A Message for Lance. (You know who I’m talking about. As if there’s another Lance.)
For whatever unexplainable reason, the most common call to any bike shop is one that can be answered a multitude of ways that don’t involve picking up a phone. On a recent busy Friday at the shop, the phone was ringing off the hook with seemingly endless run of the same question asked more ways than Eskimos have words for snow.
“What time do you close?”
“When do you close?”
“What are your business hours today?”
“Until what time are you open?”
“How late are you open today?”
“When do you close during the week?”
“How long are you there till?”
“You’re open from when to when?”
Then, finally, there was a call out of the blue to break up the monotony.
“Does Lance Armstrong ever come to your store?” asked a mystery caller with the urgency of someone with a ticking time bomb tied to their testicles.
“Um, excuse me?”
“Lance Armstrong. You ever seem him there?”
“Uh, um, yeah, sometimes.”
“Well you tell that mothaf*cka I’m looking for his ass and when I find him I’m gonna beat the sh*t outta ’em.”
“Uh, OK.” (To myself I asked, self: When did your place of business become a place to ferry threatening messages Junior High style?)
Then our frantic mystery caller continued.
“Earlier today I was ridin’ in the park and saw Lance Armstrong so I started pedalin’ really fast and I passed his ass going up hill. He didn’t like that so he told me to f*ck off and then he pulled out this crazy phone that wasn’t a phone and out of nowhere these black cars pulled up and run me over. I just got home. My bike’s all busted and when I see Lance Armstrong I’m gonna kick his mothaf*ckin’ ass!!!”
Lance, this guy’s hide was pretty chapped. Hopefully you’ll soon be climbing better than you were at the Tour of the Gila so you’ll be able to easily drop someone obviously off their meds and I’m not talking about Floyd Landis. When this dude gets his whip fixed you might want to watch your back.