IV

Freewheel

Michael Mulroney finds a bicycle on his first visit to the most amazing bike shop in town, maybe in Northern California, maybe anywhere. Or so they say. Mulroney asks the easy question, which he often does; it’s so easy—the asking, that is. The answer can stall out. But the salesperson answers with a knowing smile, assuring him that several other shops in town and a few more in the region might approach amazing status, but only The Spokesperson achieves that status, with more blank frames in inventory than any other shop could possibly have the money or sense to carry. That’s because the owner is a bicycle fanatic, a true wheelman who might never win a tour leg but wants to be all things to all spokespeople all the time. “If you can’t find your perfect match here, you can’t find it anywhere.”

“I don’t get it,” Mulroney says. “I get the part about inventory, with all the brands and the models and sizes. I got the same problem, and in this economy it doesn’t make you amazing; it makes you amazingly wrong. Big inventory can break the bank these days. But what I really don’t get is the other part, about why you do it if it makes no sense. And frankly, it makes no sense.”

The spokes consultant shows the full range of his good-natured grin and follows up with a shrug. “Good question. But you’re amazing too. You do the same thing. You’re ready. The economy shifts, and you’re still ready—expanding into a down market, even though it doesn’t look anything like it did. But I’ll tell you what Mister M. Let’s have this talk when we’re done with your fitting. I think a few actions might provide you with a thousand words.”

Mulroney laughs because he loves the presumption. “Now that’s some bullshit. But I like it. You know: my kind o’ bullshit. Hey, you know me?”

“I’ve seen your ads. Who hasn’t? And your car lots. I mean, you are well known.” Mulroney rolls his eyes and shrugs, not so secretly pleased and nonetheless surprised that he is known even in such a rarified place. Then again, what’s your average fucking bicycle hustler going to buy when he needs a car? Will he buy a new car? No, he’ll go used, so he’ll go M—Big M, that is, and that’s what makes the world go round, what with your economic reciprocation and that shit.

The spokes consultant nearly squints in assessing Mulroney as a potential rider, cogs seeking cohesion on body type, age, pocket depth, and the latest technology that might be wasted on such an old fart, but then who else can afford it? “Do you ride now?”

“No.”

“And you last rode when? I mean, regularly.”

“Not so long ago, maybe thirty-five, forty years. Nah! Not forty. Thirty-five is all.”

Breaking a slow nod, the spokes consultant raises a forefinger and exits to the back room. He reappears in a minute, wheeling a unit likely to amuse. “This is Equinox, a C-1A frame from Olioglo. This is the frame I ride. It’s considered an ultimate frame for many riders, and it could be considered a step too far for you. Then again, why wait? Why not give the best chance to the most fun and best feeling you’ve had in thirty-five years?”

“Hey, you knockin’ my wife?”

“Not at all! I meant … bicycling!”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fucking with you. Sorry. You were saying, a step beyond.”

“The bicycle I have in mind for you is not extravagant, yet. Believe me. You’re getting a solid foundation. You won’t want to go out there with anything less. It can get a bit more expensive for performance goodies. But the main thing to keep in mind is that it’s a parts jungle out there. You’ll love the upgrades if you know what to get, and I can show you how. Given your age and projected miles remaining, you may want to take full advantage of the new bike discount of 12% on all components added at the time of purchase, provided the component is the top model from that manufacturer.” Franco hesitates and then cracks the half smile on both sides, “You’re no different than my other riders. You’ll see. You’ll want the best. I know these things. You’ll find the C-1A at the summit of comfort, ease, speed, and efficiency. I daresay you will love it. This particular bicycle is sixty-five ninety-five, so not every buyer can afford it. But if you can, you’ll be glad you did. You probably need riding things too, shoes and shorts and jerseys?”

“Yeah, all that.” Mulroney hefts the Equinox C-1A from Olioglo. He laughs up front to show that he’s joking, maybe. “You don’t mean seventy bucks, do you?” He gets a brief stretch on the fixed grin for his effort. “Seven fucking grand for a bicycle?”

