I confess I have never read Jack London’s classic. How could Buck (a dog) be “called” from sunny Santa Clara to the greed-fed violent frozen emptiness of Alaska?
January had me hoping for a little sun and light winds to explore a few rural roads that caught my attention while glancing over the Galena & Jo Daviess Road Guide. When I “Googled” these roads, I discovered Fitzgerald Lake, which lies just below a long 15% climb up Gamble Hill. And so on Friday, as I drove back from Woodbine along well cleared Brown and Bethel Roads, my hope became a calling to the wilderness.
On Saturday, winds wheezed, and the predicted sun merely peaked through the foggy frost as I swung a leg over my Salsa Las Cruces at Massbach Ridge Winery. Massbach and Derinda Roads were clear as a bell, but what would we find on Heer Road? Ice? Slush? Slop? All three?
The air nipped my nose as I turned off S. Derinda Road. To my great delight, the surface of Heer Road was chip sealed with a just a dusting of snow, salt and sand.
Curtiss Hill Road was gravel but hard packed, and Las Cruces’ Schwalbe tires gripped with confidence as I descended into a hushed valley. Halfway down, I stopped to photograph a barn and met a Peacock clinging to the peak waiting, as I was, for the sun to show itself.
Around the corner, I turned left on Gamble Hill and soon was riding along the north shore of Fitzgerald Lake. At last, the sun appeared to punctuate a particular solitude and mystery which only occurs in the hoar frost of winter.
There is a story about the ghost of an Indian chief which appears around the lake in early morning. I shifted down and commenced climbing in ernest through dark woods up the steep hill to Hanover Road.
During warm easy June cycling days, we sometimes take nature for granted. Only in January when we scarcely have a day or two together can we say we were truly called.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
Centurion Candidate
Just this week, I engaged in an email debate with a dear friend edited as follows:
Dave, please circulate. I am in Colorado. Liebman may be interested, Rick Long and others. http://www.centurioncycling.com/
We've been talking about this, Lyle. The admission fee is pretty steep as I recall. We can have more fun on our Tour for Cancer Century and the Cercle les Vignobles for a lot less $ ($150 for the 100 miler) and raise money for a good cause instead of lining the pockets of organizers outside our community. Nevertheless, we'll pass it on.
Certainly this is a race not a ride.
No kidding?
It is patterned after similar events in Italy. For anyone with a few competitive juices this should be investigated.
Lyle, our Cercle les Vignobles is patterned after the L'Eroica epic event in Tuscany. http://www.eroica.it/index_en.php Come ride with us around the Galena wineries, and we'll keep your heart rate at a competitive level.
It is close and an event to aim for as we do our winter training and start our Spring riding.
The Centurion isn't until August. How bout joining us closer in June for a "tune-up" at the Tour for Cancer Century?
Remember Italy has been the home for the Giro for nearly a century.
Lyle, then let’s plan to ride the 15th stage of this year's Giro which starts in Mestre just across the lagoon from Venice and finishes at the top of historic Monte Zoncolan in the Dolomites. I've talked with Trek Travel, and they will rent us bikes for the occasion. Yea, for real! If you really wanna be a stud, forget Madison; go to Italy!
Happy New Year!
Epilogue -- By definition, a Centurion is a commander of an ancient Roman company consisting of 100 men. What I wouldn’t give to have 100 people riding the Tour for Cancer Century and another 100 in our slightly epic Cercle les Vignobles. That’s $4,000 directly to our Ferguson Cancer Center if our riders each donate $20.
Dave, please circulate. I am in Colorado. Liebman may be interested, Rick Long and others. http://www.centurioncycling.com/
We've been talking about this, Lyle. The admission fee is pretty steep as I recall. We can have more fun on our Tour for Cancer Century and the Cercle les Vignobles for a lot less $ ($150 for the 100 miler) and raise money for a good cause instead of lining the pockets of organizers outside our community. Nevertheless, we'll pass it on.
