WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Well, today the buggy and I finally took to the streets, and unbelievably, it was the first time the car went any further than the driveway for two months to the day, since the pavement was mercifully devoid of slick glare ice, snow and icebergs at the end of the driveway. The car’s odometer has registered 2,648 since January 16th, and for sure, travelling up and down the driveway wasn’t boosting the mileage any. I have been going shopping with my neighbor and friend Marge the past six weeks to pick up a bag or two of groceries, mainly produce for me and greens for Buddy. I try not to shop on a Sunday but I think I beat the church crowd for the most part, and an added bonus … I racked up 2½ miles getting the groceries today. Most folks were shopping for staples for their St. Paddy’s Day feast tomorrow. While I was picking up greens for the lettuce-loving Buddy pictured above, I noticed large bags of taters being slung into shopping carts and the thumping of huge heads of cabbage so that they might pass muster in the crockpot or in a big pot on the stove. In the meat department, I saw many a corned beef brisket being perused and sized up. Now, I will be an Irish lass tomorrow as well, but with my cooking deficiencies that I’ve mentioned in the past, it will be a simple but festive St. Paddy’s Day fare: corned beef and Swiss on rye and a side order of coleslaw and green pistachio pudding. I’ll don a green t-shirt and probably croon “Danny Boy” off key. I’m sorry but I don’t know any Irish jigs, and I don’t plan to find any pots of gold but I shall be Irish in spirit nonetheless. Many blessings to you for St. Patrick’s Day. I am sharing my favorite Irish blessing:

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

The description of homebody fits me to a “T” and during the Winter I’ve always enjoyed the quiet time that I garnered during a season when I never ventured out more than necessary. It was relaxing not to have to run out every day to work in the yard dealing with the seemingly endless tasks that occupy a gardener’s time during the growing season. Now the word “cocooning” is the more-modern term to label a person who enjoys staying hunkered down at home. I’ll bet that alot more people cocooned during the Winter of 2013-2014. Well, I was so ensconced in my humble abode that I was oblivious to the fact that all the snow disappeared, the sun was shining and here I was inside doing housework. I really need to quit using my peepers to peek out the peephole to see what’s happening outside, since unfortunately, though that miniaturized window to the world gives me the gist of what’s happening outside, the view is a bit distorted. It is easier than moving a series of rugs that are banked up in front of the door to keep the living room warm, or using both hands and all my might to raise the heavy metal roll-up shutters which remain closed all Winter to keep the house warm. Yesterday, I looked out mid-day and snow still and ice covered the driveway and most of the street. I never looked out again, but this morning when I suited up to go out and run the car … wow, what a difference a day makes. “Poof” the snow had vanished from everywhere except some traces on the lawn. The 50-degree temperature yesterday sure worked its magic and I wish it was here to stay. I hustled back into the house and laced up my walking shoes, the same pair which earlier in the week I had been prepared to mothball ‘til April, then strapped on my pedometer and I was on my way just minutes later. It was a little windy but it felt refreshing. I took the same route as I’ve gone the past few times which yielded another 2 ½ miles to my total. As I walked along in the rather dismal, gray morning, I decided that we Michiganders are similar to a butterfly – all cooped up indoors, and just when the time is right, we are wont to shed our dull and dowdy duds and emerge with energy and sans hat and heavy trappings. Only then, can we celebrate the ritual of a new season and adorn ourselves in brightly colored outerwear and bare heads, ready to soak up the warm sun. Similarly, a butterfly, just like this beautiful Red Admiral above which posed so prettily for me in my garden, emerges from its chrysalis very slowly then carefully spreads its wings and flies away to sip sweet nectar from blossoms. Soon, that beautiful butterfly will bask in the warm sun, ready to make our world a better place with its airy and light-as-a-feather powdered silk wings in colors so exquisite they take your breath away.

I stayed inside this morning and instead of pouting about not going for a walk, I decided to do a little pedaling on the exercise bike instead. Two wheels versus two feet sometimes has its virtues … getting exercise on a safe journey without leaving the confines of my home. It provides a wee bit of quiet time for soul-searching or unravelling life’s mysteries without having to look both ways for vehicles before crossing the street, or watching for people, stray dogs or icy walks that intrude into your personal space.

