The War of the Fixies, as it eventually came to be known, was among the bloodiest battles of all of athletics - generally only overshadowed by the 1968 season for the Toledo Mudhens. Initially touched off by a fish enthusiast, it polarized the non-freewheeling cycling population with such a speed as was difficult for most outsiders to comprehend.

On one side of the raging torrent of petulance were the pro-brake masses. These were practical types who liked their knees, used fenders to prevent muddy stripes from running up their asses, and generally felt no need to rely on their legs alone for stopping power.

On the other side were the grizzled brakeless fiends, whose hatred of non-leg-based stopping techniques was matched only by their dogmatic opposition to those who consorted with becalipered front wheels. Any more than 120mm of spacing in back and you were the enemy to these riders in an instant.

Somewhere in the middle of the battleground was a curious oasis of apathetic joviality. The people here wondered, "seriously, who gives a sh*t?" and watched the opposing sides sling velodromatic epithets at one another with unsettling enthusiasm. Here, beer flowed freely as the blood mixed with degreaser on either side of their peaceful camp.

As in any religious conflict, both sides felt they had the important dieties on their side and had scars and stories to prove it. But as the battle wore on, dissent broke out here and there. Maybe brakes weren't so bad. Maybe brakeless wasn't so insane. Road conversions? Why not? And yeah, track frames are nice. But the leaders, seeing this, were enraged. This shall not be tolerated! Their diatribes drowned out even the sounds of screeching taxi wheels as their comrades saw their frames crumpled by motorists distracted by the fray.

On the day the battle ended, the sun rose over a destroyed metropolis littered with rusted cromoly, broken aluminum, and the occasional shattered carbon fork. Disembodied spokes stood sticking out of the pavement at odd angles. Smoldering effigies of the enemy hung smoking in the air, throwing shifting shadows in the dawn light.

The middle camp awoke to see this destruction, shaking their heads half from disappointment, half from hangover. There was no disbelief - these guys had it coming. The excitement was over, and it was time to move on. They saddled up on their motley mix of conversions, track bikes, and the occasional multi-speed whatever and rode off to get breakfast. Riding was, after all, the most essential point.