There's a bicycle sitting in the sun room of my father's house. It's blue and white paint is slowly chipping off the poorly assembled body. I can say poorly assembled because I assembled it. My homeroom teacher, a portly man who lived in the suburbs far away from civillization, asked offhand if anyone wanted a bike. His wife, a similiarly shaped woman, had won it in a raffle the previous month, and it had been sitting in a box in their hallway ever since. Not expecting him to be serious, I said I was in desperate need of a bike.
Getting it out of the box wasn't the easiest task, it was haphazardly returned to it's packaging without much thought to order or correctness. it's bolts were shiny and new then. Everything about it screamed "just off the factory floor." It must have been cheap, the bolt in the seat, when tightened to the point of security snapped the metal supports. Now it's adorned with a "Diva Feather" gel seat, which my friends sister had lying around. The wheels loose thier air all too quickly, and the chain jumps if you don't shift just perfect. however the bike has always let itself be fixed, gotten to the gas station when it's tires are low, and carted it's rider to and from Pius XI High School.
The handlebars are bent slightly after a failed attempt to cross a creek when the shortcut I usually took home was full of busy machinery replacing the bridge. Everything seemed alright until I hit a rock and rolled down the hill. the bike was scratched and slightly off center after that, but took me home as it continued to do for the duration of highschool.
