• Member Since 16th Jan, 2012
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  • 269 weeks
    I like to ride my bicycle, I like to ride my bike.

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    14 comments · 404 views
Mar
30th
2015

I like to ride my bicycle, I like to ride my bike. · 3:57am Mar 30th, 2015

So.

Yesterday I decided that I wanted to take my shiny new mountain bike mountain biking. I obtained it through perfectly legal means (no, really) about two months ago and so far I'd only really used it for grocery shopping. Yeah, there was that one trip in the mountains about a week after I bought it, but that was only one trip and I'm getting fat.

My first order of business is, of course, to take my road tires off and put my fat tires back on. That goes well. I even managed not to bend any butter knives in the process. Next, I put my wheels back on the bike and give them a spin to make sure that the disc brakes aren't rubbing on the roter. Disc brakes are awesome, I can't imagine how people get by with those cruddy rubber brake pads. Disc brakes work equally well in all weather, wet, dry, mud, blood, intestines, zombies, ect. Plus, they don't have that squishy feel like you've gotten a small animal caught between the brake pads and the wheel. Much to my dismay, the brakes are indeed rubbing.

I'm confident though. I can fix this. I've done extensive bicycle maintenance in the past, enough that I considered trying to get a job in a bicycle shop. I know my way around disc brakes pretty well too, because my last bike had them and I put enough miles on that thing to wear out several sets of brake pads. Sure, I haven't owned a bike in, like, five years, but it can't be that hard to remember. It's just like riding a bike.

I look at the brake thingy. "Huh, I don't recognize any of this. Oh well, when in doubt, poke it. Let's see what that bolt does."

That bolt was pretty hard to get undone. I mean, whoever put that thing together really cranked it down. I got it loose though, and I didn't even strip the hex-head. I took a look at the brake pads to see if they'd retracted like I was hoping they would, but they hadn't. I probably had the wrong bolt, but they could just be stuck. That one ride had left a little bit of mud on the bike and some of it might have clogged the mechanism. I didn't want to get it all put back together just to find out that it had been the right bolt all along, so I gave the brake handle a squeeze to see if that would jog things loose.

Next thing I know, there's water on my hand, and I'm like, "Why is there water on my hand?" The bike was brand new and I'd never so much as thought about riding it in the rain, there's no way it could have any build-up in the cable sheath, the only place I could think of where water would pool up. I gave the handle another squeeze to see if I could figure out where the water came from and saw some squirt out of the side of the brake assembly. I was kind of worried that my bike was spewing fluids, so I of course took a closer look.

"Wait, didn't there used to be a plastic cap where that water is coming from? That thing it was covering up looks an awful lot like a nipple. Could that possibly be... No, they'd never do that. That's stupid." I sniffed my hand where the water landed and didn't smell anything. "Yeah, it's not that."

I tightened the bolt back up and took another look at the nipple.

"But if it's not, then why is that there?"

I give the wheel a spin and squeeze the brake lever. Nothing happens.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck motherfucking duckfucker! Who the hell puts fucking hydraulic brakes on a fucking bicycle! Cables work fine, motherfuckers! They've worked fine since the beginning of fucking time! They practically don't even need any fucking maintenance and what little they do is fucking easy you fucking fuck-fuck-fuck-fucktards! I don't fucking know how to fix this! I don't even fucking have any fucking brake fluid! What kind of brake fluid do bicycles even fucking use!

"Fuck!"

Next thing I know, I'm on Amazon.com looking up brake-bleeding kit prices and wondering if ponies have bicycles. How would they work the brakes and gear shifters?

The next day:

"You know what? It's only the back brake that doesn't work, and you do ninety percent of your braking with the front one anyway. Screw this, I'm gonna go mountain biking!"

It was but the work of a minute to get my bike out the front door, and five to get to the train station. I was lucky too, I only had to wait seven minutes for the train, and that's practically a miracle on Sundays.

The train ride was nice. First I contemplated how hardcore I was for going mountain biking without adequate brakes. Then I contemplated how awesome my bike was. My bike is freaking awesome. It's got black paint, which symbolizes death and how anybody who does downhill biking has to be willing to embrace it. It's got red paint, which symbolizes awesomeness and my possession of it. It's also got white paint, which symbolizes my status as an unsullied virgin. Last of all, it's got black tires, which symbolizes the historical oppression of the Congolese people and how I really, really hope that particular horribleness is a thing of the past and the rubber for my tires comes from an ethical source. Seriously, go look it up. We're talking "worse than blood diamonds" levels of bad here.

Before I can get too far into the moral dilemma that is mountain-biking, I find myself at the top of campus, which is at the bottom of the mountains. All that stands between me and awesomeness is David Bowie's crotch-labyrinth, which also happens to be a hospital. Lost and confused, I press on. I know that so long as I can find a path upwards, I'll eventually find my way, and find my way I do.

The mountains are beautiful. Actually, the mountains are butt-ugly hobo traps, but what they symbolize is beautiful, gravity and its synergistic relationship with wheels. Also, the view is nice. The sunset over the lake is really pretty.

