Coaster, one speed, on ice

Well, honestly it's a cup of hot coffee and a keyboard . . .

Before I moved to Salida, about four years ago, I was already looking for this place. Living in the rolling hill county of central New York, I'd started picking up cruiser bikes and frames. Whether or not you can argue their usefulness for tackling steep hills, they had an undeniable attraction. A simple testament to American manufacturing. While gathering up inventory for the used bike shop I ran for two summers, I picked up my first one. A ragged but still running Schwinn Corvette, free. Then $12.00 for a Rollfast at a police auction. That was a blast for wearing out Lodi, a long-legged hound mix we were fostering. There was a quiet rural loop nearby, with a dirt road descent back to the house. The faster I pedaled, the less effort he had to put forth, spending more time in the air and less touching the ground. Next came the $5.00 garage sale Rollfast, with a, ahem: trailing link pull-shock front suspension fork. With a built in steering lock. With the key broken off inside. An option on certain Columbia's I later figured out. The $5.00 dollar Rollfast hung around the yard for a few years, and moved here in unrideable condition, the seatpost still frozen in place despite the angry pipe-wrench marks gouged into its surface. Then came another project, a donated Columbia Firebolt, with a fork bent into a sine-curve, all the way from the dropouts to the end of the steerer tube. Amazingly enough the headtube survived. And so I gathered parts, like a collection of classy Hawaiian shirts marooned at the North pole. Destiny would provide.
Not for a greater range of coaster-equipped riding possibilities, but for as simple as finding a sense of community that can welcome you on several levels. Not just a small town, with wilderness and woods, and employment at a bike shop with epic rides above treeline. But if you ride a simple old bike halfway across town, drop off your mail, and stop by Benson's tavern, just to say hi, it's completely normal. If you work at a bike shop, the shop fridge fills up with beer in the summer from appreciative customers. If someone hears that you ride a bike, they have their own story to tell about it. That it was so cold the coaster brake didn't work right away, but of course there's a smile. I still get a bit of ribbing for wearing my shirts, though. That's how you know who your friends are.