A jaundiced moon hung low in the smoggy dusk of LA last night, fattened by the slothful desk jockeys returning home for the weekend. It was lovely; big and yellow, suspended shimmering in the bands of heat on the horizon. The perfect evening to jam out some miles on the newly fixed 24”. Northbound I did roll, ducking and dodging through the neighborhood, keeping la luna at my back. When I reached the second crossing, I doubled back over the river and on to the southward path, now in perfect position to spin while savoring the view. Ahead was another rider, rare at this late hour. Approaching, I saw he was older, worn by the road and probably the mean streets too. We had some stairs to climb ahead of us and I rolled up on him as he dismounted. Called a hey howdy to let him know a friendly was behind him. At the top of the steps we got to talking. Laurence was riding a Peugeot plucked from the trash, perfect with Campy wheels and old Mafac brakes. Said he had eight bikes, didn’t care when his MTB got swiped while he was getting a hummer under the trees in the park. Told me through his cracked teeth that the origins of a certain familiar curse came all the way back in 1462. Apparently, to sleep with a member of the royal court, permission had to be granted in writing, thus fornication under consent of the king became our favorite four-letter word. “Where’d you get that?” I laughed, having heard a few versions of the ‘origins’ story before, but never this one. “Book called ‘Foxfire’” he shot back, and I flashed to the worn volumes I had thumbed through as a child in my Grandparents backwoods home. I hipped him to the Bicycle Kitchen, told him they’d groove on his dumpster dive roadie. As we parted ways, he hipped me to the fact that not running a headlamp at night could bag me a 380.00$ ticket. Fuck, indeed.
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