The Ferblungent Cyclist and his Dieting Bike

This morning I woke up to respond to my mother's words of yesterday (and to my own concerns).  The bike was too heavy and too top heavy.  Four pairs of socks became two.  Three shirts became two as well.  Six BVDs when four will do?  Less toiletries.  One cooking stove will be enough.  Suddenly five bags, four panniers and one over the rack became four panniers, with the sleeping gear stowed within, not on top.  Less weight and lower on the bike.  I rode 12 miles and felt more secure and a bissel quicker.  Life is good.

Before the ride I was invited to attend a Yiddish class at my mom's place by the teacher who is also the person in charge of the Shabbat service I will lead this coming Shabbat.  What a treat.  We began singing "Hatikva" and "Got Bentch Amerike."  A woman who claimed to know nothing and could not read the song sheets hit every word and note of the several Yiddish songs we sang.  Our leader read a terrific autobiographical story about non Jew who grew up in a part of Jewish Brooklyn.  He was both the Shabbes Goy and the envious outsider.  His family loved bread ends and Challah is the bread with nothing but "ends."  We played a "Guess the Meaning of a Yiddish Word" game, but the class knew better definitions than the printed sheets.  What a treat to be in the company of such knowledge and wisdom and modesty and gentleness and age.  Though treated with rabbinic respect, at 57, I felt 12, a kid at the grown up table.