So, as I pedaled, I pondered, and even puzzled, like most of the world has, about what has happened to the missing Malaysia Airlines Flight 370, which seemingly has vanished into thin air. Every day a new theory has cropped up since it disappeared a week ago today. Did it crash in mid-air and a million pieces are now strewn in the deep waters never to be recovered? Did it dive headfirst from the sky and now is perhaps submerged under the water? Was it hijacked? There are many masterminds hashing over the scenario of the lost plane’s last few hours, trying the piece the puzzle together. To me, it has been fascinating to listen to their theories … but still no plane, nor its passengers, in what is now termed a “search and recovery” effort, and not a “search and rescue” operation. It’s sad to hear this resolute terminology, and even sadder for the people who have lost loved ones and have no idea of their dire situation nor their disposition. My heart goes out to them.

A mystery which is closer to home is, of course, the mummified woman’s body discovered March 5th in Pontiac, Michigan. Her 19-year-old goddaughter, Nina Logan, has appealed on social media for people to help the police get to the root of the mystery of Pia Farrenkopf’s death, whom authorities estimate died some six years ago. Ms. Logan claims she was murdered. The authorities will not find out the cause of death until the toxicology reports are complete in some six weeks’ time, but in the interim, they hope to prove a DNA match with her sister, or that dental records will confirm it is indeed Pia, that is, if a dentist remembers Pia, their patient. So, we all wonder how this could happen? She had her bills automatically paid to creditors, which worked like a charm until the bank account was depleted, thus the house went into foreclosure, and all the while Pia pitifully was long dead in the back seat of her car in the garage, with the key still in the ignition. Supposedly she voted in the 2010 election – well there’s a boo-boo right there and who takes the blame for that blunder? Her mail was directed to a post office because she travelled extensively – did it not pile up in her post office box and threaten to spill out as each new piece was added? A kindly neighbor took care of her lawn so no one was calling authorities for unkempt property. This still begs the question of where her family was all this time? Lest you cast stones against her family for lack of interest in Pia all these years, she was known to be estranged from her family and was a very private person. So, a week goes by, a month … soon it is a year. The family reportedly tried to contact Pia to advise that a sibling and her mother had passed away. The phone rang, but of course there was no response.

This sad story niggles at my brain as it is now two decades ago a friend of our family passed away and lay dead in his bed from a massive heart attack for nearly five months before anyone knew. You are reading this and saying “well, if you were a friend, would you not inquire as to his whereabouts?” … well you are, and are not, correct in your assumption. Let me back up. Bob was a friend of my father’s, a crusty old bachelor who was invited to our home every Tuesday night for a home-cooked meal. He usually brought dessert and his manners, though he was not big on small talk and had a dry wit and was hard to understand. He hailed from Australia, and though he was in his mid-sixties and had lived here for decades, he never lost his accent. But he was a visitor to our home weekly for years and we thus considered him a friend. After my father was gone in 1984, Bob called and thanked my mom for her hospitality and asked if he might call her from work once a week just to chat. She said “sure” so he called her every Friday on his lunch hour as he did not own a home phone or cellphone, which were not as common in those days. It was strictly a platonic relationship, the small-talk conversations never lasted more than 15 minutes and he confessed that he had no friends or family and she had shown him a great kindness and he missed talking to her. He retired the following year from Ford where he worked as an engineer. He would go to a restaurant and they continued their Friday phone chats just as before.

