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The next time somebody describes to me the reacquiring of a long-forgotten skill as being, "like riding a bike, you never forget," they should be standing out of striking distance.
After a 40-year hiatus, I learned that you do forget some things, and that there are some new things to learn - and it took me longer than expected to find out even that.
My wife bought me the bike, a nice shiny new one, for Christmas, after I casually mentioned that now that I have retired, it might be fun to have one to ride around town.
Like a lot of other people around Christmastime, I had what health officials called the flu, but what its victims know was actually the plague, and refused to try to mount any vehicle when I had to close one eye to keep from seeing double.
But the illness passed and the bike sat there in the den, taunting me.
Finally I decided to take it out for what I lightly referred to as "a spin."
My stepdaughter, a lovely young woman with a cruel sense of humor, decided to come and watch me, "so there will be someone to call 911."
It helps here to know that my stepdaughter and I often kid each other about our weight, part of a support network aimed at helping us with our constant efforts to lose same.
I wheeled the bike into the alley behind my house, mounted it, and pedaled away - moving all of 8 feet.
"Stop! Stop!" my stepdaughter screamed.
Puzzled that I actually had held my balance for that far, I stopped and inquired irritably, "What?"
"You mean you didn't hear that?" she asked, the beginnings of a smile playing with the corners of her mouth.
"Hear what?"
"The rear tire blew out as soon as you sat down on the seat," she said, convulsing in laughter.
"It did not," I said, bending over to squeeze the tire and discovering that she was right.
She continued to guffaw, as she realized that she had made a double score - my weight blowing out the tire and the fact that my hearing (which I insist isn't as bad as the habit of mumbling, which everyone seems to have acquired over the past few years) had kept me from hearing it.
I harrumphed with as much dignity as I could muster, and moved the bike back inside.
A few days later, I approached the nice people at San Antonio Cyclery, where they routinely service and sell bicycles in the $2,000 to $3,000 price range, and asked them whether I could bring in my Wal-Mart special without embarrassing them.
They were very kind, said of course they would fix it and then even told me that it wasn't weight that blew out the tire, just the way it had been seated on the rim (or some kind of technical bicycle talk like that).
I have since relayed that information to my stepdaughter, who just nods knowingly and then turns and walks away, thinking I can't hear her chuckle.
And, once again, it was time for me to face the challenge, with the kind of trepidation that made me sorry for every time I had laughed at (other) old people and tricycles.
I quickly learned a few other things.
There are a lot more speeds now than the very chic three that I had on my last bicycle, and a fairly complex way of selecting them, along with a very scary looking contraption that makes it unlikely that anyone with my skills (or lack thereof) would dare remove - or even try to remove - a back wheel.
And someone apparently researched the records of medieval torture chamber designers to come up with what they call, with a straight face, a seat.
It might be more comfortable if you are wearing those padded cycling pants, but about the last thing I need is anything emphasizing the part of my body those pads are meant to cushion.
And, my friends and family hasten to point out, I am putting about 100 more pounds of weight on the seat than I did the last time I rode a bicycle.
I have found a place that sells more comfortable seats and will invest in one soon.
If I can get the nice folks in San Antonio to put it on for me.