Tmesis

Tmesis (tmee’-sis): Interjecting a word or phrase between parts of a compound word or between syllables of a word.

Bi-buckin’-cycle. Damn. Thump. Bump. Bam. Boom. It was near the beach and the road was paved with pretty big rocks—like turtle shells sunk in the tar. This was the annual “Kiss Your Ass Goodbye Bicycle Torture Run.” The “Run” went for 80 miles along the Rhode Island coast. It was brutal. Nobody had ever finished it. There was a $10,000 prize, so, for me, it was worth competing in it year after year and learning all I could about the terrain and what kind of bike it takes to traverse it. The first time I tried, I rode a normal English racing bike. I got 10 feet and was picked up by junkyard magnet and dropped in the ocean. After that, I switched to a zinc alloy bike. I had had the bike I was riding custom made out of steel. I did that for durability, not magnetic properties! Flying through the air on my steel bike was something I never anticipated. Live and learn.

This year’s bike is zinc alloy and weighs in at 50 pounds. Both wheels ride on springs made of cuckoo clock works. When I hit a really big bump they cuckoo! That’s classy. The handlebars are Texas Longhorn steer horns—at 8 feet wide, they keep other riders from passing until I can throw my special nails on the ground behind me. the special nails are like jacks—it doesn’t matter how they land—there’s always a sharp point sticking up. My tires are molded rubber. They can’t be punctured. My spokes are made of extruded stainless steel—indestructible. The seat is made of goose down and is lavender-scented with a built-in dispenser. The pedals are made of hand-carved birch by Scandinavian master craftsmen. The headlight is halogen and is designed to blind other riders. It can be taken from its bracket and pointed over my shoulder. I think this is the most effective means of staying in the lead.

Although nobody has ever finished race, I’ve come close. Last year, after completing Turtle Shell Road, I came to “Jimmy Cliff,” a 50-foot drop to a pit filled five-feet deep with broken Narragansett beer bottles. But I was ready. I was wearing my custom made Kevlar bike suit with my sponsor’s name emblazoned on it: “Narragansett Mental Health and Refurbished Lawnmowers.” I never bought a lawnmower from them, but I’ve been taking their “Rainbow Pills” for the past 10 years. I try to live my life like Noah, looking for rainbows and having a big boat.

Anyway, I held my bike over my head and waded through the broken glass—it smelled like beer. It reminded me of my mother’s smell when she tucked me in as a kid. That was an inspiration. I came out the other side of the pit of glass and there was a muddy field filled with Rhode Island Red chickens. They had added this feature when it became popular to keep chickens as pets. The field was about a half-mile across. The chickens had been fed steroids and were very aggressive. They pecked at rider’s legs, especially if they had gotten stuck in the mixture of mud and chicken shit making up the field. The riders’ screaming was disconcerting. Their mangled calves were shocking and disgusting and provided me an incentive to get through the field without getting stuck.

On the periphery of the field was an Porta-Potty. That was great. I had to pee something fierce. I parked my bike outside, went inside, and locked the door. When I was done, I couldn’t get the door unlocked. I heard what sounded like Russian laughter. Suddenly, the locked door unlocked. I went outside and my bike was gone. That did it. The end for another year’s bike racing failure. I’m certain the thieves will return my bike. When I get it back, I’ll have it fitted with a hack-proof burglar alarm. Also, I’m going to have a chicken wire chicken shocking skirt installed right above the pedals.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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