After a week of walking everywhere I gathered what is left of my pride and sheepishly brought my bike next door. Handle bars in hand, head down, I walked up to the son. He took one look and, eyes wide, said "Jumping curbs?" I mumbled something about a crack. I was embarrassed. How could I treat my bike in such a poor manner and than, tail between my legs, bring it in expecting them to fix it?

But they did, quickly. And since I bought the bike from them earlier this year, they fixed it for free. I think they grabbed a sturdier piece as a replacement. Happy with the repair, I rode around the block, reunited with my friend.