Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Adding 100 cals because I had my sandwich on a bagel instead of whole wheat. Worth it.

Later, I go to the bikeshop because my bike is ready. I call first to check. The regular assembly of annoying slends in designer bikewear stand handsomely. Some 20-something guy with a name like Chadler--or perhaps simply and more efficiently his name is Bro--disappears to fetch the bike and rolls it out. Chadler looks like a Colorado mountaintop; but the bike is a disaster. The saddle still hangs a foot off the side, attached only by the anti-theft chain; there is no seatpost; the outer front gear remains as it was when I brought it in, attached by twist-ties.

Chadler says: "There appears to be some money due to us for the repair."

I say: "There isn't any seat on it."

Even by bikeshop levels they have failed. They do appear to have replaced the brake-pads, bringing us to 33 percent compliance. A manager appears.

"Can you come back at 7?" he finally asks.

I can, I guess. I can't ride it home today in any case. No helmet.