“We’ve come a long way.”

“Yeah. Gee.”

“Actually, the Equinox frame runs only thirty-eight hundred—it utilizes trapezoidal tetrahedron technology with triangular cross-sectioning in the maximum torque frame segments. It uses the new split tail design with interchangeable cage brackets and blunt stubs up front, tipping in at one point nine pounds.”

“Fucking weightless.”

“Nearly. It gets up to eighteen pounds or so on the build out. We finished this unit with great components. You can get better stuff, but this will give you the feel. Whatever you feel with this will only feel better with better stuff.”

Mulroney loves the action; it’s so brazenly expensive in such whimsical detail. Yet he also senses the action, going into overdrive to see just how much he’s willing to spend. Oh, Mulroney knows the game, so he slows the pace with a few lobs. He takes a minute to eyeball some of the finer details, laughing inside—as if he knows what he’s looking at. But he does glean in no time that this bicycle-spending miasma is à la Carte. All the parts are different brands. And he asks, unafraid to sound uninformed: “The fuck? Doesn’t anybody build a whole bicycle anymore? I mean the whole fucking enchilada, with the tires and handlebars and all this tweezer shit?”

“Yes, of course. Specialized does. But it gets boring.”

“Yeah, I think so too, now that you mention it. This is more fun, mix and match, huh? Okay, so you call these parts great but then you say I can get better stuff. What do you call those parts?”

“Well, that depends on the brand. Most componentry comes in four quality grades. I do think the top grade would be overkill for you because the only difference is esoteric, with tiny screws and washers made of carbon graphite instead of stainless steel. You can spend a few thousand saving a dozen grams …”

“Or you could just pass on the second half o’ your baked fuckin potato and keep the money in your pocket.”

“Something like that.”

Mulroney hefts the bicycle again. He rolls it back and forth. “What would you call this Oliogilleto rig here? I heard you call it ultimate, and that usually means the very best. Is it?”

“It is. I mean unless you count the bomb.”

“And what, pray tell, is the bomb?”

“The CX-61. Also from Olioglo but different. It’s purist. It’s … art. I mean, not to sound too crazy, but it’s like this. Every single carbon frame today is laid up in Taiwan—”

“Wha? Taiwan?”

The spokes consultant hangs his head and nods. “It’s the way it is. Olioglo hand picks his lay-up guys and gets only the very best of the best. You’d think it would be a subtle difference, but Olioglo frames are immaculate. However! The CX-61 is the only carbon frame in the world not laid up in Taiwan. Mr. Olioglo has them built in his basement, in his home near Genoa. They run about eleven thousand, but I have to check on availability and colors.”

“I would think for eleven grand you could get sky blue with monkeys out the ass.”

“You might get sky blue with monkeys or anything, but not because you ordered it.”

“You’re saying they send what they want?”

“I’m saying they’re Italian. We get what they send. And it’s gorgeous, every time.”

Michael Mulroney steps back, perhaps for perspective. He doesn’t mind the dough; nay, he loves lavish spending for the sheer exhilaration of the thing and for what it might reflect in a man of incredible success. On the solvency issue and its converse, he’s always adhered to faith, what he calls the cornerstone of religion. God and Mulroney will provide. On a more practical level, a man must spend money to make money, and if the top of the ridge is an image to die for, it can only dazzle more brilliantly with a seller on an unbelievable bicycle. You think for a California minute that Big M on a bicycle won’t make news? Oh, Mulroney knows the game. But he wants to get it right, wants to actually ride this bicycle, and he believes he will ride it if he gets it right.

“Look at these.” But the spokes consultant stops and offers his hand for a shake, sensing the changing direction of the discourse, toward a closing. “I’m Franco, by the way. Pleased to meet you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Mulroney. You know. A real fucking pleasure.”

