My baby

I am not a normal guy. Donna will be the first to tell you that. I can't quote football stats. I don't faithfully follow all 160+ games of the Red Sox season. I couldn't rebuild an engine if my family's life depended on it, and the site of a Hemi just really doesn't do anything for me. I follow sports, but not the ones that everyone gathers at the corner bar to watch. All of the commentators for my sport are foreign. My sports heroes wear colorful lycra in public.

I do have a baby in my garage. Not a classic muscle car, or a sleek foreign sports racer. It's a bike. Not a Harley or a Honda. It's a Trek. Not a beefy V-twin that wakes the neighbors, or a hefty 1500cc chrome monster. It's a silent 15lb carbon fiber masterpiece. Hand made. Assembled with components specifically selected by me. The paint job? My choice. Cranks? Sized for me. Cassette? My preferred gears. Wheels? Chose racers. Headset? Bars? Tape? All my choices. Piece by piece. My baby. A baby for a not so normal guy who happens to have a fine collection of lycra. And doesn't mind wearing it in public.
It's Spring, and the salt is finally clear from the roads here. My baby has come out of the basement, and is back on the road. I am happy. I think "she" is too.

Another season has started. My sports season.