I’ve never received a skidlid compliment. Ever. Bike, kit, sunglasses, cyclocomputer, frame pump (really), and even my waterbottles have all been subject to adulation by others this season. But never the helmet, at least until today. Let’s start with the events leading up to this momentous occasion, shall we?
Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. She’s one of the most rad people I know. However, like most rad people I know, my mom has one rather glaring character flaw. It’s related to the delicious nectar secreted by wooden deciduous flora somewhere in the vicinity of Vermont. And Quebec (where, coincidentally, Paco continues to earn my enduring respect with lines like ‘“It’s not over for me for the GC – I’ll attack tomorrow or after tomorrow to go for the yellow or podium,” he said. “For me, seventh on GC is nothing.”’ when he lost yellow in the Tour de Beauce TT). Anyway, now they you’re good and lost, back to my original point: The Flaw. My mom doesn’t buy real maple syrup. Ever. I can’t really fault her, US Grade A Dark Amber is probably more expensive gram-for-gram than a liquid gold/Johnny Walker Blue cocktail. Hell, I didn’t know I was eating fake maple syrup growing up until I moved out at the tender age of seventeen.
All that said, I’m a food whore with twisted cyclist logic. If I’m blowing calories on liquid sugar, it’s gonna be some DAMN GOOD liquid sugar. So, when I had the brilliant idea to cobble together Chicken and Waffles tonight for Father’s Day dinner, I neglected to factor in the complete lack of heavenly amber liquid in my mom’s house until I was halfway through today’s ride. Route detour was enacted, and I found myself wandering the aisles of the local supermarket to liberate a $12 thimble-sized bottle of syrup, clicking through the aisles and attempting to keep my Pinarello from making contact with any lesser surfaces (namely, wayward children).
At this point, you might ask “Where the hell is Nate going with this story?”
Answer: Checkout line. Carton of buttermilk and Burlington-born fructose. Stinky bike racer in kit. Attractive (female) checker.
Checker: “Badass helmet!”
Me: Gazes wistfully at syrup with visions of waffles and crispy poultry dancing in head. “…guhhh, thanks?”
Checker: Sums up purchase. “No, really! Making waffles?”
Me: Smitten, realizes what’s going on. “…hunnnyyeah?”
Checker: Gives odd look. Confused. Takes money.
Moral of story: Wear a sick-looking helmet while buying an expensive glorified breakfast condiment, and picking up the opposite sex will become elementary…if you’re cognizant of it. So what are you waiting for? Get the helmet. NOW.