This is my bike, the Hell Bitch. She’s named after Cal’s mare in the novel Lonesome Dove, a big, feisty filly that bit hard and popped up in the dreams of every measly cowpoke that chanced upon her. Cal wouldn’t sell her for 10 times her worth. I would probably sell the Hell Bitch for 10 times her worth, but I’d cry all the way to the bank. I bought the Hell Bitch for cheap off my friend and roommate Sam when he moved to Atlanta two years ago. She’s touts a single-speed engine, which is the ideal make of bike to own in a flat and fast city like Chicago. Single-speed bikes don’t require much upkeep, as does a bike with multiple gears, and they aren’t impractical as fuck like fixies.
Importantly, while the Hell Bitch can haul ass when she needs to, her cruising speed is generally reasonable, unless I’m racing a fellow cyclist or trying to get a workout in on the way home from the office. I very much believe that speed kills bike riders. Your reaction time is shot when you’re cranking through a six-way intersection at 30 mph. I’ve never been in an accident on the Hell Bitch. She’s also never gotten a flat tire. She’s a good bike. A beautiful bike. In Lonesome Dove, as happened in the Old West, horse thieves are hung. If somebody ever stole the Hell Bitch, I wouldn’t want them hung. But I would punch them in the dick as hard as I possibly could, hopefully so hard that something down there would explode.