Ready to Roll

In complete avoidance of doing something I needed to do immediately (find my passport, do my laundry, cut my own bangs in a fit of self-mutilation, minister tenderly to my own crouched-under-the-you-know-what self), I instead ministered tenderly to my neglected bicycle last night.

I rolled little Loki out of the corner, carefully wiped her down with a damp cloth moistened with a gentle, organic cleanser (no, you don't wipe down a bike with paper towels, of course not! You'll scratch the paint!), including every spoke on both wheels.

I carefully inflated her long-flat tires, to see if she could take a full 110lbs of air pressure, which she did -- though we'll see how those old tires hold up once I park my fat ass on her on the trainer, which is also standing patiently by. I'll probably switch out her tubes, as I'm sure the old ones are all dried out and flimsy.

Turned her over onto the handlebars and seat, and carefully picked the wads of dust and cat hair out of the gearset. Ran her through all of her gears, 3 front, 9 back, with careful drops of White Lightning.

Smiled at the happy "zzzzzzzzz" of the wheel spinning when I stopped turning the cranks, though I know that back wheel needs to go into the shop to be trued.  It's never been the same since that day I chased my molester off the Williamsburg Bridge, heedless of those plate covers banging the back end of the bike around. I still hold out hope that he rode his bike into traffic and got creamed by a truck or something.

Tonight -- adjusting the clips on my new Diadoras and seeing if the elastic is completely dead on all my bike shorts.

Putting her on the trainer, and pretending to go really, really fast down that big stretch of 9W going into Nyack.

Who wants to ride with me next spring? I need quads of steel and a really great glove tan.