My one-mile neighborhood loop, which allows me to run past the nuns’ house next to the school that banned me from the track and scowl at them which is sure to banish me to hades but maybe they have good races there anyhow so what the hell, features the world’s greatest start-finish line sign. Longtime readers will recall it used to look like this.
The house was owned by an artist who covered pretty much every square inch with a painting of some sort. Even the sidewalk in front leading up to the house was decorated. She was a lot of fun.
I mostly loved Mr. Sun, but was fascinated by the Bikini Babe on the garage door (you have to squint — it’s in the shadow.) She’s running with a leopard or Justin Bieber or something. What do I know. I’m no art critic.
It was always nice to do endless loops in the neighborhood knowing that every 12 minutes or so the Bikini Babe would be there to smile or wave or do the cha-cha with Justin, depending on the heat and my stage of delirium.
Then one day, the For Sale sign went up on the house. I figured the mural was doomed. We waited.
The house was sold. New people moved in. And then. Nothing.
It’s been a couple of months, and the mural seems to have survived. But then.
As we drove by last week, Mo said “The Bikini Babe is gone.”
Sure enough, she has been replaced by palm trees. Curiously, an Eagle next to Mr. Sun also is AWOL. But Mr. Sun seems to have avoided the onslaught, so life goes on.
And I suppose there will come a day in the summer when it’s hot enough and I’m tired enough that she will appear again.
Sorry, Bikini Babe. See you this summer. Please leave Justin at home …