The following is a letter written when I lived in San Francisco. Expletives have been crossed out in consideration of readers’ sensitivity:

Dear Pacific Bikes,

I’m writing to thank you for the excellent service you recently provided me on short notice in the middle of my commute. Your friendly staff and expert work - and proximity to Caltrain - made good of an otherwise awful Monday morning.

Seeing as how you have a knowledgable staff, I have one question you may be able to answer: What does a guy have to do to get f---ed in this city?

I brought in my bicycle, rear tire as flat as an underdeveloped school girl. When you asked what sort of tube I needed, I said, “Whatever works. As long as it’s light. The best you’ve got, I guess.” You didn’t f--- me.

When it was discovered that my wheel was wonky even after putting in a new tube, I replied “Mmm, yeah, go ahead and do whatever it takes to fix it.” Still, you didn’t f--- me.

After I came back, you gave me back my bike. You told me that in addition to fixing the wheel, you tightened stuff up, loosened the hub (it was too tight), tightened the brakes (I can stop on a dime now) and generally tuned the hell out of my ride. I said, “Oh, great. How much more do I owe you for that?” Once again, after throwing you every textbook invitation, you failed to f--- me.

Like almost every woman I’ve had the hots for since moving to this city, I’ve given you numerous shining, obvious, golden opportunities to f--- me, yet you’ve steadfastly refused.

I’m confounded.

And tempted to move back to LA.

But the great restaurants and stellar bike service keep me here.

(And besides, have you ever tried cycling in LA traffic?)

Regards,
Omid