The Reeves Theory of Automotive Twiddledicketry

Working on Saturday is like a used Snickers bar at customer service- No redeeming value.

Working on Saturday when it's absolutely beautiful outside is like grounding yourself for getting grounded- nonsensical voluntary punishment.

So after working all day inside Saturday, I couldn't wait to get out and take a bike ride. I saddled up, donning the requisite black spandex shorts, and, on this occasion, a black shirt. I know you're supposed to wear synthetic, flamboyantly hued biking jerseys, but I prefer the touch, the feel of cotton.

At about 5:30 pm I set out on a new route, west into the small country that is Ft. Hood. The road was smooth and the traffic was sparse. The 80 beautiful degrees in the air made the first 15 miles zoom by.

Rounding a gentle right hander, I received some handlebar feedback like I was riding through tapioca. Then noises like I was filleting a guinea pig.

*If you're my mom, or another potential employer, please skip ahead for the G rated version.

Now we rejoin the action where our hero has bravely endeavored on a multi-mile bike ride without a phone, or a bike maintenance kit, or a pump, or a water bottle, or a brain.

I stopped and quickly saw that my front tire was flatter than last semester's soda. The desolate road loomed behind me. I turned and began the walk. An objective observer would put the turn-around time at 6:15 pm. Plenty of time before sunset, right?

Though the cars (actually trucks, because I'm in Texas and it's illegal to not drive a truck) were few and far between, none of those that did pass stopped to offer help. However, some offered other things. Like honks and yelps and empty water bottles. It was then I developed, then witnessed in action, the Reeves Theory of Automotive Twiddledicketry. First a definition: 'twiddledick' is simply a funnier word for 'tool,' comparable in crudeness to 'butthead.'

As all unified theories, its beauty is in its simplicity. Goes like this:

Your level of twiddledicketry is directly proportional to the number of bolt-on bits your car has.

Take for example the following 3 actual cases.

Case 1: 1987 Chevrolet pickup. Bolt-on Flowmaster catback exhaust system. Relatively simple, minor upgrade. I received a honk. Just barely a twiddledick.

Case 2: 2005 Cadillac Escalade. 24 inch rims. Window tinting. Toupee-ruining stereo. Middle of the road amount of upgrades. I received a window roll down and a yelp. Certified twiddledick.

Case 3: 2002 Dodge Neon. Spray paint black. Bondo-colored full body kit. Uber-vulgar spoiler. Maxwell House-can exhaust pipe. Slammed suspension, riding deep dish Enkeis. He approached from head-on. After burbling past innocently, he could be heard slowing down, turning around then re-approaching. Now advancing from behind me, he floored it, leaving in his wake what can only be called the sound of sin. He disappeared around a corner only to reappear seconds later, now driving toward me again. I knew this nincompoop had a plan, so I held my helmet as a Spartan his shield. Car approaching, window descending, empty plastic water bottle catapulting toward me, shouts of laughter. Twiddledick.

The sun set just after 7 so I enjoyed a starlit walk which totaled 2.5ish hours (about 1.75 in the dark). In my ridiculous black outfit. Even my helmet is black. Luckily I didn't die.

Moral of the story- don't be an unprepared biking idiot, but even more, don't be a twiddledick.

*So I soldiered on and the story ended without incident.