When I describe to people why I love my fat bike, I say things like “It makes me feel like a tank, buzzing slowly, but impressively, along.”
Other images that come to mind are a train heading down the tracks as my wheels make a rhythmic buzz against the pavement (or is it my heavy breathing that brings this picture to mind?).
Or my bike could be a James Bond contraption that once it leaves the pavement and hits snow, magically transforms into a sled and starts schussing along.
What I don’t say to people (except right now) is how the size of my fat tires and where they allow me to go makes me feel powerful — maybe even invincible. I don’t say this, because I know it sounds silly, given my age, the weakness of my legs, and my fear of falling or running into a tree.
But maybe these thoughts and feelings, because they are silly and free and help me forget myself for awhile are why the bike makes me feel like a kid again.
It’s like throwing a towel over my head and pinning it under my chin and becoming a nun. Better yet, “The Flying Nun”…
Or draping the same towel over my shoulder and becoming Wonder Woman.
Such were my totems of magic as a child. Now I have my fat bike, to throw my leg over and climb into the saddle yelling “Charge!”
OK. So now my trusty mount sometimes has a basket on the back to haul my groceries but the basket could just as well hold goodies that I am taking to Grandma’s house where I befriend a wolf and we snack on crackers and cheese in the deep dark woods.
Who said that we had to give up make believe and magic to become more practical adults?
No matter. Whoever said it was wrong!
Sing it Queen!