Confessions of a Bike Abuser
I have a confession to make. A long time ago, I got really mad at my bike. I can talk about this now because a decade has nearly past since we parted ways, it with a new chop shop owner, me with a cool $100 in my fist, but at the time it seemed like the only way to put some needed space between the two of us, and for me to enjoy a good night of heavy drinking with close friends.
And after the years of misery I endured (ok, there were many moments of bliss but that's not what this thread is about), it was well earned.
It was my first mountain bike. Love at first ride? Well, maybe. If you count riding through trash ridden backwoods trails in the hills of a post-industrial wasteland and bunny hopping over dead cats love. Kick momma in the head kind of love. But not really. This was a rigid frame and I thought that the big knobby tires made the ride effortless. What did I know? I just heard about this band called Pearl Jam and thought that if I wore flannel shirts, grew out my hair, and stayed up til 4am that chicks would really dig me. Of course, I'd mention the new bike as a closer.
At any rate, the bike and I eventually graduated to lift service. Sure, I could have rented a flashy new ride with springy things in the front forks but that wouldn't go well with my image and besides, I had spent every last cent on the damn lift ticket.
Down I went, high speed machers on the fire roads, bouncing through tight singletrack, blowing out tube after tube, getting bees stuck in my shirt, flying over the bars at top speed. The wrecks were legendary, at least in my mind.
That was soon followed by laps and tours on trails close to the city. The bike and I grew close. I can't remember exactly how long we rode together. It was probably close to five years. But then something funny happened. The deraileur turned on me. Everytime I'd put pressure on the pedals, the gears would play a trick on me and loosen up. BAM! Knee to the top tube. SON OF A!!! Slip! Cranks into the shins. YOU FUCKING FUCK!!! Once was funny. Twice was obviously a joke on me. By the 50th time, I had not only lost my temper, but apparently my sanity.
That's when I abused my bike.
My car was in the shop so I took the bike to work. 10 miles each way. Not a big deal since it was summer and the weather was on my side. On my way home from work one day, not more than a mile into my commute, after I had waited for every truck and mini can this side of the Miss. pass me by, I saw my window and shot through a tight section of cars. That's when the deraileur gave out on me, for the bizillionth time. To make matters more insulting, the chain falls off. I quickly jumped off, grabbed the bike, and bolted back to the sidewalk as a car barely grazed my ass.
That's it. I've had it.
I hold the bike up by the frame, yell obscenities that I won't repeat here at the top of my lungs, cursing the god blessed piece of crap to damnation, and slam the worthless machine hard into the corner of a brick wall and the concrete sidewalk.
It wasn't enough.
I picked it up again, yelling still at the top of my lungs, probably giving everyone around me one hell of a scare, and give the bike another good heave straight into the ground. This time, the rear wheel is gonzo. Big time taco. No chance in riding it home. So I cursed some more.
Then I called a cab.
Weeks later I'm able to sell the poor thing and upgrade to a flashy dual suspension jobbie that, to this day, has only caused me to curse at it 60, 70 times, max. True love at last.
But I'll never forget that day when I abused my bike. Whether I'm sorry about it or not is another matter. But damn, did it feel good.
