Wordplay

I’m walking Chelsea down 12th Street. A man whizzes by on a bike, passing very close to us.

Chelsea stares at him, eyes wide. “It’s a centaur!”

I shake my head. “No, a centaur is half-man, half horse.”

Chelsea considers this. “That was a half-man.”

“No,” I say. “It was a whole man. On a bike.”

“So … what’s the word for a man on a bike?” Chelsea asks.

“It’s just a man on a bike,” I say.

Chelsea gives me look, as though I’m joking.

“Or you could say cyclist. Sometimes, they call a man on a bike a cyclist.”

She shakes her head and trots back toward the house. “It was a centaur,” she says — but under her breath, hoping I cannot hear.

I’m walking Chelsea down 12th Street. A man whizzes by on a bike, passing very close to us.

Chelsea stares at him, eyes wide. “It’s a centaur!”

I shake my head. “No, a centaur is half-man, half horse.”

Chelsea considers this. “That was a half-man.”

“No,” I say. “It was a whole man. On a bike.”

“So … what’s the word for a man on a bike?” Chelsea asks.

“It’s just a man on a bike,” I say.

Chelsea gives me look, as though I’m joking.

“Or you could say cyclist. Sometimes, they call a man on a bike a cyclist.”

She shakes her head and trots back toward the house. “It was a centaur,” she says — but under her breath, hoping I cannot hear.

Mark McElroy

I'm a husband, mystic, writer, media producer, creative director, tinkerer, blogger, reader, gadget lover, and pizza fiend.

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Who Wrote This?

Mark McElroy

I'm a husband, mystic, writer, media producer, creative director, tinkerer, blogger, reader, gadget lover, and pizza fiend.

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