For now.

"Hey, Jen, feel like going for a ride later?"

"Can't. Conference call."

"I'm thinking about taking my bike out-want to come?"

"Wish I could, but I'm in the middle of this chapter and I can't walk away right now."

"Want to pedal over to Starbucks for an iced coffee?"

"Oh, no, I just made myself a latte."

"Are you ever going to ride your new bike?"

"Of course!"

Eventually.

I'm outside watering the plants when I sense that something is amiss in the force. "Ham? Libby? Come here, girls." We've been keeping an extra close watch on them when we're outside, but I got distracted slaying the j.a.panese beetles eating my Peace roses (how's that for ironic, Alanis?) and took my eyes off them for a minute.

I call them again, waiting for them to dash up to me, but the yard is eerily silent.

"Guys? Come here. Hammy, Libby, come to your mumma."

They don't materialize, so I call a little louder, dropping the hose and heading over to the side of the house. They're nowhere to be seen. I hurry inside.

"Fletch, did you let the girls in?"

"No, I thought they were outside with you."

"They're gone again! d.a.m.n it!"

We live on a busy street, not far from the highway, and I can't help imagining the Ding-a-ling Sisters blithely chasing each other into traffic. I grab my phone, instructing Fletch to head east while I search west. I chug along maybe fifty feet before I realize that I'm ill-equipped for running for a variety of shame-inducing reasons, hampered even more by my flip-flops and bathing suit. (I did have the foresight to pull on some cutoff sweatpants, but, still.) I need to cover ground quickly because Hambone's the fastest dog I've ever seen and she's still such a baby that she'll really panic if she somehow loses her Libby. But I can't take the car because I won't be able to hear their collars jingling. And we've already determined that running is not an option.

Without even thinking about it, I dash back to the garage and hop on my bike. I tear down the driveway, completely forgetting that I'm old and unstable and that my bike scares the pants off of me.

I just ride.

Fueled by adrenaline, I'm steady and quick, decades of muscle memory finally kicking in, because I'm more focused on the dogs' safety than my own. I've always heard stories about moms lifting cars off their babies, so perhaps this is my equivalent.

As I speed down the street on the way to the forest preserve, it barely registers that all it took to succeed was to stop listening to my internal critic and to just start doing.

Perhaps I can apply this concept to the rest of my life, as well, after I find the girls, of course.

I speed along, calling out their names, but there's no sign of them.

I'm about a mile away from the house when my phone rings. It's Fletch telling me that the dogs have emerged from the woods, panting and grinning their ma.s.sive pit bull smiles, so pleased to have taken themselves on yet another adventure.

So I turn around and head for home, now conscious of being on the bike. I can feel myself growing anxious again, but I fight it, instead concentrating on how exhilarating it was to be unafraid of the consequences of letting go.

I can't stress this enough: I have to learn to apply this concept.

I pull into the driveway, where Fletch is luring the girls into the house. He seems surprised to see me on my bike.

He closes the door behind the bullies and then follows me into the garage. "You finally rode your tricycle."

Indeed, I finally did.

I put away my bike and head inside. Then I clip the girls to their leashes and take them out to the backyard, while Fletch circles around to the front. I watch as they make a beeline for the s.p.a.ce under the house that's blocked with stakes and a forsythia bush. The stakes came unanch.o.r.ed over the winter, so the girls must have recently discovered they could nudge them aside and barrel through the branches to go straight to Narnia. They don't expect Fletch to be standing there, waiting to grab their leashes on the other side, but, really, they view seeing him as rather serendipitous and thump their tails. He immediately finds supplies to enclose the whole area, much to their profound disappointment.

After that day, Fletch and I begin to regularly ride our bikes on the trails by our house. Every time we take a spin, I notice how much slower I am than him, even though I'm working my hardest. I have to pedal three full revolutions to travel as far as he can on one.

"Is it possible this bike is malfunctioning? Do I need air in my tires? I can't seem to really 'cruise,'" I say, when we're putting them away after a frustrating ride to Lake Bluff.

"That's because your tricycle weighs a thousand pounds. Have you not noticed how heavy it is? Here, lift this." He motions to his bike and I pick it up. Although it appears really solid, it's amazingly lightweight. "Now try yours."

I can't even get the d.a.m.ned thing off the ground.

"The weight creates drag. If you had a two-wheeled bike, you'd be faster."

I choose not to entertain this possibility. "What if I got a sheepskin cover for my bike seat? It's relatively comfortable now, but I still can't go more than seven or eight miles without wanting to cry because my booty hurts."

"That's why you get padded bicycle shorts," he replies.

"You're suggesting I wear skintight Lycra with extra cushion built in around the b.u.t.tocks? In public? Not in this lifetime."

We make a plan to swing by the bike shop to look at squashy covers, although Fletch insists they don't carry them, while I argue that I'm sure they do.

We have brunch with our friends Gina and Lee and on our way home-after hitting Starbucks, of course-we stop into a high-tech bike store one town over. A short white kid greets us while we peruse the accessories section. Fletch and I immediately confer, agreeing he looks almost exactly like Spike Lee's character in those awesome old Michael Jordan Nike commercials. It's all I can do to not say, "Money, it's gotta be the shoes," back to him. However, I decide to err on the side of not sounding like a jacka.s.s, especially with a reference that so dates me.

