From the keyboard of guest blogger Lance OldStrong. He originally submitted this short piece to a Bicycling magazine contest. He should have won a new bike. We can only assume the entry was somehow lost, or the contest was rigged. Or maybe they hated the photo I shot.
This basic black bike with its dated top tube must be a time machine.
This explains how it makes me feel so many years younger.
No wonder Einstein rode one.
Five years, 25,734 miles, sixty pounds lost. Years. Miles. Pounds. Where did they all go? I've barely thrown a leg over this, my first road bike, and its taken me to where centuries are training rides and I finish double centuries with “The Devil” and “Death” in their names. A Time Machine. It has to be.
Five years, 25,734 miles, sixty pounds lost. Years. Miles. Pounds. Where did they all go? I've barely thrown a leg over this, my first road bike, and its taken me to where centuries are training rides and I finish double centuries with “The Devil” and “Death” in their names. A Time Machine. It has to be.
But old black needs work more often now; even time machines age. Peering over my bike on his stand my mechanic hints: “Think what you’d do on a 16.5 pound modern carbon bike.” What indeed? Dare I dream of RAAM, or Paris Brest Paris? Me, the former fat guy? Could I cheat time again, only faster? On a new time machine, yes.