Wednesday, July 28, 2004
I made it thru work no problem. I had to talk about my trip over and over, but that is fine. There are worse conversations to have. I arrived home at 5 (in time to see the Simpsons!) and left at 5:30 for my Tuesday night volleyball league at Wash Park (a 20-25 minute bike ride away). Exercise hasn't made my top 5 list of post-work activities lately, so I figure riding to volleyball would count as me getting off my ass albeit briefly. Donning my backpack and minidisk player (Grappa is made to peel the paint off of anything. In case you are wondering), I headed down the street. The ride was going well. I had more than enough time to make it a relaxing ride. The weather was perfect-not hot, but warm. Kenny Loggins cranked out hit after hit into my waiting ears. It was not meant to last. Less than 10 minutes in, as I belted out the words to "I'm All right" (Caddyshack song. And yes, the belting was not silent but at near to full volume in my very poor singing voice), I heard a loud pop followed by hissing. Assuming the sprinklers at the Denver Academy were being cleared out (no, I don't know why anyone would do that in July) I rode on. Until I was forced to grab the handlebars (riding no-handed is always advised when possible) due to insufficient control. Wrestling with the handlebars I made it up onto the sidewalk in time to smash into a 2x4'ed garden border which tossed my over the handlebars into some zucchini. Giggling, I picked myself up and surveyed my hissing tire and newly broken pedal clip. A cursory surveillance showed me why my front tire blew-being a cheap ass and having not purchased new tires in years allowed the rubber to wear away leaving skin-thick rubber to protect the tube. Not smart. Fortunately Performance Bike was a mere 1/2 mile away. I scooted over and had them replace the front tire/tube as well as the rear tire (why take chances on a second blow-out?). While they shop guys serviced me, I called my team captain to let him know I'd be late. He didn't seem to care and mumbled something about hoping my bike would finally be the death of me. Hm. Walking out of the shop with my new gear, I reassembled my bike, and proceeded to strip off my shirt (and almost my shorts at the same time. Don't ask.) while little kids walked past, awe in their eyes. I mounted my beast and rode down the middle of Colorado Boulevard, elated at my new wheels. I made it to the park having missed only one game (not that my asshole teammates noticed), which was pretty good given my issues. I think my tooling in barechested (except for the fur coat my Italian genes provided me) and sweaty and out of breath impressed the girls on the next court over. They kept looking at me, pointing and giggling. That's good right?
After all the above rambling there must be a point/moral to my story, right? Yup, there is. Here it is:
Grappa, no matter the quantity, is not needed at 2am.