There was really no way around the obvious--we had no friends in common and a message out of the blue had to be justified. You can’t just say, “Hey, your bike got me all hot and bothered in the repair shop--wanna bone?” I mean, you *could,* and it might even work, but if he’s the kind of guy who answers that kind of message, I probably don’t want to meet him, Bianchi Pista or not. I bit the bullet and ‘fessed up.
“Hi, you don’t know me, but I saw your bike in Chocolate Spokes the other day. I love Bianchis, too. Hit me back if you want to talk cranksets and block me if this is creepy.”
I gave it a quick check for proofreading errors, attached a photo of my commuter bike (also a Bianchi and just the bike--not me), and made one last wish for not coming across as a cycle-stalker, and then hit “Send.” Then I went to bed and spent the next two days not worrying about it because, what the hell? It was the digital equivalent of winking at a guy across the bar.
Three days later, my inbox booped at me. Andrew Huskover had winked back.
“Hey. It is kind of creepy. Nice wheels. I like vintage steel frames.”
And that was it. No questions about why I would do something like this, or what I wanted, or any open-ended conversational prompt, or even a statement about crankset preferences. I waited the standard online-dating interval of 24 hours before responding.
“Hey. I hope this can take a turn away from creepy. I’m part of the Bikes & Brews Meetup. We’re doing a spin around Wash Park on Thursday. I’ll be there and if you are, too, I’ll buy you any beer that isn’t a Coors.”
I have nothing against Coors, but that sort of statement opens the conversation to questions about why I would make it, and what other beers I prefer besides Coors. I don’t give a shit about beer; men need help making conversation and women have to learn how to give it to them. It’s in our soft-skills repertoire.
I pedaled down to Wash Park that Thursday, having taken care to freshly lube my bike chain and apply a vanishingly-rare coat of mascara to my eyelashes. Nobody looks good in cycling kit, and so I didn't even try with that. I pulled up to the gang of polarized body types--skinny or tubby, no middle ground--and searched the crowd. There was exactly one vintage steel Bianchi Pista, sitting beneath a tall man in seasoned cycling kit. I coasted over toward him and tapped his shoulder. He turned to face me.
The only thought that flashed into my head was
Ears.