|Click here if you want to see what I was facing at that point. (And don't worry, those aren't in dollars!)|
Now, this is definitely not a titanium-framed speedster we have on our hands. It weighs the amount of a small car, and every surface has surrendered to the elements in brown, flakey rust. Google should have translated "Retro" as "completely oxidized."
Trusty Rusty. Iron Maiden. The Rusticator. And last, but not least... Ferrous Wheels. (We really crack ourselves up.)
Finally, Jason suggested "Rustito." Although there's nothing "-ito" about this thing, the name stuck to the bike just like all the magnets within its ten-foot radius.
I've had several concerned friends and family members ask me if I'm up to date on my Tetanus shots, just in case. Let me assure you: very few souls make it through Architorture school without a T-booster. Scale-model construction inevitably leads to the savory blend of 1) hallucinatory sleep-deprivation, 2) double-digit espresso shots, and 3) frantically-wielded exacto-knives.* (The university nurse will roll her eyes as she preps the needle and correctly guesses your major.)
*(Just kidding potential employers!!! I'm as punctual as a Nazi meter-maid and never, EVER abuse stimulants. You can also stop reading this blog now.)
Ahem... So having named the bike and confirmed it wasn't going to kill me, I needed to repair Rustito's back tire. The entire internet unanimously recommended (tell me how often that happens) that I'd best sell this bike to a museum rather than track down the needed part. I ignored this benevolent rationale and instead sent my dad
Riding around town, I'm discovering that this bike might not have much of an advantage over walking. If there's any sort of incline, I immediately break out in sweat trying to lug half my weight in iron up the... curb. If there's any sort of decline, the "pedal backward and pray"-style brakes fail against Rustito's massive momentum (p = m•v, my amigos, and there's a lot of 'm').
Those of you who know me (and my beloved car, Mrs. Sputtersworth), understand that all this only makes the bike more endearing to me. I'd check it as luggage on the way home, if only it were under the 50 lb. weight limit.
Here's Rustito in his home with the other bikes. Apparently they think he suffers from bike leprosy. Or they have a healthy fear of Tetanus.
|Oh, Rustito. You and I will have many adventures together, during which I will grow the quadriceps of a Himalayan sherpa.|