Peddling in Pain

Peddling in Pain

            In their country it’s only by “suggestion” that those speeding maniacs, aka Italian drivers, heed the imaginary yield and stop signs, yet still knowing that, what do we two stupido senior citizens sisters do?  Hop on bikes to explore the sights of Europe’s “Eternal City”—Roma.

            Sure, we have a guide, and we will be on E-bikes, but something is terribly missing on this once-in-a-lifetime experience excursion—the other six no-show riders who are supposed to be joining us—the wimps.

            ‘I’m sure it was the ad claiming it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” stuttered my sister Mary.  “They probably figured they’d never live to tell about it.”

            “Oh Mary,” I counter, “I hate pessimism, but I greatly respect the laws of probability.   By the way, do you have any clue of exactly what those odds are?”

            We both enjoy a welcoming laugh and that is the last time for today that there is even a hint of a smile that will cross our fear-stricken faces.

            “Old World” brick and cobbled stone streets are intriguing to look at, but trust me, they’re traps– regular death traps!  The minute a little water drips on them, (think terrified tears) they become dreadfully slick.  Rome may as well swing open their hospital doors and have us bike riders steer straight into the emergency room because it is only a matter of time, especially given Mary’s and my advancing ages.  But we know of seniors who won’t even drive a car built like a tank, because it still isn’t safe enough.   Life-threatening endeavors: they are so subjective.

              Don’t think our guide’s startled, doubtful expression escapes us when he instructs us to mount our bikes, but not before he sprays us and our bikes with something.  We think that something is holy water, probably blessed by the pope, because just no ordinary, everyday priest will do.

            Who knew that by allowing countless years to whiz by since the last time Mary and I were on a two-wheeler, would make trying to fling our legs over these foreign vehicles more like an act of God?  Well, I’ve always wondered why miracles only happened over here in Europe, but here we are, and wouldn’t you know, after so many attempts, we’re off and peddling—wobbling like we’re soused—we wish!  Cars start honking, pedestrians are scrambling out of our way, yet some dopes are darting straight in front of our paths—oblivious to the bell we are frantically ringing.   But it’s not their fault—poor dumbbells.  You could have that thing implanted in your cochlear and still barely hear the ring.

            City buses practically kiss Mary’s and my saddle bag hips—the only things sticking out from the side of our bikes.  And oh, those seats!  Let’s just say that the last still standing virgin should remain doing just that—standing!

            I ask you, how much can one appreciate and internalize Rome’s exquisite sites—the Vatican, Fontana de Trevi, the Spanish Steps and the Parthenon, when you’re petrified, sweating, hot and hurting?  On the streets we are passing armed guards with machine guns.  That’s highly disconcerting, but not as much as having to weave in between vehicles that could all qualify for the Indy’s 500—right speed, wrong country.  Mary and I are both mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted, and wouldn’t you know that that damn book titled From Here to Eternity suddenly runs through my throbbing head when I see those guards?  Suddenly I have this urge to shout out something I am certain they have never, EVER heard from anyone before—“SHOOT ME!”  But with age should come wisdom and with wisdom restraint because some people might take you verbatim.  Now the real reason that I did not plead with them is that I don’t know how to say those two little words, with a real big bang to them, in Italian.

            Back in the states, far less well-adjusted relatives and friends of Mary and me, gasped  and  grabbed us when we originally told them that we were going abroad.

            “WHAT?!”  they screamed.  “You mean you’re both traveling out of the country with all those nut cases and violence out there?!”

            “Please,” we begged, “you’re choking us!”

            Obviously, when the oxygen returned to our brains, Mary and I managed hightailing it out of our homeland and now we’ve even lived to tell about our harrowing romp in Roma.  The crazy part is that we would probably do it again.  The not so crazy part is that we will do it before we hit 80—maybe.  I do not know why, but first a title and then a song, but suddenly the following lyrics are popping into my head.  At first, I was proclaiming it a theme song for all senior citizens, but then, while we were gone, more massacres felled our already hurting and fractured country.  Even more these lyrics apply to everyone:

                                                         We are the champions, my friends.

                                                      And we’ll go on fighting to the end.          

            Footnote:  But who am I to suggest such an anthem?   We are all survivors, are we not?