I Am Not My Bicycle

Two things are great for bicycling. Iron and Oxygen. Lack of Iron and you are weak. Lack of Oxygen and you are, well, dead.

Adversely, the contrary is true for the actual bicycle. Oxygen and Iron make RUST. Amber, red, orange, yellow: rust.

Rust is bad. Rust is embarrassing. Rust wins the cement medal. Rust invaded every bitty mm of my bicycle. Nuts, bolts, chain, sprockets, cogs, freakin' frozen derailleur. RUST met-all and held all tight.

I rode my bike in a blizzard. Not your typical snowy white, peaceful snowfall. I'm talking mid-east coast blizzard. You know, the kind we throw white salt on to make up for what Mother Nature is lacking.

Salt in an open wound I say. I committed the most egregious of sins; I must be destroyed. For seven months, that is to say 1,2,3,4,5,6,SEVEN, months passed and not one brush. No water, no rag, no degreaser, no nothing. Just salt on metal, for 200 days.

Roll ahead to Schaeffer. Rust beaten, bike cleaned, cyclist hammering down single track. Until the brakes seemed slightly weaker. The chain a little slack. The wheel....no longer ahh..ttached?

This is not 'my wheel just doesn't spin'. This is: bike stalls. Pony throws rider. Cyclist sterilized by headset. Wheel rolls backward. Uni- no -Cycle.

I neglected my bicycle. I let her down, and she repaid me, the fool.