Certainly this is a race not a ride.
No kidding?
It is patterned after similar events in Italy. For anyone with a few competitive juices this should be investigated.
Lyle, our Cercle les Vignobles is patterned after the L'Eroica epic event in Tuscany. http://www.eroica.it/index_en.php Come ride with us around the Galena wineries, and we'll keep your heart rate at a competitive level.
It is close and an event to aim for as we do our winter training and start our Spring riding.
The Centurion isn't until August. How bout joining us closer in June for a "tune-up" at the Tour for Cancer Century?
Remember Italy has been the home for the Giro for nearly a century.
Lyle, then let’s plan to ride the 15th stage of this year's Giro which starts in Mestre just across the lagoon from Venice and finishes at the top of historic Monte Zoncolan in the Dolomites. I've talked with Trek Travel, and they will rent us bikes for the occasion. Yea, for real! If you really wanna be a stud, forget Madison; go to Italy!
Happy New Year!
Epilogue -- By definition, a Centurion is a commander of an ancient Roman company consisting of 100 men. What I wouldn’t give to have 100 people riding the Tour for Cancer Century and another 100 in our slightly epic Cercle les Vignobles. That’s $4,000 directly to our Ferguson Cancer Center if our riders each donate $20.
Passed Winter Solstice
We’re on the other side of the Winter Solstice, and the festival of light is upon us. Well almost.
Rain all day on Christmas Eve, and I circle Ohare’s terminal waiting for Katie and Scott to retrieve their bags. Meanwhile, Satchmo Louis Armstrong recites “Night Before Christmas” on the College of DuPage’s jazz station. Finally, my Santa Feans appear at Vestibule 3E, and we are off to the Upper Left-Hand Corner of Illinois through a steady rain and holiday traffic express.
It snows all Christmas Day and all the Saturday after. We have a houseful, and grandsons Luca and Massimo make enough noise to drown out all ten adults talking at once. This is Christmas at “Condo Fondo” and surprisingly not as cramped as Linda and I feared.
Outside, the snow thickens, and we join Luca and Massi for a Saturday morning sled. In late afternoon, flakes fade, and the western sky glows faintly pink. I manage 40 minutes on the trainer imagining I’m out on Schapville Road in the glorious hills.
Now it is Sunday—the first in the last two that we won’t be riding out-of-doors. Alas, I sit at the computer thinking it will be several days until we ride in fresh winter air. Meanwhile, we’re on the trainer with my IPod time transporter.
I let music dictate tempo and intensity. The Thad Jones & Mel Lewis Jazz Orchestra drives “Little Pixie.” This is big gear high rev stuff. I “scat” along, fly my head and shoulders, and give the legs their freedom. Thad’s fabulous arrangement is nearly eleven minutes long and fills the workout time with a big sound.
We switch genres and gears to Ravel’s “Walses Nobles et Sentimentale” with solo piano by Abbey Simon. For fifteen minutes, we ride from the Noble monumental “Modere” to the sublimely Sentimentale “Epilogue.” I visualize a delicate light in the French countryside.
Finally, Butterfly and Pinkerton sing Puccini’s “Bimbi dagli occhi piene di malia.” This most lovely opera duet attests that this love and all indoor cycling are temporary. I am transported from a view of Yellow Creek to Nagasaki and hence to Tuscany.
So what would otherwise be 40 minutes of drudgery pass joyously through rhythm and imagination. Now, please let the sun come out and the thermometer rise.
Rain all day on Christmas Eve, and I circle Ohare’s terminal waiting for Katie and Scott to retrieve their bags. Meanwhile, Satchmo Louis Armstrong recites “Night Before Christmas” on the College of DuPage’s jazz station. Finally, my Santa Feans appear at Vestibule 3E, and we are off to the Upper Left-Hand Corner of Illinois through a steady rain and holiday traffic express.
