Air ain't cheap
Yeah, I'm back. I missed you too.
Yesterday I decided that it was time again to try to
coax some conditioning into my aging and complaining body. I get a decent amount of exercise for my upper body by paddling my kayak up and down the intracoastal waterway, but the legs are just along for the ride when I do. A paraplegic could do it.
I decided to drag my bike out of the garage and go for a ride. In my brief pre-ride inspection I discovered that the tires were a bit soft. Not flat, but not up to anything close to the right pressure. I'd need some inflation.
My old air tank, a left over from my autocross days, was empty. And my portable air compressor had been lent to my stepdaughter a couple weeks before to keep her slowly deflating tire from giving her another excuse to stay the night with some boyfriend. She was probably asleep, hopefully alone, in her apartment over the garage, and it being morning, she was hours away from being awake enough for me to get the keys to her car and retrieving the compressor.
I tested the tires by sitting on the bike and determined that there was enough air to get me to the nearest filling station with an air pump. It's only about a mile away. Certainly even with the challenge of supporting my not inconsiderable weight, the bike should make it.
I even had the foresight to remember that this particular station had an air pump that required the seemingly ungodly amount of 50 cents to dispense the few breaths of air I needed. I had the presence of mind, this time, to stop by my change jar to take two quarters to feed the machine. Enough to fill the tires of two monster trucks let alone my puny little mountain bike.
Off I went huffing and puffing, certain that the lack of air in my tires was giving me an even better cardio workout.
Upon arriving at the station I was faced with an air pump machine that had only days before allowed me to pump up my van's low rear tire. But this time it had a sign taped to the face saying it was out of service.
Swell. Now what? My choices were many. I could turn around and go home where I could blame my stepdaughter for aborting my workout and shortening my lifespan. I could ride with impunity and figure the tires had gotten me this far, they could get me home. I could seek out solace in a bar somewhere, but it was 9am. I could find the next closest air pump. I chose the last.
Of course, instead of going south to the closest gas station I chose to go north to a station at Hallandale Blvd. and Federal Highway. This was in the general direction I had intended to follow on my ride, so it seemed logical to stick close to the program. It was only another mile.
When I got there, I was faced with an unexpected development. Their air pump had been marked up to 75 cents. I had my two quarters and in fact also had my wallet. Even though I couldn't make exact change, I could get the necessary change. I just didn't want to. I was already indignant from the start that I would have to pay 50 cents for the two breaths of air necessary to inflate my tires. Now being asked to pay 75 cents just irked me even more.
Surely the station across the street wouldn't be so greedy as to also be charging 75 freaking cents for air, that invisible substance that comes free to everyone that walks, crawls or lays in a coma (most of them at least).
But no! They too had the greedy air pump that demanded 75 cents. What the hell? I've never seen such greed. I know for a fact that there's a gas station on Young Circle in Hollywood that is free. But it's a good two miles south, which means a minimum of four miles home, more than I had set out to do. But I'm still not willing to pay 75 cents for a breath of air.
We must stand up for what we believe in. 75 cents for the 2 minutes or less of electricity that they give you to pump up your tires is just insane. By my crude calculations, the electricity is costing them pennies. The machine itself is probably paid for in a matter of days, so the 75 cents is mostly profit. Don't they make enough off the $3 gasoline they sell?
Okay, so now I set off for the next gas station, only 2 blocks away. There too, to my dismay, they also have a shiny new pump asking for 75 cents. At this point I should have given in. But I apparently have suffered from terminal stubbornness. I also don't know of another station close by, at least in the direction of home, and I don't trust any others to have not caved into this conspiracy to rob innocent travelers of their hard earned quarters.
So I turn for home, glad that so far my tire rim hasn't been hitting the pavement. My progress is slowed by a headwind that seems determined to stop me. Didn't I face a headwind when heading the opposite direction? Am I smelling a cosmic conspiracy here?
Later after collapsing in the family room, drenched in sweat, I stuck my hand in my pocket, not searching but nevertheless expecting to find my two quarters. Instead I came up empty with the sudden realization that I had on my favorite comfortable shorts, the ones that had been comfortable for so long that they had developed a hole in the pocket. Somewhere along the ride, I had lost my two quarters. I had paid 50 cents and didn't get even one puff of air in my tires.
My screams of anguish should have woken the dead. As it was, I kept it to myself. I was exhausted.
