Here's something romantic to tell your spouse, boyfriend, girlfriend, life partner, significant other or whatever you call him/her/them:
Of course, you would say it only if that person is also a cyclist. If he/she/they are/is not a cyclist, you might witness aviation history in whatever space you share!
One Valentine's Day many, many years ago, I was riding my bike by the Rutgers campus. I was flat broke, as I often was (and would often be on many occasions later). What would I give, or do with, my girlfriend? I could have made something, I suppose, but I wouldn't have felt right, knowing that I slapped it together in even less time than I wrote at least one of my papers. And, at that point, my cooking skills consisted mainly of boiling and frying.
While pondering all of the things I couldn't give, or do for, her, I pedaled by the botany lab. A blur of red, deep red, streamed into the corner of my eye. Rose, thou art sick. I'd read William Blake's poem at least a few times, but why was I thinking of it then--with a riot of deep crimson in my line of vision.
The dumpster outside the botany lab overflowed with those flowers. Roses, redder than any in the Queen's garden--or any upper Madison Avenue florist. Rose, thou art sick. They probably are not well if they're in that dumpster, I realized. But they were so, so red, like the bloom of one who grows more beautiful while drawing closer to death. (I'd recently read a Japanese story like that.)
Giving no thought to what might be keeping those petals redder than Mississippi in any election during my lifetime, I yanked my handlebar and made a beeline for that corrugated steel cornucopia of floral bounty. I propped my bike and scooped as many roses--their stems still attached!--as I could handle. I found a piece of twine lying nearby and used it to tie whatever I couldn't carry to my handlebars, top tube and seat tube.
On my way back to my apartment, I stopped by an art studio and appropriated some ribbon, and large vase from a conference room. Then I pedaled to the language houses, where my girlfriend stayed.
One of her housemates answered the door. Slackjawed, she darted up the stairs and summoned, it seemed, all the other girls in that house--and my girlfriend. They watched as I handed her more roses than any of them had seen in their lives. Oh, and those roses were redder--even if they were sicker.
About the only thing that's the same in my life is that I still ride my bikes. I have a few more than I had then, not to mention the memory of that day, when I might have made someone happier (and a few of her friends more envious) than I've made anyone since.
I still wonder what kept those roses so red--for almost two weeks after I found them! Rose, thou art sick. A few years ago, I looked her up, worried that those roses may have made her give birth to sick children. As far as I can tell, she remained childless. Because of the roses?
They don't seem to have affected me. I still ride, after all.
Of course, you would say it only if that person is also a cyclist. If he/she/they are/is not a cyclist, you might witness aviation history in whatever space you share!
One Valentine's Day many, many years ago, I was riding my bike by the Rutgers campus. I was flat broke, as I often was (and would often be on many occasions later). What would I give, or do with, my girlfriend? I could have made something, I suppose, but I wouldn't have felt right, knowing that I slapped it together in even less time than I wrote at least one of my papers. And, at that point, my cooking skills consisted mainly of boiling and frying.
While pondering all of the things I couldn't give, or do for, her, I pedaled by the botany lab. A blur of red, deep red, streamed into the corner of my eye. Rose, thou art sick. I'd read William Blake's poem at least a few times, but why was I thinking of it then--with a riot of deep crimson in my line of vision.
The dumpster outside the botany lab overflowed with those flowers. Roses, redder than any in the Queen's garden--or any upper Madison Avenue florist. Rose, thou art sick. They probably are not well if they're in that dumpster, I realized. But they were so, so red, like the bloom of one who grows more beautiful while drawing closer to death. (I'd recently read a Japanese story like that.)
Giving no thought to what might be keeping those petals redder than Mississippi in any election during my lifetime, I yanked my handlebar and made a beeline for that corrugated steel cornucopia of floral bounty. I propped my bike and scooped as many roses--their stems still attached!--as I could handle. I found a piece of twine lying nearby and used it to tie whatever I couldn't carry to my handlebars, top tube and seat tube.
On my way back to my apartment, I stopped by an art studio and appropriated some ribbon, and large vase from a conference room. Then I pedaled to the language houses, where my girlfriend stayed.
One of her housemates answered the door. Slackjawed, she darted up the stairs and summoned, it seemed, all the other girls in that house--and my girlfriend. They watched as I handed her more roses than any of them had seen in their lives. Oh, and those roses were redder--even if they were sicker.
About the only thing that's the same in my life is that I still ride my bikes. I have a few more than I had then, not to mention the memory of that day, when I might have made someone happier (and a few of her friends more envious) than I've made anyone since.
I still wonder what kept those roses so red--for almost two weeks after I found them! Rose, thou art sick. A few years ago, I looked her up, worried that those roses may have made her give birth to sick children. As far as I can tell, she remained childless. Because of the roses?
They don't seem to have affected me. I still ride, after all.
