Beneath this unassuming mountain bike tire lies a mysterious force.
What kind of force, you ask? I haven’t changed the tubes on my bike in over twelve years. Not a single flat tire. Not even a patch.
Some years from now, when the Pope is considering my candidacy for sainthood, this mountain bike will be Exhibit No. 1 for my second documented miracle. (The first miracle? Successfully transferring sleeping babies from minivan to crib without waking them.)
Of course, by then my mountain bike will be the stuff of legend, especially after Lady Gaga immortalizes it in her hit comeback song, “El Milagro Del Tubo.” Fathers will regale their sons with tales of how I plummeted down trails strewn with jagged glass shards and rusty nails on my way to rescue the Widow of Glass Mountain.
Mountain bikers from around the globe will make pilgrimages to Lake Forest to light candles and dip their thorny tubes in the famed healing puddles of La Casa Kennedy. A farmer in Iowa will gain notoriety by finding (and framing) the onion ring with the exact image of my tires’ tread pattern.
Naysayers may point to sketchy, unsubstantiated rumors that I rarely rode the bike over these last ten years or so, but don’t bother with all that. Remember el milagro del tubo!