That bike was a Chordia, a brand new pretty yellow ten-speed. It was 1970 and I was in college. I was young and I was strong. I knew absolutely nothing about cycling but as I raced through the streets of NYC after dark, I dreamed of being in the Olympics. It was a fools dream I never dared share.
I started riding my bike everywhere, especially because I had already crashed and totaled the beautiful sports car my parents bought me for college. I even rode from Queens to Scranton PA (145 miles) two summers in a row, once with my friend JaggerDog and the next time with my friend Little Steve.
One summer day I rode my bike from my home in Queens to Rockaway Beach, 108th Street. I met a lovely young lady and started drinking wine with her and her friends. At the end of the day when everyone was packing to go home, I suddenly remembered that I rode my bike there, and I was drunk.
I remember riding across the Cross Bay Bridge and going too fast on the downside, and then the next thing I know, I woke up in a firehouse surrounded by fireman, laughing, and shouting, "He's come to!" I had crashed and gone unconscious for a while.
In the corner of the firehouse was my Chordia, a mangled mess of metal. The clothing and skin on my shoulder, hip, and thigh were shredded. The firemen tried to keep me there, but I assured them I was OK, and walked to the nearest bus stop.
The bus was crowded and I had to stand. I remember catching the passengers staring at me, a bloody mess, and a total fucking loser.
I didn't buy another bike for 15 years.
.....
Did the Dirty Bismarck with Mitch this morning:
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| Me and my new ride |
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| Mitch |
Later,
Steve
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