As many of you are aware, my bike was stolen out of my garage on Halloween. Not my actual restored Magician; my green Haro Blammo POS. The beauty of a POS is that you don't care what happens to it...as long as "what happens" refers to "I broke it". A man's garage is his haven, and when somebody steals out of your garage, it's more than mere theft. It's the profaning of something sacred.
I ruminated on this for a few days, and in the meantime saw a barrage of e-mails about a recent ride at the Bloomington skatepark. That gave me the urge to go riding before snow fell...but I had no bike. I sat down in my living room and cracked a cold one. I could ride the Kuwahara, but the last time I rode that, I busted the brake bridge. No...too much work went into that, and I swore that it was officially retired.
Then inspiration struck.
I wasn't inspired directly by my son, but rather by what he was sitting on. After all,
I bought and paid for that yellow giraffe. I examined the construction, which was surprisingly sturdy. I mean, my father-in-law's wooden ladder doesn't have rungs as thick as the frame on that little scooter.
I cracked another cold one, and thought about the possibilities. You can't ride even a 20" bike in a 1.5 story house. But, with littler wheels, suddenly all sorts of terrain seems plausible. I cracked another cold one, and decided to give it a try.
You gotta admit, the one-handed "metal"-sign coffee table footplant is rad, even for a fat man. I was stoked. I was rockin'.
I slipped.
The after-the-fact analysis showed that the extremely short top-tube length of the wooden giraffe led to me looping out upon landing. It certainly was no lack of talent or coordination.
Once again, I ruminated on the loss of my prized ride. Seriously, a Haro Blammo with mags!!! That was such a sweet bike! I took another swig and thanked God and whoever else would listen that I hadn't wasted a bunch of grip tape on it yet. I cracked another cold, refreshing beer and considered it further. "That bike is irreplaceable." Granted, I had only ridden it twice, but we had totally connected. I hadn't gotten the chain tight, or the brake functional, or pegs or a front brake on it...or the tires properly inflated...but we were totally as one. Me and the Green Meanie. My eyes welled up as I ruefully thought about my beloved Old-Mid-New-School rider. I actually had nearly pulled a no-front-brake tailwhip on that bike. Man, I was like Chase Gouin or something.
It was at that point that, if this was a cartoon, a dim light bulb would have flickered above my head. Chase Gouin. That man is an inspiration to this day. Who would have really thought to ride brakeless to improve their flatland? In my rather square Norske farmboy world, that was considered "too lazy to set up brakes"...but it wound up being totally innovative. I mean, who has taken it further?
I cracked another beer, and considered the next step. Crankless? Been done. Pegless? Call anybody who freestyled in the early 80s.
Bikeless. The concept was intriguing, and I considered it further. Who does flatland without a bike? The risks are too great! What can I do with no grips to grab, and no seat to sit on? But...it had to be tried. My first trick was a no-handed Hang Five.
I didn't even touch. I put together a full routine, stringing together tricks effortlessly. The grace, speed, and excitement was akin to Megadeth's "Rust in Peace". The technicality was unmatched. When I was done, I was soaked in sweat and satisfied with a job well-done.
I cracked my last beer, and glanced at the label.
"10.2%abv. 10.2%...that means that I've drank 12 beers in the last 2 hours.......uffda, I gotta go to bed..."
