confessions of an unbalanced bike tragic

Though I admire their earthy resolve, I am not one of these A to B users of bikes. I’m a bike tragic; certified, diagnosed and dosed up on meds. Under orders from Primrose not to spend my vacation working in front of a computer, I have spent my time online shopping instead. So far I’ve bought: a genuine Dutch made Bakfiets; the Rapha cyclo-cross team kit; a new Busch and Muller light for my older Velorbis (god, this thing will crash planes with its brightness); detachable racing bike fenders; a Brompton for Primrose — it would be embarrassing for me, and boring for you, were I to complete this list in all detail. I have scatted (sic) logos of companies now enjoying my money.
Concomitantly, and at the same time, as spending money, I have devoted the past 4 score and twenty of my waking hours, not only to courting tautology, but rolling about on the floor with my bike tools, dipping my fingers in grease, and generally rooting around to make all my bikes perfect, to start the new year (pardon 3 sexual puns in a row). Though there are some designers at SRAM and Sturmey Archer who I would like to bend over and spank, on the whole I am so grateful to the bike industry, for making shit I can actual fix and not ruin, and that way feel like more than a mere wordsmith, who sometimes gives a good lecture. I feel like a maaan!

Then I get the weekend to pedal so hard, for so long, that I start to hallucinate watching the wheel of the rider I’m drafting. I start calling his bike tire mummy. “I’ll be a good boy, I won’t fall behind. I’m just letting some vomit run from my lip.” Both races are technically “lost”, but I feel reborn from each notwithstanding.

Then it’s back home to follow fellow bike nuts on twitter, count the ways bikes will save the world, use bikes for all trips, steal time to bike-blog, go mountain bike riding with my buddy Roberto… At this point you may be thinking, that I am about as useful to cycling, as any sex addict to gynecology.