02 August, 2012

First day of my mini-cation (aka Why I don't go to Saint Paul).

I was on my way over to the Turf Club in Saint Paul to have a beer. Why not? I have a four day weekend and when was the last time I got out of Minneapolis?
So everything was going smoothly until I got to the corner of Marshall and Fry, one block away from where I was supposed to turn to get to the Turf. I felt the situation would be best described via video. The audio is super quiet because of my phone's mic trying to handle all the traffic noise on Marshall. Just wanted to let y'all know that this really did happen:
I called Georgie and asked her to Google bike shops near Marshall and Fry. I got really stupid super fucking lucky; there was one three blocks away. I asked the guy at the shop if he knew where a guy could get a cup of ice water. He tells me Starbuck's next door will.
So I go to Starbucks and ask for a cup of ice water and get a free dirty look with my cup of ice water. I walk back to the bike shop. My bike repair cost me US$16.66. I get on the bike and my rear brakes are fucked. I should've turned around and told the guy to unfuck my brakes but screw it: I just want to go home. This has seriously put a hamper on my day. Then I said no, goddamnit, I came to Saint Paul to get a beer - yes, the same beer I could've gotten without a forty five minute bike ride - I'll be damned if I came all this way to not get my goddamned beer. So I bike the six? seven? blocks from Selby and Snelling to University and Snelling and ride up to the Turf Club. There's a sign on the door:
I had just rode all the way here to find the place closed, like what happened to Clark Griswold at the end of Vacation. I turned around and decided to go home but then I spotted a bookstore. So I step inside. Place looked to have everything. Sci-fi, mystery, comics, porno (yes, porno), old bibles... the gamut. This middle-aged cougar asks me if I need help finding anything and I say I need to find a copy of The Torture Garden (which I almost bought on Amazon last week) and Murder on the Orient Express (which I almost bought on Amazon yesterday). She helped me out but, alas, no dice on The Torture Garden and she seemed to have every other Agatha Christie book in stock but ... Orient Express. However, I was able to locate Anthony Burgess's autobiography for eight beans. That was cool.
I figured that now was the time to go home, take my bike to Flanders Bros. so I can get my brakes unfucked. I take Marshall back over the Mississippi where it becomes Lake St on the Minneapolis side of the river, get back on the bike trail, get on the Greenway, and figured, fuck it, I'll just stop in at Freewheel at the Greenway Plaza Thingy Fuck Off Thing Whatever. I stop in and ask for a glass of ice water and get my second free dirty look from the hipster behind the counter when I get my ice water and I head over to the service station and ask what the wait is on a brake tightening. Guy at the service station says to just bring her in. I say cool. After ten minutes, the young pup who worked on my bike runs through all the details of how irrevocably fucked my bike is and will always be because of, I don't know, something, and I thank him and pay the ten beans to him and take off and, yeah, now my rear brake feels great. Then I had to stop. Now my front brake is fucked.
I feel defeated. I'm just taking the bike to Flanders Bros. tomorrow. At least they know me there.

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