The long, hard road out of Hell.

Worst. Ride. Ever.

No kidding, this was one of the most excruciating experiences I've ever had on a bicycle.

So, I get my fixed bike back from the nice folks at Pedalocity in Lufkin. New rear wheel, new cassette, new chain and new inner tube. I even sprang for a new set of bear traps to replace my aging El Cheapo stock Giant pedals. Life was indeed good. I disassembled the bike, stuffed it into my Yaris and sprinted home as fast as the three crack-addled squirrels under my hood could carry me. After reassembling the bike and snapping on all my assorted technocrap, I was ready for the open road.

Everything was great. Yesterday's crappy weather had been replaced by clear skies, gentle winds and very agreeable temperatures. The new chain and cassette were almost silent compared to the popping, grinding cacaphony the old ones produced. The new rear wheel was silky smooth. Redbuds were blooming, blue jays were calling to one another across the road and startled squirrels were running for their lives before my near-silent approach. It was one of the most beautiful riding days I've ever had. I headed east on FM942 towards Champion International, then headed south-ish on FM62 towards Highway 59. The plan had been to ride to 59, then head south to the hamlet of Seven Oaks. This was to be an approximately 35-40 mile ride, no doubt full of personal records. As I pedaled along, I fantasized about top speeds, new high averages and the longest single ride I'd taken to that point. I made it about 14 miles before spying a country cemetery at Shiloh. Shiloh is a largely vacant area that is home now to a church and a cemetery. I like country cemeteries. They're usually spaced about 10 miles from one another and give me a great excuse to dismount, cool down and rest my aching, seat-battered ass for half an hour or so as I walk among the monuments. Would I say that using old, disused cemeteries as rest stops makes me a strange and/or morbid person? No. I was a strange and/or morbid person before I started using cemeteries as rest stops. For other connoisseurs of old country cemeteries, I would highly recommend Shiloh. The monuments are mostly falling over or covered by the constantly migrating East Texas soil, but there is an interesting collection of names belonging to north Polk County's oldest black families. There's also an ancient old church building that, if you don't mind a little personal risk, is pretty damned spooky inside. The doors are either wide open or non-existent, so I don't think that entering it counts as breaking and entering. Of course, it could fall over and kill you at any moment, so I recommend standing outside to snap your pictures. Anyway, after a leisurely walk around the cemetery I was ready to depart for Seven Oaks.

The problems began immediately.

I was leaving the church and powering up for a final short hill climb before reaching the highway when I swerved to avoid a piece of debris in the road and noticed that my rear wheel had gone squirrelly. A glance down confirmed my worst fear: My rear tire was damned near flat. Now, I'd had an inkling that this would happen. I normally roll on thick touring inner tubes with Schraeder valves, but when the bike shop replaced my old rear wheel, the only alternative was drilled for the more narrow Presta valves. And instead of using a thick touring inner tube, they used a thinner tube. Hey, I don't blame them. I would have done the same thing. But blame aside, I had a flat and I was about seven miles from home. So, the bike goes tits up on the side of the road and I go to work. Getting the tire off the rim was a stone bitch. Maybe it was the rim or maybe I was just out of practice after going a year without a flat (use the thick tubes, kids). Whatever. I got the bitch off, found the leak and patched it. Hey, these things happen, right? Running my digits around the inside of the tire found the source of my troubles: About a quarter inch of tiny wire from some redneck's balding steel-belted radial. Again, these things happen. What were the odds of it happening again on the same trip?

About two hundred damned percent. That's what.

Fortunately, I decided to cancel my Seven Oaks plans and head north instead of south. I shudder to think of what would have happened had I not done that. About a mile from the site of the first flat, I had my second. And third. Ain't life a bitch? Well, in the words of the great warrior poet Snoop Dogg, one has to keep the pimp hand strong. Besides, my nearest backup had flown to D.C.. I was screwed in the most complete way that doesn't require lubrication. So tits-up the bike goes again and I set to patching. I like to sniff out punctures by pouring water on the tube, then wiping it with my thumb and looking for bubbles. Unfortunately, I'd already consumed all of the water in my camelback, so I had to dunk the partially filled tube into a conveniently-placed mud puddle. Hey, it works. Back into Corrigan I limped. Of course, I can't just go home. That shit would have been way too simple. I had to go shopping. While shopping, I ran into an old high school alumnus and was deep in nostalgia when I noticed a commotion in the parking lot. Apparently, an elderly lady had gone ass directly over tea kettle in front of the doors and here I am wearing a uniform shirt with my name, skill level and employer's name on the front and a big honking "EMS" on the back. And everybody out there is just staring at me.

Really? Did this just happen or am I finally getting a flashback from all those hallucinogens? Damn!

Old Lady has a minor cut on her head but she's showing some small memory changes. Is she just senile or does she have a slowly developing bleed in her brain? Of course, I stood out there with her and the rapidly expanding crowd of redneck Quincy M.D.'s that always flock around that sort of thing. One in particular just could not shut her big mouth about the uneven-ness of the parking lot. Hey, dumbass. We can't pave the entire universe. If somebody's too old to walk with out becoming suddenly gravitationally challenged, then maybe they should just accept that shit happens to everybody and happens to old people with an even higher frequency than most. Anyway, when the cavalry showed up, I went all 'Peace out, ya'll!' and booked it. In that time, my buddy had disappeared like my stock portfolio profits. Eh, I can't blame him. Had I not been wearing a t-shirt that proclaimed my identity and employment status, I might have pretended not to even have seen anything and gone about my business. Sure, that would have been a dick move. The world is full of dick moves. Anyway, I did The Right Thing and when the situation had been handled by people who were actually being paid to handle it, I went about my shopping, packed my bike with loot and rode off into the sunset with one paranoid eye on my rear tire. There was a small loss of pressure, but nothing I couldn't handle. I even nailed an on-the-fly high five with the local Crazy Guy who was obviously perplexed at the bicycle-mounted madman shouting 'Hey, Willie! How's it hangin'?' as he zipped past. Still, Willie had the presence of mind to snap up his hand and slip me some skin. I made it home without any more flats, thank the Imaginary Friend In The Sky.

In summation, I would have much rather had my old, thick-assed inner tube. I'll have to fix that ASAP.