This bucolic scene was the start of what was meant as a long, satisfying ride:
Fewer than three miles later, I rode over a wooden bridge, and apparently missed something crucial. Barely off the bridge, I felt a “thump, thump” that I remembered from flat tires when I was a child. Close inspection revealed a totally air-less tire, and Basil’s valve stem at a crazy angle:
It was the rear tire. Oh, drat. I’d have fixed a front tire on my own, but the rear? Basil had barely 300 miles on him, and a 6-speed BWR gear hub. No way was I going to tackle that fix on my own.
We waited for rescue by Mr. Diarist:
I couldn’t see any reason why my super Marathon tire should have deflated. I felt a bit deflated myself. As soon as we got home, I made arrangements for Basil’s 90-day check-up, and made plans to take him back to the dealer for that, and the repair.