Pump

I was glad I got my designated flat tire at the pre-funk, thereby enabling me to appease the Cycling Gods before the ride actually started, (although it probably was, in part, my subsequent two-minute late arrival at Westlake and thus commensurately delayed departure for the graciously attendant group that continued to piss Their Highnesses off and consequently resulted in a combined record number of punctures in an evening, especially one that included none by the Angry Hippy, who presumably had other fish to fry than subjecting his bike tires to nails, wire bristles, tacks, glass shards, staples, and other sharp pointy things that emerge when the weather turns moist and misty on a moonless late December night in the Pacific Northwest.)

And it is charming how “helpful” your comrades become when your rig is turned over “Pasadena style” and you blacken your hands with road schmutz while performing that most elemental of bike repair skills, thereby enabling you to complete the task only a few minutes less quickly than you would have without their breath on your neck, but that’s what friends are for (along with—if last night is any gauge—beer-drinking, lie-telling, and firewood-liberating), right?

The good thing is to find the point what done it, usually by pricking your fingers as you run them around the inside of your tire; it’s a small price to pay for being confident you’ve located the source of the problem; I happily pulled a metal shard from my index finger and set it on a windowsill where it hopefully won’t re-offend before the season’s out.

And, in spite of it all, (or perhaps because of it), a good deal of miles were covered, many on surprisingly dry paths through the woods, resulting eventually at a sheltered fireplace that inspired dual conflagrations, one of which eschewed shelter, which just goes to show there’s no accounting for taste, but that’s as it should be, just so long as everyone’s pumped.