Thursday, July 17, 2014

A Heartsinking Work of Stammering Meanness.

Long have I loved The Handsome Family.
Outside of serving as the soundtrack to years of estrangement, separation and self-destruction many, many moons ago, they've resonated on too many levels to mention with some facet of my life over the years: Be it depressiontrying to maintainnot doing a good job maintainingthe ever-changing nature of existence, or pretty much everything.
But I have to tell you... What does not resonate is the "slice and gin" that I just tried to drink in impulsive homage to my favorite sing-along-in-the-shower.
Ugh. Man....I just wanted to feel weightless again... Not drink Dayquil®.
Back to whatever wine I was drinking. (Cheap)
Because they've been so good to me over the years, I'll forgive the Family for tricking me. And I have to say, I'm very glad to see them finally getting some of the acclaim and recognition that they deserve in light of True Detective. Parsnips tricked me into watching it with hints of a Lovecraftian plotline. While that didn't turn out to be even remotely true, I still got sucked in. Good stuff.

Having been prevented from seeing them when they came to Raleigh five years ago (still bitter) you can be damn sure that I'll be attending this show. Especially since it's less than a mile from my house.
I first stumbled upon the family some nine years ago when I was in my "Denver sound" phase. To this day, Slim Cessna's Auto Club is at the tippety-top of the list of bands to see live before I die. That I haven't managed to yet is a source of much frustration. I'm currently lobbying to have them play at the shop. Whether it ever comes to fruition or not, simply the thought of it is sustaining.
My poor employees. If I had made them listen to Slim, or Munly and the Lee Lewis Harlots, or Munly and the Lupercalians, or Munly Munly, or Munly de Har He, or the Denver Gentlemen, or the Denver Broncos UK, or Tarantella (or Bum Kon) one more time, they'd have probably lost their shit. Throw in some Reverend Glasseye and some Handsome Family and I'd undoubtedly given the shop quite the jovial atmosphere.
So jovial that one of my staff (I think it was Tommy) finally told me that I "was really bumming the customers out."
I'm pretty sure that was also during what Tommy once referred to as "the year Watts didn't smile."

Times change. But smiling still hurts.

The pain.
The picture above was part of a photoshoot for an article about "shop-dogs" in the local O'Henry Magazine.
Mango the total-effing-nutter got a little attention, which he needed like a junkie needs heroin. (Which is to say not at all.) But the shop got some attention too, which I'll always take.
And me? I dunno. Hold me.... Just not too tight.

Which reminds me....
Recently I was exchanging drunk texts with Stevil. (At least I was. Drunk, that is. I'm not sure what kind of state he was in, as it was only 7pm in his world (Yeah... you're probably right. Drunk)). Among the cryptic jabber were truths about good companies doing shitty things. And then shitty things happening to good companies. And then shitty people keeping good company. And then just straight up shitty people. (Shatavists, I call them).
One of the shitty people that came up was none other than the short, bloated prince of darkness, Glenn Danzig.
I'd recently attended a pretty awesome event at Green Door Wheel Works, a new shop that recently opened in nearby High Point. (Steve and Kirsten are doing something awesome over there. They've got their work cut out for them in that town, as even back-asswards Greensboro seems a progressive haven in comparison. But I know they're going to kick ass.) The event in question was "Dinner and Bikes" where they had Joe Biel of Microcosm Publishing, author and activist Elly Blue, and vegan chef of the punk stars, Josh Ploeg stop in and tell some stories, show some documentaries, sell some books and cook some amazing food. It's the kind of event that I WISH I had put together.
Seriously. Kudos to them. (And boo-dos to me.)
Providing some succor to my feelings of inadequacy was a comic book for sale with the title HENRY AND GLENN FOREVER AND EVER.

I bought every issue.

Stevil admonished me regarding the meaning behind one cover in particular.

In case you didn't already know, I'm pretty much a huge internet sensation.

