Existential Crisis

The Swat of Death enveloped me at work. I wasn't in any danger (that I knew of) driving down Monroe Av. near Meigs St. The Rentway store seemed as benevolent as ever with its array of big screen TVs in the window and the 7-11 was downright inviting; beckoning me to enter, buy a lottery ticket and enjoy a diet Dew while perusing the latest issue of Monster Trucks Monthly. It was just a flash of mortality. A nanosecond of "oh shit, here he comes." They aren't frequent but several times a year I feel it. I never had these flashes at 17. If these flashes can be interpreted I will be felled by some head trauma from behind. In any event, Death seems to me to possess a tremendously large hand ala the "We're No. 1" foam hands. Death's is not made of foam though. His is iron.

Dreamland has me meeting my maker on a mountain bike. This would be an excellent way to go. I'm to plunge off a trail, out of control and rolling backwards, into a powerful, green-tinged river and will not surface, remaining clipped in until I'm swept over a massive waterfall. I'm not sure if a hardtail of dual suspension would be better for this. Tubeless would help avoid the dreaded pinch flats associated with landing at the bottom of rivers.

These visions are luckily rare. They dart across my psyche hither and yon, to and fro and remind me of trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to dial into the Dr. Demento Show or the King Biscuit Flour Hour on my red and silver transistor radio (it had a button for Tone...both high and low) when I was knee-high to a grasshopper.

Now this is America and I'm obviously supposed to take up with some young woman on the side or purchase the car to end all mid-life crises, the Chevrolet Corvette but I love my Kitima and Subaru models just fine thank you.

What is a 41-year-old to do? Buy another bike of course. I'm not one to huck myself off any ledges greater than three feet so a nice XC should do. Something to race and train for Xterra's with would be its main chore. I went to Geneva Bike Shop to talk about the dual suspension beauty you see below made by Gary Fisher. Mark Hartman is one of the gurus at the shop and it was obvious after, oh, 13.7 seconds, that he's forgotten more about mountain bikes, racing and riding than I'll ever know. He graciously explained things to Kitima and I. She also knows a thing or two dozen more about MTBing than I and before you knew it they were off and running talking about roll-off hubs and fork-this and crank-that. Hopefully my eyes didn't appear too glassed-over. All I could add to their conversation was, "I love bikes! They have two wheels!" Kitima patted me on the head. She's very proud of the progress I've made. "Yes, yes they do Kevin," she said in a tone that was at once impressed and on the other hand indicated I should be quiet and let the adults speak uninterrupted.

Sooooooooo, it looks like I'll be pulling the trigger on my 'Vette soon (Kitima too!)...'Vette might have to be the bike's name..."Death Bike" as a moniker doesn't exactly make me want to ride it.