the fifth bridgestone
I was walking down that slippery curved ramp from the bus stop into school, right on the dot at 1430, when I saw something. Something that caught my eye. Something red. Something that looked eerily familiar. Something that made me do a double take, and caused me to lose twelve seconds.
.
It was a Bridgestone CB-1, almost exactly like the one I once had. A red CB-1, in most of its original glory. I say "once had" because in three weeks I had it transformed into the confused machine that it is today, neither mountain bike nor road bike.
.
I was devastated. I no longer owned the only CB-1 in school. Worse still, this one was in better shape than mine. The paint was hardly scratched. Fortunately, it was very dirty, like the way mine was when I first rode it home. My odometer read six thousand five hundred kilometers - it sure looked like it did all of those six thousand five hundred kilometers after being coated with a thick layer of engine oil, whereupon it gleefully attracted all the dirt on the road, stuck on all the brake dust, and added a hapless fly or two to its paintwork. The chain, upon toothbrushing three times in a dish of thinner, yielded half its weight in sand. Well, almost.
.
So I thought no more about the bike, until I was walking to LT 11 with dear old Gabriel, when I suddenly spied something red peeking through the glass pane of a staircase door at the North Spine. "Hey wait a minute," I said to Gabby and opened the door. It was the red CB-1 again.
.
Dear God, were you playing tricks on me today? I would hardly blink an eye if I found a Seven Sola parked outside my door, or a Rivendell in class tomorrow. Heaven only knows what would appear next.
