Inconvenient

Wednesday night, while riding in Prospect Park, I ran over a rat.

Like small children are known to do, this particular rat sort of jumped out into the road out of nowhere. Of course, it didn't help that I had been peering over my shoulder to check for traffic behind me, but of the sixty odd minutes I spent biking in the park Wednesday night, why in the world did that stupid rat choose those few seconds when I was glancing behind me to try and cross the street. Was it really so important that he/she cross at that very moment? He couldn't have let me by first? I mean, the nerve.

Actually, when I say I "ran over the rat," allow me to clarify. My front wheel did not cross over the rat's midsection. If it had, I may have very well gone over the bars, and while I failed to catch exactly which part of the rat my tire struck, I believe it may have happened near the ass region because immediately after the impact, I glanced over my shoulder again to see the rat running in the direction from which it had come. The reason I say the "ass region" is simple. If it had been the head area, the rat's cheese-eating days probably would have reached an end considering I weigh just over 200 pounds. Same goes for the midsection. Probably would have ended with some blood and guts on the asphalt if I had hit the little bastard in the stomach.

Regardless, even though it was only a rat, I sort of felt bad after the fact. In the event that I hit more than tail, I would have to imagine I inadvertently inflicted some damage on the poor bastard, and what's a busted rat to do? It's not like he can make an appointment with his primary care physician. Not like it can ask a buddy, "Does that look infected to you?" Again, I know it's just a rat, but the damn thing was simply trying to cross the road and I almost killed it. Even as I write this, I can't help but wonder if it's out there in Prospect Park somewhere, dragging around the sorry, broken ass I helped break. Probably cursing my name and every other damn cyclist it spots from the weeds while it sniffs around for discarded gummy bears and knishes.

Kind of makes me go all mush inside. If I were a true gentleman, I'd go back to the scene of the accident and leave out some cheese for the poor bastard. Maybe I'll do that tonight. Toss down a few slices of yellow American for Mr. Rat, kind of like a twisted tribute to his busted ass.

Apart from the rat, I broke another spoke yesterday. It happened at a terribly convenient time--two laps into my planned eight lap ride in Central Park.

Sunday's are my "long ride" day, so I dragged myself out of bed at eight, geared up, filled the water bottles, trekked over the Brooklyn Bridge (which, as far as I'm concerned, is some of the most dangerous riding in the country considering the dick-for-brain tourists who can't seem to comprehend that the lane with the picture of a bicycle is for bicycles only), and dodged many a taxi on the way to the park. Swinging onto Park Drive, I glanced up and thought, "Where the hell are all these joggers going?"

Turns out yesterday was an 18-mile training run for the upcoming NYC Marathon. God, people really love to run as there were easily hundreds of joggers clogging the lanes. Myself, I don't really see the attraction of running anywhere, which is why I have the damn bicycle.

Anyway, while weaving my way in and out of joggers and more freaking clueless tourists--surprisingly, not one person yelled at me to slow down--I stood up to start climbing the hill at the north end of the park when I heard an unusually sharp clank come from the rear wheel.

"Oh. Shit. Please. No. Not now. Don't." I pulled over to check whatever damage had been done and sure enough, one of the spokes had busted off at the nipple.

Ten miles from Brooklyn and I had a broken spoke, which meant I had a wobbly rear wheel. Fantastic.

This is the second time this has happened to me. The first time, I let the guys in a bike shop fix it for $10 even though it's somewhat contradicts my nature to pay anyone to handle any sort of mechanical repair for me, so yesterday, I stopped in the bike shop on Atlantic Avenue and asked for a few spokes.

"What size?" the owner asked.

"Twenty-seven inch wheel," I said.

"Right, but I need to know how long the spokes are."

I walked back to my apartment and returned with the wheel.

Looking over the tire, the owner said, "You realize, this is a lot easier if we do it."

"I gotta learn sometime," I said, and that I did. Over the course of the next several hours, I ended up spending roughly $35 on the tools I needed to removed the cassette, another $30 on stuff I bought in Target as I was walking back from the bike shop in Park Slope (the place on Atlantic Avenue) didn't have the chain whip I needed, and $5 on lunch. What should have been a 30-minute job turned into a 4-hour logistical nightmare. After installing the new spoke, I had a miserable time attempting to true the rim so that it spun without wobbling.

At one point, I surrendered and tried to bring the wheel back to the shop so the experts could true it for me, although by five, they were already closed.

Eventually, I got the bitch done and took the bitch out for a test drive. It's all good.