The Serendipitous Scout

"I have two bikes for you," Jim said motioning with his head towards the door leading to the basement stairs and away from the new bikes. He was already walking as if this proposal had never been rejected.

I left Kitima with Matt to discuss the best way to go about embellishing her current mountain bike. Matt had his bike on hand as a show and tell centerpiece and she was taking notes, pointing out parts, asking questions and the last thing I heard from her was a protracted, "wow!" as some carbon doohickey or expertly-machined gizmo was pointed out and explained in detail down to the last gram.

The steps were narrow and creaky and reminded me of the wood on a light-colored spruce violin my fat music teacher used to play in high school. We would taunt his classical sensibilities with requests of The Devil Went Down to Georgia and refer to his Stradivarius as a fiddle.

The planks were smooth from years of tiptoes but were arrayed at odd angles like something out of M.C. Escher's (no he wasn't a D.J.) print Relativity.

At the bottom of the stairs a gallimaufry of odors enveloped us. I smelled rubber, bike lube, mustiness, an aging fontina Val d'Aosta (peculiar, as I hadn't noticed any Wheat Thins upstairs in the shop) and something redolent of a sweaty leather Brooks saddle circa 1972? I took a deep breath.

Before me were what seemed to be an infinite amount of bikes. Most were hanging from the rafters but a few were standing at attention, with others more casually leaning against the rough rock foundation. It was hard to discern though from the sole 20-watt light bulb performing an anemic, Cimmerian, light-unfantastic aria.

"Here they are," he said pointing at two bikes hanging from the ceiling like a fisherman-landed shark strung up on the pier for that hackneyed photograph. If I ever catch a shark I'm going to lay it flat on its belly on the dock as I straddle it while hanging onto the dorsal fin with one hand and grasping a cowboy hat high above my head in the other hand. I think Shark Rodeo was on ESPN 8 the other night; I love the ocho!

Most of the bikes were used, that is they all came with a soul. It seems odd to me that the addition of a amiable ghost of rides-past reduces the value of a trusty steed. Suddenly I felt like I was in an animal shelter and wanted to take all of them home.

One was a 29er full suspension. It is identical to my current ride but a year or two older.

"Who wants a backup ride that's the same as his current one though?" Jim said at some point as I was staring at The Scout. Both were Jim's bikes.

The Scout is made by Origin8 but they do not have models called The Jem, The Atticus or The Boo.

Harper Lee would be proud to know that The Scout is steely, black and strong.

Jim listed the parts spec and I heard some of that, he spoke of the price and the company and I heard less of that. I must've looked like one of those fishes from the bottom of the ocean with huge eyes.

We ascended and for some reason I felt lucky not to have a case of the bends after lingering in the subterranean bike shelter.

I'm going to pick up The Scout in a few weeks after they doll it up and I get back from Allegrippis Part Deux.