Franco slides a brochure across the counter, an 8½ x 11 so thick and pliable it feels nearly plastic, showing the bare bones frames of the CX-61 from Olioglo in the six color schemes available, maybe. “I’ll call Chicago to see what they have. I know the Chicago crew well.”

“Does it matter that you know them?”

Franco smiles and dials. Mulroney scans the options and boils the choice down to two, which he shows to Franco, who’s reached the Chicago office and waits on hold. “That frame color is for the disc brake model only. You do not want disc brakes.”

“Disc brakes? On a bicycle?”

“Yes. They’re relatively new on road bikes, but they really are a specialty item for going very fast—” Franco holds up a finger as he exchanges pleasantries with his great good friend at Olioglo U.S.A. in Chicago and asks what he can get shipped today. “Oh? Well, yes. I think so. But the catalog shows that color in the disc brake frame only … Yes … You’re sure … ? Sizes … ? Grazie. I’ll call you back.”

Franco shrugs, underscoring his point, that what is shipped will be what they’ll get. But he thinks they can get one of Mulroney’s two choices, for the moment, in a size fifty-three. Franco assesses the candidate once more and nods. “We’re in luck.”

“The fuck, you think you can get it? You just talked to the guy. He had his eyes on it, didn’t he?”

Franco shrugs. “We often think what turns out to be otherwise.”

Mulroney smiles again, this time shaking his head. “That’s good. I gotta chew on that one. Hey, Frankie. You ever sell cars?”

Allowing for maximum potential, maximum return and above all, maximum fun, Franco pencils in specialty upgrades on every screw, washer, nut, O-ring, link, cable, rod, axle, rim, lever, tape, sprig, and relish. The build-out begins on paper, on a form that becomes a set piece in supreme excellence at maximum level. The Big M senses his transformation into the laydown of every salesperson’s dreams, and he says, “You understand, this is an exercise. We’re going through the motions here.”

“Of course. We need to see if we can even put together what you want.”

“Ease off, Frankie. You got the sales basics dicked—that would be service and product knowledge. Smoke up the ass is not necessary and could be a deal killer.”

“Sorry, Mr. M.”

“Don’t worry about it, but give me a break, for fuck sake. All I wanted was a fucking bicycle, and you’re putting together a fucking Mach nine supersonic screamer. And shitcan the part about whether you can do it. You fill in the blanks. What can’t you do?”

Franco blushes, perhaps humbled, perhaps insulted, perhaps wondering how his world-class bicycling potential got him building out extreme machines for rude, old guys. Mulroney sees. Mulroney knows. “You were a contender, huh?”

Franco thinks and jots components into each blank. He eases into grimace—make that a smile. “I had my day.”

“Yeah, we all had our day. Some of us. Hey, Frankie, ain’t it the shits, the only guys who ever buy these hotsy-totsy bicycles are fat old fucks with no chops?”

Franco looks up and stares, not quite assessing for the third time but rather reflecting on a poignant moment. “Que sera,” he offers in sanguine resignation, covering well with: “But today should be a good day for both of us.”

Mulroney thinks he made the right choice. Duly recognized and being serviced as a man of means, this process feels right. He won’t say as much because he wants to see how it plays out, but he’s already decided to go whole hog; fuck it, why not? It’ll help with the big picture. With a time and purchase to every season, it’s important to open the heart, mind, and wallet on occasion, where pleasure and joy may be at hand, or may be lost for want of a few measly shekels.

Mulroney feels game and wants to see where a bicycle might go if a buyer is willing and able to spend a few bucks on the best. Franco jots, murmuring pros and cons on one seat post or another, a particular stem and its dictate on certain bars. He smiles blithely at potential yet again—with purpose—and finally gets to a difficult series of blanks. “We’re here to get you as far as you can go. Why not, with such a solid foundation?” He reviews his choices and logic so far, through brakes, seat, handlebars, wheels, hubs, tires, and the rest. He has chosen top tier excellence on each component, meaning all carbon graphite. “We know how to take care of you. All Shimano components.”

