Grease Monkey

The other day as I headed out the door to the pool I noticed a huge thorn protruding from my front tire. Rats. Being an experienced tire repairer I didn’t panic. This would put me a little behind schedule. Yes, I don’t do anything all day long, but I can get behind schedule. You figure it out.

I pulled the thorn and listened to psssss. Ah, the stale smell of inner tube. I dropped the wheel from the fork and settled in to leisurely change the tire. My good fortune has been to have all my flats at the house. If needed I can sit in the shade and drink a cold one.

I finished the chore, put the wheel back on the front fork, adjusted the brake and inspected the rear tire. Not one but two thin pieces of wire struck out from the rubber tread. So small the wire I suspected I might get off scot-free. It took my needle nose pliers to remove one of the wires. I listened. Heard nothing. But for a faint tickle of air I felt on my nose, which dripped with sweat, I would not have known the tire was punctured. Changing the rear tire is no more difficult that the front once you get past the gears, the derailleur and all that road grime.

I had to put the inner tube in the sink to precisely locate the puncture. I suspected three holes. Another one due to embedded glass. But only found one. I patched it, re-inspected the tires for the smallest of foreign objects and was on the road to the pool in less than an hour. Certainly not record breaking time. No sense working up a sweat about going to the pool.