Bikes Rides and Demon Bugs.

Since I live approximately three miles from Mt. Tabor park and hadn’t visited yet, I decided today to take my trusty 80s bicycle and explore.

I meandered through back neighborhoods to get there. Generally east was my direction, and I wasn’t in a rush. Mostly, I pointed my bike uphill and hoped that I would break a sweat. I succeeded.

I reached the mountain by way of some historic reservoirs.

This is not the Park you’re looking for.

I felt slightly lost at this point, but because I could see a small hill covered in trees instead of houses, I continued pointing my front tire uphill.

Then I found an even more historic reservoir and this lovely meadow, where I sat for a while and wrote.

This IS the Park I was looking for.

After resting in the meadow, I tried to make it to the top of the hill. I really did– but I found that riding halfway up the hill in the most difficult gear had taken its toll, and my legs, in their state of rubberification, refused to work the pedals.

I didn’t mind– I had a freaking awesome downhill ride in my very near future.

Or so I thought.

I cruised down the trail, through the parking lot, and out into the road, where I no longer had to hang on to my brakes for fear of smashing into a runner.

About a mile down the road, a sharp, nervy pain struck me, of all places, in the armpit.

I wriggled, attempting to find the source of the pain, but could not. Another stab of pain struck me, and I pulled over, inspecting the location of the discomfort. A car passed by, probably wondering to themselves what could possibly be so fascinating about my armpit.

Finding no culprit for the pain, I continued my ride, with my arm lowered to my side in an attempt to lessen the stinging. Another several blocks of riding (with no hands, like a boss) later,  and the sharp pain struck again. Choosing to ignore the super-obnoxious pain, I parked my bike in front of a new coffee shop (Albina Press) and walked inside. I placed my order, received my delicious toddy coffee, and sat down at the bar.

Then, that little twerp struck again. A pain stabbed into my shoulder, and I jumped, repressing a yelp. I grabbed my shoulder, where that butthead had finally migrated to. I felt a crawly body under my sleeve, and I applied pressure, suddenly not giving a crap that there would now be a dead bug in my shirt. Its guts spread in a dark mark on my sleeve. A small object dropped to the floor. I wanted to investigate more, but I already was drawing a few too many stares for my comfort, so I let the culprit remain unidentified.

Only I did identify him. I identified that bug as an asshole.

The only sting that I could get a non-awkward photo of.

And this is why I make an effort to go out and do something every day. Something random and stupid always, always happens to me.

Like a stupid douchey bug flying into my shirt and then stinging me because he was pissed. What an asshole.

    • rosepedaler
    • June 12th, 2012

    Great story…we must be related…sounds like my life, lol

    • Hah! Really? If this were real life I would give you a high five, but since it’s the internet… I got nothin’.
      Thank you, also. :)

    • Jacob
    • June 12th, 2012

    lol glad to know it wasn’t a tick xD

    • Oh my gosh, me too! How horrible would the world be if ticks could fly?

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