proser

I make art for blind eyes, and speak to empty chairs and the deaf. I write and paint what I'd like to enjoy, but can't find. For me. This is not pretentiousness, this is apathy to public reception. This is my backscratcher, a place to prattle prose and paint as I find myself uncontrollably compelled to do. Enjoy or don't, I'll not be affected.
~ Wednesday, January 11 ~
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1995(?) ProTi Jackal.  I found the frame on eBay, a small hand-builder from “somewhere else” with a mysterious background.  The only information I could find about the builder, the model, or even this exact bike was that Belgian cyclocross legend Sven Nys “may have raced one” in “some championship” when he was “younger”.  No exact dates, no clues to/of/about the company, no nothing, aside from a few posts on the internet wondering if the eBay auction was a good buy.  It came as a secondhand complete, with an Ultegra 9spd group and Ritchey components, so I raced it the way I got it for a year to cut my teeth in ‘cross in 2010.  After my first season I sought to upgrade the bike, and restore what I imagined to be it’s former glory, but with modern components; a full SRAM Force Group, TRP Euro Mags, carbon tubulars on Zipp hubs, some fancypants cabling, and a clean finish of freshly scrubbed raw Ti.  When I finished building the bike, it was so pretty and new and perfect that I was afraid to get it dirty… like it was art; it was sacred, untarnished, above use, as if it’s true purpose was to look pretty, on the wall, in a glass case.  To “use” it was to appreciate it from afar.  I would take it out for joyrides, shakedowns, and little jaunts to and from the park, and then quickly bring it home, clean it, re-lube everything and put it back on the shelf.  It was somewhat satisfying, in the sense of, “This is my baby.  It is a nice bike.  I have a nice bike.” But it felt all wrong.  That’s when it hit me.  I realized what I had to do, and why I couldn’t.  This wasn’t a baby, this was a bike, and this bike was too sacred, too clean. I had to destroy it.  It was an exercise in willpower and detachment; I had to reduce my most precious possession to a simple tool, to leave it stuck in the mud, ridden hard and put away wet.  I had to shelve all my grievances over time and money spent, and be revisited by the ghost of ‘cross’ past that inspired the rebuild in the first place - the act of restoring glory.  I had been putting off racing to complete the build, but since it was finished I still hadn’t entered a single race.  I registered for the next event that instant, before my brain and wallet had time to protest.  By the time the event got closer, I had finally started riding it.  I had remembered what it really was.  The bike remembered, too, and we made a pact to ride together as hard as we could, especially so if it meant destroying both of us.  The event came, and we did exactly as we promised.  As it turns out, it’s a lot more fun that way.  Upon reflection, I think that without this revelation, I’d be out of a race bike until I bought something that was less nice.  However, I’d probably have my ProTi forever.  Sitting in a glass case.  Hating itself.   

1995(?) ProTi Jackal.  I found the frame on eBay, a small hand-builder from “somewhere else” with a mysterious background.  The only information I could find about the builder, the model, or even this exact bike was that Belgian cyclocross legend Sven Nys “may have raced one” in “some championship” when he was “younger”.  No exact dates, no clues to/of/about the company, no nothing, aside from a few posts on the internet wondering if the eBay auction was a good buy.  It came as a secondhand complete, with an Ultegra 9spd group and Ritchey components, so I raced it the way I got it for a year to cut my teeth in ‘cross in 2010.  After my first season I sought to upgrade the bike, and restore what I imagined to be it’s former glory, but with modern components; a full SRAM Force Group, TRP Euro Mags, carbon tubulars on Zipp hubs, some fancypants cabling, and a clean finish of freshly scrubbed raw Ti.  When I finished building the bike, it was so pretty and new and perfect that I was afraid to get it dirty… like it was art; it was sacred, untarnished, above use, as if it’s true purpose was to look pretty, on the wall, in a glass case.  To “use” it was to appreciate it from afar.  I would take it out for joyrides, shakedowns, and little jaunts to and from the park, and then quickly bring it home, clean it, re-lube everything and put it back on the shelf.  It was somewhat satisfying, in the sense of, “This is my baby.  It is a nice bike.  I have a nice bike.” But it felt all wrong.  That’s when it hit me.  I realized what I had to do, and why I couldn’t.  This wasn’t a baby, this was a bike, and this bike was too sacred, too clean. I had to destroy it.  It was an exercise in willpower and detachment; I had to reduce my most precious possession to a simple tool, to leave it stuck in the mud, ridden hard and put away wet.  I had to shelve all my grievances over time and money spent, and be revisited by the ghost of ‘cross’ past that inspired the rebuild in the first place - the act of restoring glory.  I had been putting off racing to complete the build, but since it was finished I still hadn’t entered a single race.  I registered for the next event that instant, before my brain and wallet had time to protest.  By the time the event got closer, I had finally started riding it.  I had remembered what it really was.  The bike remembered, too, and we made a pact to ride together as hard as we could, especially so if it meant destroying both of us.  The event came, and we did exactly as we promised.  As it turns out, it’s a lot more fun that way. 

Upon reflection, I think that without this revelation, I’d be out of a race bike until I bought something that was less nice.  However, I’d probably have my ProTi forever.  Sitting in a glass case.  Hating itself.