The King Brown is hating it.
While I was enjoying lapping up the luxury with Mum in Chiang Mai, he was chained to a rusty old pole in a murky, underground parking garage where he was dripped on by an overhead pipe for a week. Upon release, he was given the chance to stretch his legs for a mere 5km before being shoved into the corner of another garage and finally crammed in the dark, hot undercarriage of a bus, where he was thrown about and battered for 10 hours.
He was then taken to a bike shop, which is the equivalent of going to the dentist for a bicycle, where he was fitted with a new chain-ring and crank set, farewelling a set that had been with him since the beginning. Without even being given the chance to become familiar with these foreign parts, he was then disassembled to a state that he has not been in since birth, patronisingly bubble-wrapped – bubble wrap! He doesn’t need bubble wrap. He’s the King Brown for Gods sake! – and crammed into a cardboard box.
Beginning at Bangkok International, he was man-handled in three different countries by disgruntled baggage handlers who vent their frustrations on oversized items, such as big cardboard boxes, that make their day just that little bit harder and longer.
Following a bumpy ride through Kathmandu, he was finally released into a dingy hotel room, reassembled with yet more foreign parts, tagged and shoved into a dark, smelly, dusty janitor’s closet.
The King Brown is hating it.
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