Thank you, dear Wheel. It's been a year and a half since I designed and built you with friends Sheldon and Miller. Yes, you were more difficult to raise than the average 3-cross, and I had to lace you more than once before I made you right, but when I finally finished, you were strong and beautiful.
Since we've been together, you've done so much for me.
Like a good luck charm, it was the day after I first rode you to polo that I landed my first bike job.
Besides hundreds of commuting miles, we've shared a few alleycats, I've played countless games of polo on you, spraypainted you for a tweed ride, cyclocrossed you more than once, and generally given you the kind of abuse I've raised you to love. You've even helped spawn a cousin—a wheel I never would have had the courage to ride across America if it weren't for the trust we had built.
Now, with one side of your hub stripped beyond any threadability, and the other cog'd with glue, I cannot remove your broken spokes, and joke about you as my "custom 30-spoker," as a loose nipple rattles between the walls of your rim.
Thank you, wheel. You have done so much for me, and, even after I build another, I will continue to ride you until you become dust. And then I will put you on my wall, with other decommissioned bike stuff.
