Last summer marked the culmination of a decade-long quest to get a cute photo of me on a bicycle. For years, I would pull up next to a friend as we biked somewhere and demand to be photographed, certain that I looked breezy and Gwyneth-like. But every time, something was critically busted about the photo. My shoulders were hunched. Tendrils of sweaty hair clung to my face. The way I bent over the handlebars caused my waistband to bisect my abdomen. But last June, when my sister proposed we spend a weekend at a resort on the Riviera Maya, I figured I had it in the bag: sisters are legally required to take as many photos of you as you want, and best of all, the resort had a fleet of vintage-y white bikes. My perfect photo was just a few (thousand) clicks away.
Nope. The photos were cursed in the same way that photos of me had always been cursed. But nestled in the cesspool of my camera roll was a video of me, in a red bikini top and tiny jorts, effortlessly cycling through the jungle. I knew as soon as I saw it that it would be my avenue to love. I looked happy (Mexico!) and lithe (loss of appetite following a recent breakup!). I was sitting up straight, and I was laughing and shouting something mercifully indecipherable at my sister. I was moving fast enough that the casual viewer could not see that I was covered in sweat; I just looked beachy wet. I could not wait to scuttle home with my treasure and add it to my dating-app trove.
