This is what is good in life: Spending hours on the Internet when I should be working, wending my way through oceans of flotsam, to finally find the one extant picture in the world of the very model and color bike I bought in the summer of 1981 (except mine had Fiamme Red Label rims and tubular tires and more racing-oriented cranks and "cluster," as we used to call what is now the cassette) after returning from a month of touring on a burgundy Japanese boat anchor all over the West Coast. I was 17. This was "the Mercedes of bicycles," made to exacting mechanical and esthetic standards by the venerable Austro-Daimler company way over there in Europe, towards which all bikies were gazing non-stop, because this was before Lance -- before even Lemond -- and Europe was where legends were born. If I ever find a decent version of this bike for sale, I'm really in trouble.
Also good is finding a picture of a jersey I never saw before, but probably will spend way too much money on one day, if I ever find one for sale.
But this? This actually happens every weekend on my street: The neighbor kids (nine, seven, and four) hold a sprint criterium – over and over and over again – down our dead-end street, with the little one's sister (who's about seven) at the other end yelling out announcer-type statements like, "AND THE RACE IS ABOUT TO BEGIN!!" This, this is the best of all.
4 comments:
I have been on a serious eBay jag lately. I have been wanting some of my favorite old skateboards. Drums, I look for everyday, I can never own enough. I have only been riding since I was 38, and prior never had a real bike. If I did, I would have to have it back now. Go get it Velo and then post it.
Yup.
That neighborhood crit scene deserves more airtime here. Too awesome. That's what we all ride now right? To remember ourselves back then?
More and more that's why I ride, J.
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