The chutes of hell

The rapid descent from glory to the pits of hell is not as some would like, a leisurely jaunt down the lazy river, legs dangling over the edge of life's inner tube. No, its more comparable to being hurled down a river, gasping for air, only to fill your lungs before a vertical trajectory off the water fall onto the rocks below. My bike just weeks ago was the leader of the pack, the envy of my friends, honestly my pride and joy. Several moons later its carreer is more washed up that the bublous Maradona snorting coke off the sidewalk and doing male hookers, ugly ones. Its simply pu,t a piece of junk. I remember fondly going for midnight bike rides just for the fun of it, loving the sensation of cruising along. Me and my bike. Those days seemed eons away last night as I walked my bike up the hill. Late, gripped in the thralls of a tenacious cold, weakened, I pushed the bike up a hill because it could, nay, would not make it. The chain on the brink of collapse, the wheel rubbing the frame, the derailer catching in the spokes and my satchel over my shoulder. The bike is still beer boxless. How fast, how harsh, how real life can be.
If I lived closer to water I would drench it in gasoline and ghost ride it to the bike Valhala, as it stands I will hit it with a rench and cross my fingers that it will get me to work today.

Kates in TO for a couple of days so ladies, bikini whip cream party at my house tonight...