Imperial

Cyclists

53 cyclists Cooling off from their morning ride, they are wearing the silly clothes of cycling, the spandex tights and streamlined jerseys emblazoned with the names of Italian racing teams, and the tiny hoof-like shoes that lock them to their thousand-dollar thoroughbreds but make it nearly impossible to hobble up to the counter to get a refill from the sultry barista with the steel bolt in her tongue. Soon enough they will cycle back to their mortgages and marriages and suicidal kids. They will shower and drive to work, where the city is waiting for its bailout, the breasts are waiting for their implants, and the whole day has to be litigated. But for now their talk is of pedals. and cables, and carbon fiber forks. Gray-headed chorus, they sing of insanely expensive graphite frames and bright wheels made of air. ...