I have plenty of bikes. I have plenty of stuff which goes on bikes; as the years pass more stuff comes off than goes on. I am not in the market for another bike, and may never be again, except for replacements, which obviously don't count.
My last purchase, a custom-made titanium baby which was delivered into my trembling hands a few years ago, is supposed to last forever, at least according to forum metallurgists and my wife. And it rides so nice it might. It just might. If I harbor any unfulfilled longings it's for a little brother: more ti, but with small wheels, S&S couplers, and a belt drive. A travelin' bike. But I'm in no hurry. In fact I might be content to continue to ride that bike in my dreams.
Anyway, yesterday I found myself in a bike shop or two. Just looking. There wasn't any lust involved. There seldom is. As Paul Newman remarked in Cro-Magnon times, why go out for hamburger when you have steak at home? Still, I like looking. Sometimes I get a nice suprise. The last one was a plain black simplespeed which dazzled me with its unpretentious mien and bargain basement price tag: 1/20th the cost of the £6,000
Team GoGoGo parked nearby (would I win any races on either?). I gave it an approving appraisal, grooving on the crank and chainguard in particular; briefly considered buying it but letting the bike shop keep it on the floor for others with a discerning eye to admire; moved on to accessories.
Multitools continue to fascinate me even though I'm perfectly happy with what I've got. There's a fine line between
Wow! That's got everything!
and
I wonder how badly I'd injure myself actually trying to use that? Though the sink would come in handy. When you first get into cycling nobody warns you how dirty it's going to be.
Flick through the expensive wardrobe, tutting over the price of gossamer and Gore. Give the shoe rack a forlorn inventory, as mine have been slowly disintigrating
for years but I'm almost impossible to please. Maybe try on a helmet, gazing into a mirror as if into an alternate dimension.
Stop by the bag department. Roll the tops of the Ortleibs up and down.
Then I tuck my head down and hurry out, making my exit like a man scuttling out of a porno shop, not clutching a brown paper bag because yet again I haven't bought anything. Call me an escape artist. When they say support your LBS, I think they mean buy something. Maybe next time.
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