very thoughtful but he can keep the passes (which he says he gets at work for free—yeah, well then why aren't you on the bus, dude?). He then mentions that he also bikes to work and that we met once before, and then I proceed to get him confused with another speckle-bearded man that I rode with through a cold mist once and who I've not seen since. But no. Today's Man is not Cold Misty Rain Man, but rather a man who I—allegedly—met briefly while I turned onto Hope Valley and he continued straight. And for the life of me I can't remember the encounter, but I decide that maybe deflating the ego of a man who had stopped his car on the side of the road for me is not the path to take here, so I pull my best, "Oh, right. Yes, I do remember you now."

And then we exchanged first names only. His name is Dan, and upon hearing this, my mind jumps back to 2003, when I was living all on my own in Charlottesville, Virginia, and had several unpleasant encounters with Dan Dan the Stalker Man (so named by our SYTYCD Guest Chronicler Kate, who may be the only person reading this who remembers this story). Dan Dan the Stalker Man was a 30-something FATHER OF FIVE who saw me with my great aunt when I went with her to church one Sunday. Weeks later, Dan Dan tried to flag me down on the bypass, proceeded to follow me to K-Mart, and then blocked me and the Margemobile I into a parking space. Later encounters unfolded as follows: I had the misfortune of running into him and some of his FLKs (Funny-Looking Kids) at the farmer's market. I ran into him at the post office and tried desperately to get out of a conversation that involved the state of my spiritual health—his message to me was that I needed to think about heaven right then and there, but quite frankly, that's a difficult task when you are a 24-year-old woman in conversation with a potential pervert. And finally, he came to my apartment one night—I never told him where I lived—bearing a CD of music from his Christian band. Yeah, I'm all for church, but I am not all for church that shows up uninvited at your front door in the form of a mediocre bass player who hints of serial killer and thinks recording some tunes in his garage and pandering them door to door to all the single females he knows is giving his religion a leg up in the world.

Dude, the CD went straight in the trash: unopened and unplayed.

Which is all to say that I've met a few Dans in my time and maybe attracting their attention by cycling around town in spandex isn't the way to go. And maybe I shouldn't share this technique with all of my single female friends. But then again, several of you have put me on the lookout for hot single men, and Man Cyclists tend to have pretty good-looking legs. They may even offer you gifts, and who knows, had I let Dan the Bus Pass Man catch a glimpse of my sternum, he may have offered to take me out for a beer.

Jason would have been proud.

Needless to Say, I Didn't Buy the Toothbrush

So it was raining yesterday, which is a legitimate excuse for why I didn’t bike to work, but then there was the whole at-home bike repair session that I started at 9:30 Thursday night and resumed at 6 the next morning. It involved replacing brake pads—easy enough, mission accomplished with only five uses of the word “shit”—but something was just not right at 6:30 a.m. when I summoned Jason from the bed and started yelling that there was just no time left to get to work before it started raining and that I was a total loser for not being able to repair my bike on my own and that my life sucked and all hope was lost. Jason stood there in his boxer shorts wondering why on earth he married such an irrational woman.

This all started Thursday when about an hour before leaving work, I happened to walk by Miss Betty Blue and notice that her rear tire was flat. Great. These are my expensive, specially reinforced tires that have given me nine months of confidence of the road, which I now know is nothing more than A FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY. Just what my winter self-esteem level needs. Luckily, my coworker gave me a ride home, which I was secretly relieved to get because it was cloudy and misty out and could have made for a miserable ride home.

Then, at 5:30, I realized that I left my work ID badge in my coworker’s car. On top of that, the bike store closed at 7 p.m., and Jason had to work late so the Margemobile wasn’t home yet, and I just didn’t feel like driving the truck to Chapel Hill, and I needed to go to Target and buy a toothbrush because my teeth were done being fooled that all that action involving Tom’s of Maine and some worn out bristles was still doing them some good, and then I needed to go to the Whole Foods and get chips and salsa to take to a friend’s for dinner. And then I grew anxious and started sweating.

Ergo, I found myself at the bike shop in Chapel Hill 30 minutes before closing, where I met the father of one of my sisters’ children.

