The Genocydal Maniac Rides Again!
Here Is Part Two Of That Story....The Postscript!
It's amazing how many more memories can be brought about by the simple act of mounting the Mongoose Mountain Bicycle (aka Black Moonlight) and setting off into parts unknown.
Tonight had become chilly and we still needed a few things from WalMart. Another trip. It would be all three of us this time. Deb, Phoenix and I made our way to WalMart and as soon as I'd arrived....I made a beeline for the bike section again. I needed things too. Namely something to quell the agony that my posterior end suffered at the lack of mercy of the Mongoose Corporation in a conspiratorial scheme to take it out on the ends of every rider by means of a narrow saddle that was little more than some sadist attempting rape. In that department I found myself with hundreds of choices. Shit...I hate that because the only bike like mine was at the top of the rack and there was no way to check and see if the pads would fit. I could always replace it, of course, with a superfly BMX saddle and pad that one. Then, the other choices presented themselves. Schwinn also had a saddle but it was well padded and ergonomically correct. It was every bit as narrow if not a little wider than the one I already had....shit. It was soft though but this had to be the choice. It had to be made this night or I'd be in for another round of gleutial agony coupled with the frustration of having spent our plummeting dollar to no avail. Bell (I love this company) put out a saddle. It was wide and looked to be very comfortable but the padding was a little firmer than the Schwinn saddle. Hmmm....this was going to be a dilemma. Finally, Deb and Phoenix joined in the fray. I was going mad. Why was this decision made so tough? What happens next?
We found a sales rep who reeked of the Trick Biker. He looked as though he didn't work at WalMart but went there to give the bikes an abuse test by performing all manner of insane stunts much to the chagrin of those who polish the floors or assemble the bikes. He was a tattooed Chris Cornell look-alike and spoke about the Mongoose Diamondback...a stunt bike that was only handled by the most insane tricksters with deathwishes that made Charles Bronson blush with shame. I admired the kid...his knowledge of these goddamn things was extensive and he went back two decades...nearly year by year. Ahhh the memories.
Memories of days when I took my beat up BMX and nearly killed myself time and again, attempting the performance of deadly jumps and rail grinds over concrete with no stunt pegs. I'm no stranger to the pain of the fucking animals they can become the minute that the human trait known as arrogance takes over. There is nothing more helpless, irresponsible or depraved as a child who thinks he can slide along a rail on nothing more than nuts and bolts. Perhaps that and the scars I was accumulating were my reasons for giving up the ghost on the fact that I'd never be any good on stunt bikes. It certainly wasn't my fear, no, that would not be me. It was simply the fact that the scarring along with the time it takes to heal was taking me off my bike for far longer than I had wanted. I had True Grit within me...even embedded into my flesh at the time...but it was beginning to wear smooth with every spill I'd taken.
The Sales rep took the Mongoose like mine down for me so I could see if an ergonomically correct Gel Pad would fit upon the saddle. It did....but with a little slack. I'd decided that it would suffice and grabbed the pad, a saddlebag and something called The Ultimate Bicycle Tool ...all made by Bell. Bell has an inventor working for them to combat the evil that had been done to me, I'm willing to wager my retirement pension from the prison on that. I'd love to shake this man's hand for what he's done. First, a GelPad for uncomfortable seats. Then, A bag to keep an air pressure guage, a chain for hitching the bike off, and any manner of devices or tools I'd need...including... Finally, the Ultimate Bicycle tool. This thing is one of those all-in-one tools made strictly for the serious mountain biker such as I. Every manner of size wrench you could need, phillips and flathead screwdrivers, allen wrenches, tire removal tools....all fitting into one toolset that is so compact it's the best thing since the Leatherman tool. Great Odin, bless the Bell Corporation and the Bellman who made this stuff for me!
Earlier that day, we'd mounted the water bottle onto my frame by way of two allen screws that were loose and holding nothing onto the frame. I could have used The Tool then but I hadn't seen it and thankfully, my friend Denny came to the rescue, madly wielding a set of allen heads and a screwdriver handle in glee. Many thanks to Odin for that luck.
