The bicycle lay in a ditch off a lonely stretch of route 66. Yeah, funky as that sounds, that’s where it was.
The bike was not rusted or beaten up, just abandoned, in a ditch, out on highway route 66.
Of course I had to stop the car and look at this.Â There were no manufacturer markings on it, but it did not look as if anything had been sanded or scraped off. Â It seemed to be my size, or perhaps I just decided it was. It was painted with a weird plethora of colors, that, somehow, seemed to work. Bicycle Art for sure. There was no air in the tires…also unbranded, but otherwise everything seemed to work. The shifters and brakes looked like one of the major brands, but, once again, no markings of any kind.
I began to think, I was, perhaps, back in my college days and “on something”.
Anyway reality or not I was going to ride this thing. I got my pump out of the car and inflated the tires to 110 psi, just to be safe. Nothing exploded. I donned the minimum necessary bike gear (yes, my bike clips worked fine) and started to ride.
To say I became one with the bike would be a stretch. I did feel more in sync, however, than with anything else I ever rode. I was not more powerful or faster, but, within my limits everything required less effort. I could almost swear the bike prompted me when to shift gears. That alone got me off the bike, looking for the new electronic shifting I had been reading about.
Riding that bicycle was as close to the ultimate riding experience I’d ever had.
When I returned to my car there was man waiting with a huge smile on his face. “I see you have experienced ‘the bicycle'”, he said. I agreed. Unfortunately for me, the bicycle was his (he had put hisÂ name and address in the seat tube to authenticate this to me) and I had to part with it. He could not tell me anything about it except he had bought it at a yard sale.
There is more, but that must wait til next time.