bicycle stories

On her bicycle, she felt free. Even if it wasn't a cool bicycle. Metallic blue, most likely from the 1980s, it said "Ross Professional" on it. It wasn't even a girls' bike. At any rate, it was her size and she got it at the Chelsea flea market for a fair price. So it didn't matter.
Since acquiring her new bike, she had gotten used to specific bumps in familiar roads, on her way to school, on her way to work. The pot hole at Bowery and Broome, the bump on the East River just to the south of the pedestrian crossing to Grand Street. She knew these well, for very good reasons, but did not always remember them well, which caused for spontaneous surprise, at times.
Today, in the grey of the April early evening, she rode on, having no place to go. She came across that same hungry squirrel down by the housing projects on Cherry Street. He almost had a death wish, the way he ran in front of her wheels. And then, as she turned onto Jackson Street, a dead one in the middle of the street, a dead squirrel, that is. And then, as she passed slowly, her legs tiring, she realized it was not a dead squirrel but instead a fake fur snap-off portion of someone's (now fur-less) jacket.