Speaking of moving...I just found out that my friends live in Echo Park across the street from the Short Stop in LA. LA is not my bag of oats but I can see myself posenging there for a few months.

Yeah try shippin your cheap terror-rusts through the iron curtain we call PORT ANGELES, WA again....

Sad, people always ridicule what they idolize. Sadder than that is what is chozen to be idolized.


Don't try to confuse the issue with facts.. ok?


And CF: That's not crusted fish. That's a build up in your shorts that tain't been cleaned in some time. Get your self some gasoline, a 4" disc grinder, and a heat gun. And when you're done cleaning your self, go buy some new underway.

And take 165 with you. He seems to have gotten to big for his britches anyway.

man, so much happens in a day.

all this has made me want to stop riding my bike and just whine and argue and post stupid things and then have everyone not be sure if i was kidding or not and then everyone will try to convey what they're feeling over the internet and then that will be interpreted in a stupid way and then someone will say, "hey, it's just the internerd! lighten up!"

so...lighten up!

That would be the one.

From what I understand, the couriers and by extension anyone that looks of their ilk are banned from the Shortstop. The new hangout is apparently Little Joy. 1 block away, cheap drinks, and a pool table. Above average jukebox, too!

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.

FD, Nice story!

S/F,
CEYA!

very good

throw in some cucumber sandwiches and you got yourself a deal!

H -
you should never say that. instead, smack a stranger.
oh, and keep in mind that 99% of what gets posted here can be ignored...unless the postee is MERTON. Then it's allll bidniz.

Nice read FDave!
now shut up and buy a track bike!

bidniz? Is that a suburban Chicago term? Don't make me come up there and smack your trucker hat straight!

There is no other point than pie.

Whatever SCHAUMBURG...how soon we forget!

There was a huge scene in Schaumburg. Have you ever heard of Woodfield and Ikea? Funny, I can still use "I used to live next to Ikea" as an opening to a conversation with women. LOL

IKEA? You use that as an opening line? MKRG, you are single for a reason then. Sorry bro, you'll heal. God speed.

Nice use of the Mudhens.

WTF is a technical 'Bent? Is that a bent without brakes? is it SS or Fixie?
can one ride a technical bent on the track?

War is Peace.

What if we ride trackdrops? I don't like the position provided by 'horns.

excellent story, fd. very graphic. much better than most of the crap in history texts, anyway.

and 165, i was kidding, but you're right; it's blasphemy just saying that.

LOL - I knew you were H. Just funnin'

that was great FD

"What are you all dressed up for?"