skoals

So I rode in my park today (Lincoln Park, Jersey City). Took the old IRO out for a spin with her new home brewed handlebars. I tried to simulate albatross/moustache bars by adding bar ends to nashbar aluminum risers -an idea admittedly orginally conceived by making fun another bike I've mentioned in this blog. Anyway the sun was out and it was about 40 degrees which made for a nice ride. During winter rides you warm up after a while and wish you had put on less clothing. I tried not to get upset at the amount of cars cutting through the park, honking at me thinking I've no right to be on the road with them. After a lap I rode over to a bench where I saw another rider riding up in my direction.
"Do you have any ____s" he said. I heard skoals, as in the tobacco dip that Florida people sometimes use.
"Hey whats up. Skoals? No," I replied.
"no, Do you have any TOOLs," he clarified.
"oh, no. no tools," I said. His bike was converted single speed, the kind where you remove the rear derailleur and simply shorten the chain and go single speed with all the extra cogs still on the rear cluster. He rode off.
I did a few more laps, a few more cars honked for me to get out of their way, and then it was time for me to go. On my way home there was an abandoned house being cleared out for renovation. They had a big dumpster in the front and one guy was tossing crap down from the 2nd floor to the other guy in the dumpster, who caught a glimpse of my bike.
"hey, luke at these bike. its nice, right?" he said to his buddy. I rode on and ignored.
"Its simple. Its old-school," he added.
"Thanks," I said. I did another lap just so the guy doesn't know where I live.

...As an afterthought I've considered naming the IRO "Vincent Black Shadow" in honor of Hunter S. Thompson's bike in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

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"Well," he said, "as your attorney I advise you to buy a motorcycle. How else can you cover a thing like this righteously?"

"No way," I said. "Where can we get hold of a Vincent Black Shadow?"

"What's that?"

"A fantastic bike," I said. "The new model is something like two thousand cubic inches, developing two hundred brake-horsepower at four thousand revolutions per minute on a magnesium frame with two styrofoam seats and a total curb weight of exactly two hundred pounds."

"That sounds about right for this gig," he said.

"It is," I assured him. "The fucker's not much for turning, but it's pure hell on the straightaway. It'll outrun the F-111 until takeoff."

"Takeoff?" he said. "Can we handle that much torque?"

"Absolutely," I said. "I'll call New York for some cash."