Tales of a Bicycle Widow
Architects have this thing. Is it a character flaw? Insanity? Obsessive-Compulsive-Design-Disorder (OCDD)?
I still don’t know.
But, early in my relationship with MTM, my architect, it surfaced. He was in the final stages of preparing a submission for the World Trade Center Memorial Competition with two other architects, and he called me at home. I wasn’t sure it was him at first.
“You’ll have to eat dinner without me.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
I stared at the dead device and wondered what that meant. He had to eat, right?
And design and design and design. Right up until the final second, when everything has to go to the jury/client/board/whatever for review.
I was still awake at 3 in the morning. In a cold bed.
Incensed that I made dinner, and he didn’t even stop to call. (Okay, he did stop to call, but I didn’t believe him.)
Fast forward eleven years. I am almost a decade married to an architect who is also a Bicycle Freak.
Ask me how much I’ve seen MTM the past two days. Go on. Ask.
Because the bike was just a frame, after all. It needed the right seat. Vintage ergonomic handlebars with the proper tape. Wheels that didn’t pop when he rode. Italian brakes. Italian crank set. Italian derailleurs. Italian controls. (Campagnolo Super Record. MTM insisted that I include that mind-numbing detail.)
All had to be cleaned. Polished. Test-fitted for proper architecty look-and-feel.
I’m glad we’re leaving for the bike race today, because once we’re on the plane, I may finally see my husband again.
Unless he decides to ride in the baggage compartment.
For those readers who requested pictures of the bike in the case, I’ve added a couple below. Pardon the quality.