One fine night in Baltimore, I went out to the bar. When I am out in the city, I sometimes lock the front wheel to the rear wheel and the frame with my U-lock. On this night, I must have lost my wrench in the bar. I realized this, but being fairly inebriated, determined that finger tight on the front bolts would have to be good enough. A lesson was to be learned.

I made it almost all two miles to a friend’s house. On his block, I hit the smallest of small cracks in the road. My front wheel hoped out and I ate sh*t. I ended up cutting my lip open, and breaking my nose. I hobbled up the street with my bike. My friends came running to meet me in the driveway. They go "Noah! The neighbors just called and said someone was bleeding on our front steps." Apparently I said something like "don't worry guys, it’s bloodier then it looks." We were supposed to go to a party which i profusely claimed we should still go to still not aware of my condition. Instead, they said "shut up, we are going to the hospital" where the doctors and nurses proceeded to make fun of me. It was cool though cause then they put me on morphine.

I never cleaned the blood off the bike. About two months later, my bike was stolen in DC. While filling out the police report, the officer asked if I knew the serial number to which I responded “no, but my blood is all over it.” So if any of you people see an old Nishiki fixed with blood on it, its mine.