It was a Tuesday morning in the fall of 2002 when I walked into my local bike shop and sat down in that one chair that’s meant for the loitering regulars.
It was probably too early for a beer so the shop manager, Scott, handed me a mug of coffee.
“How was your race last weekend?”
“It fucking sucked. I broke my downhill bike in practice, then I had to race my hardtail on the craziest course I have ever seen, and then my bike sponsor decided they weren’t going to have a team next year.”
“Damn. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, man. I think I’m just going to take a break and not ride for a while. Maybe get a new hobby. I’ve been a one-trick pony for a long time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You won’t even know how to get through the day without a bike.”
As I sat there in that bike shop sipping my coffee, I thought about that statement. My life was consumed by bicycles. They were the foundation of my identity and friend circle. What would I do without a bike in my day? I really had no idea, but was open to considering the options.
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