stove
Well-known member
"Make sure you don't ride up my ass Bax!" I told him sharply when we stopped. Baxter had been riding my rear tire for nearly 3 miles, and I wasn't comfortable with his riddiculous competition, especially considering I could burn him (road vs mountain bike) in a straightaway.
The Erie canal trail across upstate NY is beautiful, and we had been biking for nearly 25 miles. A short jaunt on bikes, but a fun trip nonetheless. I saw the draw bridge up ahead, figured it might be nice to head into town a bit, and made the turn on to the bridge. Too late, I saw the wide spacing of the metal rails, much too wide for my narrow road bike tires, and slammed on my breaks.
BAM! Bax's front tire crunched into my rear, bending the rim at a right angle and destroying a few of the spokes. "FUCK! You dumbass!" I shouted, loud enough to scare the others we were with into stopping suddenly. "I JUST fucking told you NOT to ride up my ass. Dammit!"
And so I set about fruitlessly attempting to repair my rear tire. After 10 minutes of watching me de-spoke my tire, my friends decided they would be better off leaving me where I was. I watched them pedal back the way they came, looking hopelessly at my bike.
I spent the next two hours trying to straighten out the rim enough to ride; needless to say, I failed miserably. I had my phone on me, and considered calling my roommate to pick me up...where? I had absolutely no idea where in upstate NY I was. Fuck, I'm screwed, I thought.
As I gazed around the serene setting, the drawbridge operator came down from his lofted post to chat. "Not gonna fix that, are ya?" he inquired politely.
"Yeah, it's busted. There doesn't happen to be a bike shop in town by any chance?" I hoped.
"Nope, nearest one is 7 miles back in Brockport," he replied.
"Damn, this is gonna suck," I said plainly, thinking about carrying my bike 7 miles back down trail, hoping the bike shop would have a rim which fit my 1967 Peugot.
"Want a lift?" the bridge operator asked. "The guy comming up in this houseboat is mooring in Brockport, he might give you a ride right there," he suggested. I jumped at the opportunity.
Soon enough, the houseboat motored over to the dock, I tossed my broken bike on the deck, and away we went!
30 minutes and $10 later, with 10 minutes to go until the bike shop closed, I had a new rear tire pulled from the depths of the basement fitted to my bike. I was so happy I didn't remember to get water, and rode the 20 miles home in 45 minutes, thirsty as a bastard.
Needless to say, I got shitfaced that night.
The Erie canal trail across upstate NY is beautiful, and we had been biking for nearly 25 miles. A short jaunt on bikes, but a fun trip nonetheless. I saw the draw bridge up ahead, figured it might be nice to head into town a bit, and made the turn on to the bridge. Too late, I saw the wide spacing of the metal rails, much too wide for my narrow road bike tires, and slammed on my breaks.
BAM! Bax's front tire crunched into my rear, bending the rim at a right angle and destroying a few of the spokes. "FUCK! You dumbass!" I shouted, loud enough to scare the others we were with into stopping suddenly. "I JUST fucking told you NOT to ride up my ass. Dammit!"
And so I set about fruitlessly attempting to repair my rear tire. After 10 minutes of watching me de-spoke my tire, my friends decided they would be better off leaving me where I was. I watched them pedal back the way they came, looking hopelessly at my bike.
I spent the next two hours trying to straighten out the rim enough to ride; needless to say, I failed miserably. I had my phone on me, and considered calling my roommate to pick me up...where? I had absolutely no idea where in upstate NY I was. Fuck, I'm screwed, I thought.
As I gazed around the serene setting, the drawbridge operator came down from his lofted post to chat. "Not gonna fix that, are ya?" he inquired politely.
"Yeah, it's busted. There doesn't happen to be a bike shop in town by any chance?" I hoped.
"Nope, nearest one is 7 miles back in Brockport," he replied.
"Damn, this is gonna suck," I said plainly, thinking about carrying my bike 7 miles back down trail, hoping the bike shop would have a rim which fit my 1967 Peugot.
"Want a lift?" the bridge operator asked. "The guy comming up in this houseboat is mooring in Brockport, he might give you a ride right there," he suggested. I jumped at the opportunity.
Soon enough, the houseboat motored over to the dock, I tossed my broken bike on the deck, and away we went!
30 minutes and $10 later, with 10 minutes to go until the bike shop closed, I had a new rear tire pulled from the depths of the basement fitted to my bike. I was so happy I didn't remember to get water, and rode the 20 miles home in 45 minutes, thirsty as a bastard.
Needless to say, I got shitfaced that night.
