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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.
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Fat Tuesday followed by St Patties day Ninteen EEEEEEEEEIghty 2 or 3, Steamboat Springs CO. the avalanche shoot off of Buddy’s Run………….mmmmmmmmmmm the memories and mamaries. Thanks
Hey, that was my throwback link.
Anyway, sounds a lot like the guys I used to hang out with in Greensboro, NC at a place affectionately known as The Squat. Those were good times. 1999-2001. Endless rounds of Tom Collins’ at the local bar when mixed drinks were a buck each, beer on other nights, chasing women around G’Boro. Oh yeah, good times. Would I go back and do it again? Hell no, well, maybe.
well written good ol’ daze.
My bad, Mr. Giant. Corrected.
As a daily visitor to the site for the last couple of years I would say that you guys have been getting a little sappy lately with all the reminiscing, but I would have to point out that you are right on track about the power of friendships that develop in bike racing and/or the bike industry.
I’m still best o’ pals with all of my cutter friends from racing and wrenching even though nobody currently lives anywhere near each other. Some crazy, twisted & passionate m’fers about the sport and their vices. I worked at Rainbow Jersey in Milwaukee from 1980-84 and Yellow Jersey in Madison from 1984-86. Dousing bikes with solvents to set on fire, having a keg behind the counter during working hours, amassing the largest paper porn collection known to man for our bike shop pleasure, credit at the liquor store 2 doors down, fabricating bike/ski combocraft for testing, fucking with co-workers non-stop all while going to school and racing full-time. Too many fucking stories and we’re all lucky to be alive.
It’s that crazy shit that one appreciates after years of towing the line for jobs & family. The funny thing is that in the last couple of years, we all have gone through a bicycle re-birth and get together to ride the fucking Trek 100 in Wisco and pick-up right where we left off. Everybody’s refered to by the old nicknames and everybody’s an equal douchebag despite current economic status, we’re just slower and fatter. Good times.
Good times indeed, Mr. Hellbelly.
To be only 23, I often dream of days in which I can sit back and take advantage of L-I-V-I-N…In due time, my friends…in due time. But until then, I’m still gonna fuckin LIVE!
I envy all of you…
Your work has always been a great source of inspiration for me. I refer you blog to many of my friends as well.