Riding at the Mouth of Armageddon

I am not kidding, but last Saturday, together with 10,000 of my peers, I rode next to Armageddon. The real Armageddon. I even have a picture to prove it.

All right, i know you think that Armageddon is this terrible place where the final battle will take place, but really it is just an old ruin at the top of a mountain.

The question is, what was i doing with 10,000 other bikes? Well, it was like a bike Woodstock and we all came to raise money for some charity event where our masters – poor sods – were to pedal for 55 kms in the heat of the day. For them it was a day of sweat blood and tears, for us, bikes, it was a day of socialization and fraternization.

And there was blood. At a certain point, my master crossed wheels with a racer and down he went onto the macadam, his arm and knee all red from blood. But don’t you fret, I was OK and that is what is important. Humans are self healing and time will erase all marks, whereas the smallest hole in our wheels will disable us.

And for the first time in my life, i saw real Bedouin bikes that had traveled all the way from the desert to participate in the event. They were all blue but they assured me that it had nothing to do with their mood, it was just a fluke.

10,000 bikes take a lot of space and the police was kind enough to block all roads, and even so, there were accidents and mishaps, but thanks to the human operators (our masters), all went smoothly.

Three hours after the start, we were back at the compound, comparing notes. Despite his painful fall, my master managed to be in the first couple of thousands, which, considering his ancient age, is not bad at all.