One Friday, in early November of 1993, Bob called my mom to say he was going home to the “old sod” the following week to visit his parents’ graves and see his siblings one last time. He was estranged from them for decades, since he had moved to America, but thought he should connect with them one more time while he had his health. He said he would return after the new year and would resume the Friday telephone calls then. She wished him a safe and happy trip. The new year arrived and my mom never heard from Bob. She thought it rather odd, but figured he was busy since his return from Australia. When our respective birthdays, in February and April, passed without our usual birthday call or greeting card from Bob, we started to worry. We knew where he lived and casually drove past his condo. His bright-yellow Gran Torino was parked out front as usual. He was rather an odd duck, as that saying goes, so my mom laughed and said that maybe Bob brought home an Australian bride and had other interests now, so we drove away while musing about Bob’s whereabouts. But another month passed and curiosity and worry indeed got the better of us and finally in May we drove past the condo again. This time the car was gone. We went to the condo association office and said we were friends of Bob Driscoll and inquired if he had moved. She suggested we sit down and proceeded to relate a horrific story. The day before his planned trip, Bob told her, like he had my mom, that he was going for a six-week visit to his homeland. He said he had already made plans to stop his mail for the duration of the visit and he would turn the furnace down low and shut his blinds up tight since no one would be checking on his place in his absence, and he didn’t want anyone looking in the windows. He gave her the flight departure and return dates, and the contact information for one of his relatives. He told her he would stop by her office when he was back. He was taking a cab to the airport and leaving his car at the condo. She first began to worry when a few weeks passed and Bob still had not stopped in her office to visit upon his return. She noted that the car never moved day in and day out. She knocked on the door of the condo but there was no answer. She wrote a letter to the Australian relative to inquire if Bob had stayed on in Australia and soon received a reply letter to the effect that Bob had never arrived and they thought he changed his mind about the trip. She next called the Southgate Police Department. On April 1, 1994, they entered the condo and found Bob dead in bed. They suspected he died of a heart attack back in November, the night before his trip, which was confirmed later by the medical examiner.

To live and die all alone is very sad, and in this case his family figured he never really cared much about them anyway, so that he just abandoned the idea of a visit with his long-lost relatives. So we will ponder and make assumptions about the life of Pia, if that is indeed the person found in the car, just as my mom and I tried to figure out the story of our friend Bob. Sadly, it was not his time to fly back to the old country and reconnect with family and friends. Many times we wished we never found out the truth about Bob’s sad demise and would have just preferred to believe he had jetted off to Australia and decided to spend the balance of his days on earth on the “old sod”.

Post script: I get most of my news from the radio or reading current events that interest me from online sources. If you read news articles online, you often see the comments at the end of the story. Sometimes I peruse the readers’ comments; often they are heartfelt, sometimes they are silly or off-topic. For the most part, readers are pointing fingers at Pia Farrenkopf’s family for their estrangement all these years. Family ties are a funny thing. They can be ties that bind with hugs and kisses, but sometimes they are mere obligations. If you are close to your family, it is incomprehensible to fathom how family members become un-connected. My mother and her brother were estranged for decades and only “made nice” at my grandmother’s 80th birthday party and the funerals of each of my grandparents. It was at those three events that I met my uncle, his wife and their children. I never grew up knowing them as aunt and uncle, nor as my cousins. I wrote my uncle at his home address which I found in the family address book to advise that my mother had passed away, because, in my opinion, it was proper etiquette and the right thing to do. I never received an acknowledgment of my letter and quite honestly, did not expect one. It will be thirty years this May since I’ve seen or spoken to my father, who decided to leave this family and embark on a new life. These family tidbits tarnish my life somewhat, yet I am not horrified, nor ashamed of them … life must go on.

Well the Iceman was by and thus the persnickety ice is back surrounding the perimeter of my house. Now ice is rather nice if you are a Red Wing player or Meryl Davis and Charlie White, but for the rest of us it is a gigantic pain in the keester. I went outside this morning to attend to the car and drain spouts in that brrrrisk weather, and I knew from the get-go that we had had some freezing rain as the screen door needed a big push to open it. This was followed by a hollow scraping sound and stepping out onto a sidewalk which once again was a sheet of ice. The ice-encrusted door was not the only thing glistening and glommed onto somewhere that it shouldn’t be, because unfortunately after slip-slidin’ along the side of the house and taking baby steps to get out front, I discovered the driveway and in front of the garage slick as well. Compounding that disaster, the garage door was similarly ice-encrusted on each “bend” and the door sweep was frozen to the pavement. Fifteen minutes later, after chipping away at the icy areas, and much muttering on my part, I could finally raise the garage door and gain access inside to run the car. My front door looked like it had been through the Ice Age; good thing I did not intend to vacate the house via the front door in a hurry. Likewise, the gate to the backyard once again was frozen shut and the latch had to be pried open with the broom handle. One week and counting ‘til Spring arrives and before that celebrated date, we are due for another Arctic Clipper and still another snow event. Mother Nature and Michigan must declare a truce sooner, rather than later.

