I picked up this frog-green Schwinn Speedster for $45 at my friendly neighborhood bike library this morning.
From what I can tell from the Interwebs, this model is circa the early 1970s. What a coincidence—so am I. A three-speed, it finds hills rough going—as do I.
I turned 37 last Monday, and though I did my share of bitching about being old, in my heart of hearts it was not really all that traumatic. It helps to be at a moment in my life when I feel like generally speaking, I have it somewhat together, though (of course) at any given moment I do not feel like I have it together at all. By which I mean to say that I have a job. I don't take having a job for granted, since I only got my first real, post-grad-student job a year ago. Fingers crossed for no layoffs at the U.
Thirty-seven was always a mythical age for me anyway, as it was the age of my favorite high school teacher. When I was seventeen, I thought, "I can't wait until I'm 37!" It seemed like a great life, to have the option to live in a house with a front porch in the city, and to sit on the steps of said front porch on a nice evening, with a guy you like, sipping wine. I hope to be doing a lot of that this year. When my Schwinn and I aren't taking on those hills.