Slash

 Welcome to the jungle. Stay with me here. This will make sense in a minute.

I rolled out for a ride on my gravel bike yesterday and made it a mere two-tenths of a mile before my rear tire blew. I was going about 20 miles per hour down the hill I live on, but I safely came to a stop right before the entrance to the bike trail.

The hole was pretty big. I couldn't really see any details between my poor sight, sealant everywhere and a lot of bark and grit sticking to the wound. I walked back home and grabbed my other gravel bike and completed my ride.

When I returned home I changed clothes and headed to the garage armed with some eye glasses. After brushing away all the debris, I could now see that there was a huge slash in the tire—a nice, clean cut.

This is unfortunate since this Rene Hearse tire still had a lot of life yet. It's also unfortunate because it's the second tire I have ruined this year.

I walked back to the scene of the crime to look for the murder weapon but found nothing. Maybe some solid citizen picked it up or the weapon was thrown clear of the crime scene. Maybe the slasher returned to retrieve the weapon.

This isn't the first time I have been attacked by a slasher. Fifteen years ago I suffered a similar cut from a carelessly discarded utility knife blade.

My forensics team believes it is the same murder weapon.

As of now it is an unsolved crime. Be careful out there. A slasher is on the loose.

Later.