I woke up this morning and with the usual rigamarole got ready to seize the day. Carpe Diem and a load of dirty clothes I went out to the laundry room, that's when I saw it. The letter--written very neat and tidily, scroll-like, on a sheet of blue-paper shop towel. The black ink looked and smelled like a mix of WD-40 and old chain grease.
It said simply:
Dear Jerry,
I'm leaving you. Learn some history so the next bike you pedal can have some respect for her rider and won't mind so much a sweaty ass on her seat.
Best of luck,
Bike
Holy crap! My bike is gone and wasn't stolen...she just...left me. Is it crazier to think my bike just left me under her own free will, or that I am actually going to heed her advice left on a paper towel scrawled in old chain grease?
I've got to learn some history...
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