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Me and Bruiser. He was here on Friday to collect his new bicycle. His last one was picked up in 1982. He was a Junior on the very first few editions of the teams I sponsored. Bruiser raced with us for some three years and then went out into the world.
If for a moment I overlook the fact that he dropped in one day in 2001 (he reminded me) it’s 35 years since we were together at races, or team dinners, maybe a training camp weekend. On Friday it was easy to roll back the calendar. Effortless, really.
The first image was last week. Then it's us in 1983. After that it's Bruiser at speed. Another is a team shot from northern Quebec. One from a stage race in Connecticut. One shows a pile of letters I kept. There's one with Bruiser's son and the first RS.
Bruiser has a family, a career, and apparently wide interests including baking bread, open water swim competitions, tennis, alpine skiing, and serving on several community boards. Clearly he’s most proud of his three children, two of whom are at college.
This young man was barely old enough to drive when we first met. I wasn’t yet thirty. And in a perfect storm that swept up maybe ten of us, a thing started. And continued for four decades. I use terms like “pioneer status” too often. Bruiser is a pioneer.
I miss simpler times. And simpler things. The slower pace before everyone was connected digitally. Talking with friends rather than sending emails or texts (I don’t do the latter.) Finding out how people are really doing, without relying on autofill.
We spent four hours reliving the games we once played together. And the pals we played them with. And the places they were played. We had a long lunch on my porch while watching cyclists heading in both directions. And then we hugged again.
All This By Hand
More images here.
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Old friends, old friends
Sat on their park bench like bookends
Can you imagine us years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange to be 70
Peter and me. We met in London over fifty years ago. We weren’t there chasing anything. The reality is that we were pulled across the Atlantic separately to land in just the right spot at the same time. And we stood next to each other for many months as men around us made bicycle frames. What an unconventional path for two teenagers from America.
We’d ultimately come back, separately, and meet in Connecticut. There was no script at the time, but speaking for myself (and Peter too) it was an adventure. We stayed the path. How we ever parlayed our sojourn abroad into the commercial entities many know us for could be a Netflix series. The Funkel Brothers’ (Simon and Gar) lyrics resonate deeply.
Today we shared a few hours together. Our conversation was punctuated with reminiscences that included efforts to take a measure of ourselves - where are we now, how do we fit into the puzzle, that sort of thing. We laughed heartily recounting the learning curve we each (separately again) wrestled into a straight line. It wasn’t that terribly strange.
All This By Hand
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Love this. Thanks for sharing Richard.
Darnell Laventhrop, Curling Coach
You’re all invited!
Tomorrow night in Manhattan.
Click link for details.
https://aigany.org/event/no-place-li...NvCbu-G.MeExig
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in case of emergency break glass
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All This By Hand
That is spectacular. Do people ever leave you to choose the colour scheme?
Lee James Jones
Former 105 fan
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but someday, everything's gonna be different
when i paint that masterpiece
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All This By Hand
For some inexplicable reason, after staring at these frames, I can’t get Anita Ward’s song, Ring My Bell, out of my head…
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garden furniture
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All This By Hand
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assorted pinkbike comments encouraged
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All This By Hand
I'd rock that.
White bar tape, white saddle, white cable housing.
Yum!
Untitled by Marvin Lungwitz, on Flickr
Needs matching Porsche.
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