Two excellent bike-related posts hit Craigslist this week that I think you all would appreciate. In the first, BikePortland and Blogtownie Reid Parham pointed out this Portland Craigslist personals gem this morning: A man was doored, and it was love.
6/9/12 - M4W - 29 (SW 5th and Main)
You were in a black 4 door sedan getting out of the rear right passenger door(stopped in traffic in the right lane). Me, riding my bike to work with my beard on, in the bike lane/gutter/parking lot/perfect place to get out of your car. When you swung your door open I knew I had nowhere to go because I was trapped between you and parked cars. I yelled something at you and startled you, sorry about that...
I was on edge because of the rose parade crap going on all around me. I didn't get a good look at you(blonde?) but as my left hand exploded open on the edge of your door, I think I fell in love. I see no other explanation for how I felt no pain but only a yerning to know you. I guess you thought I was ugly and ran away. This rejection was too much for me so I fainted. Thanks to the guy walking his bike who helped me lock my bike up for me because I was in shock, and thanks to the lady who gave me tissues to clean the blood from my hand(I hadn't even noticed, oh look! Bone!). The parade was lovely as I walked to Broadway and oak bleeding and pale to get a ride to the hospital(thanks co-worker). After closing up the gash in my hand that would make the flaming lips proud I got an x-ray which showed that I had broken my hand or you had...we had broken together? I told the doc about you and that I didn't feel any pain, he said I was still in shock, I said no, try again. He then x-rayed my heart and guess what? Broken. The worst park is that I can't do anything to distract me from you like riding my bike or working. I hope that in surgery I'll find the distraction I've been looking for. Hit me up for a drink! I can only have one though because of the Vicodin.
A couple people have sent me the second post, which is about a "failed hipster" in California selling off his fixie.
I tried so hard. I dated a girl from Portland. I criticized cheese. I applied the term artisanal to every inanimate object that went in or on my body. I burned and singed my forearms just to make it look like I was going to culinary school. I grew Carol Brady hair. I got itchy from the finest flannel and I cut off circulation from the waist down with jeans that made my ass look like an elevator button.
... And I rode a fixie.
No more. It's all gotta go. The hair, the macrame, the texting overages, the Netflix and Hulu Plus. The record collection (have you ever tried to box up and move an effin stack of LPs?!) . . .and the bike. Pictured below is the bike. It's beautiful. It's got red rims. Red chain. Red tires. Red handlebars shaped like devil horns — because it's the devil.
The guys at the hipster store don't tell you fixes don't stop. So I will. Fixies don't stop. Stop sign? Fixie don't care. Car coming turning in front of you at a three-way stop? Fixie laugh. Want Chipotle? Nope. Fixie want protein powder/beet/purple carrot/bee pollen juice and won't stop till he gets it. Fixie has a mind of his own.
Yesterday, Fixie got pulled over twice by SLO PD in three hours. In six months time, Fixie collected more tickets than a scalper for a Radiohead show at Hollywood Bowl.
I'm selling this badboy and tipping the dregs of my last PBR tall boy in his memory.
The (Devil) Fixie:
Cinelli Gazzetta Frame (2011)
Crane Creek and Origin 8 components
$1,100 ($1,600 new)