Woodlands, 52 km. I'm so fascinated by last week's ultramarathon that I want to revisit my bicycle patrol area. The most direct route turns out to be the most dangerous way, where an expressway exit merges into a road. Cycling on the latter where there is pavement on my left leads to traffic whizzing past me not just on the right, but the left where pavement ends and expressway exit begins. My life is on the (white) line.
A motorcyclist leaving the expressway slows down to block traffic behind him. I look back and see him waving me to filter to the side and out of the madness. Thanks, dude.
I'm wasn't in the wrong place, but being right doesn't make me safe.
And doing what you're designed to do doesn't last forever. Ask my crank. It's loose. Not the "sleep around" kind of loose. I go to a bikeshop and am told the bearings aren't able to bear much more. Just a bit more life left, then it's time to go. He tightens the crank and tells me I'll know when it's over. Service and advice for free. Thanks, dude.
My poor Little Red Tank. You've gone through so much, seven years and over 35,000 km. Your parts are wearing out, and at different rates too. Which means, you'll be going for repair more frequently, because I don't have the means to give you that kind of care at home. Unless, I send you for an overhaul, so that whatever needs to be replaced, is replaced all at one go. My wallet sighs in anticipation.