I know right off the bat that this isn't going to be an easy ride. The trip through the Minotaur's Hospital Complex already has my body up in arms. I'm like, "Legs, what the fuck? You're the same pair that walked me fifteen miles to a family reunion because I was too lazy to set up a ride, why you pussing out on me now?"

And my legs are like, "Don't taze me bro, this is Lungs's fault!"

Legs had a point, Lungs definitely wasn't carying his weight, but that was no excuse. This wasn't a "My heart is seizing up because I can't breathe" tired. This was a "Dude, I am not pushing your fat ass up a mountain" tired, and I was having none of that shit. I'm in charge, and Legs can suck my dick.

First up was a grueling ten-foot climb. Yeah, I can hear you jeering, but what you don't know is that ten-foot climb was also a fifty degree slope of semi-loose dirt. I made it halfway and then remembered what the rear brake is for, to stop you from backsliding when you botch a climb. I stepped down off my pedals only to then remember that a slope that steep adds, like, a foot of distance between you and the ground. Testicles was kind enough to inform me that bicycle frames are hard and metallic. He wasn't mean about it either, he just gave me a little love-tap to say "Hey, it doesn't matter how bad Legs is doing, I am, in fact, still here. Also, this is a bad idea."

I ignored him because I think with my head, not my dick.

I walked my bike up the slope and got back on. I made it another fifty feet before Testicles chimed in again. "No, seriously, this is a really bad idea. I expect you to put me to good use before we die, and you're putting my future in jeopardy."

Legs and Lungs decided to put in their two cents too. "Listen to the dick!"

In the face of a full-body rebellion, I had no choice but to turn back. But I was gonna turn back my way. I was staying on the bike.

Upon turning around, I immediately remembered the other use for the back brake, steering. See, downhill runs are bumpy, and you gotta do a lot of braking. When you're about to lose your balance, you just give your back brake a quick squeeze and your tire magically skids right back under you. Do that with your front tire, though, and you go down. Immediately. Every time. Right after you slide off your seat and land on the cross-bar.

Legs and Lungs were pretty happy, but Testicles showed his true colors and assaulted my ears with a constant stream of "Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit!" all the way down.

We made it all the way back to that first slope and then he started shrieking like a little girl. I had no choice. I had to get off and walk the bike down it.

I only had one thing to say to Testicles: "Pussy."

Testicles had no comment. Or maybe I just didn't hear it because I was too busy realizing that I was once again lost in the labyrinth. The trip down was a nasty experience, even worse than the climb up. In the depths of my folly, I entered the Multi-level Parking Garage of Doom. I figured that it would be a good way to get down the hill, I could just enter at the top and exit at the bottom. It wasn't, and I didn't.

That parking garage was packed. I was dodging cars left and right, cars that were reversing out of their stalls and cars that were riding my ass. Then there was the Sun. I descended four levels—four levels—with the sun shining directly in my eyes. I was four fucking levels deep in a parking garage before the Sun decide it had gotten its fill of trying to murder me.

There was no exit on the bottom level.

Alright, I could go for another climb. Legs and Lungs said they were up for it, though they weren't exactly happy about it. Wearily, I ascended back into the sun-blighted levels and followed the lying lying pants-on-fireing exit signs in a fruitless search. Eventually, after many, many circuits around the Multi-level Parking Garage of Doom, I spied the exit lurking in a corner down on level four. Sure, there was no sidewalk, and the exit dumped me directly onto a busy thoroughfare, but I didn't care. I was free! I froggered across the road as best I could and made it to the sidewalk on the other side and I was in heaven. The slope was just right, the walk was smooth, and Testicles offered no objections to a little bit of speed.

I should have known it was too good to be true. About a hundred yards later, the sidewalk ended. The main road was suicide, and I only had once choice. The little side road off to the right that looked like it led into a cemetery.

Turns out it wasn't a cemetery though, just the rich part of town. I could tell it was the rich part of town because I came across no less than two roundabouts, in a residential area no less! Also, the houses were pretty. It was then, and only then that I learned the lesson that God intended for me to learn from my ill-fated expedition.

"If you had money, then you too could live in the rich part of town, instead of an old, renovated polygamist house that was built in 1904 and is plotting to murder you in no less than seven ways."

I of course had to have the last word and wondered aloud, "Was polygamy still around in 1904? I thought they got rid of it in the late 1800's."

God didn't answer.

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Comments ( 5 )

2923378 I sold my one of those because I couldn't do the maintenance on it. It had a wet-clutch, which meant I had to dismantle half the engine to replace the clutch plates and I wasn't gonna have that.

I want a new one.

I prefer a wet clutch on a bike because they are smoother in operation I find. I miss the 98 Shadow 750 I used to have. Valve jobs were easy on it. Sadly, with my V-Max, valve jobs are more complex, and if I have to replace any shims, that gets expensive. (between $10-$20 a shim, and my engine has 16 valves)

Haha this reminded me of Aragon's style.

Sounds like a great day! I love those kinds of days.

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