I began on Friday with a jaunt up to Stone Barns on my artisanally hewned wooden Fred sled, where I partook once again in a luncheon curated from locally-grown foodstuffs:
Then on Saturday I fired up the flux capacitor for a trip back in time on the Drysdale Special:
I am well aware of how pretentious this is going to sound, but as someone who likes to dork out on local history there is something positively sublime about wending your way down to Central Park on a 70-year old bicycle. Remember how fixed-gear bicycles were a "zen thing" and you were "totally connected to the bike?" Well I feel totally connected to history as I lash my perforated leather ballet slippers and glide across the 170 year-old bridge pictured above. Of course there's no good reason for this, since the bridge is so old it really doesn't make a difference whether I'm riding a Drysdale or a Cannondale, and in order to ride a period-correct bike I'd have to get my hands (and crotch) on a dandy horse. Still, sitting atop a saddle made from a cow that was born before World War II does put you in a frame of mind in which you're more receptive to the history that's all around you. (Also, there's an undeniable pleasure in knowing that you're riding the coolest bike in Central Park.)
But the big throwdown happened on Sunday, when--like we did last week--my son and I went do go do the cyclocrossing:
Once again I rode the Jones, and once again I marveled at how perfect it was for the course:
In fact I'd go so far as to say it offered me an unfair advantage over a regular cyclocross bike, and I'd have felt guilty if I wasn't so badly in need of all the help I can get.
And yes, that is my reflection in The Car The Bank Owns Until I Finish Paying Them Back:
(The giant hole in my navel is actually a dent in the car.)
Now you cannot unsee it.
from Bike Snob NYC https://ift.tt/2MFEwVq
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