Me and my bikes

I have two bikes--a big one and a little one. If I were in a better financial situation, I would have many more. It's nice though, having two bikes, one for doing little stuff and one for the bigger. But it's not all pleasure--managing the needs of two is much more difficult. You see, I go through phases. Lately, for example, I'm really into doing the little stuff, and hence the big bike gets left at home. I have to be considerate of both their feelings, but it's hard. It's a simple fact that one rides one bike, so there's always one bike left behind. But they understand.

I keep my bikes inside. They like it that way. So do I. I like to think they make for an attractive display piece, even if my girlfriend argues otherwise.

My personal euphoria

There's this state I try to reach; I don't really know where to find it. I don't really know how to describe it, and even if I could, who knows if you'd share the same enthusiasm. When I do find it, I don't think that I even realize it until after it's gone. But it keeps me coming back, keeps me searching!

Rhythm, soul, concentration, bliss, an immense swelling in my gut that erupts in smiles, screams and song--these are the feelings that run through my blood when I'm rolling down a mountainside. It's smooth, like swimming, but it's rough too. Why is it that such a brainless activity makes me so enraged with excitement? Is it the speed? I'm not always going that fast. Maybe it comes from my friends? There's an addictive bond that we share, my riding buddies and I. But if they're not around, I'm always apt to go solo. So maybe it's the air. There's an overwhelming sense of renewal that comes from escaping civilization, heading for the hills. That's where I can really think, breathe, and see. But I could always get that same refreshment from a good hike. Perhaps it's the marriage of human and machine--that's a proven concept. My bike and I feed off each other. It's a careful and precise manipulation of brakes, muscle, body and gears. Grease and sweat. I don't know, I never seem to think of anything when I'm riding. Just bliss. I'm singing a tune in my head and riding the wave.

My little black bike changed me

Park benches, concrete walls, railings, court house steps, innocent by-standers, I love them all! Isn't the city great? I went through a change when I got my new bike. Sort of an enlightenment. I guess a photographer has a similar experience when he shoots with his new macro lens for the first time--he sees a whole new level of life's minute details that would otherwise remain unnoticed to his naked eye. From then on, he's always looking closer, trying to see what textures and colours are eluding him. When I'm strolling around the city, I'm always intensely curious at all the possibilities that surround me. I could hop onto that picnic table, shuffle over and a quick flick onto that railing, over to... that's trials for you. And that's what my new bike has taught me. Finding obstacles, objects and things that would seem unrideable, then trying to ride them.

A tear and a smile

I broke my bike. The red one. No, I mean I really broke it this time! I love my bike. I love the fact that I broke my bike. It saddens me to think that my bike is now crippled, but man, I broke my bike! Maybe it's the stark realization that our relationship has reached a new level. That point where me and my bike have pushed ourselves to the limits of our potential. Yep, we're progressive all right! It was this big double, a gap, one jump to send you up, and a second to catch your fall. We spent a couple months building that jump, my buddies and I. It didn't really take that much time to build, maybe a few good days with wheelbarrel and shovel. Time, though, was needed for mental preparation. No one wanted to try that jump at first; it was just too big. Big enough to clear Tyler's Land Cruiser! But the summer was quickly coming to an end, and we couldn't finish it without hitting our double. It was laughing at us, calling us wimps, wannabes, so we did it. I jumped it lots, until I cased it and snapped my seat stay. So, I guess our big gap had the last laugh after all. I'll be back next summer!

Don't tell my two bikes...

There comes a time when a bike is 'retired'. This usually means stripped for parts, sold if it has any remaining value, or nailed to the wall as a sort of souvenir. My red bike is ready to be retired; he doesn't know it yet though. But it's time to start shopping for a new and shinnier bike.