I was hurled off my bike at 100km/h. For a few split seconds, I was airborne. They said that in a situation like that, you would see your life flash before your eyes. You see yourself in kindergarten and in high school; you see yourself getting your first kiss, your first beating and you see yourself stupidly running over that rock in the middle of the highway.
It would be the longest flight of your life, but that could not have been further away from the truth. I wish it was, but in the middle of my stupidity propelled flight, all I could think about was, “Damn, my bike's going to be fucked.”
And fucked it was. Under the numerous blaring headlights of pissed off drivers, I pushed my bike to the side to examine the damage. My head slid on the floor, my shirt was torn, my jeans were torn and the backpack I was carrying broke, but beyond a few abrasions, I was miraculously unhurt. The same, however, could not be said about my bike which looked like it had just suffered the worst beat down of its life. Except for its internals, everything was just a whirlwind of a shitfest.
I am those poor, struggling writer types and cannot afford repairs at a fancy nancy “motorcycle shop”. The only thing I was financially capable of was to buy second hand parts and fix everything myself. So, I scoured the online forums, craiglist and scrapyyards. At first, I was just looking for a reasonable deal, but as time passed, I started feeling cheated if I did not rip a guy off. Like war, being a conman was a drug.