Barney Collier and the Crack Bike

Al say:
It's prolly just me, but the NAHBS poster (prior post) brings to mind 60s Mission Impossible. (60s. Not that shit that TomKock did between orbits of Uranus.) It's definitely the precision spot-welding pictured there and probably the b and w / retro theme that triggers my memory. And speaking of spot-welding, who was the coolest motherfucker on that show? That's right, Barney Collier!

Can't you just picture him? He's pulling up to some Eastern European embassy in a faux work van. There are rifle toting guards on patrol, but he's armed only with a clipboard of forged docs, a kick ass set of tools, and one mean motherfucking game face.

Barney always did the cool shit. (At least, that's what I thought as a kid.) He was there to trick out the alarms, put in the fake panel in the safe, install the exploding light bulb. M.I. was so progressive, weren't they? ( Go weld that, will you Dark--er, Barney?)

And since I'm working off the post below (READ: writing whatever the fuck I want as usual), I guess I should tell you about the crack bike...

So I tired of riding my cross bike on the trails while the boys beat their hard tails. I tired of yelling, "wait up, guys. Wait up!" It was time to get a MTB of my own. After shopping around and researching, I fixed on two that fit my needs/budget: Specialized Rockhopper or the similarly spec'd Gary Fisher Marlin. I was ready to plop down my 5 bills and buy new, but then I thought...lemme just take a peek on craigslist and ebay.

And there she was...an 03 Rockhopper with lo miles for sale. Even better: I could smell, from the limited hold the seller had on the English language and from his complete lack of product knowledge, that a real steal might be about to happen.

After several emails wherein Seller (hereafter referred to as "Cracky") had trouble describing the condition of the bike and photographing it, I took the crackhead by the horns and got his phone # to arrange a meet. This set up was not easy as his hold on the spoken word was only marginally better than his writing prowess. (And English is his native language.) After Cracky found giving directions impossible--"I'm not sure you can get here from there"--I got his address and mapquested his ass. I was on my way.

I arrived at the house to find a very cluttered yard and a dog that looked worse than the "this dog was scalded with hot water and starved" dog you see on the ASPCA contribution can.


Cracky came out on the porch shirtless. His hair was shaved down on one side and standing straight up on the other--not like a punk rocker, more like I'd interrupted an "I'll shave it 'stead of washing it" sort of moment. He had tattoos all up and down chest, arms, and neck. He waved me in while trying to light a cigarette. His hands were very unsteady though, and he gave up. The bike was in the kitchen. A few hundred varied empties were on the surfaces as well as pizza boxes, take out bags, other food debris. (You can picture this by now, I'm sure.) Here's what you might not be picturing: at the table is another tattoed freak who is missing one arm and has one milky eye (an attempt at symmetry maybe). Lefty is staring straight ahead and tapping his foot rhythmically, almost autistically.

Back to the bike: It's an 03 Rockhopper with a few nicks and scratches in VERY GOOD shape. Cracky staggers into a collection of empties, sending them everywhere. He tries to shovel them out of the way with his foot so I can take the bike outside for a spin and falls on his ass. I get the bike outside and take a spin (the dog is too fucked up to even look at me as I pass).

The bike rides like a dream. I know it is a winner. I return to the house to transact business. The door is closed now. I knock. No answer. I knock again. No answer. I knock some more and start to think about throwing the fucking bike in the back of the truck and scooting. My conscience won't let me do it, so I bash the door some more. After a while, Cracky opens the door and looks at me with a "who the fuck is this" look.

I say, "the bike. I was test riding it." After a few moments he blinks and says, "yeah, come in." Lefty is still at the table tapping and staring. (The table is right next to the door, incidentally.) I start to say, "what do you want for the bike?" He interrupts me with a "man, you've got to see my other bike. Come here." He starts to walk through the kitchen to a hallway. Without thinking, I follow. Suddenly, I hear Lefty jump up. He closes in behind me. The hallway we're in is pitch black and small. I'm thinking: "I am fucking dead. These guys will club me, fuck my corpse, cook me, and eat me." Then I think, "I hope they give my organs to the dog at least." (Ok, that last part is an embellishment. I didn't think that. But go with me here.) I'm sure I'm going to feel a tire iron mash the back of my head when we pass into a small room that might be a den but looks more like a disorganized auto parts store room. In front of me is a 70s era Apollo 3 speed with a two stroke engine mounted, somehow, on the down tube. "This thing does 70." Cracky tells me. I say, "I'm only interested in the mountain bike. Thanks." Cracky tells me, "no, man, this one is mine. It screams!"
I pull $160 out and offer it to him. He has another one of those moments where it is clear that he has no fucking clue who I am and what I'm doing in his house. Then he says, "ok, great." (Of course, I then think that I should have given him $50...but hey.)

I haul ass outta there, throw the bike in the back of the truck. As I'm getting in the truck, I hear Cracky and Lefty in the front yard. Cracky's telling him, "come on, let's go to the liquor store."



After a tune, the bike rides like new. She's a peach. You don't think she was stolen, do you?