Bike-riding through the Quarter used to be a guilty, sadistic pleasure. I’d race up Royal Street on my way to the gym, and around the time I hit St. Philip, the fun began. That’s where the galleries and boutiques and coffee shops started popping up, creating a sort of mall/Disneyland environment and making tourists forget that Royal is a street. Like, you know, with cars and bikes and traffic and stuff. Doris and Ed from Terre Haute would be looking up at a balcony dripping with petunias or sweet potato or something and step right off the curb without looking so much as once. I’d spot them from halfway down the block and pick up the pace; seconds later, I’d fly by, pedals whirling just inches from their pale, naked shins. If I heard an “Omigoodness! Did you see that, Ed?” as I sped away, my day was totally made.
For obvious reasons, Royal Street hasn’t been much of a challenge the last 12 months, but on Saturday morning, that changed. I don’t know why–maybe it was the nice weather, maybe it was the Saints game, maybe there was an idiots convention at the Monteleone. All I can say for sure is that the streets were packed, and the tourists were bouncing from sidewalk to sidewalk like wasps against windowpanes. Among the more adrenalizing obstacles: a pregnant woman pushing a double-wide baby stroller; a gay couple walking their twin Pomeranians; and 20-person walking tour being led by someone who, to judge from his accent, had arrived that very morning from Fargo. By the time I reached the gym, I’d taken care of my cardio for the week.
So, on behalf of my rapidly expanding midsection, welcome back, all you blithe and boozy spirits. With your help, I may finally be able to shed my last ten pounds of Katrina weight….
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