A whirlwind weekend.

So some useless background information. If you read my very first post, you’ll get the little tidbit that I started off with a GT Aggressor mountain bike, but was pressed into road bike service by a group of friends. The minor details of my transition were ignored as they seemed, at the time, irrelevant. As one learns in life, however, minor details have an insidious way of creeping up from the past to spring upon you at some unknown later date.

In this case, it was the simple fact that I sold the GT to put money toward the road bike. Superfluous detail. Best left unwritten. Yes.

So a few days ago, these same friends that encouraged my transition to road biking and “getting rid of that old jalopy” suddenly had the brilliant idea that we exchange our usual Saturday road ride for … a mountain biking ride. Of course. So I bow out, citing that I had no mountain bike with which to ride. Boooooooooo.

So Friday we hear that the Big Giant Hiking Hunting Boating Kyaking Bungeejumping Cycling Running Walking Shooting Someone in the Asshole with a Dart Gun Outdoor Lifestyle Box Store is having their huge “one weekend only” sale. We decide to go during our lunch hour to get the usual cycling gear – I’m excited because, at that time, I owned one jersey and one pair of cycling shorts.

We get to the BGHHBKBCRWSSADGOLBS and, I tell you gentle friends and readers, from the look of the parking lot you would swear they were giving away gold doubloons upon entry. The parking lot was not only full, people were making up their own parking spots. Some people, exasperated with the effort of the search, would just stop wherever they were in the lot, throw the car into “Park,” ratchet the e-brake, and call it a day. I saw this happen twice.

I parked four lots away at a machining shop with public parking, and hoofed it to the BGHHBKBCRWSSADGOLBS. My mind was tittering with the irony that the people so desperately trying to minimize the exercise and outdoor exposure required to get into the store were buying … exercise and outdoor exposure gear.

Once in the store, I am disappointed that there are no doubloons, however there are great many things on sale. I immediately scoop up some jerseys and shorts. It’s precisely then, when I’ve already given into the urge of the spend, that I am at my most vulnerable. Nearly any purchase can be internally justified at this point, and I am easy prey to any object-predator clever enough to throw itself down in front of my path.

Like this mountain bike, for instance. I was ambushed. Happily strolling toward the check-out line, whistling the refrain from “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” a pack of bright and exciting new mountain bikes closed in on me and tore my resolve to pieces. Before I knew what was happening, I was talking to a salesperson, telling her my plight of being left out of the Saturday ride, and was being told of the benefits of a good front suspension.

I soon find myself looking at an entry-level hardtail whose only gimmick is a set of disc breaks. Disc breaks strike me as being some super-cool new thing that I wish my GT had, so I’m pretty much sold. Due to the “one weekend only” sale, the bike is reasonable, for sure, and next to it is it’s step-down buddy that’s even MORE reasonable. Both are my size. It’s $350 vs. $250 so I’m thinking, spend the extra hundred, get the better bike.

I decide to think about it. I get some lunch, do a little internet reality checking, and find that the bike is legit and the deal is good. I talk to Mrs. Johnny, who informs me that, if I’m actually going to be riding with The Gang, why not get it? I hear the little voice in my head, that of Glinda, the Good Witch of the Conscience, urging me “Visit your LBS … your LBS … your LBS …”

OK OK. I go to the LBS. The Jersey Girl I dealt with and liked before isn’t there, so I’m talking with another guy who promptly tells me that I don’t want to spend $350 on a bike. I want to spend $500. At the very least. Probably closer to $600. Grrrr.

So back to the BGHHBKBCRWSSADGOLBS. The bike is still there, and I’m pretty happy. And hey … his step-down buddy is still there too. $250. Step-down buddy also has disc breaks. Huh. The manufacturer’s web site didn’t say nuffin ‘bout dat. What’s more, Step-down buddy’s breaks are Tektro, while the more expensive one has no-names. Step-down buddy has full Shimano Deore components, right down to the shifters compared to the other’s budget SRAM components. WTF.

It’s then, and only then, that I realize this: The price tag is for the step-down buddy. The actual bike? It’s the step-UP buddy. With the sudden welling feeling of internal conflict, I go through the Seven Steps of Slightly Malevolent Purchasing:

Step One – Surprise: “Holy crap! I can’t believe they screwed this up!”

Step Two – Recognition of opportunity: “Woah … and it’s JUST MY SIZE!”

Step Three – Scheming: “If I can find a way to get this thing purchased without anyone realizing …”

Step Four – Doubt: “Aw, I’ll never pull it off. Someone’s bound to notice this and I’m screwed. I’ll never amount to anything.”

Step Five – Guilt: “I really shouldn’t do this. This is bad. I should just tell someone that they mis-marked this. I should call my family more often. I’m a bad person and need to take myself far, far away from everyone.”

Step Six – Anger: “Heeeeey … this is a freakin’ Box Store. Screw ‘em.”

Step Seven – Resolution: “Well, it’s a helluva deal. Let’s give it a try.”

That began the agonizing fifty minutes of purchase. Twenty to finally successfully page someone to help me, twenty minutes of them fetching the paperwork (“I seem to be having trouble tracking down the paperwork for this thing …”) and doing “a pre-purchase tune up,” and ten minutes of standing with the evidence-cum-bicycle in line while suffering through innumerable outbursts of fellow patrons:

“WOW! Is that bike REALLY two-fifty?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s … a really big one weekend sale.”

“Do they got any more?”

“Uh … maybe?”

Finally, I’m out the door with the bike. Success! I hustled to my car, tossed the swag into the back, and threw myself into the driver’s seat, cackling like a madman. I had pulled it off!!

The next day, we rode 12 miles of fun trail. I discovered that mountain biking hills are fundamentally different than road bike hills. On the second biggie, my front wheel started coming up, so of course I pushed it down, which took weight off the back wheel and made me slip, so of course I pedaled harder, which brought the front wheel up more. Uuugh.

Karma had caught up with me: The front wheel finally rose enough that both the bike and myself tipped over backwards and your friend and humble narrator went down on his can on a pile of rocks. Of course, when the left hand planted to heave myself back up, it went into a pricker-bush. Three days later I’m still extracting burrs from my fingers. But no matter: A splendid time was had and I’m gooey with the prospect of going back for more trail riding next weekend.

Oh, yeah, and the next day we road-biked from San Juan Capistrano in Orange County to Solana Beach in San Diego. It was my second half-century in as many weeks. My main goal was to complete the 50.1 mile ride in under three hours.

My time? 02:59:58.

I kid you not.