Our mission, the ultimate bicycle

We found this bicycle about four years ago, tires flat, back rim bent so the camber and caster adjustments were less than subjugative. It was decorated in pigeon droppings, three inches deep on the seat and on it's superficies. The bike was wedged in a crevice between two buildings which we happened to peek into on one of our nightly walkabouts, looking for treasure. We struggled that bike out of there and after scraping off the garnish found it to be an old Eaton model, frame as solid as an iron outhouse, not a scratch on it. It was made in the Czech Republic no less, circa 1952, that paint must have been 90% lead.

We rolled that bike home on it's front wheel, to Deathrock Apartments, and proceeded to straighten the bent member with hammer and anvil to remove the imprint of one awesome curb. That texting while riding will do one in on occasion. A few band aids on the tubes and she was good to go, minus a couple spokes. We rode that bike all summer that year and that coaster brake special never faltered, though the back wheel bounce was a bit unnerving. The next year our dear wife became obsessed with having a constant companion, dementia needs it's requirements met, and our bicycle hung from the ceiling for the next three years, lonely, forsaken, relinquishing all hope in the western world.

This winter after we auctioned off the wife to the cheapest care home we thought about our future, long and hard. The more we thought the more mired in guilt we became so we gave up on the thinking and decided to carry on with the life we had before the full time caregiver career. We wandered around our Deathrock apartment slowly recalling the many projects which had abandoned themselves for lack of a congruous atmosphere. There it hung, our pride and joy, lonely, forsaken, and we in vanity and pride with the western world cut down that bicycle from the beams above and brought her down to earth to instill some semblance of belonging to our immigrant from the ravages of European social democracy.

We dismantled our immigrant from head to toe and ogled every piece with our bifocals. No amount of labour or money would be spared to share with her the virtues of our great nation. Off to the bike shop we went and ordered her a new set of wheels, indestructible steel rims with 36 spokes each and steel clad tires to laugh arrogantly at the broken glass which paves our hoods side lanes. The steering column was greased with the highest quality bitumen to keep the new little shiny ball bearings in perfect harmony. The crank piece had been hammered on remorselessly with amusing result so we took that spindle to the coliseum of past employment and on one of it's artifacts named Cranky the Lathe we filed and polished those bearing seats till they were as smooth as Bertha's undergarments. With new wee bearings and gobs of bitumen that crank turned serenely, almost defying gravity.

Running a mite short on funds now we still needed a seat, unblemished by pigeon stool no less, so crescent in pocket we headed off to Portage and Main where the nerds in the office towers tether their fine breeds and found a seat, a good one with the little crack for the hemorrhoids. Kindhearted we were though, we left them the garnished one fully aligned and tightened so they could soil their short pants on the ride home.

Now we ride, we glide. Our immigrant rehabilitated. Proud as punch she is. Wife lacking, we park her on the coffee table and keep her polished to a tee. Perfect for an old geezer with hemorrhoids.