Bike Punks

I've been working on my bike lately. It was way neglected and needed alot of time and money to get it right. It's racing bike which is French for Expensive Bike. Over the last month I've been buying the needed tools and parts whenever I had money from this bike shop in the city.

The guy behind the counter hates me. HATES ME. He's dressed like a bike messenger all the time in tights and the European Bikers Hat but just works behind the counter selling bar tape and extra tubes. He doesnt remember me from each visit but rejudges and hates me anew with each visit. He snears when I ask him if they carry various parts....Chain Ring Lock Tool?....replacement Aerobar Pads?....Kevlar braided tires? He hates my business clothes, my shiny shoes, short haircut, my gut.

If he was a waiter he'd pee in my soup, he'd spit in my soda, and rub his johnson on my sandwich...but he cant so he defiles me with his eyes and annoyed attitude.

He's wondering what this weekend warrior could possibly know about real biking. Who the fuck has this kind of time to be a bike snob, when he's never pushed himself so far and hard that he wept as he peddaled. He's never been so past his limits that he's fallen to sleep while riding. He's never suffered. He just has the clothes and that stupid fucking hat.