This morning I undertook an epic ride on my Brompton to an exotic destination:
Just kidding!
No, I just rode it home from the auto mechanic, which took me through the park:
Astute readers may have noticed I’ve made a number of visits to the auto mechanic recently, and if you’re an Auto Fred/”Avid Driver” or simply curious about the minutiae of my life and would like to know why, the answer is that there appears to be some sort of electric chupacabra living in my car that is slowly draining the battery while it is parked. (Note: the politically correct term for “parked” is “selfishly occupying public street space for free.”)
I’d hate to reduce the Brompton–a true engineering marvel that not only comes in handy time and time again but is also a joy to ride–to a mere automotive accessory, but the fact is that if you do insist on driving and you don’t like getting stuck places, no trunk is complete without both a Brompton and one of those lithium ion jumpstarter thingies.
By the way, Electric Chupacabra totally sounds like the latest model from Mudbunion Bikes:
Anyway, I look forward to the eventual resolution of this automotive issue in a satisfactory fashion, and only hope I do not have to resort to the ultimate indignity:
I can’t believe Hyundai haven’t stolen that from me yet, it’s the best automotive tagline since this one:
And of course this one:
In 30 years the nursing homes will be full of doddering Gen X-ers who can remember nothing except for ’80s movie references. (Yes, the movie referenced above was from 1990, but the ’90s didn’t officially begin until the first Lollapalooza tour.) Expect entire wings devoted to the movie “Caddyshack” alone.
And speaking of Lollapalooza…
Huh, I’d have pictured him on a Rivendell, go figure.
In other news, why do Freds love giant glasses so much?
The above image is from a CyclingTips review of the POC Devour glasses, which I assumed are so named because they devour half your face–and I swear I typed that before I saw this tweet:
As an observer of cycling style, it’s been fascinating to watch the bifurcation of drop-bar fashion. At a certain point in your cycling life you hit a fork in the road: if you bear left that road turns to gravel, your bars flare out, and you go full Mudbunion with the flannel shirts, jorts, etc., while if you bear right it’s all aero frames and giant glasses and lace-up shoes and explosively busy Rorschach jerseys.
It’s all enough to make you long for the times when people had taste (and I was funny)…
Ah, those were the days.