I'm 33 miles into a ride Sunday when the rear tire on my old Stumpjumper suddenly squiggles to the left as I roll through an intersection. Puncture. Only three blocks from my house. No damn way am I wrestling a slick off the rim without the benefit of a repair stand when I'm only three blocks from home. And yeah, I just made up the word "squiggle."
I walked it home. Can't even remember the last time I did that. When I see people pushing bikes with flat tires I always think they're fools for not carrying what they need to make the repair. I guess it was my turn to let others think the same of me, 'cause when I did the math it came down to having a repaired tire in 12 to 15 minutes, or leftover chicken and a cold Coke in 10. The food won.
Until that damned glass shard got to my tube, it was a hell of a nice ride. I'm feeling unusually strong for this time of year. I think the little bit of Pilates I did this spring is paying off. The lower back is feeling good and I have more power on climbs. And when a Clydesdale feels good on climbs, you know there's something weird goin' on.
I used to think Pilates was just a workout fad for bored housewives with boob jobs and Lexus SUVs. I was young and naive. That shit works. I can't figure out why else I'd be feelin' this good in May. Next time I'm in the shop, I've gotta thank Rose for gettin' me to try it.
Today's picture? That's the family quiver (most of it, anyway) stashed in the house during Saturday's yard sale. My wife didn't think it would be wise to advertise to a bunch of bargain-hunting strangers that we keep a small fleet of mountain bikes in the garage. I couldn't argue with that logic, so we moved 'em inside.