Nattering Nabobs
September 9th, 2007
Had all gone according to design, I’d have been in India right now.
The thought crossed my mind yesterday — my intended arrival date. I got a little wistful about it. But it’s all good, I know. Gives me more breathing room, especially for fundraising. And speaking of which. Last week? Record CraigsListing. Epic, even. Thanks in huge part to Donnalynn’s furniture donations, the red bar climbed almost 18 points in a handful of days. (Thank you, Thank you!) My mom called me all giddy Friday night. I was at Target, standing in the bike section, a misfitting helmet squeezing my head when she called my cell phone.
Three people had come by the house that day to buy various items. But she was particularly proud about customer number three. He was swinging by for a single painting. Still, my mother instructed my father to bring the entire stack of donated framed pictures collecting in the basement. But he’s just coming for this one painting, my dad apparently protested. His crafty wife pressed him. Just in case, she said.
So she had them all out on display when he arrived and put on the hard sell. And, sure enough, the guy swept us clean of every one of them. High five, Mom.
So anyhow. Nattering Nabobs? Target bike helmet? I had no reason to mope in any September 8/India melancholy. I spent a gorgeous day with great folks, biking 25 miles in the Hartford Bike Tour. (Actually, make that 28ish miles. Thanks to Joe’s creative detour). That’s a coup for me, considering I haven’t ridden a bike in years. No joke — I couldn’t get myself to climb back onto one after childhood tumble that left me with bloody and burned elbows. Insanity, it was, that I signed my name when the office list went around for a group ride - let alone a 25-miler. We christened our team the Nattering Nabobs.
I had to re-learn how to ride a bike over Labor Day weekend in New Jersey. I swear it. And despite what they say, it was not just like riding a bike. Because I actually had forgotten how. My sister, crouching behind the backyard shrubs, caught the whole mess on video — my father running alongside me on the lawn, hand steadying the bike seat, me squealing, “Don’t let go! Don’t let go!”
Anyway. He eventually let go. I eventually pedaled on my own for a few minutes. And a glass of wine later, I went off on my own through the neighborhood streets for about 25 minutes. I even passed the spot where I took that awful tumble. (Take that, crumbly sidwalk curb!)
So, we nabobs did well on Saturday. Only two flats. One scraped elbow. And no broken bones.
But you know that’s not the story I’m telling in the office tomorrow. Weir and Shea — you are so going down.
Oh, they’re laughing now. But you should have seen them at mile 16.
The yogis don’t call it “horse pose” for nothing.
Looking for an escape route.
How did this riff-raff make it to the front of the start?
