There I was cruising along on Baguette down Connecticut Ave. when mid-gear shift, Baguette's derailleur failed and her chain slipped off the chainring, wedging itself between the chainstay and the cassette. (And yes I did just Google a bike anatomy map to figure that out...)
Anyway, as I went to retrieve the chain and reposition it in place, the Goose of Justice rained its terror down upon me. With its talons out (I imagine the GoJ is some sort of hybrid super goose with claws), I cut my left index finger -- my F*ck You! finger, if you will -- on my bike's pie plate. Now, without going into gratuitous detail, as I'm sure I might have just lost about 90 percent -- roughly two individuals -- of the readers of my meandering drivel by now, I'll point you to my favorite bike blog's explanation of what the pie plate is if you're so inclined. But to summarize, the pie plate is apparently the pocket protector of the cycling world. Ridin' nerdy!
Alas, however, with blood starting to drip down the backside of my hand, two helpful gentlemen ran to my aid to save me from this vicious GoJ attack. (That, in and of itself, is pretty miraculous, as DC is often quite rude.) Not only did one of them give me all of his napkins he had in his Chinese takeout bag to tend to my wounds, but they both got down on their knees and fixed my sh*t up right. I thanked both men profusely, offering them back the napkins that I didn't sully with Baguette's grease and my own blood and apologized for getting their hands dirty. And here's where (of course) things got creepy: "It's OK," said one of the men. "Now my hands match my mind." Did I mention he was definitely wearing rapist glasses? 'Cause he was.
And so I continued with Baguette, leaving rapist glasses in the proverbial dust. But then incident deux happened. I was ridin' nerdy and dirty (um, literally) down through Woodley Park when I almost died. This time, at fault wasn't a dorky bike accoutrement, but instead my very own pants, which got caught up in the greasy teeth of Baguette's chainring.
"But your pants are always so tight (literally and figuratively!), how in the world did that happen?"
Almost regrettably now, I purchased a pair of loose-legged trouser jeans not long ago during a trip out to Potomac Mills. With DC's sticky summers, I thought I'd give a different style jean a whirl, which worked out well on my ride to work, but completely failed on my way home. In an instance of sweet justice, however, my theory on why tight pants are better than loose pants was proven, albeit through a near-death experience. That is, had I been wearing tight pants, or, um, no pants (chafe!), this second harrowing incident never would've happened.
When the gratuitous fabric surrounding my ankle got caught up in the hot mess of greasy chain, I swerved dangerously into an intersection, before miraculously stopping myself on the curb with my left leg, my free leg, once again damning the GoJ. I negotiated my stupid loose pants out of danger using the pie-plate approved tight-roll method and continued on...this time a bit scared. But finally, I made it home, visibly shaken, but with pants and spirit (mostly) intact.
Traumatized. Still wearing the deadly pants in question. Baguette cowers in the hallway, hiding her pie plate of shame. (Unnecessary Explanation Sidebar: My place is messy because I'm cleaning house so my fabulous friend from NYC coming down this weekend will have a nice place to store his Helmut Lang "winter sky, bitch" windbreaker.)
The extra fabric at fault. It got what it deserved, I suppose.
Deadly outfit details: Pants -- Theory (bought at Potomac Mills Off 5th Saks Outlet); Blue tank -- H&M; Gray tank: Forever 21; Shoes -- NYLA (bought at Marshalls in Columbia Heights).
And super P.S. -- This is my 201st post...I missed the 200th-post narcissistic celebration yesterday. So, without further delay, congratulations, Marissa. Love, Marissa.
And freedom-loving P.P.S. -- Happy Fourth of July. I'll e-see you Monday! (By the way, anyone know where I can get a captain's hat? No reason...)