I'm standing in pink Crocs in my garage, threading spokes, "....mother do you think they'll drop the bomb?" strolls out of the speakers and there's a perfectly good bike shop 15 minutes away with every size spoke I'd ever need. Hell, there's two perfectly capable cats who'd love to lace my hoops for me there...even have a good conversation with me while they do it. And here I am, in my garage...alone...cutting spokes, threading spokes...the girls are dreaming of games of tag, sandcastles to craft, boogers to eat...a toddlers' paradise...and here I am, doing things the hard way, again.

Not that doing things the hard way is new for the arthritic 265lb ex-offensive lineman who manages to chug his way up hills and pinball down the hills while giggling like his girls. OK, not too much giggling on the ups. The hard way...teaching myself simple trigonometry so I don't have to rely on online spoke calculators....like there's gonna be a wheel building emergency when the power is out. The hard way...living in 10 different towns before graduating high school. The hard way...being a preacher's kid. The hard way...more titanium in my body than a boutique frame builder's shop. The hard way...the white kid trying to impress the local gangsters.

The hard way...whatever. Like my life's been so hard, right. There *was* that one Festivus my GiJoe didn't have the kung fu grip though.

It's not the hard way. It's the way. It's what makes us: Time, tension and patience...it's what makes my wheels. Damn fine wheels...or they end up that way. With enough time...tension...and patience, maybe I'll end up damn fine too.

Brock...