It is mid day in Wyoming and I ride my handcrafted fixed gear bicycle around, a small town mind you. I have learned to ride fixed safely and since taken my brake off. Brakes are for the weak. Brakes are for the scared. I am neither. I ride with skill, an operation that comes with practice. If you ride this style, you know. It's art. Riverton has one big hill on Main Street. I tend to ride in the suicide (turn) lane all the way down. I skid with ease, locking my legs against the bullhorns. Semis come at me like freight trains. I brace myself for possible impact. None. I keep riding. I notice what bothers me the most; I am looked upon as scum in this ho-dunk town, a dork in three quarter length pants with a shit eating grin spinning as fast as he can down the main drag. Stares are inevitable. The lack of progression in this vast Republican sea comes to mind. Will they ever accept the lonely biker with the Timbuktu?
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