Whenever I do anything, I try my best to project the confidence of Han Solo leaving the cantina after cooking Greedo which has been scientifically proven to be the maximum possible score on the Casually Deliberate Scale. Being Casually Deliberate comes down to two fundamental units of knowledge that you must hold unwaveringly within your heart: That you Look Fantastic and that You are Awesome at What You Do. Greedo never stood a chance; he hardly had a name tag.
I consider it my personal and professional responsibility to Look Fantastic at All Times whether on the bike, at the office (nothing but Maison Martin Margiela touches this body), at home, or at social engagements (at which times I will allow Rick Owens to mingle in the palate). The secret being, of course, that if you Look Fantastic, you appear twice as competent as you actually are to the casual observer – which is almost everyone these days because no one pays attention anymore.
The Cogal of the Falling Leaves was a cruel mistress, almost sinister. I dreaded the ride a bit, cursing Midsummer Frank who chose such a tough route, basking in his Midsummer Form, oblivious to what kind of horrible shape October Frank would be in. Midsummer Frank is a dick.
Courage is knowing what suffering lies down the road and setting forth nevertheless, but Courage is also a clueless twat about how humbling it is to helplessly watch the group ride away from you on hill after hill, a sensation I’m not entirely accustomed to. Each time, I could barely manage bridging back up just in time for the next hill so I could slip uselessly away again like a teflon-coated stone.
Eventually, the hills were too close together for me to bridge up, and I was cut adrift like a dinghy at sea.
I set off down the road alone while the group refueled at a rest station, not wanting to stop and lose whatever rhythm I’d regained, knowing full well that I was beyond a point where refuelling would be of use. Here it was just me, alone with the hum of my tires and the completely detached sense of ownership of my legs. I wish I’d grabbed the Good Legs from the garage today, but alas I hadn’t.
What kept me going, more than anything, was the knowledge that however slow I was going, I still looked a proper Cyclist, with my kit perfectly in place, my sunnies tucked neatly away in the vents of my helmet, jaw agape, and my perfectly curated machine carrying me along the way. I knew I looked resplendent while pedalling smoothly, the muscle-memory of countless hours accumulated pedalling a bike during my lifetime took over; shoulders steady, head low, legs on autopilot.
Being out of shape at this time of year, with the cold and wet months approaching is a solemn reality. There is nothing welcoming to the common Cyclist: the days are short and cold and getting out during the workweek is an act of true dedication. Kitting up in my finest Nine Kit or my Flandrian Best, emulating the Hardmen is what encourages me to set out onto the road to start the long journey back to fitness.
Looking Fantastic might not be all there is to Cycling, but at times like this, it’s all I got.
VLVV.
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@brett
Word up! Fuck the the skater boys for sure. A suit is always called for, even when going for a bit of a run. Just ask James Bond.
@rfreese888
Personally, I can't wait to see what he does with those Ass Beating Sticks that stick out from the hilt.
Just looked that up. For fucks sake, I hate when things I don't know exist can swell up.
@wiscot
Without knowing who that is and his twatliness, that all kind of sounds like what Han Solo did.
@wiscot
Coming from a known EPMS user, that hardly carries any weight.
As far as Rule Transgressions go, we do forgive him his triple and EPMS. Even his regular sunnies. But don't let that give you any ideas. Repeat after me: you are not Pineapple Bob.
@frank-
Given your choice of fashion houses...does that mean we are going to see you wandering around the streets looking like this?
Or this?
Pineapple Bob! A true cycling icon.
@frank
Daniel Craig has just seen Boris and is running as fast as possible to acquire some kind of bazooka/weapon of mass destruction to blow him away and save the planet (or at least London) from the antics of the tousled hair twat.
@frank
I am indeed not PB. Damn you have a google server-like memory for my past confessions! In my defense, my EPMS is as small as possible and black.
For a full bio on the Lord Twat of London: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boris_Johnson
FWIW today it's sport coat and tie and real shoes with laces. Not required by my work (I work in the arts so I'm sure I have latitude) but necessary for my self-respect.
A few things here, both of which aren't going to go over well.
When I lived in New Zealand I supported myself by working as a sous chef. Kitchens do awful things to footwear. I headed down to The Warehouse and bought a pair of Velcro trainers for around $10. They were awesome, but my co-workers mocked them mercilessly. I was older than age 7.
And now...
I haven't seen any of the new Star Wars since whatever one came out around 1996/97. I'll stick with the first three, thank you.
As for fashion, is there anything more offensive than some dopey guy going around town in oversized basketball shorts and oversized sandals with white socks? Good lord. These creatures are up (down?) there with guys who wear oversized baseball hats and tuck their ears in.
Back in the day, I told my riding buddies I wished I could be like Pineapple Bob. They rode Bridgestones (I didn't), so they deemed me unworthy of PB and started calling me Mango as a joke.
I was in a a village in Italy in July and caught a stage of the Giro Rosa. The local club for kids had a parade in which they demonstrated lots of looking fantastic and casual deliberateness. All learnt by age 10.