By: Brad Click

This will be a story arc of questionable mental acrobatics as to how a simple thing can become just the thing. My name is Brad and I’ll be your host for the journey.

I had a somewhat blurry start date into the business of bicycles, but suffice to say I was solidly behind the counter by 1992. I had no idea at the time, but the bike industry would be my path for the next 30 years and counting. In those 3 decades I have worn nearly every hat possible from bottom to top. Sweeping floors and fixing flats, sales and full on service, design and advertising, fabricator of steel, titanium and carbon fiber frames, custom painter...and all the other “in between” jobs that every bike shop employee, everywhere, does unseen. Hat tip. I have been wildly passionate about it all, with an equal love and participation in every discipline of cycling I’ve been able to access. I enjoy the new new, as well as the old and everything in between. An expansion of the whole. If it’s got wheels, I’m in.

Electric shifting, 3D print Ti and carbon with disc brakes?...yep, sits right next to my steel 1989 MB3 with friction and cantis I purchased new. Love em both. The last several years, ok maybe a decade plus, I’ve gravitated towards the modern for the simple fact I’m immersed in the biz. I was literally making the shit, so it’s what and how I rode. The “new” is where the money is yea? Maybe, but that’s another discussion. The point is, somewhere in the kit matching, strava tracking, battery charging, zwift training rapids, I lost my fun. Riding had become a checklist to be executed. This reality was definitely not in line with my core bicycle values, I needed to get back to the WHY, it was time to go in search of the Midnight Caper.

To understand the “why” I ride, it would be easiest to describe the Petri dish
that my bike passion grew within. Upon? Inside?...I digress. Basically, there are two bike related events during my life that can act as forms. 1. Seeing the movie Rad opening weekend 1984. 2. Watching John Tomac rocket down a mountain in a black skinsuit thundering on a Tioga Disc wheel 1994ish. Everything bike specific that I experienced in between could be poured into this clamshell mold and solidified to represent the heart of my passion. This particular time frame
encompassed some large milestones in both my life and that of the bicycle world
in general.

On the front end, my awakening had begun that the two wheels I simply rode around the block on were in fact the keys to something larger. A portal waiting to be activated. Something that could take me places...far far away. Growing up in Ohio, every neighborhood had streets that abruptly ended at “the woods”. Ours had several between school and home. I could not wait for the last bell to ring
each day. Terrycloth shorts, a t-shirt and sneakers with a schoolbag over my shoulder were the kit, my banana seated coaster braked 20” wheeled huffy was the vehicle, and for a brief moment of the day, an entire new world was revealed to explore. The few turns and streets to get there went by in slow motion...cruising speed...waiting for the engines to spin up. But as soon as you reached the road where the pavement ceased into a monolithic wall of solid green, you were on the runway. Aimed for the narrow slot of an opening in the leaves, heart racing, out of the saddle for a last dig of speed, you’d tuck in and shoot the threshold with a blast of muted silence like entering the water off the high dive. The cool dark air hit you heavy in the face, your front wheel enveloped on both sides by dense foliage with trees blasting by so fast they blurred, the sky was gone...you had made the jump to hyperspace. You were on land, but somehow it felt more like you were...IN it. Like a subterranean Goonies underworld it was disorienting at first, with a never-ending web of twists and turns that appeared to go nowhere, but in time would become a well learned treasure map. Instinctual. The fast way, the dead end, the jumps, and the way home. This was the birth of my love to ride. The reason I can’t let go. No thought to the thing, just the doing.

On the back end I developed my love for the machine. The vehicle. The thing. Midway through this journey, my family moved to rural Colorado which put somewhat of a damper on my BMX fire, but by now I was nearing the end of school, could drive, and was earning a little money. It just so happens the “mountain” bike was poised to explode about the same time. I was an early-ish adopter with my 89 MB3, and would soon dive head first onto the slippery slope of the industry I’ve called home ever since. I worked adjacent the biz for a few years supplying embroidered goods through a family owned sewing business to bike company all over the U.S. Then as fate would have it, I finally gained full time employment at my local shop right on the verge of the “golden years” of the MTB. I had unknowingly purchased a front row ticket to this spectacle. Everything was being imagined for the first time, in real time, in uncharted ground. No one had the winning recipe because the ingredients didn’t exist yet. We carried 3 major brands and each one took a wildly different approach to answer questions whose ink was still wet on the paper. Since there was no prior blueprint to draw from, and boundaries were non existent, ALL the ideas came to market. With the mind numbing amount of innovation and creativity happening, it was hard not to get addicted to the rush, the machine and all the gear surrounding it. To adopt the style of it all. It was a buffet that catered to the most exotic of pallets. This is when the “bike” transitioned to the focus. A constantly revolving door of new bike everything had started spinning uncontrollably. To credit, the initial wave of advancements were not without merit, and not since then has a single new part to my bike made such an immediate and impactful difference to my riding. Literally night and day. Things like the first SPD pedal, replacing a rigid fork with suspension, or upgrading to V-brakes. These things were monumental. But this upgrade pursuit is ultimately one of diminishing returns, and for a long time since, the chase has been on for this etherial prize. Often times for no tangible benefit, and more lately only achieving a feeling as if a ride is invalid if not tracked, curated, and epically relevant. The duende was dying. 

To be clear, during this period I was truly fortunate to meet some people that, were already, and went on to become, genuine legends in the arena. Fabricators I would learn from, riding talents I would meet, admire and draw inspiration from, and industry people I would cherish as life long friends. They have all made my life richer cycling or not. 