It snows all Christmas Day and all the Saturday after. We have a houseful, and grandsons Luca and Massimo make enough noise to drown out all ten adults talking at once. This is Christmas at “Condo Fondo” and surprisingly not as cramped as Linda and I feared.
Outside, the snow thickens, and we join Luca and Massi for a Saturday morning sled. In late afternoon, flakes fade, and the western sky glows faintly pink. I manage 40 minutes on the trainer imagining I’m out on Schapville Road in the glorious hills.
Now it is Sunday—the first in the last two that we won’t be riding out-of-doors. Alas, I sit at the computer thinking it will be several days until we ride in fresh winter air. Meanwhile, we’re on the trainer with my IPod time transporter.
I let music dictate tempo and intensity. The Thad Jones & Mel Lewis Jazz Orchestra drives “Little Pixie.” This is big gear high rev stuff. I “scat” along, fly my head and shoulders, and give the legs their freedom. Thad’s fabulous arrangement is nearly eleven minutes long and fills the workout time with a big sound.
We switch genres and gears to Ravel’s “Walses Nobles et Sentimentale” with solo piano by Abbey Simon. For fifteen minutes, we ride from the Noble monumental “Modere” to the sublimely Sentimentale “Epilogue.” I visualize a delicate light in the French countryside.
Finally, Butterfly and Pinkerton sing Puccini’s “Bimbi dagli occhi piene di malia.” This most lovely opera duet attests that this love and all indoor cycling are temporary. I am transported from a view of Yellow Creek to Nagasaki and hence to Tuscany.
So what would otherwise be 40 minutes of drudgery pass joyously through rhythm and imagination. Now, please let the sun come out and the thermometer rise.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
December Kit
It is a December Sunday morning following 16 inches of snow in our Upper Left-hand Corner of Illinois, and as I read my morning email, I receive one from Jilly.
“Are you riding today?”
“Are you serious?” I reply.
“It’s 33 degrees, and I wanna play.” She replies.
Now she has me thinking. Why not? Here’s a promise of fresh air and time to try out two new acquisitions from Rivendell Bikes.
Form most definitely follows function at rivebike.com as exemplified by their ST gloves and possum wool bicycle hat. The gloves are like a lofty down sleeping bag for your fingers, and the “possum” tea cover fits nicely under a helmet, shelters ears entirely, and has a nice little bill to shade your eyes on a bright winter day.
So we’re off on Salsa cyclocross through slush and salt. As I ride behind the Meadows Mall, I’m surprised to find that the ice has nearly vanished, and Fairground, Park, and Becker School Roads are clear as well.
I meet Jilly, and we get in an invigorating twenty mile ride. Only our feet feel the chill.
The ST gloves are like riding barehanded in June. Forget handlebar muffs and lobster gloves; these do the trick for $30 plus shipping. And the possum bill stocking cap is light, soft and warm. Maybe by keeping body heat from escaping the lid and fingertips, we’ll get extra miles from tootsie toes. Bravo, Rivendell. Best fifty eight bucks I’ve spent on winter wear.
So, I guess this is not so much about Jilly and Dave’s excellent December 13th ride. After all, trying new winter gear nudged us out the door in the first place. Nevertheless, a glorious ride, Jilly!
Now, what about winter après cycling? Today’s ride was full of salty sand and wormy road guts, calling for a Salsa scrub afterwards.
Out comes Linda’s watering can to wash Salsa in frigid winter quicker and easier than a garden hose. I dribble warm water over the bike, and rub down lightly with a fleece mitt. Than we dry with an old towel and re-lube from a spray can of Boeshield T-9—another Rivendell miracle.
I first learned of this friction fighting wonder from David Bell at MelloVelo in Santa Fe, New Mexico and rediscovered it on Rivendell’s site. Boeshield is a great all purpose lube for bikes, and slicks up our garage and Chevy Blazer doors when WD40 and lithium grease leave the squeak. Google “Boeshield T-9” for details.
