Day 5: A Brief History of Flat Tires

I have ridden my bicycle to work everyday for the past year. I have rain gear. Nothing will stop me. This makes me a better human being. Maybe not, but at least I'm in better shape. It's a 2.9 mile ride to work and it takes me 9.5 minutes if I'm not delayed by traffic lights. That puts me around 18 mph which is not a bad average speed.  Last week I warped my rear rim on a curb.  Nothing will stop me.  This makes me a better human being.  Not really. Today, I actually made it to surgery conference on time after a record setting ride.  After conference I needed to get over to my clinic and I decided to ride the short distance that I typically walk.  I was riding along an unfamiliar stretch of road and my front tire was caught between the concrete curb and rough asphalt road surface tearing the sidewall off my tire.  My tire hissed loudly as I my brain and body awkwardly cycled through 'crashing/not crashing/crashing/not crashing.'

The last time I blew out a sidewall was in Koblenz, Germany. I was riding across the courtyard of a gorgeous hilltop hostel overlooking the Rhine and my front tire exploded causing several international travelers to flinch and duck. Sorry about that. I blamed the bike shop in Rowley, MA. The next day a kind man that was on his honeymoon drove me into town in his rental VW Polo.  He loved Nietzsche and his wife lamented her laboratory-confined life (something I had abandoned in grand adolescent style a couple years previously).  We practiced how to ask, "Do you have a 26 inch tube and tire?"  It came out like, "Ich brauche eine große runde Kuchen für meine dummen Rädern. Sie haben genug?" The bike shop owner had absolutely no patience for whatever the hell I was attempting to say.  She grabbed the expensive touring tire that had blown out, examined it, and produced a new tire and tube.  It appeared that it came off a 1936 Schwinn.  It was dusty, large and had white walls. "Gut," I proclaimed happily and handed her something like 60 dollars worth of Deutsche marks. I think she scolded me on the way out the door as she stole my money. Back at the hostel, Sasha and I marveled at the Rhine and surrounding countryside before cooking up some vegetarian German food: pass the cheese and beer. We then went back to our gender segregated rooms.  I was sleeping really well until the Austrian guys returned to my room just before curfew.  They were drunk and snored loudly for hours. One guy woke up around dawn and I watched him throw up into his shoe.

I didn't end up crashing.  Clinic was a long, but nothing I couldn't handle. My parents picked me up after getting the boys from daycare.  "Daddy's tire went POP!" they said excitedly.

On an unrelated note: Today, Cymande contacted the Rosarians about propagating 

this giant rose growing up the side of our house. She estimates it's from 1960. More on that later.