I heard bang, bang, bang at the front door, so I peered out the peephole. I couldn’t see anyone, and the peephole had some condensation, but the heavy thuds to the door and the scraping of a snow shovel on the front porch told me that potential snow shovelers were present and looking to make a windfall off today’s snowfall. Actually, they must be new kids in the neighborhood as a couple of these pint-sized entrepreneurs were by two or three big snowfalls ago. Before this year, I cannot remember the last time someone came to the door asking to shovel snow or rake leaves. If you might permit me a trip in the way-back machine once again, shoveling snow was a means to make extra money back when I was a pre-teen and even into my early teens. It was money, over and above my allowance, which gave me the opportunity to go to the dime store and buy single-record 45s, at about a buck apiece, to add to my collection. Sometimes, there was even $0.39 left over to buy a pack of those yellow discs that you inserted into the 45 rpm record to load it onto the spindle on your turntable. Unless you are a certain age, I may have just lost you on these last two lines entirely! My pal Maureen and I used to take our parents’ shovels and go house-to-house looking for business in the neighborhood. My father suggested we cut our fee and thus get more customers that way. We did, and it was a good business plan because we had quite a few customers. We charged a couple of bucks to do the homeowners’ driveway, walk and porch – such a deal! I wonder what the going rate is for 2014? Unlike alot of youngsters nowadays, we did not eat up our profits by stopping at McDonalds or Burger King after we finished the jobs for the day. We usually only shoveled on the weekend snow events, and we’d tuck our money into our pockets and then hurry to our respective homes just in time for dinner. Not all tykes, however, will look to Mother Nature to become young entrepreneurs, nor are they enamored with this Winter’s snow and cold. This video went viral a few weeks ago – you have to smile and agree with this youngster for tellin’ it like it is: http://fox2now.com/2014/02/10/little-boy-calls-on-jesus-to-make-it-warm/

Well, I managed to muster another three miles on my walk today, but only by taking to the streets once again. My boss was out so I figured I’d leave later, after everyone left for work and school, so I could walk down the middle of the street, like a horse. This method sure beats trying to navigate the sidewalks, which, due to yesterday’s high temps are swimming with deep puddles, light ice and mud … not so fun. The fractured streets really weren’t wonderful either, and a road crew had recently deposited loads of glistening patch material into many of the potholes, but since they didn’t tamp the material down into the holes, patching crumbles littered the entire street and will no doubt get scooped up when the City plow comes along in the next few days to scrape away tonight’s snowfall. As I muddled around the mud puddles, and patching crumbles and big ol’ holes in the road, I made several observations. Homeowners must have been really rejoicing over this Johnny-come-lately January thaw. Many windows were cracked open to allow the Spring-like air to creep into houses, stale with months of recycled heat and kitchen odors. I noticed alot of people have dragged out a few pieces of backyard furniture and their BBQ grills. It looked to me like most folks’ frame of mind sped right past Spring and into Summer. Likewise, unbelievably, I heard and saw two guys riding motorcycles. Gee, they sure won’t be using motorcycles within a handful of hours to be sure. I made three complete loops around Ford Park on Buckingham and Liberty Streets, that border the park, which garnered the bulk of my mileage today. I was amused to see robins drinking and taking a dip in the icy pools of water which have formed by the snowmelt in all the recessed areas of the park. One of the times I passed, I noticed several robins were wearing a puzzled expression because they kept trying to spear their beaks into the ground to find worms. Well, no worms on the menu for them today, because there was no way their sharp beaks could penetrate the still-frozen tundra. I saw several squirrels scurrying about with muddy paws, no doubt from digging up homeowners’ garden beds in a fruitless search for prized peanuts buried there last Fall and unavailable until now since the snow has receded. The world has seemingly come alive the past few days with our short-lived Winter thaw. As I walked up my driveway, I heard the unmistakable honking of Canada geese very close by, so I looked up to the sky, and there they were in perfect V-formation. I dipped my head and prepared to duck – they were that close. I walked into the house, and took off the pedometer and walking shoes and socks, wondering when I might be donning them again. Next week? Next month? Who knows? The respite in the wicked Winter weather was just what we needed, but it is a shame that we must now reconcile ourselves to the fact that before we go to bed tonight, the temps will drop twenty degrees and Mother Nature will whisk out her mighty snow-making machine, still one more time, to deposit another four to eight inches on our roads, lawns and our Winter-weary spirits. We all wonder why we are going backward, aiming for more Winter weather and not heading toward Spring? Winter persists … this time with a twist.

