Bike thoughts (this one makes me cry)

It is July 28, 2006. Today I moved most of my bike stuff from Denver to Walden. As I unloaded them, I took a moment to sit and admire them. I feel as though they are my children, and I will bring them up as I see fit. I will create them, and they will serve me well. It did my soul well to sit and look at them, touch them. I got back to a place of peace, a feeling of calmness. It had been too long since I even thought about them. You there, with the clean, nimble lines, you shall become a canyon-carving apparition; you—the one with the menacing snarl and meat hanging from your teeth—you shall become a fearsome chopper, an epic for the ages, that by which to measure all other choppers. And you, the one with the heavy, low frame and wide, ground thumping engine, you shall become a straight-line powerhouse, an awe-inspiring display of brute force and domination. And you shall all sit in my garage, quietly lined up, seemingly calm yet each desperately hoping to be chosen for the day’s ride, be it a quick jaunt around the block or a day-long exploration. You shall be joined by the shiny, bright, wheel-spinning Harley at your side. And I shall look upon thee with glee and admiration, and pronounce it to be good. Very good.

Just two days ago, maybe one, my newest hair-brained idea was to hunt for lost gold in Arizona. Today, after watching The Constant Gardener, I wanted to move to Africa and help people, improve humanity. Then I unloaded the bikes, that which used to be one piece of transportation and has been, mostly by myself, deconstructed into a conglomeration of confusing and confused parts and pieces, and realized all I want to do is make money and pour it all into bikes. These bikes, my bikes. The ones that I have chosen. Or have I chosen them? Was I lead to them, instead? How did the three of them and I come to be in the same company? Anyhow, I would be happily broke if I spent my days wrenching, cutting, painting, adjusting, slowly approaching, both with anticipation and sadness at the end of an age, the day when they will be complete again, improved upon, better than the design and manufacture at the time of their birth. Then the shakedown period, then the years of awe each time the garage lights come on, or perhaps when they don’t, and winks of reflection hint at the raw emotion hulking, hiding, prancing, pawing to be let out, in the garage. I will find more playmates for them too, old bikes, dirt bikes, enduro bikes, cruising bikes, new bikes, faster bikes….some choose drugs, some choose gambling, I choose wrenches and files, grinders and micrometers, oil, rubber, and metal. Call it what you want. To me, it is Saturday night and Sunday morning, all wrapped up into one sensation, all enjoyed at the same time.