“Sounds Japanese.”

“It is. They’re great.”

“You think they’re the greatest?”

“They’re definitely up there. Some people prefer Campagnolo. Campagnolo is Italian. It’s a matter of taste.”

“Gimme the Italian. I don’t like Japanese. Fuckers kill whales and call it research. They eat ’um. Whales. Blowfish. Jellyfish for chrissakes. Can you believe that? Eating whales and jellyfish?”

Franco strikes a pose: listening to political opinion in stillness. “It sounds like a touchy subject for you.”

“Yes, it is. It’s touchy for the whales and blowfish too. It’s no big deal for you?”

But Franco is smart and quick, sticking the shiv and pulling it out with no twist. “I love the fish and the whales. Campagnolo it is then. If you want to know the truth, Campagnolo is my personal preference. You want to try on some riding pants?”

“Then why did you assume I’d want the Japanese stuff?”

Franco shrugs. “Sorry. Campagnolo runs a good deal more money. But it’s important to get what you want. Capiche?”

“Yeah. Fuckin capiche.” Well, every closer has his downside, and understanding seems softer than a few minutes ago. Squeezing him onto a fifty-three because they didn’t have a fifty-four was easy enough, but they get so obtuse, assuming Japanese.

Mulroney asks if the good stuff that may not be the greatest but might cost a heap o’ dough less might be good enough for a hacker like himself. Franco says, “Of course, you can save a few bucks. And you might be happy forever. Or you might wonder. Why not return to cycling as you would have cycling return to you? Besides that, you’re getting all Italian.”

“Yeah, yeah. Instead of Japanese.”

“This build on a CX-61 is state of the art, so far, and will be for years. You carry through with EPS, and I think you’re going to see more miles than you ever imagined. We have another hurdle to get over, but if we can clear it, you’re going to be riding a frame that’s stronger than steel, lighter than feathers, aerodynamic as a teardrop, nearly, and with more sheer, raw love than you thought a bicycle could give you. You will have no metal parts, except for cables, so you will be rust-free forever. Let’s get done with the pain, quick and neat: top of line throughout, fifteen grand. Give or take.”

Mulroney has fifteen grand to piss down the rat hole any day he chooses and plenty more because of who he is. But Frankie’s presumption may be verging on arrogance. Why sell a bicycle for four grand when you might get fifteen on five minutes of rolling the ticket? Mulroney doesn’t mind the best but wants to avoid foolish feelings later, what his own customers like to call buyer’s remorse on what they realized as superfluous, after the sale. He doesn’t mind being a lay-down but doesn’t want to bend over, like the suckers who shell out another two grand on a piece o’ shit car for the fucking undercoating and headlight insurance and seat cover extended warranty and all that happy horseshit. Mulroney knows this business with specific regard to the emotional minefield at this juncture of the process known to Californians as the acquisition, as it reflects the essence of self.

Then again, maybe a buyer resistant to this natural process is stubborn and stupid. Maybe this kid Frankie is a natural. He does know the product, and a would-be bicyclist with adequate mobility is lucky to have his guidance …

Nah. Not likely.

“Bear with me, Frankie. I’ll keep that number in mind, but let’s back up to this EPS thing. What, pardon me, the fuck is EPS?”

“Electronic power shifting. Come over here.” Mulroney follows to a display rack holding a bicycle and watches Franco turn the pedals and work the shifter. It’s electric.

Mulroney smiles—can’t help it, offering his catchall assessment: “The fuck?”

“Once you’ve been, you won’t go back. The EPS package is part of your system. You can save about four grand going back to manual shift.”

“And what’s the last hurdle.”

“Do you have a minute?”

“I got three minutes. What do you got?”

Franco leads to another display case, from which he pulls a magazine folded back on a review of the new CX-61. Mulroney scans. The review says, “The new CX-61 is only one more version of the best bicycle in the world, until you add carbon graphite wheels. Then it smokes everything else.”

