As I’d mentioned the other day, I approached my trusty station cycle, an aging Trek mountainbike, in the garage Tuesday morning, only to find it had a flat rear tire. After a frustrating walk to and from the station Tuesday, I attempted to change the tire myself that evening–only to realize all those sprocket thingees are affixed to the back wheel, and if it’s changeable, I don’t know how to do it. I gave up with my hands covered in black grease.
So it’s on to those really good bike guys at that really good bike shop in Chappaqua.
In the meantime, The Missus has been kind enough to let me borrow her bike. Which is fine, except it’s a girl’s bike. It’s got pink streamers flying out of the handgrips, a Dora pad on the bar connecting the handlebars, a Duran Duran pennant hanging from a rod sticking out of the rear fender, and, most egregious, Strawberry shortcake trading cards taped to the spokes.
OK, none of that is true. It’s a perfectly normal looking black bike. It even has a sissy bar and all, prompting The Missus to wonder about the accuracy of the ‘sissy bar’ phrase–if it’s boys, not girls, who feel the pain should they slide from the seat onto the scrotum-cleaving sissy bar, why, then, is it a sissy bar? Why not, say, a manly bar?
So I’m off to the station on a different ride this week. To be clear, it’s my girl’s bike–not my girls bike.
photo please