The other day, my friend Brian Schab (firstname.lastname@example.org) was coming to my house for the first time for a massage so I told him I’d pick him up at the el stop—in the bakfiets. I have been trading massages with Brian for boxing and personal training sessions, all of which had taken place at Fitness Formula Club where we both worked, until recently when Brian left there to strike out on his own. (I’ll have more to say on bartering in a future blog.)
Now, not many grown men—especially men who are martial arts experts—would be willing to sit in a wooden box on the front of a bike and let a woman pedal them down a major city street. But that’s what I like about Brian: he’s very open, not at all obsessed with showing how macho he is, and in possession of a good sense of humor. He climbed right in, sat down on the bench, and laughed about the fun of it all as I pushed the bike down off the kickstand and got ready to chauffeur him to my house.
Brian did refuse to put on the pink bicycle helmet I’d brought along for his safety. But to give full disclosure, I don’t believe it was the color that bothered him. Nor was it the possibility of messing up his hair, since he shaves his head. Rather, he was having trouble getting it to fit his head over his hat. So throwing caution—and my usually unwavering safety principles—to the wind (literally, as it turned out), we set off.
A little wobbly at first—Brian being my heaviest “cargo” to date—I gradually picked up speed as I gathered confidence. “This is awesome!” Brian shouted over the wind. “Hey,” said, “I not only pedal massage to you, I pedal you to massage.”
I only wish we'd gotten a picture. . . .