Friday, May 05, 2006
Celebrating the life of Mr. Herman
As I walk to work these days—my iPod rehabilitated now that I don’t have to watch out for parallel parkers, delivery trucks, or taxis—I have time to reflect upon Mr. Herman’s life.
I will never forget the first time we met. A warm June day in Montreuil, where I picked him out of the crowd. The perfect city bike. With a basket and a bell. Simple, uncomplicated, blue.
He happily submitted to a retuning to make sure that my legs didn’t have to extend too far and that his headlight would be able to guide me through the Parisian nights long after the metro closed. I bought him all of the accessories: a U-lock and a chain lock and a helmet. Nothing would keep us apart.
That first ride home was like magic. Terrified and running on pure adrenaline, Mr. Herman and I weaved in and out of traffic, whipped through the roundabouts, chugged up the inclines and made it safely home. From then on out we were inseparable. He took me to the Louvre every day and waited, uncomplaining, looking out over the Seine, while I worked the day away. After work he took me on discovery missions all over the city—the Champ de Mars, Montparnasse, Place Gambetta, the Marais, the Latin Quarter, and those lovely rides along the river.
He made sure that I got home ok when I was too drunk to ride straight (I only put him through this once). He sputtered along with me when I got stuck behind a gang of Vespas at a stoplight. We grumbled together when I found him covered in bird doodoo because I’d parked him under a tree. I promised to repair his broken front wheel reflector when it got torn off trying to pull him to safety from under a pile of poorly parked bikes.
He liberated me from my Metro dependency and showed me that an independent, healthy, and green transportation option existed.
Some say I should go out and get another bike to get over my loss. But I need time to grieve. Wherever you are Mr. Herman, know that I miss you. Know that every time I walk past a 2-wheel parking area, I search for you. Most likely you are a pile of parts being pawned off on unsuspecting bike owners by now, but in the event that you are whole somewhere, may your new owner treat you with the love and honor that you deserve.
I will never forget the first time we met. A warm June day in Montreuil, where I picked him out of the crowd. The perfect city bike. With a basket and a bell. Simple, uncomplicated, blue.
He happily submitted to a retuning to make sure that my legs didn’t have to extend too far and that his headlight would be able to guide me through the Parisian nights long after the metro closed. I bought him all of the accessories: a U-lock and a chain lock and a helmet. Nothing would keep us apart.
That first ride home was like magic. Terrified and running on pure adrenaline, Mr. Herman and I weaved in and out of traffic, whipped through the roundabouts, chugged up the inclines and made it safely home. From then on out we were inseparable. He took me to the Louvre every day and waited, uncomplaining, looking out over the Seine, while I worked the day away. After work he took me on discovery missions all over the city—the Champ de Mars, Montparnasse, Place Gambetta, the Marais, the Latin Quarter, and those lovely rides along the river.
He made sure that I got home ok when I was too drunk to ride straight (I only put him through this once). He sputtered along with me when I got stuck behind a gang of Vespas at a stoplight. We grumbled together when I found him covered in bird doodoo because I’d parked him under a tree. I promised to repair his broken front wheel reflector when it got torn off trying to pull him to safety from under a pile of poorly parked bikes.
He liberated me from my Metro dependency and showed me that an independent, healthy, and green transportation option existed.
Some say I should go out and get another bike to get over my loss. But I need time to grieve. Wherever you are Mr. Herman, know that I miss you. Know that every time I walk past a 2-wheel parking area, I search for you. Most likely you are a pile of parts being pawned off on unsuspecting bike owners by now, but in the event that you are whole somewhere, may your new owner treat you with the love and honor that you deserve.
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