Making it look like an 'accident'.

One attempt does not prove homicidal tendencies. It could be so easily be put down to accident, or my clumsiness. The second attempt proves all.

I cycled home from work, and decided to take a slightly different route. The route I took involves a steepish downhill, then a sharp turn into my street. The turn is narrow, and cuts through grass. I took this route, perfectly safely, with no incident, coming home from my parents. I thought safe, to take the following day, after work. The day was hot, so I didn't wear my jacket. In retrospect, this was a mistake. I was unarmoured for the first time since it's intital attempt. The bike saw my weakness, and took a chance.


As I cycled- moderately sedately- down the fourth steepest hill in my hometown, I attempted to take the sharp turn into our street. The bike, despite a perfect angle, missed the small cut-through and propelled me straight into a small gap between a brick wall and a tree. It was a close fit, and despite applying the brake liberally, I knew I'd collide with one or the other, probably the brick wall.

With survival instincts working fast, I decided a grazed hand was better than a head injury, and stuck my left hand out to save myself. The bike stopped, and collapsed against the tree. I spent ten minutes extracting myself and it, glad no-one could see me. Then I looked at my hand. I was bleeding. Rather a lot. I looked like a particularly inept and clumsy self-harmer.

2nd blood to the bike. I think I'll wearing a leather jacket from now on, regardless of the weather.

I'm Kitten, and my bike is trying to kill me.

My Bike is trying to kill me.

People who read my other blog, A Slimmer Kitten, will be aware that I purchased a ridiculously expensive and sexy bike to help in my attempts to become lean and healthy again.

This bike hates me, and wants me dead.
"But inanimate objects are incapable of hate!" you whine. To which I respond "Hah! You are joking, of course."
Inanimate objects can hate. And this bike hates, with a passion that belies it's beautiful and elegant exterior.

My first inkling of the bikes capacity for loathing should have been twigged on the very day I picked it up. All excited and full of joy, we took it out for it's first ride. I don't know why it started hating me. Perhap it took offence to being chained up outside poundland. Perhaps a chav with greasy hands touched it, and it blamed me. Whatever happened, it started our relationship with violence and abuse.

As we walked it out of the city centre, it kept battering me with it's pedals. Each time I hissed 'ow' it shook with pleasure at my pain. But the worst was yet to come. I had tested it- slowly, on flat surfaces- and was content that it's steering and brakes were top-notch. So, as we went downhill, I perhaps became over-confident. It took this as it's chance.

Unknown to me, on the lovely smooth downhill slope, a sharp corner was coming. When I saw it, it was too late. I sharply turned, but the bike stubbornly wouldn't turn soon enough. I braked, hard, but with smugness the bike refused to stop in time. It collided with a metal railing. I was not catapulted over the railings into the road, something I think disappointed it. However, I seriously bruised and grazed my shin, and dented the bikes basket.

I had won this round, but the bike had first blood. It would make it eager for more.

I'm Kitten, and my bike hates me.