Hannelorre blows her top

In a moment of weakness I bought a bike. She is beautiful, but temperamental. Perhaps she is crotchety in her old age, or it could be that she simply hasn't warmed to me yet; whatever it is, she likes to cause trouble for me.

I have been thinking about buying a bike for a while now--spring has been in the air, and I miss the wind in my face and the trees flying by on the other side of my aviators. Not being able to explore the miles of hilly highway around Waidhofen is what finally broke me, and I started looking for a used road bike. Last weekend I got in touch with an elderly woman named Hannelorre who was selling her Puch Clubman road bike for a reasonable sum. I met with her, inspected the bike and quickly rode off a happy customer. That's when the trouble started.

It really hasn't been anything too tragic. It could happen to anybody--but I take it as an omen of a passionate but stormy relationship between Hannelorre (my bike--named after the original owner) and myself. First, I had to buy two tickets for my bike to get it on the train. Apparently, the ticket they sell in the ticket machines is not valid on inter-regional trains--there is no mention of this on the machine. I checked. Thoroughly. The train conductor said, "Yeah, sorry, that seems to happen to everybody." Gee, no kidding? Perhaps that's because the ticket machine sells a "Day Ticket for Bicycles" without any description indicating it is not valid on some kinds of trains. Just a hunch.

After getting back to Waidhofen with Hannelorre in tow, I took her out for a spin. I rode about 4 blocks to volleyball practice, and then on the way back, Hannelorre tried to kill me. If you want to be technical, I suppose the van driver who pulled out directly in front of me tried to kill me. But either way, somebody (be it bike or man) wanted me dead. It was, of course, a misty day and Hannelorre's steel rims were wet. This did not help her ancient brake pads grip the wheels to bring me safely to a stop...

**SPOILER WARNING**

...I did not die, however. Luckily I have cat-like reflexes, and was able to swerve to my right (behind, not in front of, the speeding-through-a-clearly-visible-stop-sign van). Not watching for bikers is bad for your karma, and I hope that as a result of this driver's negligence: a) his socks get wet, and b) nobody talks to him at parties. (Both are fates worse than death.)

The latest case of bicycle rebellion happened today. The weather is nice and springy so I decided I would go for another ride--to help Hanna (her nickname) get to know me. I rode 6 km to a nearby village and then turned around to enjoy the downhill coast back home. I am quite certain I got no more than 150 m into the return trip before the sidewall of the front tire blew--with a very impressive hiss--leaving me to hike 5,850 meters back.

This weekend I am going to thoroughly tune Hannelorre up. New brakes. New tires. Gear adjustment. True the rims. Tighten the brake levers. Oil all the moving parts that need oil. And if she doesn't catch one of my fingers in the chain, preventing me from ever typing again, I will report on how she rides after a tune-up.