This is why I don’t go to the Durham store, where they look at you like you are a dumbass and refrain from cracking a smile, as if that will tarnish their bad-ass reputation. Trust me: no future brothers-in-law in that store. But back to the Chapel Hill store... my usual guy was not there, so when I first walked in lugging a unicycled Betty, my heart sank a bit. But then Jeremy arrived and he remembered our phone conversation from earlier in the day. While he worked, he talked to me in a pleasant fashion and showed me what was wrong with my tire. And then he did in 3 minutes what usually takes me 45 with tears—he put a new tire on my bike. And to make me want to hug him even more, he educated me on some critical bike maintenance information that no one has ever told me in my life. Apparently, you are supposed to get a new chain every 1,500 miles or so because they stretch. I had no idea! That means I need to get a new chain EVERY 5 MONTHS. (Yeah, you should be impressed.) So there I was, all deer-in-the-headlights because I’ve never gotten a new chain and almost too ashamed to admit it, but Jeremy made me feel so at ease that I confessed my sin and told him I’d bring Betty back next week just so he could get his hands on her and perform the additional $200 worth of critical repairs that my years of ignorance have caused need of (a new chain and a new cassette…sigh).

He even gave me the UNC employee bicycle commuter discount because he said I was truly committed and what I was doing was important and that I should drop his name in the future to make sure I get the discount again even though I’m not an employee. Have no fear, Jeremy, I'll be dropping your name in no time: Kat and Vern: His name is Jeremy and he is the new love of one of your lives. You're welcome.

A Week in the Life of a Lady Cyclist

Let me preface: I appreciate the Man Cyclists of the world, particularly the ones who commute to work. They are doing great things for our planet, but they don’t always do great things for their fellow Lady Cyclists. Two examples from the week.

On Tuesday, I was going up hill at my generally slow pace when Man Cyclist of the Week Exhibit A speeds by me. Fine. Whatever. It looks like you’re out for Ego Enlargement only because no one on their way to work wants to go that fast to get there. So at the top of the hill is a stoplight notorious for never being green when it knows I’m near. I encounter Exhibit A stopped at the curb several feet before the light, taking a swig of some energy-boosting liquid consumable. I pedal around and then take my normal spot at the intersection while waiting for the light to change. Two seconds after it turns green, Exhibit A flies by me like he just stumbled into a nest of fire ants that had breached the elastic security of his tighty-whiteys and he is trying desperately to escape. I’m subsequently left there in his wake, wondering why the hell he couldn’t have stopped to take a drink of his water at the light so that he only needed to pass me once.

And therein lies one of the most prevalent characteristics of the Man Cyclist: they want to pass you as many times as possible, as fast as possible, and they want you to feel it because if they think you feel it, then their ego feels it. And some of them are so wrapped up in themselves, as I feel is the case with our Exhibit A, that they also want you to notice them in their spandex. As if it’s hard to overlook anyone in spandex. I think the mere fact that I had the opportunity—twice—to check out his ass made this guy’s day. Or wait…maybe he actually wanted to check out my ass twice. (And as much as that should dehumanize me, I’m not going to let it. Hey, if it still turns heads at 30, then I’m pretty damn thankful.)

Moving on to Exhibit B: the fatherly figure. Today I was passed by a non-spandex-wearing Man Cyclist on the way home from work. I caught up with him at a red light where we exchanged pleasantries and he then asked me how frequently I commute on my bicycle. I knew what he was looking for: he was looking for a novice, someone on whom to unload his 50 years of accumulated cycling advice—you know, because he’s been doing this since he was 2 and it was through the snow and he had to climb 1,000 feet in elevation just to get to school. So when I said, “I ride every day,” he had no room to talk because he didn’t ride every day. However, rather than sulking along down the road, he said that was fantastic and told me to keep up the good work. I beamed inside and out: this man recognized that I cycle more for Mother Earth than anything else, and this is something I want people to know so that maybe they too will take up their spandex and come along for the ride. But then Exhibit B made a grave error: as he pedaled ahead to the physical distance known as “Last Word in the Conversation, You Lose,” he shouted, “I would recommend getting a blinky light or rear reflector.”

