The King of Fluke Bicycle Breakage strikes again.

After a brisk ride last Friday morning, I pedaled into work at noon, only to be informed an hour or so later that my bicycle (parked as usual out in front of the pub) had a flat rear tire.

Fearing that for the remainder of the afternoon there’d be a steady stream of customers issuing well-intentioned reminders of the mishap, I attached a note to it, reading “another victim of institutional troglodyte sabotage.”

That did the trick. Instead of informing me that the tire was flat, they all asked what “troglodyte” means.

A caveman.

None of it was much of a hardship; I had to stay until after dark, anyway, and already had planned to throw the bike in the back of my pickup truck and drive home.

On Saturday morning, I removed the rear tire and got to the tube, and discovered that there was a tiny hole at the base of the valve stem.

Into the trash it went.

My reserve tube was inserted, and I began pumping … and there already was a hole in it, which I repaired, and started to pump again … and another pinprick opened up. Unsure whether it was bad luck or dry rot, I observed how threadbare my rear tire had become, and resolved to visit Clarksville Schwinn and buy a new tire and a couple of tubes.

It also provided a chance to get a new seat post, my previous one having sheared off two weeks ago, leaving me traveling down the road without a seat in the short term, and forcing me borrow Diana’s for use since.

At the bike shop, with the tire replacement underway, I showed Bob the two halves of the seat post. He is a profoundly calm and undemonstrative man, but in this instance both eyebrows were simultaneously raised (tantamount to screaming and kicking coming from any other person) as he said, “I’ve never seen that happen – ever.”

That’s me – the King of Fluke Bicycle Breakage.

When all was said and done (and $59 poorer), I returned home, got the tire back on, and rode back and forth to work Saturday and Sunday.

This morning, running a bit late and hearing the train whistles from the north, I hurried down 13th to Ekin, turned right, and crossed Vincennes. Picking up speed on the east side of the four-way at Ekin and Silver, suddenly I heard a loud “pop” and an evil “hiss,” and knew immediately that I had another rear tire flat.


Glancing down, I could see metal in the tread. It was warm and sunny today, so all that was needed was a place to sit and work; I walked the bike up to the church at the corner of Indiana and Shelby, started to remove the tire, and noticed a sickening sight: A three-inch nail that penetrated the tread and emerged from the sidewall, effectively ruining the brand new tire … and rendering repair impossible.

With work beckoning, I cursed, but in truth quick decisions are easy when there’s no choice, so I chained the bike to the railing by the church entrance, removed my valuables and set out for home on foot to get the truck, reasoning that all would be set right on Tuesday morning.

A block west, then a block south, then again, and pretty soon I was on Elm Street heading toward Vincennes, which I crossed, and then the train – the whistles had never stopped the entire time I’d been away from the house – finally moved slowly across Elm, heading south toward the river.

At 15th, I swung left and walked with the slowly ambling train until I got to Spring, then stopped at the northeast corner. I looked at my phone to check the time, then started counting the identical double-decker auto transport rail cars going past at a rate of speed of 5 to 10 mph.

When the end of the train came into sight and was added to the tally, I was up to 75.

Twenty minutes in, with traffic backed up probably to Silver Street and only six rail cars to go, the train halted completely, blocking both Spring and Elm, so I retraced my steps north, turned the corner onto Elm as the train again began moving, and completed the homeward journey.

Fortunately, the bike was where I left it. Tomorrow morning, I’ll proceed back to Clarksville Schwinn and, yes, buy another brand new tire.