I reluctantly admitted ignorance, but felt the vision-blurring presence of a massive revelation, tantamount to life as we know it being revealed as "the matrix."
Sure enough....

Do you remember Crystar? Probably not. Crystar was a toyline that came out in the early 80's.

I had a few of them. They weren't bad, but didn't really rank as "awesome" on my little-kid toy-o-meter.
Not like the Powerlords.

I might have been a strange lad.

But each toy came with a comic book, and if the toys were fairly tame, the comic book was, to my young mind, actually pretty good. I'm sure the writers and artists involved had bristled to no end at being assigned to a comic book based on some lackluster toy line... But they did a good job. (I say this, of course, without having read it since the early 80's, and with all of the dewy mist of nostalgic longing, so I could be waayyyyy off.)
Anyway.... one of the issues of this particular title sported this cover.

Obvious gender-studies issues aside....Notice anything?

How about now?


As if you didn't know it before, Danzig's a goon.

So... Sorry for the sporadic writing. Just needed to focus on some other things lately.
One of which was actually getting back on the bike.
You laugh...(least funny joke ever)... but it took some doing. Still does. Lately, it seems to take every bit of will power I can muster to ignore the many, many, many things that I really, really, really need to be doing at that moment and instead go push a pedal over and over with my foot. And I don't like that, because once upon a time the opposite was true. When it all seemed too much... and it all too often did, (Ugh! I can't handle these dishes right now! I just want to live my life!!!)... I'd throw a leg over the bike and get moving. And it would all melt away. (Ha! Suck it, dishes!!!)
The bike was where I processed it all. Or at least outsprinted it.
But one day, something started happening. The demons I was keeping at bay with the ache in my legs started finding me again. Sometimes with a vengeance. (So. Many. Dishes!)
(Ahem.... So, in this joke, "dishes" is a metaphor for "demons". And not the Danzig kind, although I'll wager he has a few dishes of his own.)
I wonder sometimes if long solo rides aren't necessarily the best thing for a person of my temperament, as they often involve a good bit of introspection and reflection. And for me, more often than not, introspection and reflection has a tendency to turn to self-loathing and dejection. So halfway into the ride, I find myself thinking that maybe what I really need isn't a long bike ride. It's a bar-fight...Someone to break a stool or two over my head.
(What?! I don't have issues.)
Look... you can pat yourself on the back for your perfect life all you want during your ride. Me? I've got some flogging to do.

I'm not one to deify the bike.
I love the shit out of it, and it's been a part of my life for longer than you've been alive.
(Not you... Him.)
But few things vex me more than cloying "live to pedal" or "cycling is life" drivel. Not that I've never clung madly to something as a way to define my life and existence. But come on....whether you're a burgeoning hipster with an online-purchased fixie as the next accessory to your wardrobe, or an entitled Cat 3 Racer with an "impressive" resume of top twenty finishes,  or a yuppie with a bike themed "life is good" sticker on the window of your luxury SUV.... we get it:
Bikes are cool.
(But you're not.)

I do admit to being fascinated (or conversely bored to tears) by the various directions and evolution "cycling culture" has taken lately. In my particular neck of the woods, where we operate a little behind the curve, there appears to be a banal focus on racing. That is to say a relatively tedious obsession with time and pace and power at the expense of fun... All to achieve 6th place in a local field of ten. Yawn. Not that I ever bemoan a person trying their hardest or striving to improve themselves, and not that there's anything at all wrong with racing, because friendly competition and high-fives and heckling are the best. But when people are swaggering around like self-important dicks, or yelling at you to get out of their way on the trail, all because they're trying to nail a Strava segment and desperately want to make the lower rungs of mediocrity their "bitch", I admit to being flummoxed. Seems like they're not "getting it."
(And you know that I "get it" because I just told you I do.)
I don't know. At some point, XC became the new triathlon (compression sleeves!)... Enduro became the new XC (kneepads and full-face on the greenway, bro!)... Cyclocross became the new fixie (online shopping is punk!).... Singlespeeds became the new beach cruiser (I see what you did there) and blogging became the new masturbation. (How does Rich even type with those hairy palms?)

