Let me begin my openly admitting my mechanical handicap.

Largely, anything with moving parts, gears, screws, or a combination thereof, is rendered tantamount to the culmination of my abilities, and largely contributes to my gross ineptitude at establishing remedial action therein.

That is to say, I can’t fix $#%*

Witness my ride yesterday afternoon. Scheduled for 28 miles, I began in a quaint town called Ipswich. Ipswich became Hamilton then Wenham then North Beverly then Beverly into Salem.

Yes, the Salem you read about as a child in Social Studies classes. The Salem established in 1626. The place where John Winthrop, Tituba, and the other poor souls who were accused of practicing witch-craft, were all burned at the stake. The location of sheer madness and anarchy on Halloween, and also the place of the world’s worst infrastructural system.

With all honesty, the city of Salem’s roads were conceivably more smooth 300 years ago. Today its carbon monoxide, loud motorcycles, and drunken working class heroes. These are not the places you’re not supposed to ride a road bike. Period.

So naturally, I blew a tire. Not just a tire. But the second one in as many weeks. Moreover, I did not have my repair kit. Joy.

So I called some family for a ride back to the gym. Once arriving there around 8:30, I got on the spin bike and just finished my objective. Then I come home, and attempted to fix the flat. It was largely fixed, until it became apparent that the spare tube ALSO had a hole. Moreover, the same phenomena occurred last week. There is a large, corporate outdoor store whose name is three letters. The second and third are vowels. The first is a consonant. Don’t buy you’re bike gear here.

So now I had to forfeit my workout this morning, fix the tire after work, and ideally get in a brick workout this afternoon, which will hopefully absolve my cycling sins.

The occurrence last evening, is demonstrable evidence of a single conclusion.
I love running exponentially more than cycling.