Grog
Yesterday I decided that it was time again to try to
coax some conditioning into my aging and complaining body. I get a decent amount of exercise for my upper body by paddling my kayak up and down the intracoastal waterway, but the legs are just along for the ride when I do. A paraplegic could do it.
I decided to drag my bike out of the garage and go for a ride. In my brief pre-ride inspection I discovered that the tires were a bit soft. Not flat, but not up to anything close to the right pressure. I'd need some inflation.
My old air tank, a left over from my autocross days, was empty. And my portable air compressor had been lent to my stepdaughter a couple weeks before to keep her slowly deflating tire from giving her another excuse to stay the night with some boyfriend. She was probably asleep, hopefully alone, in her apartment over the garage, and it being morning, she was hours away from being awake enough for me to get the keys to her car and retrieving the compressor.
I tested the tires by sitting on the bike and determined that there was enough air to get me to the nearest filling station with an air pump. It's only about a mile away. Certainly even with the challenge of supporting my not inconsiderable weight, the bike should make it.
I even had the foresight to remember that this particular station had an air pump that required the seemingly ungodly amount of 50 cents to dispense the few breaths of air I needed. I had the presence of mind, this time, to stop by my change jar to take two quarters to feed the machine. Enough to fill the tires of two monster trucks let alone my puny little mountain bike.
Off I went huffing and puffing, certain that the lack of air in my tires was giving me an even better cardio workout.
Upon arriving at the station I was faced with an air pump machine that had only days before allowed me to pump up my van's low rear tire. But this time it had a sign taped to the face saying it was out of service.
Swell. Now what? My choices were many. I could turn around and go home where I could blame my stepdaughter for aborting my workout and shortening my lifespan. I could ride with impunity and figure the tires had gotten me this far, they could get me home. I could seek out solace in a bar somewhere, but it was 9am. I could find the next closest air pump. I chose the last.
Of course, instead of going south to the closest gas station I chose to go north to a station at Hallandale Blvd. and Federal Highway. This was in the general direction I had intended to follow on my ride, so it seemed logical to stick close to the program. It was only another mile.
When I got there, I was faced with an unexpected development. Their air pump had been marked up to 75 cents. I had my two quarters and in fact also had my wallet. Even though I couldn't make exact change, I could get the necessary change. I just didn't want to. I was already indignant from the start that I would have to pay 50 cents for the two breaths of air necessary to inflate my tires. Now being asked to pay 75 cents just irked me even more.
Surely the station across the street wouldn't be so greedy as to also be charging 75 freaking cents for air, that invisible substance that comes free to everyone that walks, crawls or lays in a coma (most of them at least).
But no! They too had the greedy air pump that demanded 75 cents. What the hell? I've never seen such greed. I know for a fact that there's a gas station on Young Circle in Hollywood that is free. But it's a good two miles south, which means a minimum of four miles home, more than I had set out to do. But I'm still not willing to pay 75 cents for a breath of air.
We must stand up for what we believe in. 75 cents for the 2 minutes or less of electricity that they give you to pump up your tires is just insane. By my crude calculations, the electricity is costing them pennies. The machine itself is probably paid for in a matter of days, so the 75 cents is mostly profit. Don't they make enough off the $3 gasoline they sell?
Okay, so now I set off for the next gas station, only 2 blocks away. There too, to my dismay, they also have a shiny new pump asking for 75 cents. At this point I should have given in. But I apparently have suffered from terminal stubbornness. I also don't know of another station close by, at least in the direction of home, and I don't trust any others to have not caved into this conspiracy to rob innocent travelers of their hard earned quarters.
So I turn for home, glad that so far my tire rim hasn't been hitting the pavement. My progress is slowed by a headwind that seems determined to stop me. Didn't I face a headwind when heading the opposite direction? Am I smelling a cosmic conspiracy here?
Later after collapsing in the family room, drenched in sweat, I stuck my hand in my pocket, not searching but nevertheless expecting to find my two quarters. Instead I came up empty with the sudden realization that I had on my favorite comfortable shorts, the ones that had been comfortable for so long that they had developed a hole in the pocket. Somewhere along the ride, I had lost my two quarters. I had paid 50 cents and didn't get even one puff of air in my tires.
My screams of anguish should have woken the dead. As it was, I kept it to myself. I was exhausted.
Grog
posted by Grog @ 1:19 PM
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