Where the fish are

They adorn a women’s restroom (now closed for the winter) at White Rock Lake. The men’s bathroom has similar embellishments.

There’s a steep hill on the south end of the lake where pedaling doesn’t really do any good, so I like to stand up on the pedals and pretend I am a human sail, slowing the descent of my bike. The sidewalk is narrow along this stretch and curves onto a narrow bridge at the bottom, so I only do this if there isn’t much traffic. It’s breathtaking and fun.

Today, though, as I was unfurling myself and swooping down the hill, something went wrong and I almost lost control of my bike. I hunched down against the handlebars and the seat, braked, and swerved a few times to regain my balance. I wanted to avoid two things: plunging headlong onto the asphalt and hitting an oncoming cyclist. Amazingly, I regained control by the time we passed. What a wonderful vehicle a bicycle is. It’s so much more stable than you think. And I always love finding out that my body knows what to do in these situations.

The oncoming cyclist smiled in a concerned way as he passed me and asked if I was OK. I laughed and said something about how it had been a close call, and I continued on, seated. This was a better scenario (for his sake) than if I had died and the poor guy had had to witness that, but it was a worse scenario (for my sake) than if there had been no one to witness the whole sailing disaster at all.

I had another scene of public humiliation last week as I was walking home from work at dusk and singing “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” in full voice. Not just the normal melody part, but the dramatic cadenzas at the end of my high school choir’s arrangement of this song, where you repeat “It’s the most wonderful time” three times, and one of the times the syllable “der” is a step higher than usual, adding a fascinating touch of variety and excitement. I thought I had hit the pitches pretty accurately and was feeling pleased with myself when I heard a shuffling noise to my left, just a bit behind me, and realized a person was standing in their front yard with their dog. I suppose I could have said, “Oh, hi!” but instead I continued singing, a little more quietly, making up more words, until I got out of earshot. This seemed to be the most nonchalant course of action.

I think these humbling occasions are very good for us. I think that not taking oneself too seriously serves one well in life. And it is also good for society in general when we admit our foolishness to each other. It helps us all feel better.