The Day My Bum Went Psycho Eleanor
It started innocently enough, a normal Tuesday morning. Sunshine streaming, birds chirping, the usual routine. I had a date with Eleanor, my beloved bicycle.
Eleanor isn't just any bike. She’s a vintage beauty, a Dutch-style step-through with a wicker basket and a bell that goes "ding-dong!" She's my escape, my happy place on two wheels.
The plan was simple: a leisurely ride to the farmer's market for fresh produce. I envisioned myself, hair gently blowing in the breeze, purchasing organic strawberries.
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The Betrayal Begins
About halfway there, things took a turn. A decidedly unpleasant turn. My bum, or rather, the area where my bum meets the bike seat, started staging a revolt.
It felt… angry. Like it was staging a tiny, localised protest against Eleanor's perfectly respectable, albeit slightly worn, saddle. It was a seat I'd been using for years!
Every bump in the road sent a jolt of discomfort radiating outwards. Cobblestones, previously charming, became instruments of torture. I started imagining tiny gremlins with hammers, specifically targeting my backside.
The Negotiation Phase
Initially, I tried to reason with it. “Come on, bum,” I silently pleaded. “We're almost there. Think of the strawberries!" This, sadly, proved ineffective.
Next, I experimented with shifting my weight. Leaning slightly left, then slightly right. This only resulted in a wobbly, undignified ride that probably looked hilarious to any onlookers.
Ignoring it was my last resort. I attempted to focus on the scenery, the delightful aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from a nearby bakery. But the persistent throbbing was like a tiny, insistent drummer inside my trousers.
The Emergency Stop
Finally, I had to concede. The pain was unbearable. I pulled Eleanor over to the side of the road, defeated. My vision of a graceful arrival at the farmer's market lay shattered.
I dismounted, gingerly, and examined Eleanor's saddle. It looked perfectly innocent. Maybe even a little smug.
What was going on? Had Eleanor secretly replaced her saddle with a brick while I wasn’t looking?
A Revelation
That's when I noticed it. A tiny, almost imperceptible shift in the angle of the saddle. It had somehow tilted downwards, putting all the pressure on one very specific, very unhappy point.
With a simple adjustment – a quick tweak of the Allen wrench I thankfully carry in my repair kit – the crisis was averted. It was like a miracle.
Suddenly, the world was bright again. Birds sang sweeter songs. And my bum… well, my bum was considerably less psycho.
The Sweet Reward
I arrived at the farmer's market, a little later than planned and slightly more self-conscious than usual. But I arrived.
And yes, I bought the strawberries. The juiciest, reddest, most gloriously organic strawberries imaginable. They tasted like victory.
The moral of the story? Always carry an Allen wrench. And never underestimate the power of a well-adjusted bicycle saddle. Eleanor and I still ride together, and we live in perfect, if slightly cautious, harmony. After all, you never know when a bum might go rogue. Especially mine!
