Nadia- the 60 Year-Old Daughter I Never Knew I Had.

By editor on February 29th, 2008

Nadia- the 60 Year-Old Daughter I Never Knew I Had.

Before Nadia could ride off into the sunset, she first had to walk into the shop.

It was a morning like any other. AC/DC was on the radio. We were up to our usual hijinks. Our project was ironing out the logistics for the Red Bull Challenge, an utterly stupid test of stamina to see how many cans of Red Bull a person could drink before spazing into cardiac arrest.

Did they need to be chugged in succession? Or spread out over a set period of time? And Red Bull’s kind of expensive so who’s funding this little endeavor?

After our ill fated macaroni and cheese eating contest, we weren’t leaving anything to chance. Yep, life in a bike shop can be like life in a frat house minus the bestiality. About the time we had we had all the details worked out (person who drinks the least pays for all) Nadia floated through the front door, made up like she just stepped off a page of Vogue Magazine. Trouble for sure.

I threw scissors. My colleague threw rock. I had to help her.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I want to get-a the bicycle,” she said in a thick Italian accent.

“OK, we have those,” I reassured her. “What sort of riding do you want to do?”

“That’s- a the problem. Nadia is 60 years old. She doesn’t know how to ride-a the bicycle.”

Hmm. I thought for a second. Is this lady Nadia? Except for Kanye West, most people I encounter don’t refer to themselves in the third person.

“Can you teach-a me?”

I think she was giving me puppy dog eyes but I couldn’t tell since she was still wearing her enormous sunglasses.

“Sure. It’s no problem. I’ll teach you.”

Now I’d seen everything. An Italian who never learned to ride a bicycle. That’s worse than a Wisconsinite who’s never eaten cheese or drank an Old Style.

Picking out Nadia’s first bike was easy- a lady’s Bianchi Milano. Celeste of course. She even paid for it before we went outside. I did my best gym teacher impersonation to try and and make her think I knew what I was talking about.

“Right now, Nadia, we’re not going to worry about pedaling, brakes, gears or anything like that. I just want to sit on the seat and use your feet to glide yourself down the sidewalk. If you start to fall, stop with your feet. Once you learn to balance then we’ll start to pedal.”

This technique never fails. Nadia would be riding before lunch.

“But I don’t want to stop-a with my feet. My shoes, I got them at Nieman Marcus. They’re very expensive. I don’t want to-a ruin them.”

“Do you want to comeback with some sneakers?”

“No,” she said, “I want you to hold-a the seat and run with me and I’ll ride-a the bicycle, like they do in the movies.”

I didn’t even try to object. There was no talking any sense into this lady. I took hold of the seat. Nadia made a quick sign of the cross. Nothing like imminent disaster to help someone find religion. With a little push my 60 year old daughter and I were off down the sidewalk. We built some speed and I let go. She started to turn the pedals. Before I could even think she could make it, Nadia crashed to the sidewalk with a couture scuffing thud.

“Nadia, are you OK?”

“My, culo. I hurt my culo,” she whimpered, rubbing her backside.

One spill was enough. Nadia said she just lived up the street so she walked her new bike home temporarily defeated. The next day she came back. This time she meant business. Her sandals were nowhere to be seen.

We started small and worked our way up. An hour of practice was all it took for Nadia to live up to her Italian heritage. She was zipping up and down the block with all the swagger and panache of Paolo Bettini.

Now came the fun part.

“How can I thank-a you for teaching me to ride-a the bicycle?”

“Don’t worry about it. It was my pleasure,” I said, feeling slightly modest while trying to JedI Mind Trick her into realizing that cash is always welcom.

“No. I have to repay-a you somehow. I know. I own the salon down-a the street. Come see me this afternoon. We take-a care of this,” Nadia said as gestured to her eyebrows. ”You’re too-a bushy. I’ll clean you up. No charge-a.”

After escorting her into a whole new world of fun, Nadia felt the only way she could properly repay me was with a complimentary eyebrow waxing. Later that afternoon, I went down the block, crossed the street and stepped into the friendly, yet intimidating, confines of That’s Amore! Beauty Salon.

It queasiness in my stomach was pretty much the same feeling a newbie must get when walking into a bike shop for the first time. Total sensory overload. Instead of the stench of tire rubber, I was greeted by a scent reminiscent of toxic strawberries.

A dozen sets of eyes sized me up and told me I didn’t belong there. I mustered the courage and asked for Nadia.

“She’s in the back. Knock on the door,” said a lady not looking up from the set of feet she was scouring with a file.

Knock. Knock.

“It’s-a open.”

I gave the pink door a push and it wasn’t even halfway open before several childhood scarring moments flashed before my eyes.

On the table was a female client. She wasn’t wearing pants or even underpants. Nadia was positioned squarely between her legs, crouching on a stool and wearing a really bright head lamp. Normally, this is a sight I’d have to pay at least $20 to see.

Nadia, casual as ever, looked up like a vaganic mechanic peeking up from the hood of a car. “I’ll be right with-a you. Wait outside-a.”

Minutes later I was lying on the very same table. Nadia gushed about all the adventures she planned to have with her bike as she readied the hot wax. I wish I could say waxing doesn’t hurt but then I’d be lying. The moment she ripped the scalding wax off my forehead was the exact moment I remembered what it was like to be circumcised.

I’m just glad I didn’t take her up on the offer for a full Brazilian.

Cause I’ve got a treasure trail that starts above my belly button and winds around all the way to the base of my neck.

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