Intamacy and Abstraction
- Steel
- Muscle Biking is the ultimate manual experiene. I can only go as fast as my legs can take me, but there is less need for finesse and damage as running. Push the muscles untill they can't move. Then wait a day. Then push them again. Slowly they grow, and with every milimeter in diameter you are faster off the line, hotter up the hills, sliding sowly from being clipped to riding in the lane to chasing down Teslas in 35's. Any moron could run down some Game in a Hilux, the only difference is I could do it without the steel. This is the negation of the narcaleptic lul of the car, long synth waves and soft seats. The driver is worn out by modern life, defeated by it. He craves a soft cusion, a protective shell, a soothing safe space where he can show his defeat by the powers that are. The rider Is left unfufilled by modernity, and fills the spaces in his life with more: More dagner, more noise, more speed, more challenge, more muscle.
- Oxygen The sulfuric burn of the poison exaust air. Blow it out, pull more in, push This is the world of the disposesed, stripped of all bourgioise pretentions, all false pretetions of power. Your speed is your own, earned by the sweat running down your arms. There is nothing here but you and the smog and the sidewalk, the homes and resteraunts and event centers lit up beside you
- Music base shame
- Light Speed Blur
- Coda
When you get on a bike, before you even open your eyes, one feels the difference. Bent forward, strung between a seat perfectly molded to fit into the most intimate of spaces and the naturalistic curves of the horns. Where a car smothers you in expanded-cell comfort, you must be the active partner in your relationship with your bike, Gripping it with your hands and chest and thighs. If you insist that cyclists must be bottom bitches, then surely it is a power bottom.
There is another point here about the interface between man and macine. There is no abstraction. Everything the bike feels, the attuned can feel in the tremmor of the bars and hear in the whirring of the wheels. It is not the smooth hum of engeneered precision, but the rattle of the world on edge. The grit of those who need to feel every bump to live.