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no room for hipsters

the occupation of Ashley and Levon

My mid 1980s Schwinn World Tourist has been sitting outside I guess since November and not that there haven’t been some warm enough days to take it to work, I’ve just conveniently found that winter is a near unconditional excuse to burn some gas (and not some ass, to borrow a phrase).  But this week in February after four days in the 70s I dusted off the tourist and climbed on, turned on some Lennon Anthology (the New York City disc, of course), and then turned it down so as to hear traffic safely, and rode to work. 

Nothing tops an endorphin rush like office shit coffee and the four fabric walls of my Holiday Inn-esque patterned cubicle.  I was just in daydream about wherever I might be biking to in New York every morning and how I’ll miss the contours of home that one can only really understand from a biking point of view.  Biking these foothills of the Appalachians has been the secret to my belting pipes if you want to know the truth. 

Other than last year’s three week consecutive string of thunderstorm surprises, flat tire lockitupandwalkithomes, and getting laid out across the hood of a taxi cab, I’d say that bike rides can be the best part of my day. 



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