Stumptown coffee on Belmont.
Josh and I huddle at the front window, chatting.
Not only did I get to sit within mere feet of a local pro cyclist whose blog I read religiously, I also got to watch in awe as other whippet-like riders gathered around me. From our perch we could watch as they rolled up – wiry muscles and tiny little waists, shaved legs.
As they arrived they stacked their bikes against the rack outside the window. Between the pile of amazing, beautiful fixed gears and cyclo-cross rigs I wasn’t sure whether to stare at the bikes or the boys.
I decided to split the difference.
O god. Cyclists. Little whippet cyclists. Josh endured me as my eyes lit up and we commented on the bikes as they rolled in.
When we were finally (gloriously) surrounded by about 25-30 tiny little super-fast, super-efficient bodies with rock-hard quads and tiny arms, they departed. Outside the window they sorted out their bikes and sat on them in that way that really good cyclists do while they waited for everyone to get ready.
I wish I wasn’t such a little sucker but I am. Cyclists just do it for me. Good, hard bodies in spandex? That awesome blurring of gender lines with shaved legs? Skinny boys on bikes can be mistaken for girls from a distance. I guess that’s part of what does it for me.
Josh and I killed a second cup as the group departed, led by my secret hero.
I’m hopped up on two Americanos and memories of well-filled spandex knickers. “Today” by the Smashing Pumpkins came on as I got on the Morrison Bridge and I smiled, cranked the volume and thought, “Today is the greatest.”