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Show Mountain Biking? We Do It! It's that simple. With lines like Fat Chance, Fisher, Marin, Ibis, Bianchi, Mountain Goat, Slingshot, Salsa, Bontrager and Haro all under one roof, you spend more time test-riding and less time driving from shop to shop. Knowledge & Prices Find someone who rides or races a mountain bike and ask about us. Parts &, Accessories we·ve got lots of them. Not just bread-and-butter Shimano, but track stuff like Cook Bros., Bullseye, WTB, Salsa, exotic wheelgoods and a wall full of knobby tires. Repairs? We do them right!! And usually overnight. Need a wheel built today or a quick tune before a trip to the desert? Give us a call. We don't hire salesmen. Everyone who works here is a mechanic. We love bikes and the people who ride them. Wild Rose 702 Third Ave. 533-8671 It's that simple. FICTION: Adventur-es of Fratlk and Stony Poor Howard's Dead and Gone Chapter Eight: I See By Your Outfit This bit of whimsy began in the October, 1992 issue and is offered purely for your ergoyment. -ed Stoneman, the faithful rottweiler, was pouting. Instead of hanging his head out the camper window to drool into the slipstream, he was curled up on the passenger seat, chin on paws, gloomily studying the dashboard. Despite his best efforts to get Frank (that's Frank Wakefield, boy banjo genius) to realize that his, Frank's, leg was being pulled, they were on their way to Chicago to meet the lady in red at the Biograph theater. With the camper on autopilot, Frank had his banjo out and was working out a harmony riff to Bela Fleck's Whitewater. uGolly, Stony," he said, doublethumbing a diminished interval, ui hope we can find the Biograph theater when we get there. Do you think it's still in business?" Stoneman closed his eyes and did not wag his tail. He was disgusted and intended to take a nap and forget the whole business. When he next awoke they were on an exit ramp off the freeway. He glimpsed a sign: #Chicago 25 miles." ''Need to get gas," said Frank. At the other end of the village they saw a lighted sign: uGet Gas Here." Frank pulled into the station, climbed out of the cab, and wondered if he had fallen into a time warp. The brand name on the gas pumps was Gilmore, with a picture of a lion. The pumps themselves were a type Frank had seen only in pictures: seven or so feet tall, with a cylindrical glass bowl at the top that was filled by pumping a handle, then emptied into the auto fuel tank through the hose. A man who looked several hundred years old with tobacco juice in the comers of his mouth emerged from the shack. The name tag on the left breast of his encrusted coveralls said 'Kennard.' "Need some gas, Sonny?" "Yes, fill it up," said Frank. As the geezer began working the pump handle, Frank said: uDon't see many stations like this any more.': "Reckon not," said the ancient man. Frank spotted a wooden, greenpainted telephone booth over by the building. He went and peered inside. Sure enough, there was a telephone directory. It said "Chicago and Surrounding Areas." The date on it was 1937. Thumbing through it, he found the Biograph theater and wrote down the address. The geezer was done filling the tank. Frank handed him the money, and said, ui imagine there's a good reason why nothing has ever been modernized here." uYep ," said the ancient man, turning his back and stomping back into the shack. Obviously, he had said all he intended to. The Biograph theater was not still in business. Flanked on one side by a trashfilled alley, and on the other by an empty store front, its doors were boarded up with weathered plywood. The forlorn box office contained nothing but a broken stool, an empty paper coffee cup, and several discarded Beeman's Pepsin Chewing Gum wrappers. The marquee read simply, "C OSED." The one unbroken glass frame held a faded poster for a movie starring Irene Dunne and Smiley Burnett, entitled "Mrs. Mini-continued next page 14 Intermountain Acoustic Musician, May 1993 |
