You can usually smell it when you get up in the morning.
Not the coffee, not your fart. I’m talking about the whiff of bad fortune.
On any given day, biking can deliver it in spadefuls.
It usually goes something like this: can’t find shoes, chain rusty, hit head putting bike in van, forget wallet, lose a glove, crash doing a warmup skid and skin palms.
Then you get on the trail and forget all about it. You leave your woes behind. The air in your face, loam flying about, friends laughing, good times.
Next thing, there’s sealant spraying everywhere and a fuck-you hiss as your tyre splurges its last pathetic breath. Of course you didn’t bring the pump. Of course no one else did. Of course the tyre is a complete write off.
Time to go home. It’s been an experience.
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