Its one of those days - cold and rainy and my thumbs are tired from pressing the buttons on the remote. Really? Does that actually happen to people? I haven’t been on the bike in a little over two weeks now and my limbs feel as if they have been unwillingly preserved - like Hans Solo. I’ve searched high and low, under carpets and between the couch cushions for a vintage rig, but with no luck. I was looking for something to turn into a winter bike; something I could pilot to a few mid-pack finishes in a CX race or two. It seems like people don’t enjoy cash in their pockets and space in their garage. I’ve sent out twelve e-mails and gotten none in return. NONE.
I was about to accept that I would not be riding a bike for the next month (the remainder of my time in California), when I got notice that a bike was indeed available and that someone actually wanted to sell it. A 1992 Bontrager OR. It was beautiful. Santa Cruz made, it had the original three-piece fork, a Surly 1x1 Flip Flop hub, cantilever brakes, drop bars and plump 2.4 up front. I knew it had to be mine. I ended up bargaining with the owner who was not only an awesome guy, but also someone who respected and valued my excitement and stoke. He said he’d rather see the bike go to someone this amped about it, than have it sit in someone’s backyard and have an extra $50 in his pocket. Why cant more people value this? It is something that has been lost in most modern settings, but seems to remain cemented amongst people who ride bikes, probably because it never left. It is the common denominator amongst people who ride, the unspoken reason we keep coming back. It’s the pure, unconscious smile shared amongst riders. The smile that creeps from the inside out as you come out to the trailhead and share high fives and trail-tales with your friends.
Anyway, let’s get back on track with this story. We set a time and place (an In-N-Out Burger which conveniently catered to my burger needs) and then I blacked out. I thought about the places I could now go, the things I could now see, the beating of my heart as a I pumped up a hill and the feeling of unadulterated bliss as I flew down the first descent. Like stepping into a cool shower, or taking off sweaty, worn-all-day socks, I pedaled my way to a refreshing jump-start the day after I picked up the bike. On the trail, it reminds me of the glory days of mountain biking and what this is all about. The fully rigid, rigor mortis frame reminded me that line choice mattered more than ever and that staying loose and letting the flow of the trail be the master had not been totally phased out by five inch travel trail rigs, triple crown forks and 64 degree head angles. The lack of derailleurs and consistently modulated and powerful disc brakes only lead to more exhilaration, if not a palpable feeling of imminent doom. I am revitalized, I am reborn; I am back.
Went Here.
Beautiful.
Went here. It was beautiful also.
Made this.
Home is where the bike is.
Almost forgot, I have been listening to this great band. I also have watched this numerous times. Look at that whip at 0:38... Mother of God.
