Wednesday, 24 March 2004 | Hat lady

Matt said he found the bike in the trash and had had to rebuild it; he gave me a lesson on the quirky gears before handing it over to me to borrow. The convention center was a hilly 20- to 25-minute ride away, the sky was white and damp, and the air was chilly, but the hills and my thighs kept me warm. It was the first I'd had to rely heavily on brakes since that day in September, the day when I squeezed the metal bars like tough lemons and was catapulted through the air.

As I coasted down hills on Matt's bike, vibrated over a railroad track, and paused at traffic lights, I imagined that I was about to do it again, that I was about to go over. My hands were poised on the lords of the tires—the metal bars that control how fast or slow the tires rotate—and suddenly I didn't trust my own body anymore; it was as if my hands belonged to someone else entirely—a malicious person, even. I could feel my nerves twitch with a hint desire welling up in them, wanting to take the power they'd been given. The formulated sentence, "don't do it" recycled itself in my head, a command directed specifically at my rebellious hands.

That's what I was thinking when I saw her. I'd just pedaled up a hill and was gliding through an intersection when she walked out in the street to meet me.

"Do you like hats?" she barked. She was wearing a long tan-colored wig and she smiled at me seductively, exposing two gold teeth. In her hands, she cradled a black felt hat that resembled the one worn by Indiana Jones.

"It's worth a hundred dollars, but I'm only asking for four." She didn't seem deterred that I was on a bike and showed no signs of stopping. "No, thanks," I called as I passed her.

From that point on, I began thinking about her question and the logic behind it. "Do you like hats?" is nearly as difficult to answer as "Do you like food?" It was strange that she'd phrased it in a yes/no fashion, and funny, the way she tried to reel me in with a lead-in question. I wondered where she'd acquired the $100 hat, how much it was really worth, and how she planned to use the $4 she wanted from me.

When I parked Matt's bike at the convention center, I realized she'd distracted me long enough that I'd forgotten to sabotage myself with the brakes. So, uh, thanks, hat lady.