In 2012 I bought a brand new bike. It was a first, getting a fresh ride with zero miles on the tires, and to ensure success I did absolutely no research or shopping around. I walked into Chelsea Bikes (RIP) to see what they had when a Marin single speed caught my eye. It had a white chromoly frame with red rims and grips. The size was right. Parts were all factory stock, but I didn’t care about that; everything was new. They gave me a cash discount, and for less than $600 I walked out of there with the slickest-looking, lowest-quality bicycle I have ever owned.
At the time I had no idea of course. It would be years before the poor build quality would rear it’s head. All I knew that afternoon was I had a new lease on biking. It was time to ride in style, to embrace single-speed life, and to get home quickly to switch out these crappy embarrassing black plastic factory pedals with the sweet silver steel MKS pedals taken from Henry. I named the bike Santi, in honor of the nimble-footed Arsenal midfielder Santi Cazorla, a player of sublime talent whose career was plagued by injury. Like his namesake, Santi had trouble with the brutal daily grind. I switched out the pedals for aesthetics, and over the next four and half years I replaced the grips, the saddle, the wheel set, the drivetrain including bottom bracket, and the seatpost because they broke. When frame failure finally ended Santi’s run in 2017, the only original parts left were the handlebars, headset, brakes and, of course, the piece-of-shit frame that rusted from the inside and cracked in three places at the chainstays.
But the riding was great. During Santi’s tenure I took the final step in my bike evolution, going from single speed to fixed gear. I was at my peak Bike Wanker phase, riding 150 miles a week and menacing car drivers. You litter? I’m going to pick up that trash and put it right back through your window. You park in the bike lane? I’m going to knock on your car as I pass by. You bump into me because you’re making a lane change and not even paying attention to what’s going on in the paint-separated bike path next to you? I’m going to cuss you out. loudly. For some context of my Wankerhood, once in Scotland I told a friend of one of my greatest exploits (smashed mirror justice), and they responded, “I don’t think you should be proud of that story.” For those reading this and hoping I got my comeuppance at some point, rest easy. I bear scars.
Though Santi was toast, most of the other parts were pretty new. I was in the market for a frame only, and there was only one choice: a frame with a distinctive seatpost triangle I had been noticing around town for a few years. I spent weeks hunting that frame, prowling Brooklyn and Manhattan on my alt ride, a Bianchi Milano cruising bike with an eight-speed internal hub named Bran Bonito (bought used in 2010 for $400 — Craigslist for the win again). Then I spotted one hanging in a shop window on Myrtle, silver with black lettering: the Tribe Mess.
This frame is dope. It called to me. I walked into Urban Cycles (RIP) and onto the path of destiny. It was my size, and the bike mechanic there, Russ, was my kind of bike mechanic. He helped me build out that Tribe frame into my ultimate city ride, the bike upon whom I would experience the extreme ends of the riding-life spectrum, from supreme high to rock bottom and back up again, a bike named Hector.