Playing With Fire

I'm in a seemingly highly-enviable position: I have two bikes competing for my affection. Maybe this looks like a good thing to you. And maybe you need to buy a clue.

I've been around long enough to know that any sense of control over your bikes is an illusion. Ultimately, bikes render you powerless and leave you grovelling.

Case in point:

I abandoned the Monkey today and leaned on the skinny sexy bike to help me through a rough patch. (It's well documented that I'm a scab, but that's beside the point.)

Any ordinary big-boned bike would have spent the day sulking. But the Monkey is no ordinary bike. The Monkey has character with a capital C and went for a makeover while me and sexy were gone for the day.

When I rolled into the driveway aboard sexy tonight, it was . . well . . . YOWSA!!!

Before . . .



and after . . .



(If the skinny sexy bike tells you that I dropped it on the pavement and rushed towards the Monkey, that is such a lie.) But in my defense, let's get real. Is there anything sexier than leather? If your answer is no, I'm calling you out. You are such a major big liar.

Anyway, I'm in trouble. The skinny sexy bike is just sitting there, looking fabulous, and knowing it, all passive-agressive. The Monkey is feeling all meaty-sexy and just plain old tiger-agressive. I feel like a swimmer in shark-infested waters with a cut on my leg. I'M INNOCENT!!! All I ever wanted to do was go for a ride.

And no, I do not live on a farm.