GRIMY HAND­SHAKE

AND THERE I WAS, UN­DER A CANOPY OF TREES, GET­TING DROPPED BY A DUDE ON A FAT­BIKE BLAST­ING DANCE MU­SIC.

Bike (USA) - - Grimy Handshake - PHOTO: BRUNO LONG

po. “You say you don’t like asses ’cause I fart and break your glasses …”

It’s a crude and funny and won­der­ful song, but it gets old pretty quick. Like, im­me­di­ately. I tried dis­lodg­ing it from my head by singing “Wi­chita Line­man” for a while, but no luck. It was stuck and stuck good. The climb seemed end­less and Method Man was growl­ing “this is where her poop comes out” over and over. That’ll kill a per­sonal KOM at­tempt stone-dead right there. And then, just like that, de­liv­ered by the least likely of mes­sen­gers: sal­va­tion. Amy, Am­ber Rose and Method Man left in search of other au­di­tory vic­tims, shaken out by the fuzz and thump of the speaker in the back­pack of the dread­locked guy on the fat­bike.

They rolled past me like I was stand­ing still, and a few min­utes later I was left with bliss­ful si­lence. By the time I reached the in­ter­sec­tion at the top of the climb they’d al­ready rolled on and there was no­body in sight. A light fog had yet to burn off, and as I turned right and dumped through the gears into the de­scent, my in­ner juke­box se­lected the last thing it had heard and sent me down the hill. “Fzzzzt fzzzzt

fzz fzzzzt …”

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