My time is up. It’s unfortunate that college only lasts four years; well, I suppose for most Temple students it’s a little longer. With some strategic planning, I attempted to evade graduation as best as I could.
I tried to take only nine to 12 credits per semester, only to find out later on that I was light years ahead of most of my classmates.
What?! Now I have to enter the world and get a job like everyone else (after I typed that I began crying into a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin).
So should I deliver pizza on my bike full time? Maybe I could charge children for bike rides (it’s in the same vein as pony rides).
Yeah, fork it over kid – I know your mom is loaded. Or I could be a bit more ambitious and give businessmen a ride to work. Just picture a 40-year-old man in his Armani suit squealing with delight as we head to his law firm on Market.
I’ve got marketable skills here, what am I worried about?
Getting a job ain’t no big deal. I’ll just make Funfetti cake and sell it on the black market – secret ingredient: crack. I guess my biggest worry is that once you stop seeing my column in the paper, you will forget how to ride your bike and fall off into a pile of man-eating hobos. Or you’ll get hit by a hay truck. Or you’ll start using your helmet as a chip bowl.
Or … worst of all, you’ll sell your bike and save up for a Vespa. I hope there is someone out there, someone way more hardcore than me, someone with very revealing neon Lycra shorts, to take over this column.
It won’t be easy; you’ll have to tackle tough issues such as biker prejudice, sexual harassment by bike-sexuals, bike theft, biking while smoking crack/drinking whiskey, and bike murder. Don’t underestimate the world of biker chicks and dudes. They will mess you up – real bad.
Now that I’m leaving, I must be a pesky mom to you bike kids and dole out some of my profound wisdom:
Don’t forget your helmet, or at least cover your unsightly hair with a hat/hood. Don’t let strangers “test” out your bike. Hit cars with your bike but don’t let cars hit you.
Don’t leave your bike in the rain because it will hate you forever.
Don’t have “relations” with bike-sexuals; to them, you’re just a set of wheels and curvy handlebars.
Don’t mess with SEPTA; SEPTA bus drivers will flatten you like silly putty and laugh hysterically while doing it. Most importantly: Don’t stop riding. Ride on and don’t look back. Later gators.
Love, Biker Mom.
Biker Chick can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.