Whether tis nobler in the velodrome to suffer the slings and arrows of 1" headsets, or take quill stems, and by adapters, not use them? to tarck; to skid; no brakes; and by brakeless sweet fixays we ride through dank alleyways and through a thousand gentrified burbs to bars and to house parties; tis a street cred steezy to be wished. To tarck, to skid; to skid: perchance to whip- aye, there's the needless rubbing of your tires against the road. For in that whip, what car mirrors and pedestrians may be tapped when we have broken all the traffic laws and angered all the roadies to trackstand at a light: there's the precarious position that displays our huge balls twitching over kashimax.
For who would bear the whipskids and roadie scorn all the time,
The police's tickets, the bike thieves gall,
The stripped threads of lockring'd hubs, the hospital bills, the road rash burns of cars careless cutoff curbhops done wrong, when we ourselves can just ****ing ride a road bike and cease this sillyness? That we could join the mass lances and don race kit and not sweat in our 511s for eternities under midday sun, but for the fear that we won't look cool enough to sup the utmost of squirrels, puzzles the boutique patrons and makes us rather turn ungodly high ratios than try to figure out which ratio will give us a good cadence?
Thus fixed gears doth make cowards of us all; and thus the cadence of hillclimb gradients is beset with struggling torque of pantsshat exertion, and knees take a beating fantastic, with loads from too high gears for the climb. Fixed and not free, Soft, my tender ego, for the squirrels do know my bike better than i!
err, i mean... kilo.
get the kilo.