I think the bike trail is trying to warn me of something. Or distract me from certain doom. (c) 2015 J.S.Reinitz

I think the bike trail is trying to warn me of something. Or distract me from certain doom. (c) 2015 J.S.Reinitz

After two decades, my old RoadMaster mountain bike had its first major tune up.

I bought it for about $70 in the early 1990s at a department store that used to be called Venture after returning two other models that failed. After pedaling it through swamps and forests in South Carolina, islands on the Mississippi River and the prairie of the Midwest, I caught a tree branch in the rear wheel during a night ride to the store last fall. While riding on a paved road in a residential area, of all places.

Avoiding the traffic that darted past in the dark, I dragged the bike into a yard and pried out the wooden obstruction. The limb had knocked out three spokes, but I was able to make it the rest of the way home.

This spring, I took it to a professional for new rim and a formal once over. On Thursday, I walked down to pick it up and rode home. The thing fells brand new.

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