I ride a bike that bears Joe Breeze’s name and which, of course, is designed by him. My bike is not a mountain bike, but calls to mind a lighter version of that high-flying original. My bike, when I look at it, makes me feel like I am part of a link of sorts, however lightly tied into the lineage that rolled out up there somewhere by the peaks I can see from the safety of the paved path on which I ride.
My bike, built so perfectly for people like me, both a little too old and a little too afraid to head up the hill and over the wild call of the rocky road, is the perfect vehicle to get people like me back on wheels, the kind of wheels that gave dreams of speed in our youth such easy traction.
My bike, so much smaller and lighter than the prototype of the original mountain bike, is still both sturdy and fast enough to get me moving through wind, the kind of wind that will blow through the stale passages of those steep and weirdly angled ruts in my mind …
My bike, a Breezer, couldn’t have been more aptly named.