The Espree is blue demon, summoned to this realm in the late seventies by my grandfather; he is now known as the last of the bicycle warlocks. Although never intended for mere amusement (designed, in fact, to crush enemy road warriors), she has adapted well to her new role:
My street slave.
Espree was beloved by my mother during her youth. The two of them were thick as thieves! But age and a growing disinterest in conquering local sidewalks was nearly the death knell for Espree. Decades imprisoned in "The Barn." Pedals untouched, parts uncleaned, powers untapped. But I heard her low hums some years ago. I understood what potential lay beneath those dinosaur-patterned rags. A pact was made in the glow of her soft blue love.
"Be my hand, steady my path, and I will show you places your flesh has only dreamed of."
So anyway, I cleaned up the bike and got a friend to fix the cables. Since then, we've put many miles under her wheels; Philadelphia to Scranton, Abaddon to Pandemonium. Pretzel rides like nobody's fucking business. But the passing of Poop Snacks' Red Baron is a sobering reminder of the mortality of steel. Forged in the fires of Mt. Fuji or not, each bike owes a debt. Each bike owes a death. I believe that in celebration of the life of Red Baron, Espree and I will take a midnight ride to the local 7-11. I will smoke cigarettes and drink blue sugar slush and lean against my blue bike and think of my fellow blogger. I may even pour some drink out into the parking lot.
You know, for our dead homie. Holla.
And when we find the bastards responsible?
///more implied rape