On Monday, Cycling Mentor Jamie gave me a lesson in how to change a flat tire. I also bought a little under-seat bag to carry an extra tube, tire levers, and a CO2 cartridge. It's stuff I should have had all along, frankly.

Today, on my first ride with my new supplies, I flatted 12 miles from home. Thanks to Jamie’s careful instruction, I thought I knew what to do. I calmly dismounted and got to work on changing the tube.

Just as I was finishing, a guy came out of his nearby townhouse to see if I had everything in hand. “You got it?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said, re-setting the chain, pride surging through my spandex-clad body. I felt victorious, actually. Like I'd accomplished an important and edifying triathlon rite of passage. I refastened my helmet and smiled at the guy. “I feel victorious,” I told him.

“Um,” he said. “Well. Good then.” He pinched the back tire and helped me spin the pedals to get the gearing worked out. “You should be ready to ride.”

So I did. For 11 more miles.

I didn’t find the second flat to be quite as empowering.

I didn’t have another tube, so I was forced to get off my bike and walk the last mile home across the Franklin Avenue bridge while wearing my form-fitting outfit, including shorts with a huge pad in the ass. My helmet hung from the handlebars, as I pushed my incapacitated cycling machine on the sidewalk while lots and lots of cars whizzed by.

I felt like a total tool, to tell you the truth.