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9.7.1 The Adventures of Spike Bike


This article is from the Misc Bicycles FAQs, by various authors.

9.7.1 The Adventures of Spike Bike

From: fish@ihlpa.ATT.COM (Bob Fishell)

Copyright (c) 1989 by Robert Fishell

[The year is 1998. The Federal Government is the
puppet of a consortium of the 20 large corporations which
run the country. State and local governments have been
completely taken over by real estate developers, whose goal
it is to turn America into one giant suburb consisting of
subdivisions, apartment complexes, shopping malls, and
office parks.

Bicycles have been all but outlawed. The Bicycle Act
of 1992 made it illegal to appropriate tax dollars for bike
lanes, paths, etc., and included a provision that "those
persons riding bicycles on public roads do so entirely at
their own risk." The law was originally intended to stem
the flood of imports of Japanese bikes before foreign trade
was cut off entirely in '94.

However, the ramifications of this law were much more
serious. If a cyclist were to be injured or killed by a
motorist, the motorist could not be prosecuted or even sued.
It is open season on cyclists. One man fights back....]


A cloud of brown dust stretched as far as the eye could
see along old route 126. From my vantage point behind an old
barn, I watched the grim parade. For the third time in less
than a minute, a huge gravel truck rumbled past, spewing
acrid, black smoke and kicking up more of the brown mud-dust
and spreading it all over everything.

Including me. I'm Spike Bike. I hate cars.

Taking out a tractor-trailer rig isn't easy. You might
be able to get a grenade into the cab, but if it bounces
back at you, you're finished. You can sometimes shoot out
all the tires on one side of the tractor and the truck will
jackknife, but it takes at least half a mag, and half the
time you won't get all the tires. I had to face the fact
that a MAC-10 submachinegun and a few grenades just weren't
going to do the job against these monstrosities.

My weekly raid on the old Joliet Arsenal yielded what I
needed: a bazooka and a couple of crates of armor-piercing
rockets. As usual, the morons the Army has watching the
place didn't see anything. All the approaches to the
arsenal are pretty well guarded, but nobody expects a guy on
a mountain bike sneaking up from the river bank. I slung
the bazooka over my shoulder, stuffed all the rockets I
could carry into a set of panniers and a backback, and
slipped away unnoticed.

Back in the garage, I set about converting the bazooka
and some old Reynolds tubing into a bikezooka. When I was
finished, it looked pretty much like any other fat-tube
bike, except your every-day Kleins and Cannondales aren't
capable of firing antitank rockets out both the front and
back ends. The bike handled a little funny, but I wasn't
going to do any criteriums on this baby.

I had to ride along 126 for a couple of miles before I
got an opportunity to test it. There wasn't a gravel truck
in sight, but I spotted an enormous flatbed carrying a
bulldozer. Both the truck and its cargo were filthy,
covered with mud and chipped paint, just the thing to make
my blood boil. He tried to run me into the ditch, but I'd
expected that, and I dodged him easily as he rumbled past.
He gave a blast on his air horn that meant "I'll get you
next time!"

There wouldn't be any next time. I waited until he was
about 200 feet ahead and let the first rocket fly. It
scored a direct hit on the rear axles and blew the wheels
clean off. The truck collapsed on the roadbed and the
'dozer broke loose from its restraints to lurch forward and
crush the cab. My second shot ignited the truck's fuel tank
and set both the machines ablaze. I had a weapon!

My first opportunity to take out one of my primary
targets came a few minutes later, when I spotted a gravel
truck a quarter mile behind me. It was big and ugly and
loaded with dirt -- a fat hog to be butchered. I loaded a
rocket into the nose and flipped the firing mechanism over
so I could launch the round out of the back of the bike. I
waited until he got closer, almost too close. I heard him
downshift to get more power as he headed straight for me. I
let him have it. The missile struck the radiator just above
the bumper. The entire cab exploded and blew off the
undercarriage. With the steering box destroyed, the truck
promptly and violently jackknifed, turning over in the ditch
and spilling its entire cargo of dirt, rocks, and debris off
to the side of the road. It lay a smoking ruin as I pedaled

I'd only brought along four rockets for this test run.
I'd hoped to get a chance to hit another truck, but it was
after 5, and most of the truckers had gone home. The
remaining rocket didn't go to waste, though. On the way
home, I spotted a big, gaudy, new Pontiac pulling out of one
of the myriad construction sites along 126. A foreman,
maybe; he smoked a cigar and wore a yellow hard-hat. He
roared up at me from behind, hoping to clip me in the side,
but he didn't realize who he was dealing with. I feinted
towards the ouside lane, then quickly cut back to the
shoulder, and he missed me entirely. I could see him
flipping me the bird out the back window as I fired the
final rocket. There wasn't time for his expression to
change, but I'll bet he saw the backblast just before the
warhead blew his car into small metal scraps. I had to carry
the bike over them for sake of the tires.

It had been a long day. I headed home and went to bed
early. The construction crews start at dawn.


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