Moving Parts are Overrated

 Long, long ago, in a far away land (Marin Co.), a bunch of knuckleheads put fat tires on Schwinn cruisers, climbed or drove up to the top of the nearest mountain, and hurled themselves, brakes smoking, toward the ocean below. They did this for about a week, and on the last day (which was a Tuesday), the lord was pleased and uttered from high atop Mt. Tam, "Let there be racing". That the Apostles John, Gary, Joe, and Charlie didn't kill themselves during those harrowing years is a Testament to their ingenuity, and to the steeds the rode into history. These were heavy, rigid stallions, nearly outweighing some of their riders.

It would be many years before we saw the adaptation of suspension, the use of lighter materials, and the proliferation of spandex. It is to these early years that we now turn, as I recount the final farewell of my failed fork.

She was a beautiful and ample-legged creature, a vision in white. I leaned on her during the rockiest and most turbulant times. She supported me through many ups and downs, rarely fussing over anything. She served me well, and, alas, I failed to service her often enough. Approximately 6 weeks ago, she gave me one last ride, and then locked out for good. I tried in vain to heal her, including hospitalization and a surgical intervention at the venerable Fox clinic. In the end, she was retired and her organs donated to research.

This led me to ponder how I might replace her, and continue on my journey through the wilderness. In my rush to find a suitable mate, I overlooked the tried and true fork of yore: the rigid steel. If our founding fathers, bless them, could navigate the vast and varied terrain of the holy land on steel, why couldn't I? I didn't have to look far to find myriad iterations of those simple, elegant, and refined blades of metal. In a further attempt to go "old school", I reread John 32:16, and converted back to a single gear. In the words of Brother B, during my maiden voyage last Friday, "moving parts are overrated".

In my yearning to recreate those conditions of yesteryear, I will, on this blustery night, hurl myself downward (and upward) chasing after other zealots. The wintry mix has beset us, and the heavens are opening in a gesture of purification. Who will join me on this pilgrimage into the promised land?

On One!