I took my old Masi, which had been hanging on the wall after I bought the Merckx, over to Yojimbo's to have Marcus turn it into a fixie. I'd never ridden a fixie but I carried around an unmentioned fascination with all the messengers I saw riding them. Sheldon Brown's website convinced me to ride fixed gear.

If Tolkien's Mordor had a bike shop, it would be just like Yojimbo's, the name comes from some old Asian chop-chop samurai movie. It's in the heart of Cabrini- Green, or what's left of it now that the whiteys have shoved out the darkies, enough SUVs to make you barf blood. There's this old beat-up building with an old beat up door with a sign that reads "knock loudly". Marcus opens the door to let me in. Inside there is SHIT EVERYWHERE, from ceiling to floor; bikes, tires, wheels, CDs, donuts, bags, shoes, a beat up old couch with a crashed out bike messenger catching his afternoon z's. It's dark and greasy and absolutely enchanting; like you've fallen into Middle Earth where Marcus has his fires, spells and magical anvils to transform crude metal into human powered devices. Marcus, the high priest, dreams of one day making these simple machines drop their earthbound curse and take flight. "Sure, I'll make it a fixer" he says.

He calls a week later, "Masi's ready." I take it nice and slow the first week. No brakes, no coasting, it's like riding a feisty colt, it bucks and snorts as it teaches me to ride on its terms. At first it's like a time machine, talking me back to memories and feelings twenty years back; standing on the crest of something dangerous and managing to find balance. Spinning just to the edge of chaos. Then it becomes an anarchy machine, demanding its rider take an offensive stand in the violent car culture.

Guy in a van cuts me off, which endangers my life. His stupid act could easily have killed me. I catch him at the stop light. (I'm fifteen minutes into my ride, good and warmed up. My heart rate somewhere near 170, which is my comfortable pace. It's the afternoon so the Van guy's probably coming home from work. He's probably drowsy, heart rate, maybe 70.) Suddenly I'm inches from his face screaming as loud as I can. This is done by design, in order to shock him. I get in front of his car, dismount, hold the bike in the air and shout as loud as I can "Kill Me Motherfucker, Kill Me Motherfucker, Kill Me Motherfucker". The light changes, I get out of the way. I catch him at the next light, scream at him "the road is for everyone motherfucker." I then empty my water bottle in his face and bolt. Naturally this is all an act, but he didn't know that. I went to the extreme to make a point that his action nearly killed someone.

These type of situations happen nearly once a week, mostly just shouting matches. Since last Spring I've driven to work maybe 10 times, I cycle most days. One tank of gas in the car lasts one month. I've come to hate what the automobile has done to our society, how it turns perfectly fine people into aggressive threats. Asphalt, aggression, and pollution everywhere. Right now I smell of soot and tar after riding 20 miles through the city.

Last week I'm eating a beef at Al's Italian Beef late one night after work. These two young kids are walking down the street and stop at to check out my Masi. To them it must have looked strange with its steel-lugged frame, something from 20 years ago, before they were born. They took out their digital camera and took a couple of pictures. They then came over to the window with huge smiles and gave me to big thumbs up. Because it was late I had the city to myself as I cycled through time all the way home.

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