Mulroney feels testier than he’d like to feel; sure, this Frankie kid is a sales manager’s dream, but who’d a thunk the Big M, himself, could get so carved up on a mere toy?

Franco does not interrupt the personal reverie, does not assert authority or fact but eases softly inside with the practiced nuance of a surgeon—never mind the blood and gore. “I can explain the pros and cons of carbon wheels whenever you want. I’m going to recommend the Certitude 1111s. You will be amazed. They’ll add three thousand to your total and will include spokes, hubs, bearings, and skewers. Wait a minute.” Franco picks up a phone and hits one button and says, “Certitude 1111 front and rear.” He hangs up and says, “I just knew it. We have them.”

Mulroney murmurs a question on who’s skewering whom. He knew coming in that this bicycle outing could go to quibble and squabble like things usually do, like maybe he should offer Frankie eight grand on the X-15 or whatever the fuck it’s called—put it right on the card and out the door: tax, tags, and dealer prep. And skewers.

Except that would be a lowball on a bicycle shop. That is low and negative. Bicycles are clean and simple. Kids ride bicycles. Mulroney was a kid, and maybe that’s the attraction here. These days are dark, so much waiting and ass-kissing and trying to sell a great house at a fair price. A bicycle seems honest and innocent—and young. It’s why he’s here, for a change of pace, and the change of scenery already looks better. So why not pay the price as stated and ride on out, for the first time in years self-propelled instead of deeply driven?

The quintessential bicycle consultant seems acutely familiar with these mental gyrations as they process in the prospective buyer’s mind, or rather in the prospective buyer’s voluntary removal of his right mind, the moment fondly referred to in shop parlance as the moment of truth. Franco steps back, feet at shoulder width, hands clasped below the waist. He neither bows nor waits but returns to the paraphernalia set out for Mulroney’s review and puts the shop in order, as it was.

This closing technique might be called modern, what used to be called soft or pussying out—failing to ask for the money. At least Frankie gave the price. And this soft touch really offers no quarter for resistance. It’s not like he’s saying take it or leave it, except that seems to be the situation, which doesn’t trigger the knee jerk, so maybe Mulroney is getting tired, or tired of it. Maybe the inner Mulroney is finally realizing the essence of the situation, or the practical side of spirituality, or some shit. Fact is, Mulroney has more money than time, or he will have and he knows it. So he probes, to be sure, seeking a drop on the game of give and take. “So with the good wheels and all you’re saying eighteen grand?”

“No. They’re included in the fifteen, give or take. I just assumed … I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Product knowledge is half the battle. I think you have it.”

“I try to stay up on things.”

Mulroney grants his own knowing smile and says, “Wrap it up.”

Fuck it. It’s not a toy; it’s a tool. Besides, what good is a man of means who can’t sling some means around every now and then? Just look: the seductive finish and two-finger weightlessness of the thing emote movement, not to mention its very shape, a hi-tech hint of velocity with no effort—and no exhaust, no fuel and none of the petty suburban bullshit smothering what’s left of the world.

Besides, it’s only fifteen grand complete—including the special wheels! He thought there for a minute it would go to eighteen! That would be crazy. He’ll spend a few bucks more on spandex shorts, wicking shirts, clip-on shoes, a helmet, carbon fiber bottle brackets, carbon fiber pump, a patch kit and under-seat pouch no bigger than his scrotum with less sag and plenty of room for emergency needs: spare tube, tire levers, and a double sawbuck for snacks, phone calls, a couple brewskies, whatever. But later on that; let’s get the bike built first.

Of course, wrap it up is a figure of speech. Just so, Franco wraps up the details while Mulroney reviews the parts list. Franco computes total weight at just over fifteen pounds, which seems like a pricey pour. Mulroney would prefer seventeen or twenty pounds for better value, but this is like golf, with a lower number of pounds representing greater value.

God, I hate golf.

He can call it a grand per pound, and that has a nice ring to it. Facilitating the amazingly light weight are carbon fiber handlebars and seatpost. “Four and a quarter for a plastic stick?” Mulroney asks aloud.