Upon our return, I'd immediately set about installing the new gear. Everything went well and I stored everything I thought I'd need into my new saddlebag. This was no longer a mountain bike...this was now a vehicle of survival. If it broke down, I could fix it on site and not have to worry about how I'm getting home. Many blessings to the Engineers who took the time to think of these things.
When I was done, I ate dinner and set about the show again. Gotta get that done. I made my openings and announcements and geared up for my Nightly Ride.
When I was ready, I took off, feeling the chilly night air blasting me in the face. I was cruising, total control now. No worries. No weight on my shoulders. Water in the bottle, check...tools, defintely check....chain, check....pressure guage, check. My gloved hands gripped the handlebars and off I took with a new sense of purpose even though I had none but to listen to the dark music from my MP3 player still full of illegal MP3s and ride until my legs could take no more.
Visions of my past came to me as I tooled along the backroads and residential districts of this town. Memories flashed in my mind of me flying along on a black and neon green Huffy Mt. Storm doing nothing in particular but pretending in my mind to be Ghost Rider flying off on his hellfire and brimstone wheeled crotch rocket cafe racer from Hades to mete out justice to the evil in the form of a Penance Stare or throwing them a severe beating with a chain. Memories of that horrible night when a basketball was hurled at my front wheel and I took a nasty case of road rash, losing my new walkman in the process. Some punk kid had done it. I'd find out later that my hip and leg were so deeply bruised that I'd receive a headache each time I bended over or squatted at work.
It was the reason I fell in love with the mountain bike in the first place. Lack of pain or recovery time.
My wheel too had been warped to the point where the tire and tube would no longer hold air. My precious Mt. Storm was gone forever from the punishment it had taken that night...and so was my way to work. I'd have been infuriated had it not been for my Van Halen tapes cosoling me during my recovery.
Then came the Huffy Mt. Havoc...junk to me. The pedal assembly popped each time I'd pedal. So loudly so that I could hear it over the Megadeth blaring from my headphones. I couldn't take it. I was happy to sell it because I could not fix it. I didn't have the tools. I resigned it to where it sits now...on the side of the house, collecting dust. A great disappointment in the dust of Black Moonlight's wake.
Now it was night two and the pain in my gleuts had diminished to a tolerable level and the gelpad was helping immensely.
In the meantime I'll mention I've always been a one-gear man until now. Most people find one gear that they are comfortable in using and they stick with it...that was me. Hardcore to the last but now, figuring out how many uphill and downhill slopes there are to this little town, I've learned that shifting gears is for me until my legs get into shape again. Finally, I'd parked her at the baseball field and decided to go for a brisk walk around the walking path. I wasn't even around the track the first time when my stomach did cartwheels. The stir-fry vegetables must have sounded the alarm for a rapid bowel evacuation. As quickly and as cautiously as I could, I made my way back to Black Moonlight and, in the distance I saw that one building at the baseball complex was still alight. I flew to it by way of Black Moonlight and THANK ODIN! AN OPEN BATHROOM!
When I was done in there, I took my water bottle from the cage at the bottom of Black Moonlight and took a drink. Suddenly I saw something....something was floating in my goddamned water and the ice that I had placed inside was melting. Taking it back into the light of the bathroom, I opened it and found the culprit. It was a small plastic bag with two mounting screws in it.
"I'll be damned," I muttered, "There the whole time huh?"
The bag had begun to fill with water. I squeezed it out and put the bag into my saddlebag. Boltwater...what a concept!
I turned the lights back on and made my way away from the complex, not feeling like making another round. I drifted along the streets, taking in the night and made my way back home with a feeling of euphoria. This is the madness I follow...the freedom and ecstacy of riding the mountainbike back home to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts "I Hate Myself For Loving You."
Modern technology, when applied to a primitive concept can truly prove to give you something for your work.
