Dear Sexy Yellow Casati,I miss you. It seemed so easy to let you go. It's been about 10 months since your tastefully bold Italian paint job and full Superbe Pro track gruppo graced my bike shop. There was another bike in the works, of course. And you knew it. That other bike has yet to materialize, meaning it's actually still in pieces. Sadly, you probably are too.
I should have known better than to do it, if for no other reason than the fact that I have regretted selling every bike I've ever parted with at one time or another (well, except for the Treks). You were one of a kind. The California sun you basked in before I bought and had you shipped to Minnesota treated you well. Not one spot of rust. A nice ride and one truly classy machine.
My biggest regret is not necesarily that I justified selling you. I wanted to build a pretty celeste Bianchi Pista Concept. And if I ever finish it, it's gonna be a nice bike, too. The source of my real remorse is that I sold you to a track bike pimp named Gina in NYC. Her schtick was good. I really thought I was sending you to a good home. She played like the bike was for her and that you'd be ridden at the local velo. I realized what was up after I subsidized the shipping and that ho-bag wouldn't even return my emails to offer to pay the difference. She is the lowest of the low in the bike industry -- surfing Craigslist postings of other cities in search of good deals to turn in her trendy little boutique serving the inflated, track-crazed market of NYC.
By now I wouldn't even recognize you I'm sure. Like meth sweeping through a rural Midwestern town, the damage that can be done with electrical tape, top tube protectors, spoke cards, a sloped seat and a set of chop-n-flops is irreversible. I've learned my lesson, that's all I can say.
I miss you ... and I'm sorry.
Love,
Patch
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