We have a tendency to give up too early, like when it hurts a little too much. Maybe it happens during a race. Maybe during a relationship. Maybe on the floor of a faraway discotheque. It is certain that the body/mind/spirit have absolute limitations, but rarely on Saturday or Sunday mornings are we anywhere near them.
When you are on the bici chasing your neighbors, or the new man in sales, or all of your failures, there is the call of losing: quit. go home. make a sandwich. watch the golfing. We have heard all of this before.
So quit. But know what it’s like to not. Be shown by the Superissimo what it is really meaning to fail all the way — the last calorie 200 meters behind you, floating desperately in a pond of lactic acid, just out of sight from the shores of your last major personal fuckup. Your stack of books will be slapped from your grip without warning or resistance. Extremities have become sore, then tired, then tired and sore, then vestigial.
If during this time, you possess the wherewithal to pick this patch of earth onto which you will plop your face, then there is more to give. You cannot pick how to fail. That is called quitting.
It is more likely executed like this:
• You will give everything. March past gates of ouchie, dammit, merde and embarrassoise. There will be crying and hating of the choice you made to be on a bike today.
• Complete corporal vacancy will override your consciousness and involuntary evacuation may occurre.
• The patch of brick will suddenly jump before you in the eyes.
• You will go right to it with all of your heart. All forces of physics/gravity/nature/and breakdancing will proceed with zero impedimente.
You have kissed the bricks.
So, given our nature to concede to needless perseverance, The Superissimo and Magnetic Wheel Compagnie have united in an effort to set somethings forth of you, your face, and your walletbooks.
Begin:
In all efforts to continue subvert the norm and squeeze lemon juices in the cuts which appear on the skin of macho-but-too-macho companies, we say this: Nemesis? Why not just Asshole? Are we really enemies, sworn to battle for all time’s telling? No. We are just classic and pompous executives, all of us. Born to succeed in board rooms, and lay dominance upon those who join us on mornings Saturday. Thus was born, The Stronzo.
A custom, lazar-itched marque of magnificent eloquence resides upon an establishedly suave H+Son TB-14: A rim which of itself was born to strike out silly traditions like removing beads from tires, sewing them back together with a tube inside, and gluing them on primitive extrusions, all whilst praying that your primate mechanic was not having to interrupt this process 14 times to go cover the sales floor for the CAT6 shop professional seat raiser.
All of this is to say that it is an excellent jante, with noble intentions, a lasting construction, and the courtesy/convenience to be slightly wider than the predecessor – a very warm boon for these days of popularly wide jante-meats.
Do you see? It is time. Please to visit the genius builder and facilitator of this rim. He will do you right, and in his own time rise to glory for having such macho ambitions, graceful lacing, and muscles too.
