Man, I really struggle to pinpoint the year, the company, the location, or even the fucking time of day, when anything between August of 1997 and Two-thousand, let’s say, um, Three happened. Maybe 2002, I don’t know. Giant’s throwback link to the DC of yore reminded me of things that I can’t remember, and made me remember things that I can’t be reminded of.
Husky Midget, Big J, Yardsale, and Masslehoff and I all lived in a 3 bedroom rental house. We tore out the citrus trees in the back yard with aluminum sports (not bicycle-related) equipment. Up (and down) went the dirt jumps. We stole enough 1/4″ plywood campaign signs to deck our ramps that got built when the jumps got old.
We went on full moon rides at Pima & Dynamite with more liquor than water. Once we hid behind an outcropping of rocks as another group of night riders drew closer. As they started to climb the rock garden in which we were hiding like so many gremlins, Husky tossed a lit quarter stick of dynamite out into the lonely desert. When that fucking thing went, so did 7 or 8 dudes on an otherwise awesome night ride, right in their pants. Ruthless.
Using the 3-man slingshot, we’d launch grapefruit from our last remaining citrus tree off into the neighborhood in no specific direction. Just a launch and a long wait. When we’d hear it reconnect with earth, the laughter was unstoppable, at least until the time we heard a neighbor’s aluminum window awning being ripped from the side of the house. It was better to squash the laughter at that point and get the fuck inside.
Big Jonny’d always come over to witness the mayhem, and generally would watch in amazement as the 5 of us all but completely demolished the house. Sometimes Jonny would join in. Once Jonny and Big J (6’2″ and 6’6″, respectively) aided in the partial installation of a kitchen skylight by repeatedly slamming a helmeted Husky through the ceiling drywall. It must have been nice, just jumping in on that madness, then stealing away for a nice little ride home to his sweet wife, leaving us to find a corner of the house without crumbled sheetrock in which to fall asleep.
Each and every morning at the bike shop, we’d all reunite, rarely making the ride there together due to varying levels of alcoholic aftermath, and catch up on the previous night’s events. We could’ve talked for days about just one night, but usually we’d clock out after a shift of tediously toeing in shitty cantilevers, hit the ASU campus for some quick street riding, then go home and do it all over again. If I could go back and do it all over again, taking with me what I’ve learned since, I still wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the year, the company, the location, or even the fucking time of day, when any of that awesome shit happened.by