But you know what's super cool these days in the hippest of the hip circles?
Riding a Bridgestone on gravel roads in cut-off shorts with no shirt.
I shit you not.
The very same thing I did when I first got really into riding some twenty plus years ago (Gah!).....(And, incidentally, was relentlessly mocked for having "no clue." (I didn't, but that had nothing to do with bikes.)

Photocred: Ultraromance

Photocred: Ultraromance
Full circle.
But you know what? I'll take it. Currently there's this resurgence of what I'll wincingly call "soul cycling." It's just people getting out on the bike and kicking ass. They're not "racing." They're not "training." They're not prancercizing. They're just ridingFor fun. Just getting out and exploring.
And THAT.... is awesome.
I don't know Ultraromance personally, but I like him. (I think I do, anyway. I mean... Unless he's a total dick or something.) At the very least I like what he's doing, and I like his hebrephenic word style. And it seems sincere.
There are some influence peddlers out there who I sincerely believe are as insincere as they come. Ef them. (And I mean that sincerely.)
Does everyone have a personal photographer that follows them around and posts photos of them being awesome to Instagram?

(Incidentally, I have one....

...capturing all the super awesome shit that I do.
#fartyband  #goldenshowerpieskulls  #lightnapbro
photocred: lil Dorrit
The old adage, "If a ride happens somewhere in the woods, and no one posts a picture of it to Instagram, did it happen at all?"
But despite the social media hyperfertilization of the cult of personality, something big is happening.
Bikes are becoming cool again.
Yeah.. some of us know that they always were. We can high-five each other or shake our heads knowingly. And if vanity replaces honesty, and the new breed is in desperate want of a spanking, then a little schooling isn't the worst thing. Don't be afraid to dole it out.
But don't squash that enthusiasm for the bike in the process. Because that shit is like gold.

Regarding the hipsters, I've never really cared too much. (As far as anyone's concerned, I probably am one.) If the fixed gear fashion accessory is what got them on a bike, and that eventually turned into a passion... then I'm down. And if "staying wild" and riding beaters on gravel roads is the next step, then I'll concede. It's a damn sight better than the alternative.
Regarding the yuppies... If the Dura-Ace equipped, carbon-fiber pitching-wedge is what got them out on a group ride... then I'm down. Let's talk about getting them on that commuter bike now.
Regarding the deadbeats.... If losing their license because of a DUI is what got them on the bike... (just kidding)
And regarding the goons... Even if legions of people think that that shallow lagoon is a bottomless lake... as long as they're getting people on a bike, then I'm down.
With the bike thing. But not with them.

You down with OPB?
I am.

Monday, June 30, 2014

Beer and Loathing

As has become the ritual, at 6am sharp, my rescue Chiuachsund, Mango, jumped up on the bed and began pulling the covers off of me: Digging at the one side, then vaulting off my back to dig at the other until waist up is exposed.
Then tunneling under my arms and wedging his head painfully under my face he gave me the daily ultimatum: broken nose or get out of bed.

Okay... okay.... I'm up.

Dogs love hats. That's just science.

Keeping with the theme of ticking off things I never anticipated in my life, having an insane dachsund/chiauaha mix was never really part of "the plan." But he's wedged that thick skull of his into my heart.
From what little I know of his storied history, he was left in a PetSmart parking lot with a note saying that his owner was terminally ill and couldn't take care of him anymore.
I was in a coffee shop and saw a little poster stating that a dog needed a home ASAP.
Well, damn.
Before I really knew what I was even doing, he was in my house, following me around and barking incessantly. After about 30 minutes of that, I just swooped down and scooped him up in my arms. At that moment, he got the drift "Oh... You're my dude."

