It was going to rain. Pretty durned obvious. I called Jake to see when he'd be home and he said normal time for the downtown client--a bit before 5. I knew if we waited until he got home, we'd never get away in time to make it to Forest Park, bike the loop, and get back into the car before the rain. So I prepared without him. I filled camelbaks and gathered helmets. I got bikes down from hooks in the front hall. Took the trailer and the trail-a-bike out to the car. Fit everything in and got Sophia's clunky old mountain bike (a freebie; she deserves better, perhaps for her next birthday) on top of the car.
Then I attempted to get my Motobecane mixte into that center bike rack.
That was stupid. So stupid my gynecologist, while, well, doing his job, asked me, "how'd you get that bruise there? And it's match over here?" Any woman who's been to the doctor knows what this means: is your husband beating you? I explained my sorry attempt to get my bike on top of the car.
"Ugh, I remember back when the kids were little trying to get that done--shouldn't that be Jake's job, though?"
"Yeah," I admit. "It should. We were trying to beat the rain..."
Jake got home and fixed it. We made it to the park and biked the loop in good time. Made it home before the rain, even, and Jake took the bikes off the car for me.
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