July| Vol. 22 No. 8.02 | Christian's Chronicles © 2015 – All rights reserved.
Readers of this Chronicle are encouraged to listen to an appropriate soundtrack. In fact, we at The Chronicles have made it easy by providing the video below, and a caution that if you are offended by ever-so-brief glimpses of nudity, you should not watch:
No other song could possibly sum up the emotional content and main motivation for this Chronicle. Not so much the scenes of nude women riding bikes; that, as they say, is the topic for another Chronicle. But instead, just the pure raw energy, nay compulsion, which alas cannot be realized.
I want to ride my bicycle.
But I cannot.
Not long ago, maybe a couple of weeks, I made a small investment in human-power-propelled machinery of the two-wheeled variety, in an effort to get me from proverbial point ‘A’ to proverbial point ‘B’ with more speed, comfort, and of course style, than locomotion of the regular bipedal homonid variety. It would also be an investment in my health, as a machine that would surely stimulate greater activity levels much like the excitement and yearning for a bike ride is expressed by Queen’s ‘Bicycle Race’ video. And at a meager $200, the investment was surely worth the cost.
Or so I thought.
It did yield some scalp-tingling thrills as the wind blew through where my hair used to be, with me racing down the hill on my two-wheeled mode of transit. It also offered comic relief as I pointed out where I had parked my bike on occasions where friends were returning to their fancy four-wheeled combustion engine machines. But then, cracks began to show in the armor of my perfect purchase.
Or rather, the pedal fell off.
It is not even technically the pedal. It is the ‘arm’ thingy to which the pedal was attached. The whole thing. It just fell off.
Perhaps I should have seen it coming. I think, looking back on it now, I did bend the gears on my first ride up the hill cranking away toward my destination. Maybe the creeks and various other sounds were not just simple lovable cries of a newborn, yet-to-be broken in machine, but rather the death-throes of a cheaply made, stillborn machine.
Perhaps it was time to recall something or other I had learned in law school about ‘warranty of merchantability’ or some other such fancy word for: you need to refund or replace this piece of crap.
And, since those were my only two options (and the replacement would have been the same model, with a hint of ‘deja vu’ already lingering in the air at the thought of exchange), I chose to get my money back.
So now, I sit at home crying, wailing, screaming:
I WANT TO RIDE MY BICYCLE!
…where can I get one that won’t fall apart on me?