Motorcycle Day

This is what they look like now.

How are all yours doing?

Belated Thanks

We are thankful for so much these days. All you doors flying open. Thank you, gas station kid. And you, customers from Bozeman who came back to sit at the counter. I sure enjoyed our talk.

Thankful for the Market, where if you order lamb shanks on a Monday, to be had on Wednesday, more than likely those shanks were still walking around somewhere. They put your name in a little book and it's just another reason that my world is becoming evermore complete.

Put them in Oatis and onions and star anise for 4 hours on simmer. Thank you New Scandinavia.



Thank you projects. Thank you stress. It's all good. We'll get there.

Oh, and thank you guy who bought a Big Pink Bike brand new in 1986, found it was too big and hung it up until the saddle, bar tape, and tires rotted off of it. Thanks for sprucing it up and selling it to me so I can go a-touring next summer.



This is as I unloaded it from the car. Dia-Compe cantis, 27" wheels, and Biopace triple. Ya, basically useless in this condition, but I have big plans.

Ladies, this is Big Pink.

Ransom and Blenheims. If you have access to these two things, mix them together and crush half a lime over the top.

Something to be thankful for.

Velo Porteur Ancien

Old
Frogs.

I like 'em.

If there's a wasp in the window above your bed, buzzing and banging against the glass, he's probably doing the job of waking you up.

Drag the old arm up to look at the watch, but your scratched and broken glasses are on the trunk. Out of reach.

It turns out just an hour later than the morning before when you fell out of the saddle in a 42 degree pissing mist, praising the yard light of the old homestead.

Before you rode down in the fog, the night had been typical: A pint, 4 hours of kindly nodding, calling the wife at midnight and having her not answer, sneaking a beer in the cooler, falling in love three or maybe four times and then after nearly punching a guy with Aspberger's, having to hide in the kitchen where you flipped off the cook and laughed and again snuck some whiskey. This is what you do for work now. The money is good.

Over and home filling up a quart Mason of water to set on the trunk, and trying to read Bolano but the goddamn sun's coming up and the crows are laughing. Roosters crow. Crows laugh. It's a mystery.

Some sleep, and then the stairs, the rain, the bicycle. Stop for coffee and a half-rack of Kusshi and warm beans. A tall glass of Pils. The people know you at the counter, but you're dripping water everywhere and hunched over the phone, so nobody bothers. Your secret project is right across the street and you almost tell the Chef that he's going to be seeing a lot more of you soon. As soon as the money comes together. But as we all know, loose lips sink ships. Especially poor people whose ships are more like a bunch of milk jugs just lashed together with whatever.

Let's go back to work. order, make juice, hump a few boxes around and talk shit with the line cooks. Trip on a mat. Four Advil is now the going rate to get through a shift. Manager meeting at the Magic meeting place to get warm.

It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service. It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.It's only a five-hour service.

Say this for five hours.

God, I'm finished and done. There's a bottle of Double Wood what I pulled down. Give us a tall can. Set it on the counter.

Trouble. I don't want to talk about the government anymore. Just to the wife and the bed. It's Saturday night, for fuck's sake and we've had it.

Bumping Wasp has waked us up. I'd kill the bastard but I need coffee. I hear the furnace running and the boys playing with their cars downstairs.

November is on us.

Seth Neefus

Begin listening to Old Timey music, and you won't ever stop.

Think about wooden thread spools and double clutching while wiping off the inside of the widshield with a blue handkerchief, steering with your knee.



78 rpm, 7/24.

Bee Aye En Gee Oh!

loose Lips

There is a lot happening here. Sadly, most of it is still top-secret and if I tell you, then I've told everyone, and you know what happens then, don't you Haywire?

Shit goes haywire.

The not secret stuff is to follow. Maybe not so intriguing as the loose lips sink ships/irons in the fire that keep me up all night scheming and sweating 12 ga. slugs. But here it is.

-Oatis is back in the fridge. I used it to make Irish beef stew last week and the gravy was thick and black. It were a good 'un.

-The Cross Crusade finished on sunday last. Yet another near the back start, and yet another climb up into the lead pack. I knocked down over 100 spots, then crashed in the sharp gravel after the barriers and gave up position to the meat and fat and inside parts that were hanging out of my leg.

Just two spots. Then two laps holding strong with my left sock full of blood and dirty water.

The piece i debrided had some real good looking meat on it. The first I've seen of my own and as much time as I spend in kitchens and messing with food my first thought was to maybe put a bit of sear on it and have a little taste.

I didn't. But I sure thought about it. How many chances you gonna get for that?

-I put The Ghost up for the winter. I built it too fast and have been trying to stay out of it.

Motherfuckers try me constantly and I can't help but playing along. The 1-2 shift at 6000 is like maybe the feeling of knowing you're gonna die and then it not happening. It will make you love your life.

-Rapha Pumpkin Ridge ride tomorrow, but did I mention that I have an obscene, gaping hole in my leg? And, Ultegra 9 speed, which, in the Rapha-sphere is probably much, much worser.

-I bought $116 worth of casters today, but that's about all I'm going to to say about that.

Just let it be known that the J.W. Negus Company of Portland, Oregon is the place to go if you need to put little wheels on something secret.

maself

The race isn't over until you're on the internet.

I'm starting again again. It's been an unreal summer. All positive flow. Strong and fast and taking no shit.

Desires still rule me, but I figure, fuck it. I'm going to take another page from the book of Popeye.
Spend some time under the spinach tree, and all.
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I am as a child.























wildness and vulnerability.







TSY













DOGFIGHT Magazine