So I head out the door at 4:30am for an easy spin down the canal. Cruising along, just me and the moon. No one else in sight. I get about 15 minutes in, and I see a crisply dressed gentleman walking towards me. He has on a short sleeve button up shirt, a field vest covered in pockets, a pair of shorts, wool hiking socks, a well cared for pair of hiking boots, and the kind of hat that Hemingway would wear while hunting lions. Over his shoulder is slung a canvas bag.
He stops, leans over the rail and and looks at something in the water. He then pulls a surprisingly large camera out of one of the pockets on his vest and starts taking pictures.
The blog is dead. Long live the blog.
It has been six years since I walked away from this.
I'm walking back. (cue Mr. Cash)
Let me hedge that.
I'm walking back...
It could be another six years before I post again.
You should be so lucky.
So... I had a dream last night. In this dream, Monica Belluccii was married to Mario Cippolini (Don't ask me, I have know idea where this stuff comes from.) They had a big house in Paradise Valley, and for some reason, I was there. Monica came to me and said she needed help. She was holding an armful of carbon tubes and lugs. She said that they were part of a prototype of Mario's newest bike. She had been looking at it, and had touched it... Just touched it... And they had fallen apart. "Could you PLEASE help me put them back together before Mario gets home?" Why of course! Let me take a look.
Don't know what the Barrier Kult (aka BA.KU.) is? Your loss. These guys kick some serious ass. Don't believe me? Check this out.
See? I told ya so. Serious ass kickers. The heshers (look it up), punks, skaters and artists behind BA.KU. are devoted to one thing, and one thing only...
Rode the single speed through the neighborhood towards dirt.
Got passed by a lady named Mary. She was on a steel Colnago, and training for her second cross country bike tour. She rode the northern route last time, and is planning on doing San Diego to Miami next year. Mary is the definition of "bucket of whoop-ass".
Shortly after Mary dropped me, I hit the trail. I whooped. I hollered. I took pictures. I broke my chain.
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Don't steal my shit.
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