Over the course of my adolescence and adulthood I’ve made many attempts to stop biting my fingernails. They’ve all ended in failure. As a reminder of this weakness I’m left with nubs so useless I’m forced to use paper clips to open pop cans, credit cards to scratch bug bites and tweezers to fasten necklaces.
It’s pitiful. And gross. My hands are ugly. Looking at them as I type this post, I’m reminded of the brief times in my life when I actually had real human nails. I can count these times on two fingers. (Pun intended.) Once: In 2007, when I went Kerouac-ing across the country. Twice: when I left the newspaper and a took a job in a marble yard . (Lesson learned from my marble yard experience: Having visibly filthy hands all day is the best deterrent to nail biting.)
So what does this have to do with a crushed bicycle you ask.
Well, let’s see here…
About a month ago I strapped my bike to the back of my car and drove to Sarasota to do some riding with Oma. (Note: I’m not talking about my sexy Bianchi. I wisely left her at home. I took Joe’s cumbersome, twice-crashed Specialized Crossroads – the one with Henry’s green seat mounted on the front.)