I took another walk today, but it sure was not as warm and inviting as Friday’s adventure, and now that the big-time snow melt has begun, it is a mishmash of ice patches a’ plenty and puddles galore. Walking was tricky and the wind was gusty as well, so I’m sorry to say that Spring ain’t sprung yet folks, despite Friday’s sneak preview and the awesome 50 degrees projected for tomorrow. I picked the same path as the other day, but chose to walk in the street after alternately dodging ice patches and deep puddles on the sidewalk which was making for a slow go. Mother Nature sure has wreaked havoc with our streets. Though the salt-stained street was dry, it resembled a war zone, with hastily applied asphalt spilling out of craters the size of turkey platters. Great wads of Bazooka bubblegum would have probably served the same purpose, as this asphalt clearly was not helping to patch up the offending tire-eating potholes and deep fissures which cracked open large portions of the street. Traversing this battle-scarred street in two complete loops around Ford Park, I racked up another 2½ miles. I don’t plan to set any mileage goals this early in the year. I think, had we not had the wicked weather in the tail end of November and through December, I’d have reached my 500-mile goal, and then some, long before December 29th. If the weather folks and “The Old Farmer’s Almanac” can be trusted, we will be waterlogged this April and May with alot of rain to sog up our Springtime, then we will be suffering through a hot, dry Summer. Great … just great. Hopefully, when the cold weather finally leaves, I won’t be spending all the warmer months on the inside gazing out the window at the rain, then turning around and watering the front and back yards every morning all Summer. We shall see what Mother Nature has in the cards for us soon enough. I heard a rumor that many cities in Michigan may institute a beautification program, to eliminate the unsafe and unsightly potholes. Local mayors are asking for resident gardeners to volunteer in this effort, by using their green thumbs and imagination to plant posies in the nasty crevasses.

I was groping around blindly, looking for a small lid in the back of the third shelf of the kitchen cupboard, when a tall, skinny tin teddy bear came tumbling down onto the counter-top. Well, I ought to clean out my cupboards more since I’ve not seen that little shaker tin in ages. I probably have not eaten this cinnamon-sugar mixture since I gave up sweets in 2010. The container is a gizmo that you unscrew the top and it is a shaker. You swirl cinnamon and sugar together in the tin, then shake it over hot buttered toast or porridge. I opened it and it still smelled heavenly, so it became my “spread” for toast today. This treat hearkens back to my youth when my mom often made me cinnamon-sugar toast. Nothing was nicer than a piece of hot toast, with a smidge of butter topped with a heavy-handed shake of cinnamon sugar. If I close my eyes, I can see myself sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on cocoa with the aroma of cinnamon wafting up my nostrils. Those are great warm and fuzzy memories. I originally planned to entitle this post, “a loaf of bread, a cup of coffee and thou” but coffee is my shtick, not Buddy’s. But every day I do indeed break bread with my little paesano, albeit a friend with feathers. Buddy is a frisky, lively pet who never lacks for attention, and in fact thrives on being a spoiled boy, and he is indeed the center of attention in this house. Our daily ritual is me making him a piece of crispy, multi-grain toast. As you might remember from a prior post, bread is my downfall. It is Buddy’s downfall as well. I go several times a year to Westborn Market to buy this Superior Bakery rustic bread, a piddling little loaf, which, by the time you take out the “heels”, the misshapen pieces or the slices with gimungous holes which might snag in the toaster, leaves us with about a dozen good-sized slices to toast per loaf. I end up eating the bite-sized odds-and-ends of bread spread with peanut butter. But, Buddy and I share and share alike. During the week, after the workday is done, we split our slice of toast; his is twisted and positioned between the cage bars and onto the perch whereupon he attacks it with a vengeance. But first, I must shield this treat with my fingers while I blow on the toast to cool it so Buddy does not burn his mouth. Sometimes he flaps his wings or chatters angrily because it takes me too long to cool it off. Patience mon petit, patience! The other 3/4s left of the slice is designated as mine and I reheat it and slap a thin slice of Swiss cheese onto the warm crispy bread. Mmm. Every November I load in a large supply of “Buddy bread” for the Winter, and needless to say, the many mini loaves take up most of the freezer. On weekends, when I have more time to indulge, I usually enjoy my portion with orange marmalade and a large steaming mug of Hills Bros. English Toffee Cappuccino … a stately British combo, but for me it is simple, but stupendous.