It's amazing how many more memories can be brought about by the simple act of mounting the Mongoose Mountain Bicycle (aka Black Moonlight) and setting off into parts unknown.
Tonight had become chilly and we still needed a few things from WalMart. Another trip. It would be all three of us this time. Deb, Phoenix and I made our way to WalMart and as soon as I'd arrived....I made a beeline for the bike section again. I needed things too. Namely something to quell the agony that my posterior end suffered at the lack of mercy of the Mongoose Corporation in a conspiratorial scheme to take it out on the ends of every rider by means of a narrow saddle that was little more than some sadist attempting rape. In that department I found myself with hundreds of choices. Shit...I hate that because the only bike like mine was at the top of the rack and there was no way to check and see if the pads would fit. I could always replace it, of course, with a superfly BMX saddle and pad that one. Then, the other choices presented themselves. Schwinn also had a saddle but it was well padded and ergonomically correct. It was every bit as narrow if not a little wider than the one I already had....shit. It was soft though but this had to be the choice. It had to be made this night or I'd be in for another round of gleutial agony coupled with the frustration of having spent our plummeting dollar to no avail. Bell (I love this company) put out a saddle. It was wide and looked to be very comfortable but the padding was a little firmer than the Schwinn saddle. Hmmm....this was going to be a dilemma. Finally, Deb and Phoenix joined in the fray. I was going mad. Why was this decision made so tough? What happens next?
We found a sales rep who reeked of the Trick Biker. He looked as though he didn't work at WalMart but went there to give the bikes an abuse test by performing all manner of insane stunts much to the chagrin of those who polish the floors or assemble the bikes. He was a tattooed Chris Cornell look-alike and spoke about the Mongoose Diamondback...a stunt bike that was only handled by the most insane tricksters with deathwishes that made Charles Bronson blush with shame. I admired the kid...his knowledge of these goddamn things was extensive and he went back two decades...nearly year by year. Ahhh the memories.
Memories of days when I took my beat up BMX and nearly killed myself time and again, attempting the performance of deadly jumps and rail grinds over concrete with no stunt pegs. I'm no stranger to the pain of the fucking animals they can become the minute that the human trait known as arrogance takes over. There is nothing more helpless, irresponsible or depraved as a child who thinks he can slide along a rail on nothing more than nuts and bolts. Perhaps that and the scars I was accumulating were my reasons for giving up the ghost on the fact that I'd never be any good on stunt bikes. It certainly wasn't my fear, no, that would not be me. It was simply the fact that the scarring along with the time it takes to heal was taking me off my bike for far longer than I had wanted. I had True Grit within me...even embedded into my flesh at the time...but it was beginning to wear smooth with every spill I'd taken.
The Sales rep took the Mongoose like mine down for me so I could see if an ergonomically correct Gel Pad would fit upon the saddle. It did....but with a little slack. I'd decided that it would suffice and grabbed the pad, a saddlebag and something called The Ultimate Bicycle Tool ...all made by Bell. Bell has an inventor working for them to combat the evil that had been done to me, I'm willing to wager my retirement pension from the prison on that. I'd love to shake this man's hand for what he's done. First, a GelPad for uncomfortable seats. Then, A bag to keep an air pressure guage, a chain for hitching the bike off, and any manner of devices or tools I'd need...including... Finally, the Ultimate Bicycle tool. This thing is one of those all-in-one tools made strictly for the serious mountain biker such as I. Every manner of size wrench you could need, phillips and flathead screwdrivers, allen wrenches, tire removal tools....all fitting into one toolset that is so compact it's the best thing since the Leatherman tool. Great Odin, bless the Bell Corporation and the Bellman who made this stuff for me!
Earlier that day, we'd mounted the water bottle onto my frame by way of two allen screws that were loose and holding nothing onto the frame. I could have used The Tool then but I hadn't seen it and thankfully, my friend Denny came to the rescue, madly wielding a set of allen heads and a screwdriver handle in glee. Many thanks to Odin for that luck.
