Scenic, no?
But a little bit of a fake; Basil’s actually in town, in a back alley, where all sorts of unexpected visual pleasures abound.
Scenic, no?
But a little bit of a fake; Basil’s actually in town, in a back alley, where all sorts of unexpected visual pleasures abound.
We’re still doing catch-up here, and I’m still fiddling with Basil’s geometry. I may have it now, but I’m testing the theory with a series of short rides.
I’m as bored as Basil is with this namby-pamby approach to cycling, but even a short ride can offer some unexpected pleasures. We wandered into the cemetery above because I needed a wall to lean Basil against while I did yet another few-millimeters of adjustment to his saddle.
. . . he’s my Brompton!
Dr. Diarist hefted Basil recently — Basil with his Ergon grips; his Zefal toe clips; his sleek water bottle cage; and his stocked under-saddle bag (all weighing mere ounces!) — and Argyll, still lacking any customization at all.
“That Basil’s really a porker, isn’t he?” said Dr. Diarist.
(I carry Basil on stairs unfolded. For a short person like me — and sometimes for others, too — that geometry is just right. And easy. And would be even if Basil were a little zaftig! Which, just for the record, he is not!)
Hmm, no wonder people notice Basil’s S bag flap — it’s kind of hard to miss!