That
1982 Specialized Sequoia that I bought as a sort of PTSD impulse purchase after my bike crash last fall caught my eye this week. I put a saddlebag and a mid-fork light mount on it, and took it up Mass. Ave. to Lexington Center to see what it had to say to me. It said, "Replace the seatpost and the stem before riding me again, they're too short to safely extend to the height you need. Keep an eye on those 28-spoke wheels, they may hate you. Also, enjoy the brifters, welcome to the 1990s!" This all seemed like good advice, and I did enjoy the ride. The frame has classic sport-touring geometry, and manages to be both stable and nimble at the same time. Tange tubes, lugged, designed in the US and built by Japanese frame builders, built up on weight-weenie principles, therefore contrary to the build choices I customarily make. It's already fun.
Managed to leave the house without a mask for the first time in a couple of weeks through sheer inattention. No harm done, I hope, but it was one more reason to avoid the Minuteman. The Mass. Ave. traffic has picked up considerably, and I found myself singing "Dire Wolf" at a volume sufficient to confuse bystanders.
rod