Lemon in my tea? How about one in my garage?

The people I meet never cease to amaze me. Both in over and underwhelming. I have my foot up in the chair with me. The other one too. The cat looks at me like I owe him fifteen dollars. Come to think of it... Lemons come in many shapes. I bought one last week in the shape of a bicycle. I took it on an inaugural sojourn. About five miles away. No big whoop right? I have spent some time this spring, on the bicycle showroom floor, outfitting new bikes for the summer season. When all the others had new, shiny bikes, I realized that I too wanted one. I drove to the store intent on buying myself a new bicycle - and that’s what I did. I wanted a white mountain bike. Knobby tires, easy shifting and a durable frame. I saw only one in the store, and I jumped on it. I rode it down the isle to feel it under me, you know, take ‘old girl’ around the floor. A few moments after I got on ‘old girl’ an ‘old man’ sternly corrected my behavior. It was the first time someone had actually yelled at me in a store. I was taken aback and actually got off the bike out of sheer confusion. Then he thanked me very loudly and sarcastically for complying. I walked it to the front and paid for. I had no idea how much more it would cost me. When I got it home, I took it down the block and back. Then, the next day, I took it to the radio station. I had left my Sigg bottle in the soundbooth last Friday. It’s about five miles to the station from the beach. I made it no time and actually found my bottle It was in the possession of another DJ, but I got it back nonetheless. Coming back, I crossed back over to the island on the new bridge. When I came down on the other side, coasting up onto the sidewalk, I heard a nice rubbery POP sound. My back tire locked into a skid and I had to fight the inertia from tossing me over the handlebars. I got off and saw the ribbon that used to be my new back tire. On my new bike. It was obviously not repairable. It needed to be replaced. I pushed it down the street and thought about the choice of pushing and walking versus calling someone to come and get me. I pushed a couple of blocks and decided to make the call. The bike was not rolling with any cooperation whatsoever. As I spoke on the phone with my friend, I looked up and hung up. Island Bicycle Shop AND it was OPEN too I pushed the door open and an electronic buzzer let the shop owner know I was there. On a quick side note: I was a bit disappointed when I heard the door buzzer. I know that if I owned a bike shop, when you walked in, the sound of the Schwinn Thumb Bell would serenade my customers. Ching Ching The shop was empty so I made my way toward the back. I heard someone say “What’s up?” from behind the counter and wall. I couldn’t see anybody, so I went behind the counter and peered into the back room. The shop owner did not stop what he was doing nor did he even make eye contact with me. A bit sweaty and a bit obvious, I broke the ice: “I’m on my way home and my back tire just blew out!” He said nothing. “I was really concerned about how I was keep going, and then I looked up and saw your shop!” Still, no reaction from him. “So... if you sell 26" tubes... I sure could use one!” Then he spoke: “What? You want ME to put on?” “Well... That would be the general idea, yeah.” He reverted to silence yet again. “I’m on way home, to the Island ya see...” Just then he looked at me and raised his voice “You’re ON the Island!” (I thought to myself “Whatta ya -MAD at me?”) “I guess what I meant to say was deeper into the island... er something.” I just shrugged my shoulders in a weak defensive posture. “I’m busy doin’ something right now. Then I have somethin’ else to do that’ll take a half hour. So, if you feel like waiting, I’ll do it after that.” “This is like - a ten minute deal right?” I said. He said nothing. I didn’t know what else to say. I just stared at him for a few moments. “Do you sell tubes?” I asked. “Yeah...” He said. Drawing out the word. “I charge 8 bucks. For the labor.” I turned my back on him. Staring blankly out the window at my wounded soldier on the sidewalk. I took a deep breath and exhaled. Now here I stand, assessing the situation. In a bike shop, with a broken bike in front of me. The guy, that has neither people nor people skills in his shop, couldn’t be less interested in helping me. I’m shiny with sweat, iPod still audible from the tiny ear buds now hanging around my neck. My hands are on my hips and I am trying to breathe through my frustration. Like a new mother in childbirth. I was just about to turn around and give him a witty tongue-lashing when I decided against it. I just walked out the front door. The buzzing sound, I found at that moment, was quite appropriate. I pushed the bike about a half mile more when my friend showed up and carted me home. I took the bike to the other shop on the Island a week later. When I walked in, the first words out of my mouth were “Do you have anything to do with the other shop?” The dude behind the counter shook his melon and said “No”. “Good. Then I’ll stay” I said. He laughed. The tube was repaired right away. He said that 4th of July weekend was really busy, but he had no problem taking care of me first. After he fixed the tube, he showed me the bad news. My tire was bent. The handle bars had not been put together properly, the brakes had not been put on correctly and the wheel alignment was quite askew. I made the sign of the cross with my karate chop hand and gave him the ‘dominus ominous’ to do what needed to be done. $53.00 + $10.00 tip = piece of mind. I tried to ride no-handed yesterday and the bike pulled so hard to the left, I felt like I was on a dive bomber pulling out of formation. The bike is still crappy. I blame the old man in the store that yelled at me for trying to ride it first. Hell - I gotta blame somebody right?

If you lived in Thunderdome... you'd be home by now.

