Hello and good day. To kick things off on a positive note, today we’ll go further down the Vista/Giro rabbit hole that we first discussed in this post.
Because I’m open to all perspectives, I was intrigued by the opinion of one Loudass Esq. who came through with the following thoughts on the matter;
Re: SJW Honkey Bullshit.
As you know, ongoing computer problems (flash, I think?) prevent me from be able to leave comments on your website.
Basically, the six degrees of separation from the gun industry argument can be made for any large company that uses financial markets. For example, SRAM LLC. In 2011, SRAM borrowed $655,000,000 from JP Morgan Chase to finance its operations. JP Morgan is the fifth largest financier of the American firearms industry, with $275,000,000 in loans. A portion of each purchase of a SRAM component goes to pay the 2.5% interest on SRAM’s loan from JP Morgan (a huge sum on a loan that large), thus enriching a mega bank and allowing it to provide working capital for the manufacture and sale of “assault weapons.” This is no different logically than saying the profits from Giro’s sales of bike helmets, clothing and shoes are realized by Vista, allowing it to finance Savage Arm’s production of AR-type rifles.
Moreover, SRAM used the money from JP Morgan to pay off the private equity firm that had previously owned a large share of the company, Trilantic Capital Partners, which is a big investor in the oil and gas industry, including the Canadian oil sands. Of course, JP Morgan is a huge financier of the oil and gas industry itself, so no change there. Whereas previously your purchase of a SRAM cassette trickled capital up to a financial institution which loaned money for Texas fracking operations, now your purchase of a Pike provides the working capital to finance oil and firearm production.
So is everyone going to boycott SRAM as well? I’m sure Shimano would be delighted.
Giro and the people who work there don’t have any control over which entity buys their corporate holding company. Nor do they have any control over Savage Arm’s decision to start producing AR-type rifles just because everyone else does (it’s kind of like the gravel bike of the gun industry). SRAM does have control over who it borrows money from, but realistically, the only banks that could lend a company that kind of money certainly have financial links to the gun industry. And/or the oil and gas industry. And/or the military-industrial complex. And/or agribusiness. And/or whatever the progressive bugbear du jour is this week.
I’m getting off my soapbox now to get coffee. And I don’t have a model to submit because I’m lame AF.
So there we have the final word from at least that corner of the camp.
To save myself from any grief, I simply whittle all of my bike parts and accessories out of sustainably grown trees with a knife forged by my own hands.
And as long as we’re on the topic of sad trombones as well as not building a model because we’re lame AF, I have to wonder where all of the people begging me to do an open format contest this year went.
I mean, for real. I had people banging down my door to A) hold the contest again, and B) allow any sort of models people wanted to build be allowable.
So I did just that and guess what? six people submitted entrees.
All the rest of y’all oughta be ashamed of yourselves.
I mean, not the six who turned in models obvioulsy, but everybody else. Of course I include myself in those shamed ranks, but I declared at the outset that I was probably going to drop the ball. Then between my cat dying, my site dying, and the skin cancer bullcrap, my tanks were pretty well on empty.
Perhaps the lot of us just didn’t have the gumption to huff glue and paint this year. I don’t judge.
I suppose just for shits and giggles, I’ll roll out the six and treat it like a pre-season game, so if said submitters would like to re-submit next year, that’s ok too.
So in no order in particular, I offer the following for your consideration;
Alas, there can only be one. Because we don’t have a proper pole this year, hit me in the comments, or shoot me an email to stevil(at)allhailtheblackmarket(dot)com with your selection.
And may the nerdiest nerd win.
Now, just to cleanse our palates from that nonsense-ery, I offer you this image of JPHNH refusing a Bud Light Lime hand-up (because duh), while aboard the shitbike, that was taken by a fella named Morgan Meredith;
I for one miss the Shitbike, and feel as though that was an era of Bike Magazine which was better than most.
Why, I even had my time aboard the beast, resulting in what was the last article on the matter that they were going to run.
It turned out the last article they were going to run was the one right before mine.
Because it never saw the light of day, I might as well roll it out here where it will continue to never see the light of day;
It’s not called The Shitbike cause it’s sweet.
Upon taking delivery of the beast, I began assembling it with excitement only matched by that of building a beautiful new steed. I reflected on all of the adventures it had seen before it landed in my grasp but my focus was on the one that we would soon be having together. The following day I was to be matching skill, wits and fortitude of the liver with the Bay Area’s best at the Soil Saloon’s third year anniversary;
For the uninitiated, The Soil Saloon is (*editor’s note- was) a series of outlaw off road bike races that occur with little to no forewarning, and have attracted such industry luminaries as Sheila Moon and Gary Fisher, but don’t hold that against it. Each event has its own individual flair and varying tasks one must complete in order to win. You might have to come up with a spontaneous limerick about cowboys, or fire a wrist rocket at a target and everything in between. The one common denominator of any of these feats of strength however almost always involves the consumption of alcohol. The title of the event in which I was about to engage was ‘The Six Pack Shootout’, so I knew the common thread would exist in force.
On the day of the race, as dozens of people began filtering in to the ‘staging area’, it was explained to us that for each of the six laps we completed we would have to drink a beer. There was a short cut on the course that would offer a solid advantage, but in order to take that route, a shot of whiskey would have to be consumed instead. The Sh*tbike is no stranger to these dangers, and I realized there was almost no pilot on earth qualified enough for such a debacle as myself;
Photo courtesy of Pamela Palma.
Naturally while people were waiting for the starting gun to be fired, I stole the holeshot. With a running mount that would make Sven Nys hide his head in shame, the weight of my body challenged the hap-hazard seat clamp to a force of wills, sending the nose of the saddle skyward and into my man bits. While wrestling with my painful conundrum somewhere in my first lap, the bike decided that it would test my mettle by ejecting me in a corner over some ivy-hidden logs. Undaunted, I re-boarded and forced it to make peace with me. I was determined that ours was to be a dance of grace, and there would be no debate. Once the understanding was had, and the bike had received the blood trophy it apparently needed, I found myself quietly surprised at how good the bike felt ripping though Golden Gate Park’s loamy shaded single track. One by one the laps melted away and with four shots and three beers to my head, I crossed the finish line, only later realizing that I had mistakenly completed an extra lap. Bloody, muddy and battered, the lot of us stood as one in the winner’s circle and immersed ourselves in the prize distribution ceremony. As the sun set and the kegs ran dry, the remaining stragglers melted away. I grabbed the burgundy beauty and with a brain full of good cheer and wounded legs full of lactic acid, pedaled off into the evening to find a whole new assortment of trouble in which to engage.
-At least I don’t think this piece has been published before.