Published Tuesday, May 06, 2008 8:48 AM
Updated Tuesday, May 06, 2008 8:49 AM
Fanfare for the Common Man 5/7/08
I’m fixin’ to go greenYou hear about people ‘going green’ more and more these days.
Another PC term for it is called ‘downsizing.’
Basically people are ditching their 3,000-square-foot homes with two AC units, a $300 monthly utility bill, a three-car garage and the three cars parked inside for that one-bedroom loft in the city and a moped.
If downsizing is considered going green, then I’ve been doing that for the past couple years now. Last year I drove a Ford Explorer that averaged about 18 mpg. This year I drive a VW Golf that gets twice that.
Granted, I carry a shoehorn with me to get in and out of it and wear it like a child’s ‘floatie’ when I drive, but I’m doing my part to conserve energy.
Besides, a VW Golf is nothing more than a Moped with windows.
Oddly though, I feel compelled to do more.
Actually, it’s not feeling compelled to do more, instead it’s more an itch to think about maybe perhaps wanting to do more as I’m lying there on the couch watching the Braves game on a Sunday afternoon.
Instead of ‘going green,’ I call it ‘fixin to go green.’
It’s not actually doing anything, it’s thinking about it. Don’t confuse me with one of those ecologically minded do-gooders who recycle everything, don’t buy gas from Venezuelan demigods or wear T-shirts recycled from used paper towels.
No, the big problem with me and anything ecologically motivated is the root word “logic” buried in there. There is nary a shred of logic in what I’m fixin’ to do.
I want a bicycle.
Those of you who have seen me from the neck down can stop laughing now.
Yes, I want a bicycle.
I want a bicycle in order to travel the short distances around town I would normally use my car to do.
All right, a confession here.
The other problem I have with being ecological is that being ecological evokes a sense of selflessness in the person being ecological. The whole word just oozes intelligence and upward mobility Yuppiness, and I am lacking in all intelligence, selflessness and especially Yuppiness when I ponder the notion of owning a bike and using it.
I want a bike to ride. I want to ride a bike so I can get in shape and lose weight.
Okay, so it’s not about going green but instead about trying to have my cake in my double cheeseburger value meal at Mickey D’s and eating it too.
I’m 50. I’ve grown rather sedentary lately. I haven’t seen my feet in 10 years. I miss them.
Unless I wake up tomorrow morning to find Godzilla chasing me, I’ve done all the running I intend to do in this lifetime. I spent the first 25 years of my life running.
I want a bike.
Not one of those 10-speed Tour de France numbers that require a degree in engineering from Georgia Tech to ride. No, I want a Huffy 26-inch cruiser with the big balloon wheels and the extra big fanny-seat. I want the big basket in front, a bell and tassels on the handlebars.
I live a mile from town and about a quarter mile from Berkeley’s baseball field. What’s wrong with riding a bike to the next ball game?
Hey, I’ve studied the terrain here.
It’s flat.
All I’d have to do is pedal up some decent momentum and coast the rest of the way. There are no hills.
When I first moved to Georgia I had one of those nifty Lance Armstrong 10-speeds and I left out of my home for a short bike ride.
Unfortunately, that’s when I also discovered mountains and the fact that I lived on top of one.
I screamed like your baby sister all the way down.
I never pedaled once but reached speeds nearing 60 mph shooting like a spit watermelon seed down the side of Mount Widowmaker. It took more than a week to pick the bugs out of my teeth.
I want a bike and I want to ride it.
So this summer, if you see said fat man pedaling down the middle of Main Street, cast a wide berth, okay? Don’t honk. I start easily.
And if you see a fat man lying sprawled along side the road and a red Huffy 26-inch cruiser lying next to him, go ahead and call 911.
I wouldn’t be going green then, I’d be gone blue.