Today, was not just another Winter day. It was Michigan’s first glimpse at Spring after a harsh and horrid Winter. My boss has been out of town, so I had an opportunity to go outside when the sun was high in the sky, not neatly tucked behind the clouds on a gray and dismal early morn. The weather forecast, plus a glance out the window, told me today had all the earmarks of a glorious walk. I was ecstatic to take this long-awaited walk and I couldn’t get my shoes laced up quickly enough to set out. At first glance, the sidewalks looked clear, but as I kept walking I discovered sidewalk potholes, many which were glazed over with a thin veil of ice. To thwart a spill on these icy and dicey spots, I strayed over a few blocks where I knew the homes were larger, and the sidewalks were in better shape. It was a great decision as that street’s sidewalks were salt-stained, but otherwise clear and dry, so then I didn’t have to concentrate on my footing and could simply enjoy my walk. And enjoy it I did! Just being outside and walking, I felt as if every sense was awakened by my surroundings and I was the sponge, ready to absorb the beauty of the day. I found myself looking here, there and everywhere like the proverbial country bumpkin taking a trip to the big city for the first time. The sun was warmish and shone down on my upturned face. It felt luxurious and I resisted the urge to cast my cap into the air, à la Mary Richards, in exuberance. I was near-giddy and giggling as I heard the gurgle of water whooshing down the sewer drain, as mounds of dirty snow met the street’s slushy puddles and melded, beating a hasty retreat down the drain. The songbirds were out and I heard way more birdcalls than I hear on those cold and frosty mornings when I head out daily to run the car. It was as if the birds likewise were joyous to be basking in the sunshine. It felt good to be alive and to venture out further than my driveway, and in walking shoes, instead of lug boots as has been the case for the past three months. I really only planned to walk just a handful of blocks to risk getting shin splints, but when I found it so clear on Buckingham Street, I did another complete walk around the block surrounding Ford Park, and then another. Finally, I started to head home, and thought ‘well, perhaps one more go around’ and it seemed I just couldn’t help myself. I was glad I strapped on my pedometer because when I removed it, it read a whopping 2½ miles. I was astounded. Thank God for this day because I needed it to clear the cobwebs from my brain and it did wonders for my psyche. It was much more than merely an exercise for stretching my legs. Yup, I’m in my happy place, thinking Springy thoughts and all is right in my world again.

Winter is on my head,
but eternal spring is in my heart.
~ Victor Hugo

A passerby and his pooch brought a huge grin to my Winter weary face very early this morning. I was standing idly in front of the garage after running the car, when I heard a series of yaps and yelps that heralded the arrival of a man laboriously pedaling his bicycle down the street. Where did he come from? I was standing right there the entire time. He just appeared out of nowhere, though I admit, I had heard the incessant barking of a small dog which preceded his arrival. The streets around my neighborhood were still slick with packed-down snow and certainly far from clear to the bare cement, but this older gent soon caught up to my house, then rode past me on his two-wheeler. He doffed his hat and called out “good morning Missy from me and Buster” and I responded back with a wave and a smile “and a good morning to you too sir, and Buster as well” … hmm … “Missy” … well, I kinda liked that moniker, it’s been awhile since anyone has called me “Miss” or “Missy” and that rather made my day. The dog was sitting in a makeshift bike carrier, which appeared to be a fisherman’s wicker catch basket with the lid flipped back and the straps bound onto the handlebars. There was an afghan or something woolen, maybe a sweater, tucked inside the basket, as well as Buster, a Yorkshire Terrier, who was sporting a felt cloth coat and wiggling around, alternatively “smiling” and yapping at the top of his lungs. The silky hair on his ears was blowing in the breeze and I thought a tiny pair of earmuffs might be in order. Buster clearly was enjoying his primo perch and spending some quality time with his master. They were gone in a flash, just about as quickly as they arrived, but I watched them until they became just a speck once they got past the next block. They were a memorable duo – man and his best friend, cruisin’ along on their version of a bicycle built for two.