"Do You Have Any Idea Who I Am???"

It was a beautiful, warm, clear autumn morning after two days of rain, and so I headed out for an easy spin to Central Park astride my Milwaukee:

As you can see, it's still sporting the cheap and not terribly comfortable plastic saddle I threw on there for a rainy race some months back.  Also, I've got strap-on fenders instead of proper ones, and the state of my handlebar tape is nothing short of disgraceful:

Hey, whaddya want?  Given my sundry life responsibilities it's either fix the thing or ride it, and until something falls off of it I'm going to opt for the latter.

Anyway, once I'd dispatched the kids to their various institutions I rolled on down to Central Park, where they're still breaking down all the equipment from the marathon this past Sunday.  Then I headed toward home to resume the fulfillment of my aforementioned responsibilities, whereupon I encountered two velocipedists stopped at the side of the path.  One had incurred a flat tire, the other had happened along and stopped to assist him, and neither had the full complement of tools to rectify the situation.

Like a surgeon preparing his instruments I unfurled my tool roll and got to work, and within minutes I had the unfortunate cyclist ready to resume his ride to work.  He was profuse in his gratitude, which I accepted with deep humility, though as I resumed my own ride I reflected deeply on what a wonderful person I am.

Of course, having given a stranger my spare tube (did I mention I'm a wonderful person?), I now needed to re-stock my own stores, and so I popped into a nearby bike shop.  A staff member greeted me and wheeled my bike into a rack, and in the process of doing so applied downward pressure on the bicycle and made the following announcement:

"You need more air in your tires."

I was stunned.  That anyone might insinuate--much less declare outright--that I, the world's greatest living cycling writer, was running either more or less than the precise optimal amount of pressure in my tires was audacity of the worst kind.  I felt like Jeff Bezos would if the Hyundai salesperson said, "I'd love to sell you this Elantra, but we're gonna have to run a credit check first."  Reeling, I searched my brain for the correct response.  Do I ignore the remark?  Do I make light of the situation?  Do I walk out without saying a thing and then return a week later with the complete works of Jan Heine?  After some deliberation I opted for #2, though sarcasm can be a tricky note to strike with a stranger and I'm sure I just came off like a douchebag.

Anyway, once I had my tubes I embarked upon the final leg of my journey homeward.  If you're wondering what pressure I was in fact running I'll never tell, but I can assure you I curated it expertly, taking into account the width of my tires, the road conditions (particularly the preponderance of wet leaves), the ambient temperature, and what I'd had for breakfast that morning.

Now if you'll excuse me I have to order some back issues of Bicycle Quarterly to send to the bike shop.