Today was rough — I punctured — I will never forgive the hippo.
I don't puncture; I'm the envy of my cycling friends. It's not that I don't ride either, in a good year I routinely put in a couple thousand miles and knock out a half-dozen centuries.
I can even climb Alpe d'Huez faster than Cheryl Crow (64 minutes; I'm in yellow).
But today, a block from work, I nailed a pot hole and knew instantly I was done in. I'm unable to accurately articulate the emotional stress my puncturing caused — I was distraught at work for at least an hour. It's a point of pride for me. I felt rejected: "What my precious little tube, you no longer want to ride with me?"
Since I'm so confident in my puncture-free streak I don't carry a spare tube, pump, tools, anything, so I need to bring a full complement tomorrow to fix it. When I told a friend over IM I had punctured, his response: "FINALLY!"
The hippo in happier times — stupid, happy hippo.
Leaning on the bike, waiting for the boat to dock in Seattle — moments before my fateful meeting.
Lunch today at Chuck's Hole in the Wall — it's ok, but I long for the South.