“Yes, and worth every penny. You’ll agree when it absorbs residual road shock before it runs up your spine.”

“Yeah, beginning with up my ass.”

Tasteless humor is not appreciated, so Mulroney asks more appropriately, “How will I know that I’m not feeling the pain I could be feeling?”

“Trust me. Everybody knows. You will too.”

The fuck is that? You will too? Condescension can hardly placate primitive doubt, and Mulroney experiences his first disappointment in Frankie, who had his day. Does an old guy really need this space-age stuff? That condescension is what’s wrong with the neighborhood. Make that the town, this god-forsaken stretch of coast infested with airy-fairy mental cases who couldn’t be more cocksure of what’s up in their universe.

What Mulroney knows with equal certainty is that this Frankie kid doesn’t know shit, not about life or pains in the ass or practicality. He’s a good salesperson, no doubt about it, but something keeps niggling at the old whaddayacallit—the old stickler that’ll bung up product knowledge and service every time. Ah, yeah, it’s the arrogance. How else could he see Mulroney as moneybags ripe for the plucking instead of a guy who wants to go for a bicycle ride? And at such a punk age. Frankie isn’t a punk, but Mulroney wants to set the record straight. “How old are you?”

Franco blushes, as if facing his personal poverty of podium appearances and so far past his prime. Working at the best bicycle shop in the world is hardly a job to scoff, but he’s still selling bicycles, when a man could be so much more. “I’m thirty-seven.”

“A little old to be hustling toys, isn’t it?” Mulroney doesn’t make anyone feel inadequate by choice, but as old guy out he can level a playing field any day, as necessary.

“Sir, these toys aren’t for everyone. These toys are for the select few. You can’t get one of these toys unless you’re a world-class athlete with a sponsor to buy these toys for you, or you’re a success in life and can pay for a custom-built, tailor-made bicycle for yourself. You’re making an impulse buy on a toy and accessories of around eighteen thousand dollars. Do you want a test ride?”

“Hmm.” Mulroney knew it! Knew it would go to eighteen. And he knows a test ride is in order, that only a fool buys a car or a bicycle without a test ride, but it doesn’t feel right. He’s not ready. So no, he doesn’t want a test ride. Not yet—yet he sees the seasoned dexterity in a natural closer. Franco won’t belabor his own personal status or that of his product but rather turns the dialogue on a dime, back to the buyer buying what the seller is selling. Oh, this Frankie kid is good—could have knocked down a hundred grand annual in pre-owned back in the day. Maybe more. What the fuck—he could be knocking down a buck and quarter right now. Eighteen large on a fricken’ bicycle? Maybe the magical seat post is working already. At least I get a bicycle to show for the dough instead of a butt fucking from some glad-hand assholes trying to lowball the homestead so they can show their hot-flashing wives what a bunch of slick operators they are.

Fuckers.

“Tell me something,” Mulroney says. “When do you draw the line on this weight business? When do you step back and say, ‘Hey, it’s a fuckin bicycle.’ I mean it weighs less than a fuckin bag o’ spuds. So what, I want to drop a few more grand to take a couple spuds out of the bag?”

“That’s a good question,” Franco replies, sliding his business card across the counter, as necessary, disclosing his status as owner of The Spokesperson, and as such, “I’m the designated personal guidance consultant to qualifying clients. You qualify, Mister M.” With that comes the half smile of certainty, also as necessary.

Mulroney studiously scans the card. “The Spokesperson? Did it used to be The Spokesman?”

Franco allows his mild chagrin to form a smile in a calculated quarter inch to the right but not the left.

“I mean before the lefties got to you? Got to you? Fuck. Before they threatened to burn your store down?”

Franco will not distinguish such a question, so he ignores it, to make the world a more productive place. “It depends on you. How much do you want to spend? On minimal grammage.”

