We carve mountains out of the curves and whorls of concrete.

October 9th, 2013, 10pm

It was 19.4°C. The wind was light.

Despite being beat half-to-death and bleeding at the end of our urban downhill rides, I love ‘em more than any other riding that I do. There’s a particular flavor of adrenaline that you get when bombing a 15-set of stairs that you can’t get grinding out miles in the country.

The whole night is shaped by the coppery taste in my mouth. Perception shifts.

A staircase isn’t a staircase anymore - it’s a terraced hill. A rail is more than a handhold, it’s a means of fast conduction. A cement parking bumper isn’t an end to a journey, it’s a transition to a new line.

We attempt to flow like a swooping airplane-hand over the curves of a lover, touching lightly and playfully to follow the dips and ledges with minimum contact. Teasing. Often, though, it’s more like high school foreplay - a barked shin, clicked teeth, sudden forehead contact.

The powerful feeling when carving mountains out of the curves and whorls of concrete is worth a million crushed shins. That’s the alchemical power of gods, handed to guys in graphic tees and Vans in exchange for blood and rubber. We’d be stupid to ever give that back.

Shu, Emanuel, Cassie and David Wade said thanks.

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Allan Lazenby

Wrencher of bicycles, petter of dogs. Active cyclist and a cycling activist. I unabashedly put the worst of me into words.

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