It turns out our low budget bike nut has already been through the whole Bakfiet thing, has fixie skills sufficient to play polo in a big gear and toe clips, is a member of some kind of bike gang that looks thoroughly frightful, and has a diary filled with completely insane ideas for cycling competitions the Australian Cycling Federation would run away from in horror. He brings to cycling the enthusiasm I wasted on punk bands and poetry when I was his age. And what a relief, to meet a guy from gen-Y who does not have a sucked mango hairdo, glue on muscles from The Forum gymnasium, and a phone full of bottle-blonds' numbers!
Seems not only my son is smitten by shadows. Strapped in, big gear, whacker in hand. Not dead yet again!
Gusto, your elders in cycling salute you! (Um, just one little thing though, would you please not roll through with our peloton, at least until you can hold a straight line? It's just... we have families.)