by Maynard Hershon
Would I like the old days back?
Will I ride my inch-pitch hack
Till they bring the Yardbirds back?
Do I love my Pletcher rack?
And do I want the old days back?
By Bianchi green - I do.
Do I like my Dettos black?
Am I tattooed (twice) "Mafac?"
Will I ride my early Sachs
Till the paneled downtube cracks?
So do I want the old days back?
By Kelly's clips - I do.
Am I put off by Kestrels act?
Do I take the Coni book as fact?
Will I ride 40 holes in back
Till proper wooden rims come back?
Do I wan the old days back?
On Gino's health I do.
Do I defend, face-to-face,
Merckx's "real-bike" hour record pace?
Do my shifters clamp in place?
Do I forget I never raced, just
ground along at tourist pace
But passed by women, always chased?
But do I want Dura-Ace erased?
Trust me; yes I do.
In my world short would all be black,
All young guys would ride the track,
And fix my silks at a buck a crack.
See, I speak Campy, but my voice is cracked,
I'm Clipped and strapped but I'm off the back,
I learned the lingo but forgot the knack,
I'm retro suffering in the laughing pack.
Getting dropped is what I do.
Enough already with the sordid facts;
I've admitted I want the old days back:
Like a red Bob Jackson in Santa's pack,
Beige-box pieces, front to back.
Cinelli, Bindas, S.L. blacks,
Each thread lubed in warm bee's wax.
We love our dreams but live by facts;
I'd settle for a BOB-club fanny pack.