Not one, but two flats.
8:30 am Sashimi got a flat and so dropped back. By that point, I fortunately caught up with the rest of the group…and stopped sulking in my own whatamidoing way. We floated through SFO, a route that I had only driven or been driven. The air was electric and I returned to my chatty self with another coworker. When…I heard a flapping sound…a flat!, my coworker said.
I don’t have tools, I said. He looked through the tire and found a wire sticking through the rubber. I found my extra tube that I had buried in my bag. Then we stood there lamely, against a fenced parking lot—the early morning sun brushing against our faces. Sashimi came after fixing his flat and I sent a txt to the rest of the group alerting them that we were fixing flats.
It was surreal standing in the middle of the street next to SFO. Airplanes passed above and I could feel the electricity. And I was feeling about the ride. An airport police car drove past the three of us with his window rolled down, “Do you need any help?”
No, we said as my tube was pumped up.
I hopped back on and to my surprise, I found the group waiting for us at the light, eating breakfast.
8:40 am Then it happened again. I looked down, a flat on the same tire. I got off…and this time with the entire group stopped, I stood back and watched. My obnoxious side bubbled to the top, now that I felt comfortable and less irritated with the morning. It was better now. Especially with the declaration that we would never make to HQ by 11 am.