Running with the mob

The Mob muscles into Fountain town

It was a dim but warm morning in a town that knows how to sleep. The Snowbirds were all tucked in their beds with visions of sugar free plums dancing in their heads. The sun had not got it's wakeup call and the traffic lights were shining on a drab empty world. I call it home but the pretty boys up at the Forbes rag call it America's most boring city. Evidentilly they haven't seen the seedy lowlife out there combing the mean streets. One man rides the empty streets, that's me there, Pedalin Paul, rider mediocre.

On any given Saturday a seedy group of people flying along in bright colors is out and about breeding healthy corruption in this monochromatic town of leisurely types. I'd be checking out one such group today. They're called the Brumby mob. Brumbys are a fairly tough group to grab. You have to know the right types if you know what I mean. The Coy Mistress was a little lady I had met in the spring. She really knew how to show a fella a good time if you catch my drift. She came from that beautiful town of Cannondale, but had fallen on hard times and had taken up residence in my garage. She knew the Brumbys though, and she could get me to a dark little corner in an obscure part of town where the mob could be found at 7:30 on a Saturday. To some it could be called early, not to me. A brightly colored seedy type has to slap a few alarm clocks in this town that gets the special attention of that flaming friend in the sky.

The mob runs afoul of the fiendish Mr. Flat.

The Mob had been taking a lot of heat lately from the G-Men at ADOT. It seemed the blacktop down in Bush Hwy town was getting some special attention from the boys in orange.

Without a leader the mob murmured and chattered about what to do today but it seemed folks thought we should put some heat on Fountain Town and the river green. Then Mr. Big showed up. Head Brumby, the big Baer, mon capiton, most just call him Sterling. He's the head of this mob and what he says goes usually, today he'd be seeing us out but dropping off quickly. Apparently he had some "Appointments" or some folks that needed Mr. Big's "Special" attention.

Hard times had fallen on the Brumby mob lately. It seems the cold and winter doldrums had reformed a few and reclaimed them to sleepers. The rest of us were out and riding to work Fountain town for all it was worth without attracting the terrible attention of that evil and bitter little gangster, Mr. Flat. He often waits, looking for the lone and forlorn, in a desolate and friendless place to prey upon the unwary.

Unfortunately it was not to be. He would strike on a little road we call the Beeline. It could have been bad. Fortunately a guy built like a muscle car and with a draft as big as a UPS van had a thing we like to call, Mr. Co2 cartridge and Mr. Flat fled the scene looking rather inflated. He was gone but I had a feeling we would see him again.

Our flaming friend in the sky was putting on the heat and a long sleeved fella like myself was feeling it. All the lads that had been freezin up to now had come into their own. We'd been attracting the unwanted attention of a jilted and vengeful lady for several hours. Some call her the devil, some the devils boss, some call her Mariah, me? Shes the headwind, the evil twin sister of our fair lady tailwind, patron saint of cyclists. Where madam Headwind blows though, her sister is not far behind.

When we turned to head back to Fountain town, our fair lady tailwind pushed the mob at a healthy 30mph most of the way. Things were looking good, folks were feeling spunky, all was well with the world when it happened. Out of nowhere, like a gunshot that splits the morning silence Mr. Flat had returned. Returned with a vengeance. Not happy with his former exploits he must have been in collusion with the jilted lady headwind as he literally blew out one of the tires. Mr. Flat enjoys these things as they more often than not mean he did his job too well, and he caused multiple holes in somebodies tube. Mr. Co2 wasn't going to do it this time. I was hoping I wasn't going to have to yank our Mr. Pump but fortunately Mr. C02 had some friends.

Pedalin Paul, Mediocre cyclist.

Mr. Flat eyed me warily, with a look that made me a little uneasy. He knew something. I tried to remember what I could have done to attract the attention of Mr. Flat, then I saw it. I got that sinking feeling like the titanic dropping into my stomache. I'd left my bag of goodies on Mr. Commuter. The Coy Mistress had Mr. Pump but Mr. Pump isn't a whole lot of good without his friends little boy patch, and Timmy tube. I'd have to stay with the mob or Mr. Flat would get me for sure. Fortunately the mob was missing a member I'll just call Mr. Fast. Mr. Fast's henchmen "leepin Loren" was with us today but he had already been out with Mr. Fast and worn himself out. We'd beat Mr. Flat yet.

Back in Mesa town I got to lead the Mob east. I'd been a bit of a wheel sucker most of the morning owing to a bit too much of a good time at the Phoenix Mountains yesterday if you know what I mean. Ms. Headwind was back and shrieking at us in her fury. She didn't like bright types mocking the sugar free plums in the snowbirds heads, and she most definitely didn't like speedy types that fly in the face of Mr. Flat. Soon the mob would break apart though. Not because of bitter little people like Mr. Flat and Ms. Headwind though.

I decided I drop into the local joint for a nibble on something warm and filling. It was a nice little place on the side of the road where a fella could sit and ponder the seedy actions of a brightly colored menagerie of bikin' types and their exploits. I'd done 80 miles, 60 of them with the mob. A fella can lean into a supreme breakfast burrito with satisfaction on a day like today after having dealt with the villainous enemies of the cycling club and all they had to offer. I'm sure Mr. Flat and Ms. Headwind would be back someday though. Probably at the worst time too.

A seedy little burger joint on the side of the road.