Wednesday, October 28, 2009


I complain some, I guess, but there's not another job I'd rather have. The finest people frequent my bicycle shop, brothers and sisters all, a list by no means complete:

C, who brings me cookies every Christmas.
D., who knows that cycling is beautiful.
D., who helps the unfortunate.
C., who lives to ride.
H., who rides to live.
B., who is sharper than you think.
S., who is always right.
P., who keeps me in home-made jam.
D., who has turned sadness into hope.
H., who pushes through adversity.
P., who has never seen a storm he didn't like.
T., who understands.
P., who rides anyway.
E., who can't stop.
T., who always keeps me late.
X, who buys anyway.
S., who always has a good story and a laugh.
F., who crashes too much but keeps on riding.
X., who won't stop despite the surgery.
D., who respectfully disagrees.
X., who teases me.
R., who is too old to ride but to hell with it.
J., who is patient, demanding, and appreciative.
X., who prays for me.
Y., who also prays for me.
T., whose enthusiasm is boundless.
E., who got right back up again.
G., the old coot.
R., the champion
B., who likes my car.
D., who wants my bike.
S., who loves French bicycles.
S., who has more bicycles than he can count.

And some only in memory:

H., killed by an enraged driver.
X., killed by a drunk driver.
J., killed by a texting driver.
J., heart failure while riding.
T., killed in a collision with another cyclist.
X., aneurism while riding.
M., surrendered to chronic depression.

The athlete must love his bicycle. -C.O.N.I.
Love one another. -J.
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light. -D.T.

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