He couldn’t resist, could he? He just had to patronize me somehow, so he decided to pick on Miss Betty Blue, which is a grand offense in my book because she is My Girl and she takes care of me day in and day out, and Exhibit B’s words were almost as bad as saying something about my mama, and had he been within earshot, I might have said someone about his mama.

But I’m just going to have to let this one go because had Exhibit B actually paid any attention, he would have noticed Miss Betty’s red rear reflector, which at dusk, dawn, and during the night blinks a nice bright red so that all the world can clearly see where my ass is going.

That Would Be SPF 15

On the way into work yesterday morning, I was in the left-hand turning lane waiting at a red light when I heard a guttural voice say the following: "You must load up on sunscreen because you are really pale." My jaw dropped as I looked right to discover a hyena of a Baby-Boomer man in a large pick-up truck. And I thought, dude, you’ve obviously not seen my thighs or else you wouldn’t have made that comment about my legs, and then I wondered what was in his thermos at 7 freakin’-o’-clock in the morning.

So to all the men in pick-up trucks who like to make comments to the lady cyclists: Are you kidding me? Or are you so stunned at the site of a woman on a bike that you'll say just about anything? Do you have no filter? Is that all you can come up with? Is that the trend in old-man pick-up lines nowadays? Do you think that saying something like that instantaneously turns you into Johnny Depp? Or are you just so used to snuggling up every night with a slice of orange toxicity tanning bed refuse—also known as your wife or girlfriend, BLESS HER HEART—that you don't know what natural skin looks like anymore and you just couldn't help yourself? Bite me.

Blue Sky

Today is one of those days that should convert Indoor People to Outdoor People…for the rest of their lives. I say should because I’ve met plenty of folks who obliterate my faith in the ability of humanity to recognize beauty. These are the folks who look at a blue sky and see only a blue sky rather than imagine all that is therein—the depths of color, the shapes of clouds, the way in which the sky reaches down into the horizon and creates a perfect background for the trees. I may not be an academic, but I’ve got an imagination, and I wouldn’t trade that for the world, particularly on a day like today.

When I left for work at 7 a.m., it was a cool 66 degrees out, accompanied by a slight breeze and little humidity. There was a silence as I pedaled myself down familiar roads—even the sound of cars moving on pavement couldn’t break through the tranquility of the morning. The sky was a shade of blue reminiscent of my days spent in Colorado, an effect of low humidity and the cold front that had moved in the day before. The trees and shrubs were a vibrant green, fed by the heavy rains of the weekend—such a strange thing now, weekly rain in North Carolina!

Unfortunately, my ride had to come to an end, courtesy of something called Employment. But I vowed to spend as much of the day outside as possible. Thus, I found myself walking down the highway at lunch, cloth bag in hand, scoping out for blackberry bushes. I found two spots, both of which had a fairly poor showing of ripened fruits in easy reach of my hand. So, wearing a frilly shirt (which is so uncharacteristic of my wardrobe, but let’s just blame this on the H&M vortex that sucks you in at $12.99 and doesn’t let you go) and gladiator sandals, I started stepping on waist-high grass to attempt closer access. But then my feet started to itch, and I realized that ticks and chiggers had a direct route to That Very Special Place on my body because I wasn’t wearing closed shoes. But then I remembered that the chiggers already discovered this region, which they also refer to as Heaven, on Sunday while I was mulching a bed in the yard, so what really would be the difference? They’ve already caused me to scratch my crotch at work as it is. But then I thought about the ticks again and stepped back, realizing that I’d need real clothes for this job. Nonetheless, I procured about 16 blackberries from my lunchtime highway foray, and they tasted pretty darn good.

Then, I got to ride home at the end of my work day. It was 80 degrees when I got home—absolutely perfect for the first day of July. And let me now take this opportunity to encourage everyone to GET ON A BIKE AND COMMUTE TO WORK (of course, if you are physically able and have a safe route). It will change your life in ways only that are good. And I’m not even talking about the phenomenal thigh muscles and the ability to eat anything you want because you burn it all off while getting to and from work. Biking to work forces me to BE OUTSIDE FOR AN HOUR EVERY DAY, which is something I do not take for granted. It opens my senses to the world in a way that confinement inside a car cannot. It forces me to look around, to see the mimosa, the trumpet vines, the blooming crepe myrtles. I get to see squirrels and turtles and birds right around me—the road kill and the living. I get to see people face to face—I get to talk to them too, greet them as they wait on the bus or walk down the sidewalk. I get to commune with fellow cyclists as we enjoy our journeys home. And I get to see the sky in all it’s greatness and overarching glory and depth. This simple act—this now habit of my existence—gives me energy and joy and faith in the world that good things still exist and that I can be a part of that.

