78 and Sunny

Really, it could not be a nicer day in New York.

Actually, I can think of a couple of modifications; a couple of tweaks to the day so far that I might make, were I the king of things.

For starters, picture yourself on a train in a station. Okay, now forget that and picture yourself biking around Prospect Park for the third time. You are almost done and you are grinding your way up the last big hill. Grinding is perhaps a misnomer. Let's say peddling with moderate difficulty. You are breathing hard, but if somebody rode up next to you and engaged in conversation ...

Are you Geoff Raymond?
Yes I am.
The painter?
Yeah. Why?
I read your blog every day. It makes me laugh; it makes me cry.
Me too.
I particularly liked that post about winning big in Vegas and wondering what Kristen's number was.
Thanks. You didn't think it was tasteless?
No more tasteless than most of your stuff.
Which, I'm wondering, is a good thing?
Oh yeah. Besides, I used to work at the same agency as Kristen.
Really?
And I swear to God, I'd do anything to be rendered in your by-now-famous obscured box technique.

... you wouldn't be so out of breath that you couldn't actually conduct a dialogue.

So you're grinding up the hill, breathing hard, understanding that you could just continue steaming up if you were so inclined (which is a hill joke), but you decide, just for the hell of it, to pull over and have a drink of water and take in the view.

So what? Are you now, like, back in love with the commas?
Are you Kristen's friend?
No, I'm the Greek Chorus.
Damn.
I hear you. I mean, that girl was so hot you could fry eggs on her.

Anyway, then circumstances unfold such that you put your hand on your bottom bracket and you realize it is actually hot to the touch. The heat of the thing makes you think back to the woman you were just having a conversation with (although you take into fullest consideration the fact that the whole conversation might have been an hallucination). Back to the real world, the heat of the thing almost certainly means that you are going to have to replace it, and it's going to cost, relatively speaking, a shitload of money.

Which makes you angry.

Still, it is interesting, the notion that you can generate that much heat just by pedaling. What was that famous theorem? Einstein maybe? Temperature equals mass times velocity squared. Something like that?

Anyway, it gives passing credence to that whole Boy Scout thing about lighting a fire by rotating a stick against a piece of wood.



This, by the way, could be the most beautiful bicycle I've ever seen. I love the Celeste/Yellow color scheme and the mag wheels. Check out the polka-dots on the chain-stays. And, although you might not be able to see it, the map of the route of the actual Tour de France in which the bike participated is hand-painted on the down-tube.

I mean, c'mon.

I wonder if the polka-dots were a reference to the rider's prowess in the mountains (the top climber wears a polka-dotted jersey, just as the overall leader wears the more-famous yellow jersey).