bike radar
I was strolling in the twilight of a cool spring day towards this pub that I've turned into my substitute reading room, and as I arrived at a signal light, I could look diagonally across the intersection and see a cyclist trackstanding while waiting for the light to change. It was hard to see his face with sunglasses and a cycling cap pulled low over his eyes, but I recognized the beard and the bike posture. As his light went green, I yelled out "T-Bird!" and he looked over smiled and stopped.
T-Bird was from the same forum where I met joeyfresh, and we first met when he posted to the forum about plans to bike tour in Patagonia, and I was all, "kid, let me tell you about Patagonia." We've gone on a couple of rides since then: evening supply runs for Occupy, a Saturday whisky bar hop that ended with me passed out in my apartment with a gifts of Sheep Dip and Bulleit on my kitchen table.
Our conversation was the sort of thing that comes up with friends who haven't seen each other in a while, but still keep in touch over the superficial connections of forum postings and Facebook updates. As we talked I could see T-bird's eyes unfocus, and his head turned as a pedestrian crossed the intersection, walking a blue Schwinn World Tour. Together, we let the conversation lapse, as we both checked out the components.
"old-school Shimano RSX shifters," he said to nobody in particular, "nice."
silentq will confirm for you that if a pretty girl with a sweet bike walks by, I will always be looking at the bike before I notice the girl. In walking around with friends, I've nearly tripped and fallen off curbs because my gaze was turned by a swanky ride chained up to a parking meter. Sometimes, while commuting in and weaving my way through downtown traffic the glimpse of a frame with beautiful welds will bring me to a halt.
When I was involved in raves, it was a common joke how one couldn't pass a derelict warehouse or auto garage or laundromat without wondering what it'd be like to throw a party there. I have climbing friends who've looked at walls and statues and balconies and traced invisble lines along their features. Parkour changes the way one looks at low hanging fire escapes.
So it is with the galaxy of bikes and builds and parts, and all manner of things that can preoccupy two bike nerds standing at a street corner. Lights switch and my gaze drifts over T-Bird's shoulder as another cyclist goes by with a weathered, classic English canvas saddlebag.
"Sweet Carradice," I say.
"Yeah, it's probably got some stories to tell."
We all do, my friend. We all do.
T-Bird was from the same forum where I met joeyfresh, and we first met when he posted to the forum about plans to bike tour in Patagonia, and I was all, "kid, let me tell you about Patagonia." We've gone on a couple of rides since then: evening supply runs for Occupy, a Saturday whisky bar hop that ended with me passed out in my apartment with a gifts of Sheep Dip and Bulleit on my kitchen table.
Our conversation was the sort of thing that comes up with friends who haven't seen each other in a while, but still keep in touch over the superficial connections of forum postings and Facebook updates. As we talked I could see T-bird's eyes unfocus, and his head turned as a pedestrian crossed the intersection, walking a blue Schwinn World Tour. Together, we let the conversation lapse, as we both checked out the components.
"old-school Shimano RSX shifters," he said to nobody in particular, "nice."
silentq will confirm for you that if a pretty girl with a sweet bike walks by, I will always be looking at the bike before I notice the girl. In walking around with friends, I've nearly tripped and fallen off curbs because my gaze was turned by a swanky ride chained up to a parking meter. Sometimes, while commuting in and weaving my way through downtown traffic the glimpse of a frame with beautiful welds will bring me to a halt.
When I was involved in raves, it was a common joke how one couldn't pass a derelict warehouse or auto garage or laundromat without wondering what it'd be like to throw a party there. I have climbing friends who've looked at walls and statues and balconies and traced invisble lines along their features. Parkour changes the way one looks at low hanging fire escapes.
So it is with the galaxy of bikes and builds and parts, and all manner of things that can preoccupy two bike nerds standing at a street corner. Lights switch and my gaze drifts over T-Bird's shoulder as another cyclist goes by with a weathered, classic English canvas saddlebag.
"Sweet Carradice," I say.
"Yeah, it's probably got some stories to tell."
We all do, my friend. We all do.