Tales of a cyclist: Part 6 - The Flintstone race

It was a chilly Tuesday morning in March, the sun was still yet to rise but I could see a glimmer of light in the distance. The ride to work was mostly uneventful except for the discovery of some movement in my pedals. I was immediately able to diagnose the issue, I had seen it many times before. My bottom bracket was knackered. It had been the only piece that I was yet to replace after the squeaking saga.

I knew that I could cycle it home but probably shouldn't go any further for risk of damaging the crank set. So I made preparations to get it fixed that evening.

Just so you know, I am completely lost without my bike, so when something breaks I have to get it fixed post-haste otherwise I am relegated to becoming a 'bus wanker'.

Now because I don't get home till around 5 and I obviously didn't have the part, the only place that was still open that could fix it was Halfords. This would not have been my first choice but needs must. I perused their wares whilst they tinkered with my bike, eventually they managed to swap out the offending part. I settled up and went on my merry way.

The next morning I felt elated, I had been truly blessed by the Gods. After all this time I had been freed from the prison that the eternal infernal squeak had incarcerated me in. I would never say another bad word about Halfords again, they were my saviours...well until that evening.

My ride home started delightfully, the sun was setting behind me casting a beautiful red hue across the vast expanse of sky. The lights ahead turned red, I filtered between the two lanes of cars and came to a stop in the cycle box. Suddenly another cyclist, a person in his mid forties carrying a little extra weight, on what looked to be an oversized brompton, stopped directly in front of me. How dare he! Did he think he was faster than me, did he not realise that this was completely against cycling etiquette, did he have no respect for the code? Alright pal, it's on!

The dude shot off like a rocket. How was this even possible? He was using an old granny bike. He made it look effortless, his legs barely moving. I fought back, upping my cadence, struggling to keep up.

As we approached the uphill section of my commute I knew that this was my chance, my bike was lighter and I was younger and fitter. I kicked harder edging ever closer, as I approached his back wheel I pulled out to overtake. That is when I noticed it, the unmistakable whizzing sound of an electric motor. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, thank god, he wasn't better he was just cheating.

However it appears that he was no longer an unwitting contestant in my imaginary race, he had progressed to full blown participant and was not going to take this laying down. He pushed the electric bike equivalent of NOS and sped up. At this point I should have conceded but I just couldn't force myself to, after all he had broken the rules.

We jockeyed for position like this for the next mile, until the inevitable happened. My smooth cyclical stroke action turned into what I can only describe as a horrendous janky motion. I looked down toward my feet and noticed my left crank arm had made its way loose and was now teetering on the edge of complete dismemberment. I was going so fast that the forward momentum of my right leg produced one last turn of the pedals, the crank flew off and landed with a crash. Both feet astride the bike I was now Flintstoning down the road.

Now I wish I could say that I won the race like this but that would be a blatant lie. What I can say is that the dude was a poor winner, he zoomed off down the road laughing and shouting "See you later sucker" at the top of his voice.

That night a few choice words were said about the service I had received from Halfords, mainly regarding the inept mechanics who had failed to test that the bolts were tightened sufficiently. In hindsight I should have known and checked it all myself.