And about our feet; our cold numb feet after our winter ride? No matter! We pull on Keen’s new Winterport II boots while cleaning Salsa. This is truly our acquisition of the season. We feel Birkenstock support inside these warm dry light weight slip-ons which grip the ice and snow like Blizzaks. These boots are it. Unfortunately, they are not available in women's sizes.
And so, this is a Sunday December story (perhaps too commercial). Winter riding brings the joy of outdoors after a stormy confinement. Inevitably, sunlight will clear the roads, and all will be well again.
“Are you riding today?”
“Are you serious?” I reply.
“It’s 33 degrees, and I wanna play.” She replies.
Now she has me thinking. Why not? Here’s a promise of fresh air and time to try out two new acquisitions from Rivendell Bikes.
Form most definitely follows function at rivebike.com as exemplified by their ST gloves and possum wool bicycle hat. The gloves are like a lofty down sleeping bag for your fingers, and the “possum” tea cover fits nicely under a helmet, shelters ears entirely, and has a nice little bill to shade your eyes on a bright winter day.
So we’re off on Salsa cyclocross through slush and salt. As I ride behind the Meadows Mall, I’m surprised to find that the ice has nearly vanished, and Fairground, Park, and Becker School Roads are clear as well.
I meet Jilly, and we get in an invigorating twenty mile ride. Only our feet feel the chill.
The ST gloves are like riding barehanded in June. Forget handlebar muffs and lobster gloves; these do the trick for $30 plus shipping. And the possum bill stocking cap is light, soft and warm. Maybe by keeping body heat from escaping the lid and fingertips, we’ll get extra miles from tootsie toes. Bravo, Rivendell. Best fifty eight bucks I’ve spent on winter wear.
So, I guess this is not so much about Jilly and Dave’s excellent December 13th ride. After all, trying new winter gear nudged us out the door in the first place. Nevertheless, a glorious ride, Jilly!
Now, what about winter après cycling? Today’s ride was full of salty sand and wormy road guts, calling for a Salsa scrub afterwards.
Out comes Linda’s watering can to wash Salsa in frigid winter quicker and easier than a garden hose. I dribble warm water over the bike, and rub down lightly with a fleece mitt. Than we dry with an old towel and re-lube from a spray can of Boeshield T-9—another Rivendell miracle.
I first learned of this friction fighting wonder from David Bell at MelloVelo in Santa Fe, New Mexico and rediscovered it on Rivendell’s site. Boeshield is a great all purpose lube for bikes, and slicks up our garage and Chevy Blazer doors when WD40 and lithium grease leave the squeak. Google “Boeshield T-9” for details.
And about our feet; our cold numb feet after our winter ride? No matter! We pull on Keen’s new Winterport II boots while cleaning Salsa. This is truly our acquisition of the season. We feel Birkenstock support inside these warm dry light weight slip-ons which grip the ice and snow like Blizzaks. These boots are it. Unfortunately, they are not available in women's sizes.
And so, this is a Sunday December story (perhaps too commercial). Winter riding brings the joy of outdoors after a stormy confinement. Inevitably, sunlight will clear the roads, and all will be well again.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Crossing to Safety
I borrow this title from a novel by Wallace Stegner.
We have dear friends who just returned from a cruise of the Danube. They left the country while Judy’s mom was sick with pneumonia. She needed to stay in touch, and thanks to the rapidly developing digital world, she was able to pop into an internet café or otherwise borrow a laptop from a shipmate.
One rainy afternoon, I shared a beer with Mida Smith. Among other things, we talked about a bicycle ride she and Tim took across the USofA in 1999. Mida reminisced that, “It was the greatest feeling of freedom I’ve ever had in my life.”
On one hand, we have the digital connection on the Danube, and on the other a near independence from that sort of thing across the Kansas plains.
When I ride my bike, my mobile is always on in my back pocket. But I beg only a silent comfort. Otherwise, when it rings, the aggravation level rises to distraction. Jilly Whiting’s phone invariably rings at least three times while we’re riding. Then we must endure repeated reminder beeps.
