Thursday, May 27, 2010

A license to kill under the Christmas tree

To get in long rides before work, my best option is to stash a bag with a week's worth of clothes at work. That way, I don't have to ride with a backpack and I only have to figure out lunch. It's also easier to get out the door if all I have to pick out from my wardrobe is one of 4 identical sets of bibs and jersies.

But even if it weren't faster and more convenient, I'd still stash my duds under the desk because it's also the best way to feel like 1) you're a secret agent, and 2) every morning is Christmas morning.

Picture this: you ride under the cover of darkness (okay, dawnness) wearing a specially designed skin suit, on a cutting-edge blade of carbon fiber; you're above the law with your license stop signs; after darting through an alley and up the wrong way on a one-way sidewalk, you slip into the side door of a nondescript downtown building. After noting your exit options, you stash your bike and wipe it down with masking tape and rubbing alchohol to get rid of prints. Aside from your boss, one of the tenants with whom you chat for 10 minutes about house sitting this weekend, and Kim in marketing, you remain completely undetected--a master of stealth. You find where you stashed your burn bag--the bag that, should everything go south, has everything you need to make it through the next 48 hours alive: socks, underwear, a handsome belt, a pair of flattering slacks, an admittedly well-ironed button up, and a pastel v-neck undershirt you're convinced goes with everything. You look around. You weren't made--no one could have followed you. You might just make it to see tomorrow, which is important because one of the partners just reminded you to pick up some turbinado sugar for the break room.

Now, picture this: you're a secret agent. Merry Christmas.