Sunday, September 23, 2012


I was drinking at mymoon a few years ago when I friend showed up on a single speed bicycle. He stayed for a few rounds, put on his helmet and proceeded to bike to his next venue somewhere in LIC. I was fascinated with the freedom his bike offered him - he could navigate to various venues with ease. No looking out for cops or parking.
This past Saturday I decided to do the same on my fixie. I took off the seatpost rack to seem a little more hip ( that didn't help ) and pedaled my way over the Williamsburg bridge to Lorely.  I was meeting up with an old friend at 8. My further plans were to ride back to Amity Hall and join another group of friends for a few more brews around 10. I got a little carried away at Lorely and after a few beers and an hour thunderstorm delay I decided to get back on the bike and go back to the West Village. My friends already assembled and sent me an 'are you coming' text. I go to unlock my bike and after a 10 minute conversation with a dude who's chaining up a 1970's cruiser converted to moped. My bike seems a little off. Further inspection reveals a flat tire. This dude nor his friend have a patch kit. I did not bring one either. I have security skewers on my wheels so even if I found a patch kid, the hole would have to be very evident in order for me to not take off the tire. It's 11pm and slightly drizzling.
Lorely is an off-the-beaten path kind of place. It sits squat right under the BQE, surrounded by a post industrial Hispanic ghetto. I start to wander off somewhere towards Bedford Ave, somewhat buzzed trying to figure out where I can find some bicycle repair help at 11pm on Saturday. I start thinking through a list of people in the neighborhood that I can call. I only know one, and his phone number is disconnected.
My BlackBerry is very much broken. The track pad does not scroll. I'm limited to calling whatever phone number dialed me last and whatever combination of shortcut keys I can remember. No Google Maps. It's starting to rain harder and harder.
With my fixie in tow, soaking wet I wonder through the dark industrial alleyways of Williamsburg. My cellphone is still refusing to call anyone other than my grandma. I begin to curse not being prepared, for being too ambitious with the evenings' plans. As my buzz is died off, I had a moment of clarity:
     Broken Fixie and Cellphone. I'm in a hipster scary movie.

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