We are children with digital toys. We must have them, and yet we reject these tools when we seek our freedom of solitude.
The other day, a young man rode his hot crotch rocket past my condo. Looking like Tom Cruse in Top Gun, he dismounted and immediately pushed up his shades and flipped open his phone. Solitude done; back to the world. Or one's internal vision of one's world?
Here’s a thought. We could ride our bicycle from Freeport to LaCrosse, Wisconsin. Certainly, some of those rural roads run through hills inaccessible to the cellular net. Then if we have a problem, we must seek out a stranger to visit with. Perhaps this is partly what Mida meant by feeling freedom.
Is it an opportunity to solve problems on one’s own or approach a stranger on a personal level and gather a smile. How self satisfying this can be as opposed to a raucous too familiar flip phone stuck in your ear and a vacuous too familiar conversation.
We have dear friends who just returned from a cruise of the Danube. They left the country while Judy’s mom was sick with pneumonia. She needed to stay in touch, and thanks to the rapidly developing digital world, she was able to pop into an internet café or otherwise borrow a laptop from a shipmate.
One rainy afternoon, I shared a beer with Mida Smith. Among other things, we talked about a bicycle ride she and Tim took across the USofA in 1999. Mida reminisced that, “It was the greatest feeling of freedom I’ve ever had in my life.”
On one hand, we have the digital connection on the Danube, and on the other a near independence from that sort of thing across the Kansas plains.
When I ride my bike, my mobile is always on in my back pocket. But I beg only a silent comfort. Otherwise, when it rings, the aggravation level rises to distraction. Jilly Whiting’s phone invariably rings at least three times while we’re riding. Then we must endure repeated reminder beeps.
We are children with digital toys. We must have them, and yet we reject these tools when we seek our freedom of solitude.
The other day, a young man rode his hot crotch rocket past my condo. Looking like Tom Cruse in Top Gun, he dismounted and immediately pushed up his shades and flipped open his phone. Solitude done; back to the world. Or one's internal vision of one's world?
Here’s a thought. We could ride our bicycle from Freeport to LaCrosse, Wisconsin. Certainly, some of those rural roads run through hills inaccessible to the cellular net. Then if we have a problem, we must seek out a stranger to visit with. Perhaps this is partly what Mida meant by feeling freedom.
Is it an opportunity to solve problems on one’s own or approach a stranger on a personal level and gather a smile. How self satisfying this can be as opposed to a raucous too familiar flip phone stuck in your ear and a vacuous too familiar conversation.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sandals for US
August 17, 2009
Shimano American Corp.
1 HollandIrvine, CA 92618
We love your first generation cycling sandals and are terribly sad they were discontinued.
Please consider bringing back the original design. It was better looking, much lighter and stiffer than the big bulky thing that succeeded it.
We love it far more than any other sandal we’ve owned. Jilly particularly likes the open toe, cause she can tan her tootsies.
Best wishes,
Dave Fonda and Jilly Whiting
Chainlink Cyclists Cycling Club
Freeport, Illinois
Shimano American Corp.
1 HollandIrvine, CA 92618
We love your first generation cycling sandals and are terribly sad they were discontinued.
Please consider bringing back the original design. It was better looking, much lighter and stiffer than the big bulky thing that succeeded it.
We love it far more than any other sandal we’ve owned. Jilly particularly likes the open toe, cause she can tan her tootsies.
Best wishes,
Dave Fonda and Jilly Whiting
Chainlink Cyclists Cycling Club
Freeport, Illinois
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Fausto the Obsidian
The Cash for Clunkers is on, and we’re all taking (or being taken on) a ride.
I have a few ole Clunkers in my stable—my trusty, slightly rusty, 2001 Chevy Blazer for one.
