1. When passing fellow bikers (or runners, or walkers, or renegade strollers left to plummet down the hill on their own), it is expected that you announce yourself by either ringing your bell or calling out, "On your left!" Because it has been two years since I've taken my bike out on the trail and had to abide by such regulations, I was completely anxiety-ridden whenever I approached another person. The closer I came, the more stressful--and difficult--it became for me to remember the magic phrase. On multiple occasions I ran through various utterances, searching for the proper one. "Orcas Island Pottery!" and "Good morning, Crow Valley Pottery!" were among my most frequent failings. I even once--and I'm not proud of this--almost announced, "Buddy the Elf, what's your favorite color?" Fail.
2. My chains desperately need to be oiled. I could hear them squeaking even with my iPod turned up to ear-splitting decibels. I'm fairly certain that the people I passed knew I was going to pass them even before I did.
3. Despite my best attempts to maintain a steady pace on the trail, I am as incapable of regulating my speed as I am of striking a match. For those who aren't aware, I am arguably the worst match-striker in the history of matches. This clearly does not have any direct bearing on the bike-riding scenario, but I feel that in some way the same deficient motor skills that prevent me from starting fires the Normal People way are also to blame for my inability to settle on a single biking speed. I dare you to dispute that airtight logic. (Also, my exercise clothing doesn't make me very aerodynamic.)
4. Though most of the rougher parts of the path are marked with bright orange spray paint that can probably be seen from another galaxy, I possess the remarkable gift of hitting every single pothole and piece of crumbling pavement. And puddles. All of them. Witnessing this, you'd think I never learned to steer a bicycle.
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