According to what I recently read on the facebook, he is a combination of at least two of the most aggressive dog breeds in the world. I don't doubt it. While he loved the shit out of my other dogs (even if they never particularly cared for him), when he sees another dog, he growls, pulls on the leash until he's choking, and nips violently at their legs. Until they nip back...and then he flops onto his back, acts like he's been grievously wounded and pees a little. Then he tries to nip at their legs again.
When he sees another person, he growls, whines, flops onto his back and pees a little. I have no idea what sort of environment he came up in and what prompted this kind of behaviour.
It's one part endearing, eight parts insanely vexing. But it is what it is.

He loves women....

Especially this one....
And he loves Milo...
But he's particular about his mens.

He did warm to Greggers pretty quick though, so....
But I digress.

This particular morning, upon being ousted from bed by Mango, I looked at my phone and saw three missed calls. All from 3am. And not from a number I recognized.
Never good.
And sure enough... it wasn't.
"Yes, uh, Mr. Dixon, this is Doug with AAA Security. We're showing a break-in at 1907 Spring Garden St. The police have been dispatched. Please call us."


So, three hours late, I pull up to my brand new shop space totally unsure what I'll find.
What I find is that some dipshit had decided to try and break a window and get into the shop. He'd made it through one pane of glass, but hadn't figured on;
A) another pane of glass,
B) an alarm. (Despite there being a sticker smack in the middle of the very pane of glass he broke informing him of said alarm's presence.)

Luckily, we have a pretty damn good alarm system. Outside of the very occasional break-in attempt, it's sensitive enough to have been set off by:
-a book falling off the counter (twice)
-an overinflated tire exploding off a steel rim in the middle of the night (thrice)
-Genisis Dancer (a few)
-a spider that decided to live in front of the motion sensor (ugh... that guy)
-a bat (how'd he even get in?)
-me after too many margaritas at the Mexican restaurant down the street (ugh... that guy)

Back when I was but a lowly employee at Friendly Bike, the owner, Les, in addition to simply having us set the alarm, mandated that we create the largest fustercluck known to man in front of the door. A minefield of bikes facing awkward directions, plus 20 feet of cable run through anything and everything in sight. The alarm was in the very back of the shop, and once set, you had 60 seconds to get in or out. Did you see Ocean's Twelve (You did? I'm sorry). But it was kind of like that.
The game among the employees became to create a barrier so damned confounding that Les would get stuck in it in the morning. More often than not, it was actually us that got stuck, hand reaching out ineffectually to the terminal on the other side of the room as the countdown hit zero.
Then, after messily extricating ourselves from the tangled web we'd woven, alarm blaring, you'd rush to the phone to try and stop the inevitable call from the alarm company to Les, who'd magically show up while you were still standing there, dimwittedly holding the phone.

And all he'd say was, "What happened?" But you knew... you knew... that what he was really saying was, "You are a foolish child of a human being and that you've made it this far in your life is a testament to the absurdity of our very existence as a species.
But please, by all means, indulge me for a moment."

No amount of locks or bikes or crazed inventory obstacles would have stopped this fool from trying to bash in my window, but he wouldn't have faired very well once inside. There's no real point of egress once you're in, save for the point of ingress. That and lethal lasers.