Then there are: my 1981 Trek 412 (my own first bicycle purchase); a recently restored late 70s Motobecane Grand Jubilee (a gift from a barn in New Hampshire); an in progress Raleigh Record (a gift from Joe Dadez, which has been across the United States three times); and a dormant Schwinn Varsity (a gift from Eleanor Chance, which weighs as much as the other three bikes combined).
What am I to do with all these clunkers? The only one which has any hope of fetching clunker cash is the Blazer. But to give that up is to acquire another thirty grand of debt to a Japanese Toyota Prius or the new sleeker Honda Insight.
No. We need to buy American and take nary a farthing from our struggling fellow taxpayers. And, mark you, we need to remain fit and fulfilled into the bargain.
As we approach sixty two and enter the great internal struggle, which would it be?
The American-made carbon fiber wonder of the Pro Cycling Tour or the artistically lovingly hand-shaped steel from the Mecca of custom bicycles to the east Waterloo?
In June’s Tour for Cancer Century, I had the delight of riding with Dave Wages who crafts bicycles in his Ellis Cyclery shop in Waterford—once the home of Schwinn’s Paramont custom shop. Dave luggs at the hearts and desires of those who adore what only a true artisan can provide.
However, time is rolling rapidly away from my body’s ability to keep pace. Technology, spinning, and abstinence from Blue Moon and vino may be the only answer to the grim advance. Spinning is too early in the AM, and abstinence from golden foam and fragrant red is unthinkable. Trek held hope—and not just any Trek, but the Madone endorsed by the Great American Armstrong himself as customized by their Project One programme— a simply obscene Obsidian Blue Red Carbon 6.5 in all it’s elegant simplicity.
This bicycle greets one with a paint job which is free from graphic distractions and appears as deep and mystical as Lake Tahoe. Obsidian has the power to heal and make young. Faust (Fausto) himself could ask for no more. And the new Madone comes with the endorsement (viz. peer pressure) of more than a few of our fellow Upper Left Hand Corner of Illinois riders.
“It is the best investment I’ve ever made,” claims Eric Helm. Eric passed his beloved Serotta down to his son and found new wings on his 6.5. Fred Shappert strapped on a new electric blue Fizik saddle and tactile bar tape on his 6.5 and sold his 5200 on Ebay even to the envy of that greedy Cote from Huh knee well.
Then came Rick Long, who only two years ago was on an old steel Columbia with enough weight and road rash to make one groan on or alongside the saddle. First, Rick bought a suitable LeMond aluminium. Then, he trekked to Madison only to return with a Baccetta recumbent. Finally, the Lorelei Madone lured Rick smack dab into the promise of carbon fiber.
Now, that same siren has claimed the Fausto within me. And so, not unlike Doktor F. himself, I traded a small portion of my trust for the hope of continuing (pray lingering) youth. Ohh, to be swifter, fit and free from the dread of what lies ahead!
Mind you, this is the ultimate stimulus package: A USA made in Waterloo, Wisconsin Trek Madone Obsidian Blue frame & fork replete with Sram Force components from a company headquartered in Chicago, Illinois USA and Race X Lite wheels, tires, brakes, stem and handlebars made by Bontrager— owned by Trek USA.
Perhaps this isn’t really as risky as Goethe’s tragic obsession. This could be a patriotic celebration of all that is good and clean about the American dream. For what is the risk if the return on investment is at hand or peddle.
I recall purchasing an IBM Personal Computer back in the early 80s. As advertised by Charlie Chaplin’s silhouette, that piece of windowless word-bound technology cost me well over five grand. Imagine what its power represents by today’s standard. And instead of getting me out of doors into the fresh air, this technology drew me into its royal blue vacuum tube.
Basta! I will not further remorse this decision. The deed is done. I have turned my back on the Clunker junk money and struck a deal with my local Freeport Bicycle Shop on a pride of America purchase. It is my fantasy, my trust, my life. Now, it truly is time to lick the plate clean
I have a few ole Clunkers in my stable—my trusty, slightly rusty, 2001 Chevy Blazer for one.
