I Blame Kent

That's Kent the Mountain Turtle of Kent's Bike Blog fame. Last Wednesday, he taunted the flat tire gods with this hubris-encrusted (and conveniently decontextualized by yours truly) bit of prose: "I've had zero issues with these tires. None. No flats."

The following day, the flat tire gods paid him back with a screw through the tire. But Kent, dagnabit, you've caused a great disturbance in The Force.

Exhibit A: Monday morning, I rolled the bike out into an unseasonably cool morning. Maybe I should have felt my bionic leg tightening up ever so slightly in the cold. But I didn't. So when I tried to swing it over the saddle, I didn't get enough altitude, slamming my knee into the saddle and leaving a lovely knot of a bruise.

Exhibit B: That same Monday morning commute. I'm rolling into downtown, minding my own business, when the driver of a Toyota Yaris completely ignores my blazing sprint (go ahead, snicker, I know you want to) and pulls out in front of me. I missed him with room to spare, but it was more adrenaline than a geezer who can't even get his leg over the saddle really needs. Of course, a Yaris has the curb weight of our tandem, so I probably would have done more damage to it than it would have done to me.

Exhibit C: Monday night, headed home. I'm demonstrating that blazing sprint again (really? another snicker? don't have it out of your system yet?). Spot a pothole, swerve, and enjoy one brief smirk of victory before I stuff both wheels into pothole #2 hiding behind the first one. My bell rings, my water bottle ejects, but the bike stays up... just long enough for the pinch flat to empty my rear tire.

Kent, you have to make this right. Here's my proposal:

1. Drive a few dozen nails through a piece of wood.
2. Lay that piece of wood in your garage/driveway/street/whatever, pointy side up.
3. Ride your bike back and forth over that bed of nails until your tubes are Swiss-cheesed.
4. Spend the next several hours patching those tubes as penance.

It's the least you can do.


(For those who have yet to figure out that I distill Pure Essence of Sarcasm, I consider Kent a Good Pal of the Interwebs, and my tongue is jammed firmly in my cheek. Heck, it was Kent that inspired me to start this blog in the first place, so you can thank -- or blame -- him for the fact that I'm prattling here today.)