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@deleted
I feel there's a need to collectively take stock, ask ourselves 'What the hell has my bike made me?' Maybe i'm wrong,but, hey, let me take you back to way-back-then-and-some, to when i was a young buck, 33, and working day shifts for a local upscale mid-town media dream factory, single, living in a cheap flat share, reading Bukowski, Fante, anything i could lay my hands on in Waterstones, and there i was one hazy afternoon in summer 07 leaving a bakers on kingsland road, with a handful of carrot cake, when a guy came in wheelin' a tatty racing bike. i was thrilled, aroused even, by this minimalist, chopped back machine, so edgy and bold. As my mouth opened to speak, crumbs tumbled from my lips, interupting my hasty questions. i was young, eager to learn fixed ways. he told me where i could get one done, a conversion, back street, no questions asked. it was edgy. too raw. i was suss. i went to evans. got a bianchi pista, rode it. it got stole. i bought FGL. it was solid, i wanted flair, got njs. got another. Realised i was old. old, man. bikes had kiled me. i hadn't ridden them, the cocksuckers had ridden me. You dig?