My angry driving catchphrase is “where’s your indicator, dickhead?” as I come to a complete and unexpected stop behind some cretin turning right across two lanes of unbroken peak hour traffic.
I’ve been without my bike for a week because apparently that’s how long it takes to charge someone $300 to twiddle some knobs. If I knew more and cared even slightly I’d learn how to service my own damn bike, but until there’s any incentive I’ll continue to be surprised by unexpected bills such as this.
I really want to get myself a new bike all of my very own, but it’s a massive purchase and I still don’t know enough about bikes to know what I want. I think I want a sweet road bike so that I can zoom past the traffic and get to work in five minutes flat, but I’m concerned about the amount of maintenance it will require going backward and forward through the most filthy and industrial side streets of Eagle Farm all week.
I will have to do some reading up and work out exactly what I want. I might have to go to a workshop or something and see if I can pick up some tricks.
As I motored in to the bicycle superstore tonight with bike rack in tow, I couldn’t help but feel relieved. Even the extra eighty bucks extortion I handed over from this second lot of repairs was fine, because it means I can stop stressing about transport. I like riding to work because of the freedom it provides, and relying on buses and trains and cars is terribly crass. Maybe I will be happier now.
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