I worked for a friend of mine last summer on the mainland. He had an Ice Cream shop. It was on the corner of SummerTeeth and HopintheTruck road, Cleveland, Ohio. It was a fun job and the owner made his share of loot. I got the chance to see America with a cross-country drive. The other part of the agreement was that I would have unbridled use of his new motorcycle. A Kawasaki ZR1000. I was very stoked. I spent plenty of time taking the early morning drives. We drove ten miles for coffee and muffins at our favorite spot. The newspaper was already waiting when we pulled up, as we were on a first name basis with the owner and staff. The ride back had me daydreaming and I often found myself lost on back roads. It isn't hard to get lost when you don't know where you are anyway! The bike rides were awesome and the towns were great to drive through. Even if I was pushing 100 through most of them. When it came time to come home, my friend asked if I would like to keep it and take over payments. I had no way of getting it from B.F. Ohio to Cali, and then had no way to get it on the ship. I declined, but she shore was purty. And purty fast! My other friend sold my bike that I left here for the summer. Then he wrecked on his and almost lost his life. He just moved back to Big Island after taking a year to heal. So my piece of crap was gone when I got back. It was a needy machine, yes, this is true. But I loved it. Now there would be no piece of crap motorcycle for Bruno. For now. I needed to drive my car and was not happy about the Regal. I knew she needed attention when I pulled up after 6 months and found a cat skeleton in the back seat. I always felt like I was being watched in that car. Like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. At least I know I wasn't paranoid for real. Good kitty. Play dead. Deader! I looked for a job right away that had nothing to do with the restaurant business. I found a car dealership that offered free cars to managers. I jumped in. Then I found out everything and more about cars and the drama behind the scenes that goes along with it. But I got the job and the car. I loaned my kitty car to a friend that lost hers. She subsequently stole it and totaled it. No Christmas card for her this year. I was happy with the new car every week, but I longed for the freedom of a motorcycle. The closest I could get was going topless in the Wrangler. A product of Jeep©. I like driving the Jeeps so much that I wrote "Bruno's Sweet Wheels" on the driver's window, in china marker of course, to deter others from moving it on the lot. An employee showed up on his *new* bike and so did Shardae, a former Miss Kona Coffee. "Does everyone have a bike but me?" Camera pulls back from Helicopter and hands are outstretched... and... end scene. Miss Kona Coffee is driving a Ninja and I don't even have my old piece of crap. I wanted a new bike. But I didn't want payments. So I wait. I had to be out from work for two months. (I was checked-in to the hospital in Oahu) and when I was able to work again, I opted to take it easy in the stress department and help my friend fix his restaurant up instead. But I lost the company car. So I decided it was time to get a bike. Finally. I went to look at them and found the prices quite high. Add a thousand dollars to anything shipped from somewhere else. The bike I wanted was 20,000 clams. The bike I could afford was the one they do a drawing for on the Fourth of July. *Must be present to win.* My search in the paper netted only 6 and 7 thousand dollar offers. What happened to the thousand dollar motorcycle? Where did it go? There was always a bike in the ads for a grand. I guess too much bike gets too high a payment and the buyer was too high when he thought he could afford two vehicle payments a month. FOR SALE HONDA CBR 750. ONLY 600 MILES. DROPPED ONLY ONCE. COMES W/ ALL THE EXTRA CRAP I THOUGHT WOULD BE COOL. $8000/ OFFER. I stopped at my favorite shop for coffee here in Kona, and saw a new Honda parked at the pump. I walked over to it like it was a puppy and I was waiting for it to notice me and let me pet it. The owner introduced himself as "Red". We talked story for a while and then I moved on. A week later I was at the cycle shop and looking at bikes when I thought to ask if they have a board that people could advertise on. The guy pointed me to the wall in front. All the bikes on it were in the thousands with the lowest being 3,200. I am going to Florida in a month and have no need to spend that kind of money. Then in the corner, I saw a white card. It read: VT 500 1983 $400.00 Red. Could it be? So I snatched it off of the board and pocketed it like Criss Angel. I called for two days. He answered on the third day and said I could come look. And yes, same guy, not the color. I looked at the gas dripping from the tank and a seat that looked like a vultures nest. Make that an abandoned vultures nest. It was covered in grease and the paint was missing from everything. The gas leak took care of most of the paint on the crotchety end of the tank. The rest of the tank looked like the Sea of Tranquility. It looked like it had been fished off the bottom at Kailua Pier. He had to push start it because it had a bad ignition. He needed a runway for speed and asked us to back up. I folded my arms and watched. The seat was wet like a stinky sponge you wouldn't want to wash a dump truck with. When he ran with it fast enough, he threw a leg over and plopped down on the seat with what I can only describe as a "Squish". All but one of the lights was dangling. Brakes??? We don't need no stinking brakes! It was straight out of Mad Max. I aptly named it Thunderdome. I have yet to hug her/him/it. It leaves an autograph in 10w30 everywhere it goes. The drips look like constellations in an alternate universe of asphalt and liquid planets. Each side of it looks like a Bomb Squad nightmare. Wires that appear and disappear through a forest of gook covered metal. Every time I park it (on a hilltop of course) I think the bike will either crush the kick-stand or drive it into the ground. If I ride Thunderdome for more than 20 minutes... in a row... It starts smoking. If it were a dog at the pound... it's name would be "Lucky". It would have been euthanized already too. My DC's have a greasy toe from shifting gears. They match my paint-laden shorts. I wonder how long before the last light accepts its fate and droops with the rest? It looks like the underneath of a carnival ride with handlebars. Thunderdome! Voted most flammable! So I take Thunderdome out and she growls her way down Alii Drive. Don't let her looks fool ya, that sucka makes up in speed for what it lacks in beauty. It even sounds like thunder. Coincidence? I love my piece of crap. I am Mad Max when I go through town. And when I'm parked... I'm King of the Hill! By the way... I took a china marker from Alex's pocket and wrote "Bruno's Sweet Wheels" on the dented tank.