Jersey girl

I'm running out of closet space. When I finally did a massive overhaul of the contents of my walk-in closet, I discovered that for the dozen or so skirts and dresses, there are nearly 40 bike jerseys, pairs of spandex shorts, and mountain bike baggies. Starting at 60 bucks a pop, it's hard not to imagine the sandy beach my hibernating body could be defrosting on right now or the month closer to my retirement party I could be.

But looking at the looming stacks of spandex and zippers is like enjoying a photo album. Each jersey tells a story. My first jersey, emblazoned with the green Brooklyn Brewery label, came from my first bike show in NYC ("70 bucks for a jersey. That's crazy!"). At the show, I mingled with shop owners and company reps, slid my fingers over all-carbon components, and talked to fellow riders as I was suddenly hooked on bike culture.

Jerseys tell everyone on the road or the trail of our loyalties. My jerseys have two distinct themes: Kona bikes and microbreweries. The Kona world champion cyclocross jersey is a brilliant splash of red, white, and blue. I've come to collect three Magic Hat Brewery jerseys, all bearing their odd pastel designs, and causing whoever's drafting me to crave their frosty brews. The few jerseys that are solid colors look so plain next to ones that announce an allegiance to a bike club, races, and coffee companies. Then there are jerseys, like one from a bike shop in Florence, that still bear the original tags. It was a unique find (and the dollar was extremely weak!), and no sweat or mud will ever touch it.

But do I really need a jersey for every day of the month? Hell yes! Every ride commands a unique wear. Dark colors are necessary for rainy, muddy days. Road rides demand tight jerseys, and then there's sleeveless for the blood boiling summer days. The jersey is so simple, yet the perfect riding companion, complete with a zipper for the right amount of ventilation, and back pockets to hide quick snacks and a cell phone. To this rider, they are worth every penny.

A fork in the road

I love puns, and will go out of my way to slip the most groan-inducing ones into everyday conversation. So when our realtor instructed us to turn at the fork in the road, I realized my life was about to become a whole lot punnier.

There it was, a giant piece of silver flatware towering over the intersection. I should have been looking at the house, examining it for flaws and mentally placing furniture, but instead I was conjuring up scenes of a swimming pool-sized bowl of pasta with an accompanying hay bale meatball, speared by four rigid prongs. Of all the things I had feared putting up with as neighbors-- garbage dumps, cemeteries, republicans -- I had never once considered the possibility of soaring silverware. As I examined each lengthy spike, I suddenly understood how ants must feel at a picnic. I imagined peering out at it from our bedroom window late at night, its long handle glowing in the moonlight as the Frankenfork emerged from the dark dungeon of the dishwasher to take over the town.

Luckily the house didn't mirror its neighbor's flare for the offbeat. It was literally everything we'd been searching so long and hard for. For the past month, we had driven on what seemed like every road in the county, our eyes glazing over until we spotted a red and white "for rent" sign. We had seen it all. Stinky Steve's overpriced house of mold was complete with a downed electrical wire and rusted out gas grill in the driveway. A dilapidated duplex bore cigarette stains on the carpet as a gun-toting redneck patrolled the shared driveway. We couldn't run from these places fast enough, and my fiance and I had nearly given up on the hope of ever moving past a long distance relationship and moving in together.

Nearly a month later, we were at our own fork in the road. Prospects of marriage and mortgages tugged at one side of the stale red stoplight. The lost days of college and fleeting commitments stood on the other. The house rested in between.

We eagerly took the house and ironically received flatware as a housewarming present. Now we're free to dream of the future under the glow of tourists' brake lights and camera flashes. We took the fork in the road, and that has made all the difference.