“Ok,”

I said trying to hide my grin, knowing full well that this was a bike I had been looking for. Dreams of kandy-coated hot rods and klunkers; am I mixing up eras? I guess punk and klunk are not dead. One is passed out on the floor, and the other has a single-wall coaster brake on a taco-ed rim. Bent by miscalculation on a bunny hop up or down a curb. Growing vines in the spokes as it patinas and turns to “yard art.”

“When did you ride it last?” ”Probably 1995 or ‘6” 

“I don’t remember what year I bought it.” 

“Perfect.” And 70 bucks vaporized from my wallet. 

It’s a lugged old mountain bike: it’s black, it’s mean. The word “stumpy” keeps slipping from my lips like “Kali ma, skakati de!” As the priest in the Temple of Doom rips out a sacrificed heart. I was always more of a Star Wars fan anyway. Asking my R2-D2 pocket computer iPhone, “black vintage Stumpjumper”-- and there it was. 1985. A year after Temple of Doom was released in theaters. I wonder if the dude who sold me this bike saw that film in theaters. I wonder if he liked Star Wars better too. Maybe he was more of a singletrack type of guy. Enough with aliens, jackrabbits, and trailing on jokes. 

It’s an old 26”-wheel mountain bike. It runs. Many modifications, but solid simple functional stuff. Decent parts bin parts. (Ask your friends or me for parts. Many places to find cheap bike parts!) Solid rubber that grips on streets, gravel, single track, the surface of the planet, and many galaxies in between. It gets me from point A to B and then some. “This machine surrounds hate, and forces it to surrender” was scrawled on the great Pete Seeger’s famous long neck banjo. An old mountain bike or an old banjo sure can bring a lot of smiles or frowns. I personally live in the smile category. I spent maybe $150 on this bike and I love it to shreds. I appreciate modern technology, racing, development, etc., but sometimes a banjo and beer on the front porch is hard to beat. Primal. Simple. Sometimes a hunk of chromoly can make you sing. Sometimes it can make you shout. Some classics never go out of style. 

I wanted to do more of a Radvist  “Reader’s Rig” but who really cares what parts are on your bike as long as they move! There are some exceptions to that rule, better parts are better. As many fools have muttered with mustered courage “run what ya brung” and for the more logically faint of heart, “if you don’t have nerves getting in a race car, you don’t need to be in a race car.” 

Go find a steel pony. An aluminum arrow. A carbon culprit. Whatever your bike is made from, build a deep connection with it. Learn to fix your flats. Learn basic mechanic work. Learn to clean your bike. Learn to love your bike. It will love you back. A bike doesn’t have to cost more than a couple hundred bucks if you get talking to the right nerds. One of them happens to be writing this story. 

The bike is punk rock freedom. It truly does surround hate and FORCES it to surrender. It's the ability to transport brain and body, usually psychedelic drugs, sex, or rock and roll are needed for that. I guess my main point here is Woody Guthrie would have scrawled on his guitar “this machine kills fascism” and many have ripped it off but “this machine kills boredom, stagnation, fear, sadness, loneliness and many other things that ail our human spirits.” 

So my main point is, go find a cheap bike and ride the piss out of it.

Need help doing so? Hit me up! Together we build community, smiles, and machines that surround hate and force it to surrender. 

Happy pedaling. Happy crafting. 

-Hunter Bultemeier aka The Velomancer 

(bicycle-resurrection) through arcane arts and love!