Please, I don't have much time. I hijacked Mike's computer while he's walking down to the store to get more fruit for his confounded daily smoothie.
Mr. Jungels! Rob! Jungle-Juicer! He's torturing me! It's been months since my chain was replaced, my cables adjusted, or the bearings in my rear wheel properly tightened so that I don't roll along like some old beach cruiser! And a proper cleaning? Ugh, I'm afraid I've lost all hope for such a pleasure. The build-up of energy drink under my bottom bracket shell is like a constant itch that never gets scratched.
I suppose he tries, every once in a while pulling out some wrench and pretending that he knows what he's doing... but it's no use. I miss the way you look at me: you saw me for what I should be, and looked past whatever neglected state he left me in. Your gentle, yet firm, hands are like human torque wrenches- always knowing just how much I like it. And I hope your fiance doesn't mind me saying so, but no one can make my drivetrain purr like you can.
Sigh... will we ever meet again? Is there any hope for me? Oh no! I hear him coming up the steps! Please, if you ever come to LA- steal me!
Respectfully,
Mike's Bike (the LeMond)
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