We scan the aisles, but I don't really see what I'm looking for. Everything here seems more geared toward performance biking. I don't need Pearl Izumi sun sleeves or Shimano road pedals or packets of GU energy gel supplements. Really, I could probably get by with a folded towel.

We find Not Spike Lee again. "Hi, I'm looking for a sheepskin cover for my bike seat," I say.

"I'm sorry, you want a what?" he asks, squinting at us as though deeply confused.

"Something to make my bike seat squishier," I explain. "I see a few pads, but none of them will fit."

"She essentially has a tractor seat," Fletch explains.

"A tractor seat?" he asks.

"It's a three-wheeled bike so the seat is bigger," I explain.

"No, it's an adult tricycle," Fletch says.

"Honey, you're gonna have to let that go eventually," I reply.

Not Spike Lee gawps at me from behind his ma.s.sive horn-rim gla.s.ses and states the obvious. "You have an adult tricycle."

He's looking at me as though I'm speaking gibberish. "Um, yes? That's not weird, right? I'm sure you sell a bunch of them."

Not Spike Lee is vehement, his eyes swimmy behind his huge lenses. "No, not one, not ever. We don't carry them. I didn't even know they existed."

Fletch smirks. "Trust me, they're real."

I add, "You can buy anything on Amazon."

He's trying to process what I'm saying but it all seems to be too overwhelming. "You have a bike with three wheels."

I nod. "Yep."

"Why?"

"Why?" I repeat.

"Why?"

"Um, for balance, I guess."

"Can you not ride a regular bike?"

"I don't know. I haven't been on one for thirty-plus years."

"You haven't been on a bike for thirty-plus years? How have you not been on a bike in thirty-plus years?"

Although this seems like a point where I'd normally ball my fists, ready to punch out some lights, the kid isn't trying to mock me. Instead, he's genuinely flummoxed and dismayed. Couple that with the fact that he works in a place where every single customer lives to ride and I can understand his att.i.tude; thus I remain calm.

"Because I'm forty-six. I started driving thirty years ago and I didn't need a bike."

"Wow, forty-six."

"Wow, forty-six indeed."

Now I might be ready to punch him.

Fletch chimes in, "I keep telling her that she'd be happier on two wheels."

"I doubt that I could stay upright," I say, imagining myself looking like a Russian circus bear on a moped. But truth be told, I'm getting a wee bit tired of lugging all those pounds of steel around, even if they are painted a snappy cherry-cola-red. And a couple of times on the bike trail when I've run into the semipro riders, I sort of felt like a little kid pushing his bubble mower behind his daddy with the real Lawn-Boy.

Is it possible that riding an actual bike should be my ultimate goal?

"Have you even tried?" Not Spike Lee asks.

"Have I even tried?" I reply. "No, when would I try?"

"I dunno," he offers. "Now?"

Somehow over the course of the next five minutes, I am badgered, bullied, and browbeaten into test-driving a two-wheeled bike. And by badgered, bullied, and browbeaten, I mean I can't come up with anything to counter Not Spike Lee's rather pointed question, "Why not?"

The easiest thing here would just be to get on a stupid two-wheel bike, give it a half-a.s.sed attempt, pick myself up off the pavement, explaining why it won't work using terms like "circus bear" and "moped," and find an old towel in the laundry room. Problem solved.

Except . . . the problem really isn't solved.

Because apparently . . . I can actually ride a two-wheeled bike!!

Did not see that coming.

When we went outside, Not Spike Lee ran along beside me like a doting parent, keeping me propped up on my full-sized cruiser bike until I could make it down the sidewalk by myself. I closed my eyes and braced for an impact that never came. Instead, I was flying and I couldn't believe how well the bike handled. How unenc.u.mbered I was without a third wheel! I made swooping figure eights in the alley behind the store, each time amazed at my ability to stay upright.

I felt fast and free, finally.

Not Spike Lee doubled back to grab a banana-seated kid's model to ride behind me.

He pulled up, asking me what I thought.

I stopped in my tracks. "Whoa, is the one with a banana seat an option?" I asked, admiring the lines of his Stingray-type model while we pause by the Dumpsters in back of the store.

"No. You're forty-six. You can't ride kids' bikes."

"Did my husband tell you to say that?"

"Yes." He adjusted his gla.s.ses. "But I would have said it anyway."

So, now we're a family who rolls exclusively on two wheels. You've never seen a man whip out a credit card faster than Fletch did when I admitted that I didn't hate the bicycle.

I guess you could say I decided to Do the Right Thing.

When Fletch heard that our friend's special-needs daughter had learned to ride an adult tricycle, he dropped everything to disa.s.semble Big Red and put her in the car so that we could give her away.

I haven't named the new bike yet because this one doesn't inspire the same kind of pa.s.sion that my three-wheeled bike did. But having an appropriate name isn't nearly as important as actually succeeding at something I a.s.sumed I was destined to fail.

Because I can now ride a bike, my world is a wee bit larger and that's an incredible feeling. Conversely, my backseat is a wee bit smaller. That's nice, too.