Interbike dumpster-diving

As a seasoned Interbike media veteran (cough, yeah right, cough), I've learned a few tricks of the trade.  Sadly none of them involve taking good photos, but Chris See's got that mastered, so no worries.  My skill-set involves figuring out how to sneak in early.  You get to see lots of neat things early:  Stan of Stan's No Tubes assembling a display rack with baling wire and pliers,  lots of bored Vegas security types not laughing when you mention certain luxe Italian objects rolling back to your hotel room with you.  (I tried Gav, really, I tried).  The really nifty electrical outlet boxes descending (and ascending)  from the ceiling to the floor for the maintenance crews.  (Who needs Cirque de Soleil tickets when you get a show like that?)

But a little more attention just might get you a scoop that lets you into the whole secret of this year's Interbike.

(Once again, I think I've screwed up that whole jump thing).  

Anyway, for some peculiar (and totally fictional) reason, my attention latched onto a garbage bag by the bathroom next to the concession stands.  The bathroom that's normally locked and usually only used by special types with, like, y'know the secret special upstairs bathroom key.  In the garbage can was a carefully folded AND crumpled piece of paper.  It appeared to have tear-stains, or they could have been sweat stains, or, considering the location, worse.  I figured a garbage can wasn't a gutter, so I could read it with my moral standards still elevated.  

The note read:

Dear Racer-type:

Wow, it sure has been a nice run, hasn't it?  Remember how we used to sashay down the aisles--you with your coif so discriminately disheveled, me trying not to care about your penchant for billing me for room service champagne from suites that weren't mine?  And I didn't care--as long as the orders for high-dollar frames and kit and stuff got booked.

And then your American friends hooked up with that Wisconsin gal--why doesn't she come here anymore? and it seemed as though we'd have the perfect little racing bike neighborhood.  I even bought an apartment in SoCal for them to crash at, even though, as much as all of them claim to hate Vegas, I had to unload that thing in a hurry when it became clear that no one was ever going to use it.

And then,  how can I write this Racer-type?  You guys turned out to be worse with needles than the bathroom at a Babyshambles gig, and just about as inept at keeping it quiet.  If you want to ruin your life with that crap, that's ok, go ahead.  My therapist from UPMC tells me that I should just forget you.  And so, I have.

I've met this really cool dude with shaved legs and really tight pants who actually eats on occasion, and can actually do front-wheel wheelies.  But if he offers me another Pabst and uses the phrase Colorway one more time . . .

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