Dirty Words: Why I hate my bike


Photo and words by Sal Ruibal

Are we all over the Valentine’s Day lovey glow? Eaten enough of those pink candy hearts and slurped enough overpriced wine to move those bike shorts from L to XL? Is more of you hanging over the waistband than bulging under it?

Time to start hating your bike.

Spring is coming soon and all those times you said you were going to put your bike on the indoor trainer and spin a few hours never happened. You went to the bike shop and bought a dozen flavors of energy gel but ended up eating them all while watching “Zero Dark Thirty” at the Endoplex Cinema.

It isn’t your fault. It is your bike’s fault. If that pile of expensive carbon tubing and hyper-inflated rubber had any pride, it would have been outside riding in the cold rain. The cyclocross bike was so lazy it didn’t have the decency to wash itself before plunking its muddy, sorry ass in the corner, next to the Mojo HD still wallowing its own filth.

I just hate those bikes. No get up and go. No motivation to better themselves. Stupid bikes.

There are bikes working hard out there. I’ve seen them on Cycling TV and that weird Belgian online site that has more digital cooties than a pervert’s iPhone. I get so angry seeing how hard those bikes go when mine just gather cobwebs and discarded roaches.

How about those lazy-ass bikes in Louisville? Sven Nys had 40 bikes there and 35 of them were caked with real cake. Chocolate mint swirled over yellow cakes. Just typing that is making me hungry.

Back here in Ol’ Virginny, all the deer that could be shot by police or stuck with arrows by Cupid have moved away from the local bike trails. My bike has no excuse to stay home, but every time I walk into the bike room, the bikes are still sitting there, like sheepish sheep.

Now I’ve really made up my mind to do something about it. I’ve been putting it off, but now it is going to happen. I’m putting my foot down. Down off the sofa and onto the floor. I’m standing up for what I believe.

OK, I’m standing up. Walking over to the bike rack. Where’s my multi-tool? Can’t ride without a multi-tool. Where are my sunglasses? OK, on my nose.

Dang. The rear tire is flat on one of my 12 bikes. It’s a presta. Guess I should run a little bit instead. Where are my trail-running shoes? OK, here, still in the Sports Authority box. They’ve been there six weeks and haven’t moved an inch.

Stupid shoes.

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