Pssst

Brought to you by my bike.

Every spring it's the same thing. Ooh, nice weather! I think. Bike time! And I rush home one evening and wheel the bike out of the garage, spend five whole minutes stuffing my hair into my helmet, and wrestle my little gloves on. Then, starting in the middle of the driveway, I mount up, triumphantly steady even after so many months out of training, and pedal off toward the Amoco station to air up the tires. On the way I remark to myself how out of shape I am and how bicycle handlebars really are not wrist-friendly and how the seat really is not bum-friendly, and also how fine the wind feels on my bare legs and how lovely my streamers look fluttering in the early evening light. I promise myself I'll only stay out an hour this first time, not overdo it, and then sail on until dark anyway.

Well, I'm a creature of habit. I did the same thing last night, and all went according to the script up through the promise. With my tires aired up and plump as little black piggies, I turned in the direction of the Darth Mall, intending to explore the neighborhood to the east of it. I passed the cobalt-and-saffron Ikea and the politically incorrect Thunderbird Convention Center and reached an intersection. I dismounted, standing astride the crossbar, and waited for the "walk" signal to light up.

And waited. And waited. And waited. I waited patiently through two full light cycles, and still no "walk" signal. Passing traffic was spitting grit at me and I was anxious to get on with my ride. I was seriously considering crossing, signal or no signal, when I thought I heard something.

Psst.

Wow, that sounds just like a tire springing a sudden and serious leak, I thought. I looked around for the unfortunate rider whose steed had gone lame. But I was the only one at the intersection.

You're kidding, right? Not on the first ride of the season!

But no one was kidding. My rear tire, and my spirits, were suddenly as flat as an IHOP special. I was pssst, all right.

Across the street from where I stood should have been a large, bustling convenience store where I could have tried to reinflate the tire, but the lot had been razed for reconstruction. Up the road half a block or so was another filling station, but it was dark and dead. I had a flat-repair kit in my pannier, but buying it had been an act of bravado; I knew it would take me far longer to try and fail to fix the tire than to simply walk the bike back to Sensational Acres — because in my heart I knew reinflating the tire wouldn't be enough. So I sighed and turned around.

As I walked, I reconsidered my situation and realized I'd been damned lucky the tire blew when it did. I had been standing still on a safe sidewalk, not crossing the intersection or whizzing along a busy street alongside car traffic. I was less than two miles from home, there were sidewalks almost all the way, it was still light outside, and the weather was fine. If I was going to plan a flat, I could hardly have picked a better time or place. Maybe the shy little light-up guy on the "walk" signal is my guardian angel.

So I walked home and enjoyed some light exercise in the mild evening anyway. The streamers looked just as good at that slower pace. I'll take the bike to the shop next weekend and ask some nice young man with gritty fingernails to teach me how to change the tire, and then I'll go out again. Let's just hope this doesn't become part of the springtime tradition.

Today around the world: April 6 is National Tartan Day in the U.S. It's also Drop of Water is a Grain of Gold Day in Turkmenistan.