Dear George,
I’m still befuddled. Weeks ago I noticed a gigantic cardboard box on our front porch. “Electric Bike” was marked on the side. ‘Clearly a delivery mistake’ I thought to myself. But there was my wife Katja’s name and our home address on the shipping label. What can this be? Who is this for?
Confused and grumpy all day, I finally asked about the box at the dinner table. “It’s my new bike,” Katja said proudly. “I bought it for my Christmas present. I won’t be driving the car any more. I’ll go everywhere on my bike.”
I was in a state of shock. Katja grew up in center city Philadelphia and has never ridden a regular bike. How would she learn to ride an electric bike? “It’s so easy,” Katja said. “You just get on and push a button.”
I don’t feel I can tell Katja what to do, but I thought this was a terrible idea. I’ve long been frightened for the college students who ride electric bikes on our street where drivers regularly go 40 miles per hour. And I couldn’t imagine where Katja would go. Her main shopping destinations are Rookwood Commons and Kenwood Towne Centre, both many miles away. “Yes, I‘ll go to Rookwood. There are lots of bike paths.” I explained how dangerous I felt it would be and how I would live in mortal terror every time she went out.
Katja mulled it over for hours. I think my expression of abject fear hit home. Much to her credit, she finally decided to send the bike back. Though I felt like the Grinch who stole Christmas, I breathed a sigh of relief. The UPS guy came the next week, and the bike is now back home in California. Katja is still sad about this. But how many retired oldies do you see riding electric bikes about town? My wife, a living legend.
Love,
Dave
