His first mistake was opening the side door. Maybe it seemed like a better option than swinging open the big garage door. Problem is my Peugeot frame was leaning against it and it went thunk as it fell. That alerted the dogs and woke my wife. Who woke me.
He tripped his way past the Peugeot frame and tangled himself in at least one of two hanging bikes (the Brown Jersey Divvy Van and Reid Falco), floundered past the Mojo leaning against the workshop bench and crashed into my wife’s Bianchi. I’d also been working on assembling the mixte that day (I know, it’s seems like only yesterday when I started this project) and had left the greater part of two bikes disassembled on the floor. (The mixte is using a Repco as a donor bike. The Repco had a signed donor card and we consulted the next of kin before dismembering it.)
It’s not the sort of place I’d want to venture into in the dark. The chances of opening your head on a pedal or cog is only equaled by the likelihood of twisting an ankle on a lost 15mm socket or spare front fork left inappropriately sprawled across the floor.
Upon being awoken by my wife I ventured down there with a torch, my faithful hounds somewhere behind me somewhat unwilling to fully leave their beds. I scanned the workshop through the open door without seeing anyone. I checked the backyard and was about to go back to bed when it occurred to me to check the shed properly. I threw open the garage door and there stood the poor fool. He was extremely apologetic and made it out like being there was some kind accident. What followed was a dialogue almost exactly like one from William S Burrough’s Junky’s Christmas.
He looked relieved when I escorted him off the premises. I imagine that what happened inside the shed looked a little like this:
As the McAuley Culkin of single speeds I now plan to develop a drugs habit and drop out of the spotlight for about a decade.