Let me start by saying I would slather my balls all over this bike, then shred the everloving shit out of it with what the Dutch call “a huge fucking boner.”
It’s irrational and people might cross the street if they saw me doing it, but I can’t help myself. Part of my job requires me to look at bike stuff all day long. Sounds like a pretty good gig, and it is, but it’s sort of like going home for Christmas and mom pulls out all the stops: ham, potatoes, pies everywhere, all your favorite snacks and treats…and all you can do is sit back and look at it. None of it’s for you.
I’ve got it bad.
I can’t afford this particular bike (or any new bike, for that matter), so for the moment I’ll just sit here and dream about it. Talk dirty to it. “I’d shred the fuck out of you. I’d throw you off drops and rail you into the corners.” It makes me feel gross. I love it.
Not that my current ride ain’t right purdy. I dig my 29er hardtail. She’s a beaut:
But, ya know, I want some squish in my life. You can debate all day long about 26 inch versus 27.5 inch versus 29 inch, but really the only solution is to have at least one of each. Because we don’t just own bikes, do we? We’ve got a fucking problem. We should be in therapy. We are cyclists. Bikers. Fucking wankers who spend every last dime on cheap beer and two wheels. You know that scene in Trainspotting when Ewan McGregor climbs into the toilet to get the drugs he needs? Climbs out covered in shit? Yeah. That’s us. Two-wheeled crackheads.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m rambling on about. I’m just going to go back to wanking over hot photos of bikes and try not to shit my pants like George Brett.