My bike hates me. My bike really hates me! There’s no other explanation. She’s vengeful, spiteful and aggressively vindictive. But I love my bike – even if she is used – because she’s stylish, fast and sexy.
So why does she want to hurt me?
I bought her in good faith from a greasy-handed woman for just 45 euro, including padlock! And it was love at first sight! What a price for a stunning mauve Peugeot. Sure, I had to de-grit her chain, and okay, the brakes don’t work, but I can live with that, and so what if after a week the seat broke and kept ramming up into my groin or rectum…no, attacking my private parts should’ve been the last straw, but like a faithful dog I keep coming back for more. Why do we torture each other so?
As the days go by, though, I really do sense a bond growing between me and my sleek, new bike. I cruise around with friends feeling like a liberated 12-year-old, exploring this new city unhindered by lack of direction or motherly calls to come home before dark. I’m just happy to roll. But what’s this? The brakes that barely worked on dry days are suddenly totally gone on this wet, dark night, when I need them most! What’ve I done to deserve this? Why is my love being tested so? No…it’s ok. Who needs brakes? I’ll just ride slow and roll to a stop at traffic lights. I’ll persevere.
When I have time, I do try to fix my nice bike, immediately becoming the black-handed martyr of biped affection, recalling images of mechanics wiping greasy hands on greasier pants. But I can’t do that, I like my pants, want to keep them grease-free. But my bike doesn’t. No matter what I do, she attacks me with lashings of grease from undisclosed locations. Didn’t I just clean my precious, wiping her down, checking all the danger spots? No matter, she’s relentless and cunning, storing away filth for rainy days when she thinks the best thing for me is a big black stripe on my sodden pant leg!
All this puts me in a terrible position. I’m a pacifist, man. I don’t want this power struggle relationship! Why can’t we just be friends, cooperate? Unfortunately, these words aren’t in my stupid bike’s vocabulary, for she’s childish, possessing only the vindictiveness of a rejected lover. There’s no other explanation. How can I ever live up to my bike’s all-powerful first love, her ex-man – let’s call him Carl – who dumped her in a secondhand shop? Carl never had these problems with her, no. Carl was perfect! Carl gave her more love than I ever could, rubbed her down, massaged her with oil…rode her to new places for the first time!
But what am I saying? I’m overreacting, I’m going to go downstairs now and work on my beautiful bike. But wait…where is she? I should be able to see her from my window…she’s gone! Left me for another, after all the love I gave her! Damn you, Carl!
Zander Ricketson, exchange student from Australia
My bike hates me. My bike really hates me! There’s no other explanation. She’s vengeful, spiteful and aggressively vindictive. But I love my bike – even if she is used – because she’s stylish, fast and sexy. So why does she want to hurt me?
I bought her in good faith from a greasy-handed woman for just 45 euro, including padlock! And it was love at first sight! What a price for a stunning mauve Peugeot. Sure, I had to de-grit her chain, and okay, the brakes don’t work, but I can live with that, and so what if after a week the seat broke and kept ramming up into my groin or rectum…no, attacking my private parts should’ve been the last straw, but like a faithful dog I keep coming back for more. Why do we torture each other so?
As the days go by, though, I really do sense a bond growing between me and my sleek, new bike. I cruise around with friends feeling like a liberated 12-year-old, exploring this new city unhindered by lack of direction or motherly calls to come home before dark. I’m just happy to roll. But what’s this? The brakes that barely worked on dry days are suddenly totally gone on this wet, dark night, when I need them most! What’ve I done to deserve this? Why is my love being tested so? No…it’s ok. Who needs brakes? I’ll just ride slow and roll to a stop at traffic lights. I’ll persevere.
When I have time, I do try to fix my nice bike, immediately becoming the black-handed martyr of biped affection, recalling images of mechanics wiping greasy hands on greasier pants. But I can’t do that, I like my pants, want to keep them grease-free. But my bike doesn’t. No matter what I do, she attacks me with lashings of grease from undisclosed locations. Didn’t I just clean my precious, wiping her down, checking all the danger spots? No matter, she’s relentless and cunning, storing away filth for rainy days when she thinks the best thing for me is a big black stripe on my sodden pant leg!
All this puts me in a terrible position. I’m a pacifist, man. I don’t want this power struggle relationship! Why can’t we just be friends, cooperate? Unfortunately, these words aren’t in my stupid bike’s vocabulary, for she’s childish, possessing only the vindictiveness of a rejected lover. There’s no other explanation. How can I ever live up to my bike’s all-powerful first love, her ex-man – let’s call him Carl – who dumped her in a secondhand shop? Carl never had these problems with her, no. Carl was perfect! Carl gave her more love than I ever could, rubbed her down, massaged her with oil…rode her to new places for the first time!
But what am I saying? I’m overreacting, I’m going to go downstairs now and work on my beautiful bike. But wait…where is she? I should be able to see her from my window…she’s gone! Left me for another, after all the love I gave her! Damn you, Carl!
Zander Ricketson, exchange student from Australia
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