Watch Out Lance Armstrong

This afternoon, my brother and I were wanting to go on a bike ride. I was especially wanting to go, since I've spent the last two days cooped up in my house, trying not to throw up.
The problem: my last bike got stolen when I was off at school, and Craig's got wrecked a few years ago.
The solution: My parents have, in their posession, my grandma and grandpa's 1970-model bikes: One bright blue and one rusty red.
The complication: Both bikes are UGLY, have dry-rotted tires and U-shaped handlebars; one of them has only one spring on the dirty seat and rusted out handlebars.

Doesn't matter. We really wanted to ride. So we aired up the tires, threw masking tape on the handlebars and a towel on the dirty seat of the bike I ended up riding (turns out that I got the shaft because this was also the bike with the missing left seat spring, forcing me to ride with all my weight on my right butt cheek), and off we went.
Thirty minutes, two flat tires, some bad hair, two sore hands and one numb right butt cheek later, we were about three miles away from my parents' house, and the ride home was directly into the wind. And to complicate this situation, people were stopping to stare at our sweet rides. Two cars actually honked, and some kids, who were out playing in their yard, laughed at us until their mother shamed them into silence.
It is my belief that they were all jealous. We were some hot mofo's on our state of the art bicycles, after all. Craig has now taken to calling the blue bike "his hog." Awesome.