I have some nice bikes.
Nothing that would make a connoisseur jealous, mind you, but some pretty nice rides.
I have some pretty nifty cycling gizmos, too: multitools, clipless pedals, computers, a new GPS (courtesy of the best brother in the world, something I can say now, some three decades after the boy unleashed the fury of his Mighty-Sighty Punch on his little brother).
I also have a dandy headlight, bright enough I’ve been confused for a motorcycle or a car with one light burned out.
And I have some darned sexy legs.
OK, in the interest of maintaining any credibility I might have, they’re not that sexy. In fact, they’re pasty, hairy bird legs.
I’ve spent enough time and money on all my bikes and bike-related stuff, occasionally I elicit a comment or two, like, “Hey, nice bike.”
Or, “Wow, bri-i-i-ght light.”
Or, “Dude, those are some pasty, hairy bird legs.”
Or my personal favorite, which I’m thinking of getting put on a T-shirt despite the fact I might get slapped with a cease-and-desist order: “Man, fitchin’ bixie.” (Relating to a fixed-gear bike, or fixie; think Muck Fizzou).
And yet for all the comments directed at my bikes, lights or gams, one bit of bike gear has elicited more remarks than all the others combined, and it’s quite possibly the most utilitarian of the lot: my bike lock.
The lock in question is a Master Lock Street Cuff, which basically is one bad-looking set of handcuffs — for bikes.
My Cuffs are big — too big for mortal wrists, so they’d be of little use as a restraining device or, um, marital aid. (Easy, folks, we’re talking about a little light bondage here).
They’re so big and bad, Master Lock made a bracket for them to be carried on the bike, then warned they’re so heavy, they can tear thin-walled aluminum frames.
So I carry them either locked across the handlebars or, more frequently, in the bottom of my backpack, where they’ve been known to strain my lumbar region.
I’ll whip ’em out and lock up at a bike rack, and their telltale, unmistakable ratcheting sound invariably draws doubletakes from passers-by.
Once, not long after I got them, I was locking up outside the Holcom Park Rec Center. The bike rack is just outside the window of the weight room. A large fellow who obviously had spent loads of time inside said weight room glanced out the window, rapped on it, then opened it. He sort of had the look that maybe he had a little personal experience with real handcuffs, so I was a little timid when he called me over. But he just leaned over, jerked a thumb toward my bike and said, “Hey. Nice lock.” Then he went back to lifting the equivalent of a small car over his head.
As I was locking up at the dentist office, a departing patient got out of his car to stroll over and ask where he could get a set of Cuffs for his motorcycle.
Pedestrians downtown have stopped to ask about my Cuffs, while others have nodded and tossed out a quick, “Cool lock.”
By far the best comment, though, came while I was securing my ride outside the gym.
An attractive woman was walking past as I slapped the Cuffs on.
She raised an eyebrow and gave the closest thing to a come-hither glance that an old, married guy like me is likely to see free of charge and purred, “So, what else do you use those for?”
Big, dumb old married guy that I am, I stammered something about “apprehending perps,” then beat a hasty retreat, bolting into the safety of the gym as fast as my pasty, hairy bird legs would carry me.