So if you are reading this from the comfort of your home, I hope that you step outside and look up and appreciate today. And maybe tomorrow, you’ll get on a bike.

Friday Confessional

Mother Earth: I apologize. It's Bike to Work Week and I've only biked to work 2 days this week. I have let you down, I know. I have also let myself down and I feel like a total loser. And if it makes you feel any better, I think I've lost muscle mass in my triceps because of it—wait, I take that back: those wings have always been there, damn it. But I want you to know that this lapse on my part is not intentional exactly. One day I had to haul my husband's ass around, and without his permission I won't advertise why here, but let's just say that it involved basic anesthesia, an afternoon spent with his wife, and a visit to the Cold Stone Creamery, which makes the BEST MILKSHAKES IN THE WORLD. (And for those of you in the know, my husband maintains his status as a vibrant and healthy young man, for which we are very grateful.) And then the other two mornings, including today, I was hindered by rain—albeit light rain that didn't present the fear of being washed away by a tidal wave produced by a car that expertly hits a big puddle as it passes me by, but it was very wet, and my tires are very thin, and I don't own one of those neon green rain jackets that would increase the visibility of me on the road. But I think it's now time that I suck it up and make that investment because my fashion presentation on wheels is not as important as my safety, which is not as important as the health of you, and I am willing to go this extra mile for you, dear Mother Earth, and the well-being of all of your inhabitants. 

So there you have it. I'm sorry for being a polluter this week. I'm sorry for being a wimp. But I feel better now that I've gotten this off of my chest, and I'll try to make up for it next week, come rain or shine or ugly neon jacket.

To the Rude Cyclist This Morning

Dear Sir: Thanks for passing me by so quickly and closely this morning. My arm hair felt your handlebar. If you had taken a moment to acknowledge my presence as a fellow cyclist AND HUMAN, you would have been greeted by a pleasant “Good Morning” and a warm, friendly smile—one that only a Southern woman could produce—and your day would have been better for it. But alas, you have toiled long hours away at work not knowing how special and nice  you could have felt inside. Please take note for the next time our paths cross. Kind regards, Marge

Accomplishment of the Day

So this morning, on my way to work, I passed a cyclist—a man cyclist—while on my bike. I even passed him going uphill. This is quite a feat for me because I am always passed on the road. Or caught up to and then subjected to a community pity pedal during which some other cyclist—usually a man—rides along with me and strikes up a conversation, and there I am, sweating and struggling for my next breath in between courteous questions about SPD pedals and temperature extremes while cycling, all along trying to pedal as quickly as possible for fear that the fellow cyclist might discover that I am a girl and a slow girl at that. But then again, they've seen me from the rear and already know that (a) I am a girl and (b) I am slow. But I will say this: having a man cyclist ride along beside me is much better than having him follow me because, although I can't see the man cyclist, I know he is looking at my ass as he trails me from behind. This isn't some cocky statement about the good-looking nature of Marge’s rear end; rather I think we can categorize this under Goes Without Saying that a man will keep his priorities in line while cycling behind a woman—that is, he will stare at her ass. And for those of you who don't believe me, one time, on a random pity ride coming home from work, a man cyclist who I vaguely know actually told me that I looked good in spandex. I wasn't sure what to do with that comment, but it proved my point: Men stare.

Anyway, for as much as I cycle, you'd think I would clip along at a respectable pace. Well I just don't. So the accomplishment of this morning is truly a great one, and the glory of it still glows so brightly that I have totally forgotten about the fact that the man cyclist caught up to me by the time I reached the top of the hill.

So maybe it was an act of pity on the man cyclist’s part, but it doesn’t matter because today was the first day in my life that I have ever been in love with my thighs. This won’t last long, I’m sure, but my thighs have finally received the adoration of Marge that they have so long desired, and that, in and of itself, is an accomplishment too.