Mariah Walker's Blog, page 4

Velocipede Adventures

My bike is evil.

Okay, maybe not evil. Let's say that it has the best intentions, but the universe conspires against it. Yeah, until I can conclusively prove that my bike doesn't know where I sleep, we're gonna go with that.

I sacrificed a lot for my bike. I woke up at six to go to our campus bike sale. Unfortunately, judging from the sleeping bags and lawn chairs, some people were even more dedicated. Those people walked off with the great bikes, and I got… the remains.

I walked away with this bike:

Since it proclaims itself to be "ultralight," you'd think it would weigh less than me, but it is heavier than a baby elephant. A fat baby elephant. Still, I was happy with it until I discovered that the brakes barely work. They actually scream to let me know that they're just as terrified as I am about our chances of surviving steep drops. It's a great confidence booster. When people are around, I have to choose between descending at unsafe speeds and getting weird looks thanks to my brakes shrieking like they're trying to start a metal band.

At least the brakes had the courtesy to announce that they weren't trustworthy. It wasn't until I was on a busy road that I had to switch gears. I waited. And waited… Three minutes later, the chain obeyed and moved on to the lower gear. Then it decided that the higher gear was more fun, so it switched back. Then it took a moment to think about which gear it liked most (4th), its favorite kind of penguin (Rockhopper), and why haters gonna hate (unknown). Meanwhile, I was trying not to get killed by old people furious for being passed at ten mph. That's when I knew.

My bike wanted me dead.

I've had it for a few months now, so sometimes I forget. "Remember to read chapters 7-9 by Tuesday, there's a test next Friday, and oh yeah, your bike wants to kill you." Luckily, it's always willing to remind me.

Today, I rode around Colonial Williamsburg with Ryan. Weekends are a terrible time to bike in the historic area, since there are boatloads of tourists in my streets (how rude). But the weather was nicer than it's been in a long time. I couldn't resist. We rode down the main street, then turned to the side street, which is connected by a fairly steep hill. We'd never gone that way before, and I didn't know exactly what to expect. As I began the descent, I noticed a tourist couple near the bottom. Simultaneously, I noticed that there was a significant ditch at the bottom of the hill. It's not so significant when you're walking, but when you're flying down with brakes that are best at being silently horrified, it's kind of a big deal. I calculated that turning onto the road at a right angle would yield the best chances of surviving. I hung onto the handlebars as I careened over the ditch, passing perilously close to the tourist couple. One of them gasped, either terrified of my hurtling, or insulted by my lack of colonial attire.

Though I terrorized innocents, my rogue bike and I lived to ride another day. After our ride, I wondered if there had been a better place to turn, so I asked Ryan about it:

Me: Did you see me go down that hill?

Ryan: Yeah, those people looked really scared.

Me: I guess I took it a little too fast. How did you go down?

Ryan: Slower.

Oh, thanks Mr. My Brakes Work Perfectly Fine, Thank You. (Yes, that really is his last name. It's annoying to address stuff to him.)

If you never hear from me again, you'll know what happened. Just tell them it was the bike.