Open Letter to My Wife: I'm at Wakefield

Love,

As you know, I didn't get a job at Spokes this summer. I really wanted to work there for one simple reason: to earn some money to pay for bike stuff. Sure, I could get another job, but I'd probably have to drive there (ugh) and it would probably be lame (double ugh). Without that job, I've got no money and a lot of time on my hands.

As I see it, that leaves me with just one course of action. I've gotta ride long and I gotta ride hard. All day, every day. I have to ride my bikes into the ground. Chains are going to break at the clip-clomp of my cycling shoes. Hubs are going to melt as I mercilessly apply foot to pedal. Handlebars will cringe at my touch and collapse in my iron grip. Sooner than later, all that will be left of my bicycle stable will be a few mangled frames and smoldering pile of Shimano-stamped iron slugs.

"But don't you love your bikes?" you might protest. It's true. My bikes have earned a special place in my heart. But while I have enjoyed my bikes thoroughly, let's be honest: they are on their last legs, living on borrowed time. I have made the Sora components of my road bike last thousands of miles farther than Shimano ever intended. The hubs, drivetrain, and fork on my mountain bike are thisclose to giving up the ghost. I'm afraid it's time to take Old Yeller out back, as much as it pains me to do so.

And once I've properly put a bike to rest, I'll have to replace it, right? Right now, my bikes are like a three-legged dog - a serviceable companion if somewhat funny. But if I loose a bike? A Two-legged dog? That's just pitiful.

So, I'm sorry I didn't pick you up from the metro today. I'm riding at Wakefield. But I've included a map so you can meet me there! Once you arrive, just listen for creaking, rattling, and thudding - that's the sound of my mountain bike staggering once more down the trail.

love ya,
josh


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