One night, my mother decided to ride her bike to one of D.C’s less memorable bars, The Dancing Crab, to get a drink and take the edge off of her week.
She’d ridden by this crap hole numerous times during her daily bike rides, but had never set foot in it; usually, her bike was too loaded with daily finds, ranging from used couches to expired Christmas trees, to give The Dancing Crab a second glance.
Long story short, she decided to stop in one night and have a drink or three. Upon riding home, a parked car must have crashed into her, and she fell off her trusted horse and broke a leg.
Refusing to abandon her bike, she managed to crawl home with one arm, towing her Raleigh with the other.
I remember encountering her that early morning, when I, myself, was stumbling back home from a late night out. I was going about my drunken business, fishing through the toothpicks and mints in my pocket for the back door key to my house.
Right as I felt the cold metal of this key touch my fingers, I spotted her big flowered hat turning the corner of our street, with battered bike in tow.
My mother, I thought, would do anything for her best friend.