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.