I used to care about weight. I’m one of those OCD types who meticulously weighed components out on my gram scale. I’m the jerk with the hollow pin chain and all Dura Ace on his carbon fiber LOOK 595. I stripped my mountain bike down to its frame, and replaced every. single. part. Every one. All in order to shave seconds. I have strong opinions about rotational weight, and when, exactly, you should take on water during a race, if at all.

I mean, I weigh my damn clothes. Sure, it’s a little weird, but talk to me on mile 53 of Vineman, or day two of the Epic at Bend’s Big Fat Tour and see if you don’t agree that I may have a point.

Yet today, my favorite thing to ride is a burly beast of a bike, laden with as much gear as I can load on it. I want to stack as much stuff as I can on there, and then ride it everywhere, all the time. I want to ride it to the store and the bar and the park and the playground. But mostly, I want to ride it into your heart. Because, see, I’m a heavy bike convert. And like all converts, I’m kind of a zealot. Which means I’m not going to be happy until you’re riding some Magnus Van Magnussen style contraption too. I want to see you on a cargo bike, because you are so going to love it.

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