Oops there goes another rubber tree plant…

In case you haven’t been reading my main journal, the past six weeks have been an absolute trial: an incredible litany of crises coming one upon another, from trivial to life-changing.

In the bike realm, this period has included my saddle problems, bee stings, my travesty dealing with Back Bay Bicycles over my headset, and the training and fundraising time lost to graphic design class, Inna’s hospitalization, and my new job.

And now this:

Last night I was riding home from work along the Esplanade bike path. As I went to overtake an inline skater, I called out the usual “On your left!” warning. Of course, it was at that exact moment that the idiot—who was listening to music in his earphones, of course—decided to swerve all the way to the left side of the path. There were benches lining the path, so there was only one thing I could do: I slammed on the brakes and hit the fucker.

Fortunately for his his stupid ass, I’d bled off enough speed so that I only rode up on his left foot, and although he stumbled, he didn’t fall. I managed to keep the bike upright, but I heard a loud bang and felt the hundred pounds of air in my rear tire come out in a rush.

The skater was fine and—to his credit—apologetic. I told him it was just the tire and that as long as he was okay, I could deal. He skated off.

At first I figured I’d just swap my inner tube out and continue home, but I quickly realized that I didn’t have anything with me: no tire levers, no spare tube, no patch kit, and no pump. That stuff usually sits on my bike, but I didn’t want anyone to steal it while it sat in the bike rack at work, so I’d stripped it all off. There was nothing for it but to walk the mile back to my condo and affect repairs there.

An isolated incident? Bad luck? The curse of Ornoth 2005? Call it whatever you want; all I can say is that I’m getting very tired of it, and I’m really hoping it doesn’t bite me in the (still tender) ass during the PMC ride two weeks from now.