The practice is the master. The maker is the servant.
I’m that guy. I get this. Repetition. Routine. Relentlessness. Cut from a different cloth. I’ve observed it. Dissecected it. Defended it. Advocated for it. That ship sailed. The few cats who got it with me – some I knew only from afar. One I knew like a brother. All are gone.
In the mad rush to create energy around making a bicycle, as if it’s some noble pursuit. An answer to a higher calling. Bleeding for your craft. It’s become dumbed down. A side show to a larger carnival that routinely eats its own.
There are two thought bubbles that haunt my days. One is about experience. And the path walked to get there. And why can’t more folks look at the tailors at Kiton as role models. The other is about me. And why I even should care. I’ve eked out a career. Had an adult life at the bench. Everyone else can just go to Hell.
This is my truth.
All This By Hand
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