I spat on my front tire

This story has no point. 

So I’m just riding along today playing hooky from work and going to a yoga class.  Actually, my employer provides the yoga class—two bucks per class.  You can’t pass up a bargain like that. 

So it’s not really hooky if my employer provides the class for me, but calling it hooky introduces some intrigue to an otherwise boring story.  And since I’ve already told you this story goes nowhere I’ve got to do something to spice it up.  Look, nobody’s making you read this.  So when you get to the end and you’re disappointed don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I write about things I think about when I ride my bike.  This is one of those things. 

So anyway, I’m just riding along to yoga class when, for no explainable reason, I do something I haven’t done in twenty years. 

I spat on my front tire. 

When I was younger I used to cruise around on my BMX bike—it was a polished chrome Diamond Back Viper and it was AWESOME—to the 7-Eleven for a Big-Gulp, to Go-fer Foods for a pack of Big League Chew, to baseball practice, to the gravel pit, wherever really, I didn’t care.  I just liked to ride my bike.  

And sometimes I liked to spit on my front tire.  I did this often enough that I remember it some twenty years later. 

I liked to watch the spittle hit the front tire and fling forward from the rotation of the wheel.  I thought it was a cool thing to do in 1984.   

OK, I’m not afraid to admit it.  I still think it’s cool in 2008.