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A BEACH BIKE PROVED JUST THE TICKET FOR SEXY LEGS AND A SUNNY MARRIAGE
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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"Don't worry, dear. It's safe," she said.

"No way," I said.

So every night now, without fail, I bring my beach cruiser into the living room and chain it to the sofa.

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