Mulroney squints. “I want the mostest for the leastest. You musta heard o’ that. I guess around here I mean the leastest for the leastest.”

Franco slides sideways again. “The common rule of expenditure on cost-benefit for years was a dollar a gram. I now have very competitive clients willing to drop a dollar on a quarter gram and carry that standard on many grams.”

Mulroney can’t help but admire a consummate salesperson on a roll, and it shows. Frankie more or less compared him to other riders, very competitive riders at that. So Mulroney throws a leg over the trial bicycle to see how it feels. Franco stoops to roll Mulroney’s pant leg up and wrap it with a Velcro strap. He gives Mulroney a helmet and instructions to ride up the street and gentle hill there to get a feel for response, stiffness, torque, and general ride. He cautions Mulroney to turn wide because a narrow turning radius can bring a rider down. “I put primitive pedals on here. You’ll be riding with clip pedals, but this is just a test ride, and we don’t want your foot stuck in the clip at this point. Are you familiar with clips?”

“How tough could they be?”

“Not so tough at all. You twist your foot, inside or outside to release from the clip. But we’ll review that later. It’s easy. Okay?”

Mulroney knows what a bicycle feels like; he’s ridden a few. And the twisty clip shit will be easy too, and he wonders how he took the bait, hook, line, and sinker so quick on this bicycle hustle; sure, nobody lays down like the consummate salesperson, but still, this could be embarrassing. Twenty large on a bicycle? Fuck. But then he feels what he could not have imagined, which is effortless propulsion on a weightless, rigid frame, with each turn of the pedals giving far more propulsion than he deserves. So the deal is closed yet again, just as a closer of global caliber will close a deal. Mulroney can’t argue with a feeling. This one is like air with pedals—carbon graphite pedals with adjustments for lateral swing, camber, and friction modulation on release. “Yeah,” he says, dismounting from once-around-the-block. “It does feel good.”

Franco smiles, sanguine as a surgeon with no mortality since Tuesday. “This one isn’t even your size. Yours will fit perfectly. You’re going to love it.” He wheels the demo unit back to its place, still smiling over his shoulder. “Besides that, your frame is better.”

“How much better could it be?”

“This is the C-1A. You’re getting the CX-61. La Bamba!”

“Ah! CX-61 sounds better. Doesn’t it?”

“It does, especially when you add Certitude 1111. You just rode on aluminum wheels—your wheels will be four hundred grams lighter. Four Hundred! And that’s rotational weight! You won’t believe it!”

•

Mulroney can’t ride his new bike into the sunset without a fitting, to be sure. The trial bicycle is a fifty-six centimeter with a lowered seat, while he is a sure fifty-three, or rather a fifty-three will surely work out perfectly for all parties, given availability, adaptability and the amazing 12% off on all componentry at the juncture known in all walks of retail as point-of-sale. The made-to-measure machine will measure precisely for a precise reason; if wiggle room was allowed, it might as well be Sears. The trial ride was a stretch, and it felt great, and it will be corrected to perfection. Franco beckons Mulroney to mount the made-to-measure machine for the precision made famous here at The Spokesperson. He lengthens the handlebar stem, the rear triangle, and the top tube. “How does that feel? I notice you hold your tension in your back. These measurements should fit you much, much better than the test ride. Are you more comfortable?”

Mulroney shrugs. “Call me a Luddite. I can’t feel a pinch o’ shit worth of difference.”

“That’s great. This really does fit you better. We can have a fifty-three here overnight express and built out for you in three days. You want it set up like we talked about?”

Mulroney shrugs again. “Is that the way to go?”

“Yes, it is definitely the way to go. Now. Where were we? Ah. Yes. Riding pants.”

And so it’s on to accessories, nothing extraneous, only those must-have support items for unimpaired road glory. “You mean those ballerina stretch jobs to show off my hard body? What do I need with riding pants? I can just wear my shorts. Why not?”

“You’ll chafe. You really don’t want to chafe. Come on. This’ll only hurt for a minute.”