Instead of disembarking and pushing the button, I opt for leaning over and reaching a finger toward the button. A perfect plan, except that I don’t pull my bike close enough to the pole. When the pole doesn’t move to me, I move to it. Then into it.
Finally, with minimal bruising, I park the bike in my living room. I drink a gallon of faucet water. My guzzling is interrupted by the ringing phone. Marty is on the other line with an update on his bruise. It’s already starting to form, and it resembles John Lennon’s head. He’s going to show me tonight over a margarita.