illphated

The Slinkee Wheel

They laughed when I showed up at the race. Not the usual laughs of competition, but the kind that cut deeper—mockery, disbelief, insult.

Because my bike wasn’t like theirs.

While they polished carbon frames and ceramic bearings, I rolled out a black road bike with a front wheel forged from pure absurdity: a giant steel slinkee coiled into a circle. It flexed, it wobbled, it bounced like a drunk serpent.

The announcer called me crazy. The mechanics called me doomed. But the streets of Houston don’t care about science—they care about chaos. And chaos, I knew, was mine.

When the race began, the peloton surged like a silver wave, cutting through the morning heat. I lagged at first, each coil of the wheel groaning, flexing, threatening collapse. But as the course twisted into potholes, cracks, and debris, the others faltered. Thin tires hissed, snapped, and skidded.

Mine didn’t.

The slinkee bounced, compressed, and stretched. Each imperfection in the road became fuel. While they fought for balance, I let the coil sing, its rhythm propelling me faster with every impact. The laughter faded, replaced by the silence of disbelief as I passed them one by one.

By the final mile, it wasn’t just a bike anymore—it was a spring-loaded slingshot, a weapon against conformity. I launched across the finish line, victorious, the crowd still trying to decide if what they saw was genius or insanity.

But I already knew the answer.

The future of cycling isn’t carbon. It isn’t aero. It’s slinkee.

And I was the first to ride it.

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