Speaking of fools trying foolish things, one of my long-held foolish ideas has finally come to fruition.
Many moons ago, I had read about a shop in Oregon that had added beer taps to their shop. I thought it was beyond genius, and looked to a future where I might be able to do something similar.
The shop in question was Velo Cult. 
In Portland, naturally.
Back in '98, I'd spent a very little bit of time there, and loved it. Sure... make fun of it, but with a tear in your eye because you're not there. Sitting at my friend Tony's house, quad's blown from snowboarding Mt. Hood earlier that day, I reassembled my Univega Alpina, learning more about bike repair in one day than I have in 16 years. Once it was together, I rode it to the coast, down a ways, and then across the country. Had things gone according to "the plan," I would have arrived back in Atlanta, GA, picked up my girlfriend and driven back across the country to our new life in Portland.
Instead, upon my arrival, I found myself trying to convince said girlfriend that I was worth staying with (was I?) and we somehow found ourselves instead in San Clemente, CA... a mecca of it's own, but one very different from Portland.
I had tried, unsuccessfully, to make a case for settling in Fort Collins, CO, as I'd had such an awesome time there during my tour. But alas... she wasn't interested.
One can't help but wonder what might have been.
Not long after swooning over Velo Cult and swearing to myself that one day, one day, I'd do it my way, I heard of another shop in our region doing something similar: The Hub and Pisgah Tavern. Sadly, outside of signing up for races, my life is not organized such that jaunting off to Pisgah for the weekend is ever feasible, so I continually failed to make it out that way. I finally met Sam and Jordan two years ago when I stayed at their house for PMBAR and these days consider them friends. Admittedly, I've picked their brains more than a few times.
And admittedly, as Dicky so elegantly put it: "beer is over. Everything is kale now."
Hmm.... It's kind of like my race career:  not the first and not the last.
But nonetheless, after years of jabbering, dreaming and scheming, it's finally come together....

We'll be serving beer.

It took some work. There were some in the city who just didn't really warm to the idea of a bike-shop serving beer. Whether because they didn't understand what it was I had in mind, or they're not really down with the cyclists anyway, or they'd just rather see yet another hookah bar open instead, I don't know. It took all of my legendary charm and charisma to successfully plead the case. (And somehow it still worked)

Good thing I have this bar, then. 

The plan is to have local and regional microbrews exclusively. There's so much amazeballs happening in NC right now with craft beer. Even Asheboro, a dry city less than seven years ago, has a new brewery opening. I hate to exclude the rest of the U.S. but as a very local-centric business, I really want to focus on what's happening close by. We'll see what happens.

Next couple of weeks we should have it all set up. We finally have our permit, but just have to finish up a few things: get our storage dialed, file some paperwork, hook up the kegorators and most importantly, make some very big decisions about who's on first and what's on second.
Suggestions are welcome.(Throwing out names to show everyone how well versed and discerning your tastes are is not.)

This does change the game a little. As I understand it, the days of picking up a sixpack from Bestway's "wall of beer" to drink at the shop are over. Hell... as I understand it, the days of me even being able to drink at the shop are over. Sacrifices for the greater good of the people.
Maybe this is my chance to get down to race weight?

Friday, June 6, 2014

Jon Danger is Good Looking and (Mostly) Available. Give him money.

Last weekend, my ex got married.
I had a ton going on, and managed to stay distracted enough on so many levels that it didn't really register.
But in the quiet moments, I admit... it found its way in, bringing on a certain melancholy.
Not because of any sense of loss I felt regarding her, or us, or even the bizarrely distant life we had made together. Time heals, and I think we're both in much better places these days.

I struggled because it seems a very odd milemarker to be ticking off in my life. One I never really predicted or strove for.
It's really kind of a loaded moment; chock full of all the permanence, transience, pain, happiness, absurdity, hilarity, sadness and total fuckupery that is this existence. And as a relatively pensive fellow, these things tend to weigh heavy on me. Whether it's the first love, first marriage, first broken bone, the first taste of urine, the first exchange of fisticuffs.... these mileposts define us and hence mean everything (and nothing.) Which is pretty intense.

(The first....did he say....urine?)

Yeah. Honestly, it's not as good a story as you hope. But Milo likes it. Enough so that he's been known to share it, unsolicited, with pretty much anyone: family, friends, strangers, pretty waitresses.
I'll tell you another time.