Upon our return, I'd immediately set about installing the new gear. Everything went well and I stored everything I thought I'd need into my new saddlebag. This was no longer a mountain bike...this was now a vehicle of survival. If it broke down, I could fix it on site and not have to worry about how I'm getting home. Many blessings to the Engineers who took the time to think of these things.
When I was done, I ate dinner and set about the show again. Gotta get that done. I made my openings and announcements and geared up for my Nightly Ride.
When I was ready, I took off, feeling the chilly night air blasting me in the face. I was cruising, total control now. No worries. No weight on my shoulders. Water in the bottle, check...tools, defintely check....chain, check....pressure guage, check. My gloved hands gripped the handlebars and off I took with a new sense of purpose even though I had none but to listen to the dark music from my MP3 player still full of illegal MP3s and ride until my legs could take no more.
Visions of my past came to me as I tooled along the backroads and residential districts of this town. Memories flashed in my mind of me flying along on a black and neon green Huffy Mt. Storm doing nothing in particular but pretending in my mind to be Ghost Rider flying off on his hellfire and brimstone wheeled crotch rocket cafe racer from Hades to mete out justice to the evil in the form of a Penance Stare or throwing them a severe beating with a chain. Memories of that horrible night when a basketball was hurled at my front wheel and I took a nasty case of road rash, losing my new walkman in the process. Some punk kid had done it. I'd find out later that my hip and leg were so deeply bruised that I'd receive a headache each time I bended over or squatted at work.
It was the reason I fell in love with the mountain bike in the first place. Lack of pain or recovery time.
My wheel too had been warped to the point where the tire and tube would no longer hold air. My precious Mt. Storm was gone forever from the punishment it had taken that night...and so was my way to work. I'd have been infuriated had it not been for my Van Halen tapes cosoling me during my recovery.
Then came the Huffy Mt. Havoc...junk to me. The pedal assembly popped each time I'd pedal. So loudly so that I could hear it over the Megadeth blaring from my headphones. I couldn't take it. I was happy to sell it because I could not fix it. I didn't have the tools. I resigned it to where it sits now...on the side of the house, collecting dust. A great disappointment in the dust of Black Moonlight's wake.
Now it was night two and the pain in my gleuts had diminished to a tolerable level and the gelpad was helping immensely.
In the meantime I'll mention I've always been a one-gear man until now. Most people find one gear that they are comfortable in using and they stick with it...that was me. Hardcore to the last but now, figuring out how many uphill and downhill slopes there are to this little town, I've learned that shifting gears is for me until my legs get into shape again. Finally, I'd parked her at the baseball field and decided to go for a brisk walk around the walking path. I wasn't even around the track the first time when my stomach did cartwheels. The stir-fry vegetables must have sounded the alarm for a rapid bowel evacuation. As quickly and as cautiously as I could, I made my way back to Black Moonlight and, in the distance I saw that one building at the baseball complex was still alight. I flew to it by way of Black Moonlight and THANK ODIN! AN OPEN BATHROOM!
When I was done in there, I took my water bottle from the cage at the bottom of Black Moonlight and took a drink. Suddenly I saw something....something was floating in my goddamned water and the ice that I had placed inside was melting. Taking it back into the light of the bathroom, I opened it and found the culprit. It was a small plastic bag with two mounting screws in it.
"I'll be damned," I muttered, "There the whole time huh?"
The bag had begun to fill with water. I squeezed it out and put the bag into my saddlebag. Boltwater...what a concept!
I turned the lights back on and made my way away from the complex, not feeling like making another round. I drifted along the streets, taking in the night and made my way back home with a feeling of euphoria. This is the madness I follow...the freedom and ecstacy of riding the mountainbike back home to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts "I Hate Myself For Loving You."
Modern technology, when applied to a primitive concept can truly prove to give you something for your work.
posted by Lord Genocyde at 4:48 AM
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