One day, on a fine autumnal morning, I was biking to work. I was on Hudson Street, the sweet spot of the ride to work that comes after the chaos of Houston (trucks! diesel! fumes! wacky pedestrians) and before the major traffic hub that is 14th St (cars! bikes! wacky pedestrians! slow-moving buses!).
Life was good: both metaphorical and actual birds were a'singing. I was in my own lil small-town movie, cycling along perhaps the widest & most bucolic bike lane of New York City.
I felt a faint tugging on my left foot, but ignored it. And why not? Life was lovely.
Oh, but that tugging was not nothing, but a definite something. My shoelace, perpetually untied like a five-year-olds', was caught in my pedal.
The more I biked, the more my lace wrapped around my pedal. Finally, I realized that all the brilliant sunshine and tweeting birds were but dramatic irony, and finally, I realized that I was trapped in my bicycle.
Calmly, coolly, and you know, collectedly, I bicycled over to the side of the road. By the time I got there, I'd firmly laced myself around my pedal. There we go, I thought, and now, to put my foot down and untangle myself.
Turns out, though, that when Madeleines brake, they put their left foot down first. So, calmly, coolly, and you know, collectedly, I tipped over, still attached to my bicycle. And I was delighted, really, to give everyone a morning laugh to go with their latte.