In college, I took guitar lessons for a brief time. I had a Washburn
dreadnought* with a big, clunky hard case, and I had a beach bike I
adored, named the Black Cadillac after the Lightnin Hopkins song. It
even had whitewall tires, this bike. It was a good one.
Even then I preferred riding to walking, and that guitar case was
heavy, so I would hook it onto one of my handlebars and bike, very
carefully, over to the music building for my lesson. One day I was
riding home in this manner. I came around a sharp corner in the brick
path, shiny black bike, big black guitar, feeling hot; and just as I
passed the director of the college radio station, who was sitting on
some nearby steps, I busted it. The guitar fell off the handlebar and I
fell off the bike. I wasn't hurt, but oh, the mortification. . . .
[Read more at More Miles Per Gal]
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