spooky bikes

Copyright Act of 1976, 17 pursuant to: U.S.C. § 107 : The Edge is Black and White- and the handbasket gets bigger- “Meets the Test” and the Death of Reason

Posted in Random by Mickey/SpookyBikes on October 27, 2009

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TRUE;
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Hi.  We’re Spooky Bikes.

ECCC-Finals-1st-day_119

And We Give A Fuck about You.

We’re Gonzo about Bikes.

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Post-Historical Mountainbikes of The Future

Posted in Random by Mickey/SpookyBikes on October 27, 2009

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This covers most of what I (Mickey) beleive to be true and good and worth supporting.

The Edge;

It’s changed here over the years, but it’s always been the central organizing principle.

Empire State of Mind

Posted in Random by Mickey/SpookyBikes on October 21, 2009

The Equinox
I left a big gray van in Albany- full of ideas-downhill bikes, camping gear, some tools (of the literal and psychologically dissociative sort).
It was the fall Equinox, the one day of the year when the sun follows a path directly from East to West.  I knew exactly where West was… And I was going there.

Vegas was 2000 miles away across a big wide space-direct from the Empire State to the end of the Empire.  Women dressed like Colonel  Sanders offered cheap drinks and I took them.  Vegas, the tradeshow, loomed ahead and  I’d be damned if I wanted to land there fully sober…

Vegas is a place- full of all the worst elements of Man and Nature.  I was headed there to peddle bicycles, my mind, and the hands of our labor.

Vegas is a place, one with no institutional memory- stories are written and re-written there daily.   Apparently it is institutionalized that whatever happens there, stays there.   A place, the terminus of the western dream, Henry Ford’s magnacarta, the unbridled (and wholly unsound) pursuit of profit that doesn’t exist- the wholesale suspension of reality in the middle of a literal and figurative desert, stolen from the natives and bombed daily, for years into an unhabitable spacestation for adults who want to be dirty, un-redeemable children.  Vegas.

I flew there on a ticket from my mother and expenses covered by the third largest tire company in the world.

Neccesity, pure neccesity drove this trip- less of a gamble then last year when I drove straight out from shabby yet bucolic Easthampton in a borrwed van with -$20 in the checking account.   Things are still tight, but the YTD sales figures are pretty favorable, as far as I am concerned.
People on the internet, who should know better are onboard to make us “the next best thing”- The Better Thing that waits semi-silently in the wings.

My motivation for this trip lay less in my job than it does in the desire to save my favorite discipline of bike racing… As Dual Slalom lay dying, I gamble, on the Solstice, on cold calls to the left jaw of the industry establishment, on my ability to drink harder, talk longer and raise more bile than other men.

It was time to eviscerate myself in the Operating Theater- Let the Love drip out onto everyone like Cholera- NOW is the Time for SLALOM.

We’re past the Divide now, the land of washes, buttes.   There is no Edge to this earth except for it’s roughness and cruelty.   From 25,000 feet it still looks like the vast seabed it was millions of years ago.  This is dead land- empty of human life, but full of our leavings, even from my window seat up in the stratosphere, window icy, air hazy and mind coursing with wonder, confusion and interest…
What the hell is life when you cross the divide?

The flight started with 60’s Ethiopian soul and a bloodymary- It ends out of sorts with Nashville Skyline and black cofee- the moisture crawling out of my mind in preparation for the dry drink and violent disappointments that lay on the ground in Clark County.

Here, in the desert, life exists in the shadows, hardscrabble in the washes, scrub- tiny mammals.  The only things that look familiar to me are the huge government lakes- a post-apocalyptic Ft. Lauderdale- leathery roustabouts and lost seekers looking for freedom in a landscape delineated by dams.

Artificial savannahs from the 30’s no doubt brush up against natural gas wells owned by the Dutch, the British.  Our collective history as Americans is most often summed up as the great Westward push and the battle against nature.   Sooner than this author would have liked our great quest for pure freedom, that from other men and their ideas turned into a head-on dash toward shanty towns built to exploit thefruits of colonialism.  By the end of the American Century my countrymen had lost their taste for exploring under the desert soil.  We leave that for the men who ran Africa with machine guns and slave ships.

