Bicycle seduction

You’ve heard me rave about the wonderful things a bicycle
with baskets can do for you, but did you know riding your Grocery Getter can get you a
date? I’ll let Mags tell the story…

So, you don’t think a bicycle is an implement of seduction?
Say, as sexy and provocative as a mustard-colored, fully restored and souped up
50s era Cadillac El Dorado convertible? Well, think again. The scene: 3^rd
East and 7^th South, Salt Lake City. The bike: an aquamarine Gitane
of indeterminate age with three enormous wire baskets and white sidewall tires.
The come-on: (a direct quote), “You look good on that bike.” (From guy in a car
at the intersection.)

“Thanks,” I say.

He crosses the
intersection then slows until I catch up and he continues the conversation
through the window at me. He’s driving a Ford Sebring and I’m on my bike—we’re
both moving—a conveyor belt conversation.

“We should go on a
ride together,” he says, “I’ve got two bikes.”

“Why aren’t you riding one of them now?”

“They’re at home. But, I do have two bikes- one’s a Schwinn
and the other’s a (fill in a bike name here; I can’t remember what he said).
I’ve got an antique store and I sell some there and some on E-bay. Where are
you from? You look like you’re from Europe.”

“I’m from here.”

“Oh.” He looks at me. “I’m going to stop.” Apparently, he’s
had enough of conveyor belt talk and he pulls over in front of the Tongan
church on about 450 East.

He jumps out of the car; but leaves it running and I stop.
Hell, why not, this could be interesting. He’s got a faux suede jacket and a
thick multi-colored scarf tied in the front. He’s probably just about my
height, maybe an inch taller, and I outweigh him. Yeah, I’m not worried.

“I’m Saber. So, where are you from?”

“Here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought maybe England or something like that.”

“No.”

“Where do you think I’m from?”

He’s got black hair, poking out beneath his hat, olive skin,
some facial hair. “The Middle East.” I say.

“Close, but farther south.”

“O.K. Morocco. Algeria.”

“No, nearby.”

“Give me a hint.”

“It begins with a ‘T’”.

“Nothing’s coming to me. Yeah, I can’t think of the
country.”

“Tunisia.
It’s Africa, I’m from Africa.
But, I’m not black.  Africa is a continent not a country.
Many people here think it’s a country.”

I nod.

“You know in Star Wars, the planet Tatooinne? That was
filmed in my country.”

“The desert scenes?”

“Yes.”

“So, why did you come here?”

He smiles. “For you.”

Umm, how to respond?

He continues. “When can we go riding together?”

Anyways, you get the drift of the conversation. He tries to
get me to take off my sunglasses to see the color of my eyes. I tell him that
they’re brown but don’t remove the sunglasses and casually mention that I’m
married.

“What? And I waste 30 minutes talking to you?” He pauses. “A
happy marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any sisters?”

“Not available.”

“Maybe some friends who ride bicycles?”

“Maybe.”

He gives me his cell phone number to pass along to my
single, bike-riding female friends. He shakes his head as he gets in the car
and drives off. As I’m riding home I realize that he never even asked my name
yet he was willing and ready to go riding into the sunset (on bikes of course)
in a split second. Ah, such is the power of shiny chrome and a shifting
derailleur. Or, maybe he was just desperate.

Either way, I’ve still got Saber’s number if you’re interested.