It's 5.55pm, and you said you'd go buy
a bottle of wine before meeting your lover at a restaurant
approximately 14 km from here, at precisely 6.30pm. Don't be late, they reminded you. Do not be late.
You're doing the maths in your head.
There's a Dan Murphy's on the cross road on the way there. If I take
my bike right inside and buy whatever's in the bargain bin at the
front, I can be in and out in five minutes.
That leaves half an hour to cross town,
meaning an average speed of 28 km/h. I can do it, you say to
yourself as you roll up your drive-side pant leg. I can do it.
Maybe not with respect for all the road rules, but I reckon I can do
it.
You're ruminating on whether you will
have stopped sweating before the dessert course as you unlock your
bike.
You grasp the bars with intent, and
throw your leg over, foreseeing the tremendous
Cadel-sur-Galibier-esque effort that will be required to make it
happen.
But when that first pedal stroke powers
you forward, the city echoes with the sound of rim on concrete, heads
turn in horror, and you realise at the same time as everyone else
that you've got a flat. You will never make it. You are in deep
shit.
BONUS TIP: Call and admit to your
lover you haven't gone shopping for tubes since 2004? Blow an insane
amount on a taxi? Try to get a bus and hope the driver is Sandra
Bullock from Speed? Lie on your stomach, pound your fists on the
concrete and wail?
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