This Just Ain't My Day

To begin with, I'm frustrated.  I'm assembling a novel, and the pieces don't fit - and they should.  I started around 9:00 AM and gave up at 11:00 AM EST.  I decided to go for a bike ride.

Standard disclaimer.  I'm not looking for sympathy, which I can find on my own and we all know where.  I'm telling anyone who cares to read about it that I'm having a really crappy day.  My detractors, such as Migraine One and her SJW friends, will love reading about this one.

I've been think about buying a drone of some kind so I can fly it around my condo neighborhood and maybe buzz a few neighbors while they're sitting in their patio enjoying a sloe gin fizz and contemplating the late arrival of the golden years.  I gave up on the drone idea when I discovered that the kind of drones I'm interested in are governed by the FFA, FTC, TSA, and the HHHH.  So it's on to greener pastures.

I used to ride a motorcycle, but the whole thing didn't end well.  For openers the bike wasn't big enough to do what I wanted it to do - ride to California or Florida or someplace.  Canada, maybe.  But the transmission packed up and that was that.  Riding a bike now appeals to me, so I started looking around.

A crotch rocket?  No.  Riding at over 200 MPH around the I-270 beltway and driving the cops, state troopers, and Franklin County deputies out of their collective minds would be a lot of fun, but if I spilled it at 210 MPH on a slow curve the city would have to pressure wash four miles of highway, the State patrol wouldn't be able to find enough of me to ID, and the worst that could happen to me is that the engine would throw a rod at 12,000 rpm and the cops would catch me.  So no crotch rocket.

There are bike-type bikes, but a man with a lot of experience informed me that he rode one of these for 10 hours and was stove up for three days, and that was when he was young and studly.  I'm no longer young and studly, so no regular street rider type bike.

The bike that was suggested to me was an Indian Scout, and I found a used one with 3000 miles on it, windshield, saddlebags, and extras.  A little pricey maybe, but so what?

And then - I read an account written by a lady that I used to know from the old hometown.  She found Mister Right, they took a trip to Vegas, he asked what kind of ring she'd like, they talked about wedding chapels and honeymoons, and ain't life just perfect.  Until he got on his HD Sportster and was riding out to gas it up, and two women in an SUV pulled out in front of him and t-boned him.  He wasn't wearing a helmet.  I gather he lasted two days and that was all she wrote.  The thing is, even if he was wearing a helmet, I don't think it would have mattered.  So no Indian Scout for me.

I bought a bicycle helmet for my head, and now I need a scarf or something to wear under the helmet to protect my dumb ass bald head from the sun.  A regular scarf won't fit.  Today, because I'm frustrated with everything and it's 80° out, I decided to go out for a bicycle ride.  I pumped the tires up, and I ride around the neighborhood just to get used to riding, and my crazy neighbor flags me down.  She can't get the outside water faucet to turn on, and she needs help.  Actually, she expects help, because what else am I good for?  A doorstop, maybe.  I park the bike (what the hell, right?) and I go over and try.  This entails me getting down on one knee, trying to turn the faucet which is frozen shut, then rising to my feet, which I do with all the grace of a brontosaurus extracting itself from a La Brea tar pit.  I need exercise and Channellock pliers.

When I go to get the Channellocks I discover I've locked myself out of my house.  I try picking the lock with a knife - no joy.  Crazy Lady hangs around until I explain that I can't help her right now, but if she tries Madam President she'll likely get what she needs - Prozac and a polo mallet.  She leaves and I call Big Mike, who has a key to my dump but who never answers his phone.  I leave voice mail.

My car is unlocked, and it would be just like me to not put a spare key to the house in the car.  I look anyway, and after emptying the console I find a key.  Voila!  I'm in like Flynn.

Then the phone rings and it's Big Mike calling back.  

Ha-Ha!  Ho-Ho!  You're a dumb ass!

Yeah, well, no shit.  Mike affirms what I've suspected all along, that whatever is left of my mind is now showing a fault or two, and that he, Big Mike, would have cheerfully driven over to my place with the key and unlocked the door.  This would give him yet another chance to point and laugh, but I don't care.  I'm glad to be inside.

So now I can take my bike ride.  Nice to know I can do something in this world without a major complication.

Wrong.

Real wrong.

I get a mile or so out and the rear tire goes flat.  I walk the bike home.  Well, walking is exercise too, isn't it?

It's 83° in the house.  I turn on the A/C and start playing the keyboard blues.

I'm going to get some water, take my bike to the shop and get it fixed, then stop at the auto parts store and get some brake cleaner.  Tomorrow I'm going to clean the chain.  Today, after I get the bike fixed, I'm going to take some Tylenol and work on my novel.