Then there are: my 1981 Trek 412 (my own first bicycle purchase); a recently restored late 70s Motobecane Grand Jubilee (a gift from a barn in New Hampshire); an in progress Raleigh Record (a gift from Joe Dadez, which has been across the United States three times); and a dormant Schwinn Varsity (a gift from Eleanor Chance, which weighs as much as the other three bikes combined).
What am I to do with all these clunkers? The only one which has any hope of fetching clunker cash is the Blazer. But to give that up is to acquire another thirty grand of debt to a Japanese Toyota Prius or the new sleeker Honda Insight.
No. We need to buy American and take nary a farthing from our struggling fellow taxpayers. And, mark you, we need to remain fit and fulfilled into the bargain.
As we approach sixty two and enter the great internal struggle, which would it be?
The American-made carbon fiber wonder of the Pro Cycling Tour or the artistically lovingly hand-shaped steel from the Mecca of custom bicycles to the east Waterloo?
In June’s Tour for Cancer Century, I had the delight of riding with Dave Wages who crafts bicycles in his Ellis Cyclery shop in Waterford—once the home of Schwinn’s Paramont custom shop. Dave luggs at the hearts and desires of those who adore what only a true artisan can provide.
However, time is rolling rapidly away from my body’s ability to keep pace. Technology, spinning, and abstinence from Blue Moon and vino may be the only answer to the grim advance. Spinning is too early in the AM, and abstinence from golden foam and fragrant red is unthinkable. Trek held hope—and not just any Trek, but the Madone endorsed by the Great American Armstrong himself as customized by their Project One programme— a simply obscene Obsidian Blue Red Carbon 6.5 in all it’s elegant simplicity.
This bicycle greets one with a paint job which is free from graphic distractions and appears as deep and mystical as Lake Tahoe. Obsidian has the power to heal and make young. Faust (Fausto) himself could ask for no more. And the new Madone comes with the endorsement (viz. peer pressure) of more than a few of our fellow Upper Left Hand Corner of Illinois riders.
“It is the best investment I’ve ever made,” claims Eric Helm. Eric passed his beloved Serotta down to his son and found new wings on his 6.5. Fred Shappert strapped on a new electric blue Fizik saddle and tactile bar tape on his 6.5 and sold his 5200 on Ebay even to the envy of that greedy Cote from Huh knee well.
Then came Rick Long, who only two years ago was on an old steel Columbia with enough weight and road rash to make one groan on or alongside the saddle. First, Rick bought a suitable LeMond aluminium. Then, he trekked to Madison only to return with a Baccetta recumbent. Finally, the Lorelei Madone lured Rick smack dab into the promise of carbon fiber.
Now, that same siren has claimed the Fausto within me. And so, not unlike Doktor F. himself, I traded a small portion of my trust for the hope of continuing (pray lingering) youth. Ohh, to be swifter, fit and free from the dread of what lies ahead!
Mind you, this is the ultimate stimulus package: A USA made in Waterloo, Wisconsin Trek Madone Obsidian Blue frame & fork replete with Sram Force components from a company headquartered in Chicago, Illinois USA and Race X Lite wheels, tires, brakes, stem and handlebars made by Bontrager— owned by Trek USA.
Perhaps this isn’t really as risky as Goethe’s tragic obsession. This could be a patriotic celebration of all that is good and clean about the American dream. For what is the risk if the return on investment is at hand or peddle.
I recall purchasing an IBM Personal Computer back in the early 80s. As advertised by Charlie Chaplin’s silhouette, that piece of windowless word-bound technology cost me well over five grand. Imagine what its power represents by today’s standard. And instead of getting me out of doors into the fresh air, this technology drew me into its royal blue vacuum tube.
Basta! I will not further remorse this decision. The deed is done. I have turned my back on the Clunker junk money and struck a deal with my local Freeport Bicycle Shop on a pride of America purchase. It is my fantasy, my trust, my life. Now, it truly is time to lick the plate clean
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