The desert is on fire-nearly every day- sometimes underground.   It’s nothing to “concern ourselves about”.   Lake Powell, the Western Slope will water it all.   Powell looks like a giant calcified toilet bowel, which, effectively it is-  a breeding ground for biological nastinesses, a cesspool, if you will.

We sold the wealth below the ground out there, but we are left in the trust of the eternally dead surface- it is our heritage, our new forest to manage.

It’s not that the East isn’t as dead in many ways at the Intermountain West, but at least I can’t see so much of the East at once- the signs of my nations quest to erase History-in-the-name-of-Faith so chalkily scraped into the cryptogasmic soil.

You don’t fly the shortest route into Vegas.  That route passes over Paradise Ranch a place that belongs to aliens, Lockheed Martin, DARPA and 928 thermonuclear tests.

I have a hard time imagining the beauty that lay underneath that route- flying over the last truly American spaces- space so treacherous, deadly and illegal that it makes King Phillips War, Natahala and the Trail of Tears seem like they were organized by the electoral college.

When you stand on top of the caldera in Boulder City, the top of the Dirt Demo area for the show, you are in one of the dryest places on earth… less than a 1/4″ of precipitation per year.  You can and do stand there and watch 737’s swoop in over culdesacs, across the Bermuda Grass and eventually under a 1/3 scale Eiffel Tower…

What a Shitshow.   I flew in on the left side of the aisle…  Didn’t see the strip until I was minutes out of the airport in the fridgid, empty shuttle bus.  Just me, and the widows of the Nimitz.

4 days later
My Birthday
Snow has fallen hard on the Rockies.  I woke up friday morning with the sun searing my retinas over the roof of the Sands.   6am, my normal 9am eastcoast wakeup-  Time to go home.

The “show” was OK.  People like me.  That’s the big accomplishment of the last 2 years.   I talk to people in the streets, elevators.  My diction is good- only showgirls seem puzzled when I speak.

Thursday night I bought a $160 dinner- wore a hat, took it off.   Chatted up the sommelier.   Talked about steel alloys and motor controls with a whizbang smartkid.   Slept soundly- woke peacefully- made my plane.

I should be dead, or most certainly broke after the last 2 years of this.  Instead, things get better-sometimes.

I’m still broke-by most rubrics I’m homeless.  I fear that I don’t know how to love beyond a bestial urge and a refined intellectual aptitude.
The bike show- the trade show-the convention- all of it seems lazy to me.

All my wizened old friends can’t tell me what to expect.  The moderately together ones tell me I may have averted “the crisis”.   Those who are still struggling for traction insist that the worst is yet to come.   30 is a year away now.  I think I’m ready.  Real ready.
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I am still in full on sales-mode.   Anyone with acryllic socks or a slightly familiar hobble is chatted up.   The gate agent gives me 2 books of drink coupons-  It’s my birthday after all!   I know for certain that I don’t have keys for the van.   I know for certain that I am supposed to meet Dan and Garson somewhere in Woodstock.   4 hours of flying-lots of Scotch-100 pages of A Moveable FeastPrecise Modern Lovers Order.

Things changed.   I heard the NewRomantic elements in Jonathan Richman that I hadn’t heard in years…   Earnestness can also be the most exquisitely ironic satire- And I was lost, and headed to Woodstock to meet my friends and co-workers, both certified professional philosophers.

Friday turned into Monday the best possible way- short bouts of intense bike riding, and longer bouts of all the other passions.   Bikes, Plattekill, they were the center of the journey-  We rode less than we ever have there, but those 2 runs were perhaps the two best ever.

The sort of sublime occurrences that only can happen you are not expecting them-when you’ve given up are my emotional currency of choice these days.    Roll The Dice.  Play the Cards.   Do the RightThing.    Do it long enough- with enough radical fun in the middle, and things do change, in your favor, for the better.

This horrible realization- this hilarious realization- some glimpse of what Peace and Love were supposed to mean… in such a horrible broken place- coming directly from the Mecca of Fear and Loathing was one of those invigorating jolts- Cayenne Pepper to ward off a cold, a proper kick in the fucking pants.

Cynicism is my greatest vice.  I suppose.   That’s what she tells me, at least.
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basically, it was an epic week and a half…

 

 

 

 

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