SI Vault
Pat Jordan
February 10, 1986
My wife insisted that I buy a bicycle. She wanted me to have one just like hers—a used $50 beach cruiser that had been spray-painted electric blue by someone who must have spent the better part of a 90� day drinking rumrunners on the beach. Her bike had a thick metal frame and fat ribbed tires that looked invulnerable to the shards of glass common on Fort Lauderdale Beach, where we live. It had no gears and no hand brakes, but it did have a wire basket and a tinkling bell on the handlebars. On the day she brought her bike home, I was lying by the swimming pool. "Well!" she said breathlessly, hopping off. "What do you think?" She was beaming.
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February 10, 1986

A Beach Bike Proved Just The Ticket For Sexy Legs And A Sunny Marriage

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"No," she said. "He's my husband."

"I'm sorry," he said, and drove off.

"What the hell did he mean by that?" I shouted. But she had ridden away.

She left her bike outside our front door at night. We live on the first floor of a two-story apartment complex off Bay-view Drive. I assured her it was safe.

"May be I should bring it inside."

I thought she was kidding. "Where inside?" I said, grinning. We have a two-room apartment.

"The living room," she said.

"No way!" I said. "The bike stays out. Who would want it, anyway?" She didn't speak to me for two days.

One night one of the cars in our complex was burglarized. My heart leapt! There was hope! But that afternoon she came home with a lock and chain. She chained her bike to the gazebo by the swimming pool every night. One night I waited until she was asleep. I went outside, unlocked the bike and left it in the parking lot, certain it would be stolen.

At daybreak, I went outside to make sure it was gone. It was still there.

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