As a full-throated, bare-chested enthusiast of mountain
cycling, and as the owner of—not one, but three—“mountain cycles,” I find
myself assailed at times by these inexplicable urges. . . .
- Urges to seek out the nastiest, rockiest, rootiest horse trails known in these parts.
- Urges to leave the mountain cycles, what with their accommodating trail geometry, their knee-preserving crawling gears, and their wide tire munificence, hanging forlornly on the garage wall.
- Urges to mount my 25’s with the reflective whitewalls on the road cycle and then maneuver the road bike through the bottomless mud holes and slimy leaf-strewn obstacles on those horse trails.
That was Friday evening. The urge satisfied, the thirst slaked, I wiped down the steel tubes and hung my century-distance steed back on its hooks in the garage.
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