I have a long ride this morning.  I, being a ladies man, spent the night with a rather striking girl I met at the coffee shop last night while I was reading Kafka.  She pulled up elegantly on an SE Draft (I must research these bikes, the colors were very nice), and after complimenting her on her steed, we talked for many hours and eventually rode home together.  The details of the rest of the evening are not important, but needless to say I did not wake up in my urban pad.

This young vixen lives on the East Side, in a wonderfully renovated apartment complex.  Being on the East Side, I will have to cut through downtown to get to work this morning.  I am very excited.

Full of vigor, I swing a leg over the bars of my friend’s cross bike I am borrowing, deftly find the pedal, and begin my commute.  There is much traffic over here, on this crowded urban street.  Many cars, buses, and other cyclists.  I see very few fixie riders.  I regret that I am not one of them this morning. I wish I was riding an SE Draft or a Three Rensho.  This Ridley is embarrassing.

Under the Interstate I fly, still in the big ring and small cog.  Lest you forget, I am not shifting this contraption.  Approaching my turn, I cut a hard left around a truck, breeze down the center line, and slice through the intersection just as the light turns red.  I feel brave.  Red River is a long street, with much climbing and descending.  I fly past the football stadium, the memory of the jocks in high school angering me, making me turn my cranks harder.  The wind pulls at my Cinelli cap, the straps on my PAC bag flapping.  Liberation.

I carry much speed into the climb, and it is easily conquered.  I like this gear ratio.  I must remember to count the teeth when I get home; I would like this same ratio on my next sweet fixie.  Down again the road goes, through a construction zone.  I weave in and out of the orange cones, the cars honking as if they would not be doing the same.  My middle finger shoots toward the sky.

I am King.

I near the rock music clubs, I smell the stale beer and urine.  Urban.  I am where I belong.  3 lights until my turn, all red.  I do not stop for them.  As I approach the World Famous 6th Street, a cabby cuts me off.  Forgetting that I am on a coasty, I yank my legs back as if to skid, only to find no resistance.  I grab the brake lever hard.  I feel uneasy.

On the ground, I open my eyes.  I must have crashed.  Did I hit the cab?  I look around and there is no cab in sight, just the Ridley, its rear wheel spinning away, mocking me.  My heart sinks.  I endo’d.  I rage at the now-gone cab driver.  I wish he had stuck around, so I could fight him.  Fighting with cab drivers is a right of passage for urban cyclists, a merit badge I have not had the opportunity to earn.

I get up, checking my hands and arms.  Very few scrapes.  Not impressive.  I will have no stories to tell, no stitches to prove my worthiness.  My PAC bag is in the gutter, but appears to be in ok shape, a few scuff marks marring it’s cordura.  Just some minor battle wounds.  That will have to do.  I walk to the bike, and pick it up.  It looks fine as far as I can tell.  The right lever paddle thing is hanging oddly, but I don’t use it anyway.  I remount and ride on, crestfallen.  I made a rookie mistake.  I should not do that, I am no rookie.

I turn on to 6th, sapped of energy now.  Traffic is thick.  I ride a couple of blocks and rest, catching my breath, letting my nerves settle.  I relax.  The sun is at my bike, the wind is calm, the air is crisp.  I take in the smells, the sounds, the feel of the morning.  I start to feel better.

A messenger nods at me.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I remount, and mash as hard as I can.  I know he’s watching me.  I know I look good.  I lane split, I weave, I run lights, I fly down the avenue, I cut cab drivers off hoping one of them is the cab that cut me off so I could show the driver he has not beaten me.  Legs whirling, tires buzzing, wind kissing me for my efforts.  I near my office, cut a clean left across two lanes of traffic, and glide up to my office building.  Glancing at my reflection, I am reminded that I am King.