All the wheels kept on a-rollin’

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While Dirty Biker was taking his hiatus in Nepal, I was taking my own hiatus to travel this here country of ours. It was a whirlwind tour, and somewhere in all of that, I got to ride my bike. Here’s some cool shit that happened to me and what I learned since August in no fucking semblance of an order whatsoever:

I went to the mothership that is QBP. It’s the place of imagination, of bikes to be built, of rides to be had. I was surrounded by it all and life was good. Talk about generosity. Talk about kind people. Talk about cyclists and talk about the simplicity of just rolling on.

Never mind. Don’t talk about it. Go do it.

The trails, they were flat, but they were welcoming. The crunchy leaves and tacky dirt (can you believe someone told us the trails were tacky and they said it with an inflection of disappointment?) were the epic endings of a week worked hard.

There was some talk of riding across the river. You can see how that went.

Focus, Daniel san.

Back here in Coloradbro, the trails were not tacky but were stellar nonetheless, until the voracious floods came and tore it all away from us. The riding here has been sparse due to trail damage, but the dirt is there if you can find it. Here’s the dirt. I found it.

Oh, but my time in Coloradbro was so thin these last few months. Had I stayed home, life would be a piece of cake, but we all know the cake is a lie…or so sayeth the men’s room in a dive bar in Cape Fear, North Carolina.  The Carolinas, you say? What brought me there? I was fortunate enough to be hired as the wedding photographer for the nuptials of one 40 Hands of the dubious website Drunkcyclist.com. Here, you can see him drinking a dubious beverage in a dubious restaurant, with a dubious message glaring from above his shoulder. Dubiously.  Fear not, for you were all invited to 40 Hands’ wedding and were present, if only in the sock area.  No rest for the weary, as they say, and if I’m not to sleep, I may as well do it in the city that despises slumber. Welcome to New York City. While there, I did not ride any bicycles, but I did see one get hit by a car. And for those who are purveyors of all things Youtube, you already know of the dangers posed by riding in the big bad city.  Yes, step aside indeed. While I contemplated the various ways we quirky humans transport our worldly vessels, I missed my two-wheeled escape, my quick-spinning cycle sitting idly in my garage back home. Not to worry; there was adventure still to be had.  The train kept a-rollin’ all the way to Yankee Stadium, where we bought overpriced beers and watched the home team lose.  The City is no place for D2. I love me some NYC, but in small doses; instead, I headed north for some time on the shore. D2-sibling was getting married, and D2 was best-manning that shit (I wish I had video of the drunken speech; my mother still won’t speak to me), but before the festivities, I had time to wander and enjoy. In the photo above, you see bike lock heaven, where all good bike locks go when your bike is stolen.

I’d say I was trying to avoid ending up in places like this, but all evidence points to the contrary. Certainly a nice view, though. Rare moments, these. I stumbled upon this early morning fog in Freeport, Maine, and I snapped a photo as I thought about all the places I’d been recently, mostly riding a bike. What’s the point, all this riding? The spandex and the tubes and the steel and the carbon? Isn’t it all for nothing if we end up here? Can I take my bike with me?

Of course. All life’s a cycle, after all. Why wouldn’t there be bikes in heaven? Or hell for that matter? Or in the nowhere?
Okay, fine. I was just drinking beer and smoking cigars. Best man shit. You know how it goes.

AHA! The big show! Interbike! Yes, it happens, as it always happens: with moments that make you cringe in the morning and a fair amount of dirt up your nose. Some women go to Vegas and come home pregnant; Will’s elbow must be one of those women. He went over the bars at the dirt demo and got himself a gestating newborn right in the elbow piece.

Not to be outdone, Tim went over the bars the next day. Why? Because fucking why not? Here’s his newly realigned thumb. NOT PICTURED: several fractured ribs and a broken wrist.

Interbike was a rough one for our clan, but worry not: D2 had a pantload of fun and rode some cool shit. Things I can recommend: Surly Moonlander; Niner WFO; PBR in a pinch; Miller Lite if you have to; whiskey.

Oh, right: in between all this, I went done published another novel. It’s not about bikes, but it is about cycles. And drinking. For you literate types, you can order it HERE if you so desire. I warn you: it may make you sleepy. It may make you drinky. It may make you wordy. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Well, that’s just a taste of the chaos indeed, but it was good chaos to boot. Wheels? They went a-rollin; planes, they took me a-flyin’. I even trained it and boated it. With all this movement, with all this forward motion, I can tell you certainly, without a doubt, one thing: two wheels trumps them all. Always.

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