I apologize in advance: due to the late hour here in Turkey, I get a bit over-parenthenthetic…And into Wallace Shawn.
So yesterday I rode a bike.
First I rode a bus, then a metrobüs, then a train, then a boat, and then a bike. Now for those of you not anxiously reaching for your inhaler and semi-sweet chocolate chip stash in shock, let me fill you in: I have never ridden a bike before — successfully. There have been three instances where I have *tried* to ride a bike…and I recall each one beginning the same way:
Naively optimistic instructor: “You’ve never ridden a bike before?”
Me: “Oh, yeah, I…hey is that Emilio Estevez?”
Instructor: “I can teach you!”
There are stories to go along with each instance that make them dearly unique to me, but all you need to know is that they all end the same way too: sheer disappointment and severe concern for the future of my posterity (I can confirm that it is, in fact, NOT like riding a bike).
I have not ridden a bike, successfully, ever. Until this week.
But guess what? I’m not going to tell you about it just yet.
What I do have for you is a lesson in what happens when you leave your camera in the hands of an Italian while you are holding onto the handle bars of a steel death trap in austere fear.
You get something like this:
I may have been a fool to leave my camera behind; I fell victim to one of the classic blunders:
“Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.”
But Fausto did manage to capture photographic proof of my long time coming personal battle:
For which I am really grateful.
As well as for all the help getting going.
Jasmine, you’ve did good.