by Matthew Roberts
Red and black Raleigh Record Ace, sitting in my garage, calling me to ride the gray ribbon up and down hills. A call that is most seductive. But one that is rudely interrupted by reality: the ugly hot summer, deathly if one makes it out after 9. And barely do I. Thus, the Record Ace sleeps, resting as it has before for so long. Though now, it has been fixed up, in working, if not beautiful, condition; not refined and top of the heap of its day, it is yet classy enough for me. And forgiving.
When the summer cools, or I make it out early, we will ride yet again. My legs itch for the road.