Again, not exactly a ringing endorsement. Not really a lifer, definitely not the fastest or the smartest wrench on the bench, but I can still twist up a decent pair of wheels. I was a shop mechanic for about five years in one continuous stretch, then made a few cameos over the following couple decades. Dwindling power output, risk averse, can’t wheelie, generally asked to step out of frame when the “talent” arrives for the video reels. I have never been a professional racer, and as an enthusiastic amateur really only spent about a dozen years in that particular crucible. I have been riding bikes since childhood. What, exactly, qualifies someone to test things and write about it? Why should anyone listen to me? As I rode home, I spent a lot more time wondering about what constitutes veracity when it comes to product reviews than I did focusing on the ride characteristics and purported benefits of little elastomeric dampers build into seatstays. This was not exactly news, but at the same time, finding out that random dudes in coffee shops were making six-figure incomes jamming out reviews of products they had not actually physically experienced, well, it was a little jarring. It’s super easy, and the pay is killer!” He then mentioned a number that was about triple my annual income. “I get supplied a list of products – SEO determines what products are trending, then I write reviews of those products, make sure to include the required keywords, post them on Amazon, get paid. He showed me his laptop, where he was mid-composition of a five star review for an electric kettle. I stared blankly at him, unsure what he meant. I write reviews for a living too! Where are you posting? Amazon?” He beamed hugely and almost shouted “Bro! We’re in the same line of work. It’s a work thing I ride it for a while and then write a review about it. Yes, it rode pretty nice but it was too soon to tell how the relationship was going to pan out. Coffee not yet in hand, I sighed internally and painted something onto my face that I hoped looked more like a smile than a grimace. ![]() My relief at not having to verbalize a bunch of thinking about a bike I had just finished building was short lived, however.Ī young, exceptionally clean cut guy looked up from his laptop, clocked the bike, and began peppering me with questions. You never knew how long it would last or how intense it may get, but you would most certainly get shook up. ![]() The bakery in the village was owned by an incredibly fit, highly animated, bike-obsessed Argentinian named Martin, and it was always a bit like wandering into a conversational tornado showing up there with a new bike. The bike was a gravel-ish kind of rig and it was a nice spring day, so a mellow 25-mile round trip on lumpy pavement seemed a good way to check that everything was working. Right about the time I finished building it up, the power went out, so I decided to take it for a spin into the village to get some coffee and check my email. Not long after sentencing myself to singletrack exile at the poison oak farm deep in Carmel Valley, I took delivery of a new test bike.
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