Billy Molinowski and Marty the Dream Bike (A True Story)
Billy Molinowski was not exactly a born cyclist. His true calling was to be a douche bag/professional duck caller-player in a jazz quartet. But that’s a different story altogether.
What strange twist of fate precipitated this young man headlong into the world of cycling?, one might ask. Was it a last-ditch shot at rebellion, as previously attempted at an early age by his constant pilfering of handheld video poker games? This is a dubious claim, as young Billy, by his own admission, lacked the necessary fortitude to jump kick his captor’s face running down Hellman Avenue that sunny afternoon, instead deferring to his own true, decent nature and submitting to citizen’s arrest, (and somewhat deferring to his maladroit grasp of tae kwon do).
Maybe, then, it was a newly found philanthropic side of Billy that prompted him to take up the bike—an attempt to pay homage to all living things, great and small, by doing his damnedest to curb air pollution. Those who know Billy and are Irish would concur: Aye, he is benevolent, and disturbingly fond of saying, “What good is a world without pure oxygen and plentiful fluffy koala bears? My love is aromatic and boundless!” (Direct quote.)
Whatever the reason, he knew he must possess a bicycle. It was a dangerous journey into an unknown place—a tempting realm full of bike celebrities, money, glitter and radioactive llamas. Not for the weak or fearful.
Billy’s first introduction to cycling was harsh. One sunny morning in urban northern California, Billy walked into a bicycle shop, intent on procuring one of these two-wheeled trophies of human engineering. The scene went something like this:
“Hello, good sir, I would like to buy a bicycle.”
“Get out of my store, douche bag.”
“Okay.”
You see, Billy had committed the grave faux pas of not knowing anything whatsoever about bikes, a prerequisite for entry into the realm of cycling. With that rueful day annexed to his memory like a surly, piggyback-riding midget, Billy vowed first to learn all there was to learn about bikes before actually purchasing a bike.
And he did. He learned it all. Terms like fixie, century, and bike became denizens of his everyday vocabulary. He practiced their usage for months with Steven Seagal-like discipline. Often he would string them together in an intimidating fashion, such as “I would like to ride in a century on my fixie bike”; or, “Your bike is outdated by about a century. You should get a fixie.” With this mastery of cycling terminology under his belt, he was ready.
He strode into that very same shop one year later to the day.
“Hello, sir. I would like to buy a bike,” spoke Billy.
“A bike, you say, son?” The shop’s proprietor wore a cape and top hat, and, in the spirit of all things bike-component, sported a wicked handlebar moustache. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”
“Yes, sir.” Billy did. “And I would like it to be a fixie.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, come into my secret lair and peruse my magical bike cave full of fixies.”
“Dude, hell yeah.”
“There is a catch!” screamed the proprietor, honking a bike horn in his face. “You must guess the password to open my cave in one try and one only. Think long and hard on this, my son; failure to guess properly will render you eternally ostracized from the world of cycling, while success means you must bear the heavy onus of being a cyclist … forever!”
Billy thought long and hard.
“Well, son?”
“Century.”
With a slow creek the dimly lit bike cave opened revealing a seemingly endless hall of glittering, perfectly constructed road bikes, fixed gear bikes, and bunches of other kinds, too. Had Billy entered cycling Elysium?, he wondered. Could he pick any bike he wanted?
“You may pick any bike you want, Billy.”
“Sweeeeeeeet.”
“Under one condition!”
“What’s that?
“You must battle my radioactive llamas!”
“Oh, shit.”
The roof of the cave was suddenly illuminated with a yellowish red glow, revealing scores of upside down-hanging, radioactive llamas with bird wings, hissing at Billy and cursing in Esperanto. Billy looked desperately back toward the proprietor of the bike shop, who returned his inquiry with a shrug of the shoulders and a facial expression that seemed only to say, Hey man, those are the rules, sorry.
Quickly Billy scouted his surroundings. Immediately catching his eye was a glittering masterpiece of cycling hanging high on a nearby wall. Engraved into its frame were the words
With a bike like this, Billy might have a chance. The llamas were getting angrier and more radioactive by the second, and the proprietor could see Billy lustfully eyeing He sneered.
“You’ll never make it out of here alive, let alone with Don’t you see the radioactive llamas, fool? Plus, all my bikes are secured with U-LOCKS!!!”
Calmly, assuredly, Billy removed from his breast pocket the time-tested weapon of every bicycle thief and crossword wannabe the world had ever known: a Bic pen.
With a savage bite, Billy tore the inkwell from the pen’s body, leaving only the hollow shaft in tact. With perfect precision he then spit the inkwell into the proprietor’s left eye, blinding him entirely. Luckily for Billy, the proprietor had already lost use of his right eye in a borderline-sexual weed whacker accident years ago.
With his antagonist now out of the equation, Billy leapt toward the wall whereupon was mounted His quick, cat-like movement instigated a reciprocal full-on llama assault, sending them flying directly toward him. It looked like the Main Street Electrical Parade looks on acid, or, in other words, like flying radioactive llamas.
Cramming the pen shaft into the U-Lock, Billy easily overcame the security device and hoisted off the wall onto the floor of the bike cave. With the radioactive llamas in hot pursuit, Billy and took off like a rocket ship with a cowboy hat-wearing dinosaur on it, which is somehow to say, pretty god damn fast.
The last thing the proprietor heard before he died was Billy’s condescending tone fading in the distance: “Bitch, don’t you know my friend’s ex-boyfriend’s lesbian mom’s ex-husband invented those locks or something! Suckaaaa!”
No, Billy Molinowski was not a born cyclist. He was a born douche bag/professional duck-caller player in a jazz quartet. But, sometimes, even douche bag/duck-caller players must experience a victory or two, which is something I think we can all agree on.