Aw, whatever, I'll just tell you now.
When I was but a child, I could pee tremendous distances. Most little boys can. I'm not sure how it is for you girls, but as a lad, with all the power of a five year old bladder and a relatively wee hose, pee didn't flow out of us so much as blast forcefully. Whereas these days I seemingly struggle to muster the flow necessary to clear my shoes, back then you struggled to contain it. Hitting a target double my height in distance was commonplace.
Well, one day I distinctly remember thinking, "I wonder what would happen if I just don't hold on."
Hands on my bony little hips, I let loose. And instantly, knew I had royally messed up. Like an errant fire hose, my wee unit was no match for the force of the flow, and pee went everywhere, chaotically soaking the wall behind the toilet, the curtains next to me, the hand towels over the sink, the floor, my feet. And then....(I distinctly remember the next part happening in slow motion)... bending my head forward to gain a better perspective on what I'd unleashed, mouth agape with a horrified "oohhhhh nnnoooooooooo," the hose suddenly arced upward...
....and my sense of smell correlated with my sense of taste, the unqualifiable yet unmistakeable being of urine.
Like a brave little firefighter, I remember floundering about, struggling to pin down and control the flow as urine spattered my face and the whole of existence.

And then, once the debacle had ended, I had to go outside and pick a switch for making such a mess in the bathroom.

But there you have it. The taste of pee. And it's a taste that I will never forget.
Once, in England, I ordered whothefuckknowswhat. It was a sampler of various English foods. There were some sauteed mushrooms. A blob of something blackish later identified as blood pudding. A sausagey thing. Some more mushrooms. And a small mound of potatoes. Eating some of the secondary mushrooms, I thought, "these taste like that time I accidentally peed in my own mouth." Not long after, the waiter identified them not as mushrooms, but as kidneys. Which explained everything.
We are so damn weird.

But... turning briefly away from urine, and touching on the reflective melancholy of this past weekend, I admit that much of that revolves around that little boyo of mine who took such delight in my pee story.
With regards to illuminating all of your failures and successes, triumphs and nadirs as a human being, having a child is pretty much a 4000 lumen mag-light in the face.
Have I made the right choices for him? Have I totally screwed him up with my own screw ups? Are genuinely happy parents apart more important than unhappy ones together? Do I need to hover more or back off? Am I giving him what he needs? Am I a good dad?

And THAT, my friends, is definitely a post for another time.
Suffice to say, I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Thanks be to Steve.

I've been a bit absentee lately. Apologies for that. It's been especially difficult to find time and justification to sit down and write lately. I mean... I could sit on the couch and engage ten people via the one long, overplayed fart joke that is my writing.... Or I could organize the shop, hang out with a girl, rock out with my son, and maybe, just maybe, squeeze out for a ride. Not doing those things during the extremely minimal free-time I've had for the past month seemed ridiculous. 16 hour days, everyday, kind of suck. Bad.

But things are normalizing now, so let's get back to it, huh? I like writing. It helps me process this world. It's cathartic. Whether it does anything for anyone else is totally beside the point. So thanks to the various nutters who've encouraged me to keep pooping it out.

In case you're tuning in late or in case I just never really broadcast it, or you really just had much better things to pay attention to, for the past two months, I've been fully mired in moving the bike shop.

Culture: the cultivation of bacteria, tissue cells, etc., in an artificial medium containing nutrients.
Revolution: the act of turning around in circles 

This will be my third move in seven years (I'm calling it an even 6.66).
On the personal side, that's not much. For a business? Probably a little unusual.
One day I'll write about the moves, as there's some pertinent info there.
Suffice to say that this go round, the time was right. Our lease was up, and we'd totally outgrown that spot, which I'd never been happy with. You make due and roll with your decisions, but I really second guess that one. I know why it happened that way, and it made sense at the time, but things could have gone a lot differently early on.
Outside of the ending lease and outgrown space, I felt in a bit of a rut. I was frustrated with some of the infrastructure of the shop. Not only the layout and set up, but the operations. And I was frustrated with the industry, which seems to operate in a total vacuum. I'd even thought about closing or selling the shop and going back to grad school. Not because things weren't going well though. Despite the industry and operational frustrations, things have gotten much better. But seven year itch... all that.
I sat down, assessed directions and options, looked at the modest mound of poker chips I've accrued in this totally effed game over the years and said, "I'm in." Never forgetting that poker chips are worth nothing in the real world.

