I love riding my bicycle. It is the closest thing I can do to feel like I am flying.

And I am in control, mostly.

Convenient, cheap, and fast, my bike wins the transportation trifecta—it is always ready when I am, it is free to park, and, living in congested Boston, it is faster than driving, the T, or an Uber.

While I love a long bicycle ride, most of my cycling is spent as a commuter. And while I do have paniers to hook onto my bike rack for overnight trips, I am an even bigger fan of the front basket. If I had to point to one thing I have purchased in the past ten years that has changed my life for the better, the basket on the front of my bike wins; hands down.  All of a sudden it’s no big deal to drop by the market and pick up a couple of items and quickly throw them in my front basket. There is a reason baskets were invented 8000 years ago – they are helpful.

Another reason I love commuting on my bike is because I can pretend I am French. I love to wear skirts and heels when I commute as it further feeds the French fantasy. I am also known to only answer to the name of Marie Claire as I bike.

In Boston, one of the most gorgeous rues to bicyclette along is Newbury Street. Avec its brownstone architecture from the 1870’s, quaint shops, and outdoor restaurants it furthers my French fantasy.

Biking home from work along Newbury Street on a gorgeous summer evening I was deep into my Marie Claire fantasy. My three inch sandals showing off my latest French pedicure, my helmet magically transformed into a jaunty framboise beret. Was there a baguette under my arm and a bottle of wine in my front basket along with some camembert? Maybe. And oui, here comes Jean-Claude, the accordion player who often accompanies me on my rides playing La Vie en Rose. Mais d’accord.

And then the music stops.

My flowing skirt gets sucked up into the front wheel of my bike, wrapping itself around the axle with each turn. I am careening to the curb as my body is being pulled up and over my handle bars. It’s a cheap yard sale on chic Newbury Street. My arms go one way, my body another, my bike lands on top of me, and my skirt is yanked up into the front hub. Since the baguette, bottle of wine and cheese are pretend – they are fine.

I take inventory as I lie on the sidewalk. I can wiggle my toes. I can move my fingers and arms. A bloody knee and a flattened fantasy is the only wreckage. I am still however lying on the sidewalk under my bike taking up some prime real estate. I can’t just stand up given the skirt situation. Do I take off my skirt and wrestle it out of my spokes? What am I wearing under my skirt? No. Nobody wants to see what is happening under there. People are gathering asking all the appropriate questions, “Are you ok?”, “Do you need a doctor?”, and then I just start laughing. “Quelle dommage,” Marie Claire says.

Somehow I am standing up. My skirts get pulled, wiggled, and pried out of the hub and spokes and I slowly get my wits about me. The crowd disperses and I gather my things back into the front basket of my bike.

I slowly walk my bike home whistling, “La Vie en Rose”.

Merci.