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.
No comments:
Post a Comment