After looking all over; at various spaces downtown, a few up north, some near some other shops, and an old abandoned gas station right across from trails, I ultimately decided to stay nearby. They all had their merits, but more often than not, all too many issues.

I'm pretty pleased with the new digs. And not in a smug way, because there's so much wrong with it all that I don't even know where to begin. But without a doubt, it's a million steps closer to what I envisioned from the beginning. Although admittedly, we probably overdid it a bit, like a five year old peeing. But then, if you know me, then "overdoing it a bit" is pretty fitting.
The building we're in now is about as unassuming as it gets. Previously a florist for close to twenty years,  it kind of resembles a country church, with a very plain brickwork, a boxy structure and small steepleish spire on top. At some point I'm sure we'll do something cool with that, but hellifiknow what.

It needed a good bit of work. Which was part of the fun. Previously, we'd moved into vanilla boxes. We painted the walls, hung posters, put up some lights and modified it, but you could always tell that we'd made an office space into a bike shop. Since we kind of needed to gut this place, it gave us a lot of options. We could go as simple or all out as we wanted. The biggest constraint was time and money. There's a reason I've always done the upfit myself. This time I worked with a dude named Wes, who could handle some of the things I had no experience with or interest in tackling; specifically some of the demolition, electrical, plumbing and the floor. Telling him what we envisioned, he got pretty excited and asked if he could be more involved. I told him my budget for all of this was approximately nothing, and after some negotiating, we came up with a plan. I wanted to salvage as much wood and materials as possible and be involved in the work. Kicking ideas back and forth with him, the end result was pretty amazing. All done for less than most people spend in a month. Hellz yeh.

I'll give you a rundown of the upfit process next time. It was a TON of work, but so wild to see it come together.

The counter and backdrop are made from doors and windows salvaged from the old Wilkes Countly courthouse. 

Old pallets, rough cut lumber from a sawmill and any salvaged wood we could find made up most of the extensive wood work on the counter/bar.

Intially we'd intended to pull some old copper and use it as the backdrop to counter. We went with galvanized steel that's been aged out like copper. It's pretty wild. Maybe a little much for a bike shop, but damn, it's cool.

We now have a whole separate room devoted to the service side, but with room for inventory.

The vast walk-in cooler serves as storage for repair bikes and service parts.

And we're still working on some things. Navigating the city with regards to the not-so-super-secret other plan we have for our front counter has been an adventure. But we're sooo close. Patience.
I mean... if I can be patient about it, after over four years of scheming and planning, then so can you.
That said, pouring or not pouring, we're usually drinking, so come join us for a beer.

I have to say, I love the evolution of it all, from the extremely humble beginnings of buying the shop I'd worked at, to (barely) weathering a flood that wiped out many a shop seemingly more grounded than me, to taking a chance and branding it the way I wanted to, to the slow but sure budding and blossoming of what we have now. Damn, what a ride this has been.

Or... not so friendly.

The hollow shell of the OLD new space.

The Revolting whats?

Fidel Reitzel and some hot girl. I luck out sometimes.

The O-Men, featuring Shannon St. Clair of Brushy Mountain Cycles.

Local friends, dads, cyclists and punkers, Totally Slow playing our punk rock party.

We've had some good times in those spaces, and I think we're going to have a ton more in the new spot. There's so much potential it's ridiculous. 

Sure, things didn't go the way I expected. The move was rushed, and in all too many ways, harkened back to our FIRST move.

But we're getting it more and more dialed every day. 

We'll have our opening 6.66 years of Revolution shindig soon. 
In the meantime, let's just party. Kiss your girl. Smooch your boy. Ride a bike with your kid. 
And strut a little.