When the accident happened, time seemed to slow. I saw my life (or at least my collarbone) flash before my eyes, yet I escaped unscathed. You, dear friend, didn't fare as well. Nay, instead during yesterday's State Championships 300 pounds (or more) of flying man-flesh--sinew, bone and fluids--came crashing down on your meager 7 kilos.
It's hard to believe, but you are now dead to the world. It's a hard word to say or process, so I'll repeat it again. Dead. Dead. Dead.
You started your life in Wisconsin, born just down the road from the mothership in Waterloo, barely in time for the 2004 Tour de France. But it was in Europe, where you were covered in mud and cow droppings where you really came into your own. Eventually you were adopted by me, but really it was your time with Jurgen Van den Broeck that defined your early life.
To me, you were always special. I think back fondly now on our time together. The 204 miles on a hot day in July two years ago. The field sprint wins. The suffering, me covered in sweat, you in energy drink, dust and tar. And of course, who could forget the time we were caught in that snowstorm. I laugh now, but today it also makes me want to cry.
Yet alas, Sunday completed your circle of life. No more Madone frame. It is now broken beyond repair. No more Aeolus carbon wheels. Today they're broken in half. No more SRAM Red shifter. No more rear derailleur. No more. No more.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Except in your case it's carbon to carbon. You're an element, and can't be broken down any more than you already are. So sad, but also comforting in its own way.
RIP good bicycle. RIP good friend.
|From Team Two Wheel|