What don’t you want to see when you stop for a coke and a Mars bar at the furthest point from home on a 130km (80mi) ride?
Two bloody great cuts in my back tyre.
I carry 2 spare tubes and a patch kit (hi Al), but the size of these cuts and their proximity to each other made me very nervous. If they joined forces to punish me for some unrighted wrong, I doubt I would be able to sleeve the hole well enough to get home.
And there’s only one person who hates the "call of shame" more than me. You may refer to her as Mrs BIg Mike. And when my misfortune messes with her carefully planned schedule you don’t want to be anywhere near her – or me.
Fortunately, I remembered enough of what I have learned during 16 years of dedicated husbanditude. So in the interests of self-preservation I invoked my super-powers and rode home very gently without exerting any pressure on the back tyre.
Alas, it burst – forcing me to walk the final 50 metres home. I’m getting a shirt printed declaring myself the luckiest bastard alive.
“Luck is believing you’re lucky.” – Tennessee Williams