It's 5.55pm, and you said you'd go buy a bottle of wine before meeting your lover at a restaurant approximately 14 km from here, at precisely 6.30pm. Don't be late, they reminded you. Do not be late.
You're doing the maths in your head. There's a Dan Murphy's on the cross road on the way there. If I take my bike right inside and buy whatever's in the bargain bin at the front, I can be in and out in five minutes.
That leaves half an hour to cross town, meaning an average speed of 28 km/h. I can do it, you say to yourself as you roll up your drive-side pant leg. I can do it. Maybe not with respect for all the road rules, but I reckon I can do it.
You're ruminating on whether you will have stopped sweating before the dessert course as you unlock your bike.
You grasp the bars with intent, and throw your leg over, foreseeing the tremendous Cadel-sur-Galibier-esque effort that will be required to make it happen.
But when that first pedal stroke powers you forward, the city echoes with the sound of rim on concrete, heads turn in horror, and you realise at the same time as everyone else that you've got a flat. You will never make it. You are in deep shit.
BONUS TIP: Call and admit to your lover you haven't gone shopping for tubes since 2004? Blow an insane amount on a taxi? Try to get a bus and hope the driver is Sandra Bullock from Speed? Lie on your stomach, pound your fists on the concrete and wail?