There was a fly in my room last night.
Giant and green, with some hints of blue. I have no idea how it got into my room, but it swooped around my studio, launching itself across the space between my eyes and my computer. Too lazy to try and kill it, I wished with all my heart that it would just stop mid-air and die. I sat there, willing it to either disappear or fall dead, annoyed at both it and myself for being startled by its occasional presence near my head.
And in the humid heat that was anything like the cool temperatures of mountainous New Hampshire, I almost reached for a rubber band. Just to try it out.
It’s a trick that I’ve seen Brett execute several times a day at the Rapha Cycle Club. Spotting a fly lurking around the coffee table, as I looked around for a fly swatter, Brett took a rubber band, took careful aim, and released. The band jumped through the air and bounced off the stagnant fly’s body. They fell one by one, dead before they hit the ground, one even severed in half by the snapping rubber. No splatter though, and the neatly bunched up corpses - iridescently pretty if they weren’t such goddamn pests - got snatched up in a napkin and quickly disposed of.
“What are you going to do when he leaves?”
It’s a question I’ve been asking for a while now. We all knew Brett was getting married in August, that he was riding cross country for his honeymoon on custom IFs, that he was going to leave the Rapha Cycle Club and wouldn’t be back until after it had closed. It all seemed surreal though; even on his last day at work, I still saw him hanging out at the Rapha Cycle Club. But a week after that we were driving up to New Hampshire in a rented Mini, up to Sugar Hill, New Hampshire where phone reception doesn’t exist, the climbs are impressive, the roads kind of shitty, and you can get the best pancakes, ever.
A pre-wedding ride was planned but with some heavy hitters on the invite list and still without a road bike, I sat out. I had imagined a blissful morning of quiet reading while Mike climbed around the mountains on his De Rosa, maybe an excursion into town later, which I imagined could only be described by the word “quaint” [“nonexistent” might be more appropriate]. The Mini dampened such plans for Mike, making arrangements with other wedding-goers further complicated by the whole “lack of reception” thing, so instead a lazy breakfast was consumed, and what do you know, we saw the wedding ride sweep past us just as I drained the last of my Americano at Wendle’s Deli. We waved, and DS peeled off the group and offered a trip into Littleton to do a little discovering with his wife [who is, as expected, adorable].
We watched gliders being dragged across the sky, then being released to float in slow circles and land silently. There was a bike shop next to DS’s hotel, in a converted barn, and what do you know, they even offered horse back rides. I caressed an inquisitive nuzzle looking for carrots, and heard the thudding of hooves in my head and remembered the feeling of flying.
And Littleton? World’s Longest Candy Counter. ‘Nuff said.
But back to the real reason we were there: the wedding. AND THE CAKE. DO YOU SEE THIS THING? Designed by Brett to perfectly match their custom frames, it seemed like everyone took out their respective cameras to snap a shot or two. We milled about, I completed my fuzzy picture of “cyclists that Mike always talks about but who I haven’t met yet,” and for the first time in forever, I saw Jared. In a suit.
And then I saw Jared officiate the wedding.
Casual in that it wasn’t stifling, and carefully written, the speech made the crowd laugh and the bride and groom were full of smiles as they exchanged rings. People cheered as they said their vows and all of a sudden Brett was married. The wedding bands were quietly impressive in their implied weight, the rose gold glimmering pink and radiating a warmth that’s hard to come by in normal gold rings.
As the sun set, hor d’oeurves were consumed, champagne sipped, then dinner plates piled high with Tofu Wellingtons, veggies, and couscous, paired with glasses of wine, and more champagne. Speeches were given after the obligatory tapping of the glass, and though at any other event - no matter how exciting - I would have been exhausted, I wasn’t ready to go home until the wind picked up, reminding us all that this was New Hampshire, not the humid pockets of Boston or New York.
So, yeah, that’s why marriage has been on my mind lately. And as Brett and Edie take off to pedal across the country from Portland to NYC, I’m wishing them all the best. But with a stellar wedding behind them, gorgeous IFs beneath them, and forever to look forward to, I’m pretty confident that they won’t need luck or well wishes. They got this.
Congrats, again, guys! And I’ll be following your blog...so post lots! See you when you get to NYC!