The Secret Diary of Rotten Todd, Aged 34 1/2 On The Tip Of My Toungue April 30, 2003

Dear Diary: I wish you could talk, Diary. I am experiencing a most debilitating brain fart, and I can't for the life of me think of the title of that early funk song that starts, "Spinning wheel...". It gets worse as I am failing to remember the words as well. "Ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba" Riding season has officially begun for me. I joined up with Doug and Tom last week for my first real taste of the Nutmeg State's trail offerings. Both these guys are local and ride the Nepaug State Forest regularly, which was a blessing, as there wasn't any body to ask directions of. The trails were beautifully diverse, with smooth (for New England) single track, quick, switchback climbs and the occasional launch or drop. Thanks guys, for a great tour! "Got to be free..." We've all been on rides before when you know you are in the groove, because you can hum the same tune for three hours. Your pedal strokes are keeping time. You begin to plan take-offs and landings in sync with the beat. You set up to carve a switch back to the wale of a guitar solo. Well, I had a ride like that the other day, except the guitars were replaced by sax and brass and the and the voice was a husky, soulful punctuator of the funkadelic rhythm, swung out over the melody like a bird soaring over a locomotive. Legs pumping, "...let the spinning wheel turn", branches wave as you pass, hundreds of inspiring fans lining the trail. Floating over imperfections, your real life is jealous, the crescendo at the top of the ramp, landing with a Motown pump. The grind on the way up is payment for the privilege to hit bottom. Contrary to life, it's better when you're going down. Grimy face, wet feet, vent-head, the bass beat, on top of that you can't sleep, your body feels like cheap meat, and all you can do is dream to keep the spinnin' wheels spinnin'. It's back to spring and the fling is in the forest, the pump and the jump, where the blast cures the past, the bike is yin, your name is Yang, rollin' out the miles, sexy sassy sax, and the bass kickin' it to keep it all in da house. If I could only remember the name of that damned song... Most inspiring.

Rotten Articles of the past...
1 November 10, 2002 The Silly Season
2 December 4, 2002 A Drink With Something In It
3 January 22, 2003 Two Wheel Fetish - You scratch mine, I'll scratch yours
4 February 27, 2003 Take A Hike - I'm off to Connecticut
5 March 31, 2003 My First Week In Connecticut

Who is Rotten Todd You Ask?

Hmmm...What do you say about a guy that really doesn't bring much to the party?

"Rotten" Todd Cary has been involved in the cycling industry for almost 20 years, if you count the meager wages earned at "sweat shops" disguised as bicycle retailers. A short lived pro career proved that 200 lb hockey players can, indeed, excel at criteriums. After announcing his retirement, to little fanfare, Mr. Cary set out to prove he could build a better mousetrap. However, upon disproving the age-old adage that, if successful, he'd be adorned with riches, he decided that real money was to be had producing high-end, custom, MTB racing frames. Dogma Bikes USA was acclaimed for being more successful than Schwinn, and Mr. Cary went on to sell the company in 1997 for a healthy profit of $7.38.

As an engineer, Todd has been involved in producing some of the world's greatest technologies including Boeing Aircraft, and artificial hearts. [Ed.: Gods help us.] Mr. Cary is a member of TNR, resides in Newburyport, MA, and shows undeniable grace while lawn-darting from teeter-totters.

Email todd at RottenTodd@bustedspoke.com and let him know what you think.