Today, I locked my bike up to a tree. The first thing that isn't a human-made structure. Dirt clogged my chains, and it took a lot of effort to fix them as they were clotted with dirt.
So in front of total strangers, I bent down to the middle of the bike and shoved the chains back into their respective slot, pulling them out only to find that now my hands are covered in filth: grease and mud.
I lifted myself as if everything was normal, and proceeded to steer away and hopefully salvage any dignity I still had. My fingers, soaked in this abnormal feat, were too guilty to wrap around the handlebars. They blended into the black colour and so I started to ride away.
Everything went smooth, until the pedals were just about to circle around full circle they stopped right before the thing was about to be free of it's cellulite shame.
You'll never believe this, I rode around. Pedaling backwards and forwards - for when you go backwards you don't move the tires at all - I circled the park's grounds.
I went a ways around the corner, out of sight, and bent down the side of the bike. Still mounted as before, I ripped that chain almost as hard as it could to snap it. I had gauged the monster's strength and how deep the chain must have gone, and, I knew there was nothing that could prevent me from the dirt abuse that was about to come.
I fixed that chain. And when I rode out, I was a new man. One with a working bicycle. It was sweet. And was it ever short, because right as I came to an intersection at the same moment I came to a red light, and justly enough, what procured was the realization that my brakes were malfunctioning.
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