Buried in the hoards of these memories is the truth. My touchstone. What I’m really after when I throw a leg over the saddle. Aptly it’s a genuine mix of the two bookends above. The capability and mechanical advantage the beautiful machine awarded me over the terrain, and the zero expectations of the adventure so long as we have fun outlook. Colorado has been known to get rather cold, dark, and snowy during the off season. After a couple good storms, our trails were more akin a luge run and so we needed a supplement for our ride fix in the dark months. One mid winter night after closing up the shop, someone suggested layering up whatever clothes we had on hand to stave off the sub freezing temps, load up the bikes, and head south to a small canyon peppered with hiking trails and just explore. Unanimously game, my attire consisted of roadie tights, cutoff sweatpants, and a pair of EMS river shorts for the lower half, with a PDM Tapes jersey, puffy coat, and giant red anorak layered on top, lobster gloves, and multiple pair of socks. This would become my de facto uniform catwalk be damned. We had ridden this area before during the summer, but the hiking trails were rather crappy to bike and not worth the squeeze for the juice. But this time was different. It was winter, and snowy, and by chance a full moon. And thus the “Moonlight Rides” were born. Ahhhh….you see the circle closing now don’t you? What began as a why not, became a standing appointment. I’m not sure we ever covered more than a few miles with the stumbling, falling, slipping and hike a bike that first go. There was never forethought of a route or time limit. We just rode, and froze, and laughed until we’d had our fill. It wasn’t long before we set sights on other locales closer to the shop, namely a large grouping of office buildings called the Denver Tech Center. At the time there wasn’t much residential development in the area so after business hours, and especially on weekends, the place was desolate. Miles of empty walkways peppered with fountains, staircases, loading docks and parking garages that were connected with swoopy tree lined green belt paths and man placed boulders that became our trail network for the evening. Not once did we care about the things, only the doing. We didn’t look cool, we weren’t doing anything epic, mileage didn’t matter, but we were IN it. The machine that I was now conscious to, but not yet covetous of, had once again granted me access to the other side. This balance is where my truth lies. A truth I allowed to be clouded by noise and undue complexities that only existed in my head for much longer than I’m embarrassed to admit. 

Pray tell what doth break this most wicked of spells cast? Shorts. Well, in part… shorts. I had one pair of MTB baggies that I used running bike errands. They were ill fitting, worn out, and frankly, poorly designed. Too long, too baggy, pockets in dumb places, velcro in worse places…anyway, I was in need of a new pair of shorts. Clean and simple, not overly branded and preferably neutral in tone was the goal. I have no idea what exact combo of those search terms led me to Midnight Caper, but I found them. Not a deep line of items, but The Lukens short fit the bill. After a fun and inviting email exchange, I got a pair of shorts, a Lowe long sleeve shirt, and a Dravus wind jacket. I had little expectation that these pieces of clothing would do anything aside from their intended purpose. I’d wear them on my bike errands where kit would be unnecessary and maybe commuting to work. And they’d do just fine. 

I received my order, everything fit really well, and was pleasingly good looking. Both of the top pieces were surprisingly luxe feeling…flowy and silky are not out of place here as descriptors. The Lowe shirt is honestly difficult to convey. It’s heavier than it looks, though it wears light, and drapes really well, but the material has a kind of springy stiffness to it. It’s wonderful, I feel like I’m wearing future clothes. The Lukens short could not have been more spot on to what I was looking for. The material feels tough without being weighty or stiff, and the zip pockets are placed so they’re usable but not in the way when in use. Elastic fit with webbing belt to secure…just enough room to move without the toddler pants vibe. They also happen to bear striking resemblance to the EMS river shorts I wore years prior. Bonus. 

On a whim, I tossed them and the Dravus jacket in my bag for the ride home after work the next day. I hadn’t used either yet, and figured a commute would be good testing ground. But something unexpected happened. Nothing magical exactly, though possibly a perfect storm scenario. It was late fall but there was still nearly an hour of daylight after quitting time to get home, and forecasted temps were mild. Alas, the day had alternate plans. A project ran late putting me well past dark by the time I clocked out. Temps had dropped drastically. My wahoo was dead. And I forgot my headlight and gloves. So now a choice: Suck it up and ride, or call for a bail out. I suited up…layering a couple t-shirts and a hoodie I had in my locker, plus an extra pair of socks, my new shorts and wind jacket, then stretched on two pair of nitrile mechanics gloves as I left the building. I should have started to feel the twinge of familiarity at this point, but was too hyper focused on the time, temperature, and what I was lacking to fully tune in. The crucial bit of this puzzle was my decision to take the longer way home. I chose this not out of adventure or yearning for type 2 fun, but out of personal preservation. The short way included some riding that could be sketchy with lights, and straight up risky without. The longer way was almost entirely paved bike path, with a few miles of dirt trail near the end, all of which I’m completely familiar with, so it felt the safest option. I was cold and miserable to start, questioning my judgement, and angry with myself over the forgotten items. After rolling through a couple surface streets, I made my way to the bike path and was beginning to warm up physically while cooling down emotionally. Attempting to make peace with the situation and opening to the idea that in actuality, it wasn’t all that bad. The next 8 miles or so on the path were calm and enjoyable. The generally noisy surroundings were in the muffled embrace of evening by this point, and the air that felt cold and jarring initially was now crisp and invigorating. Despite this, I was still naggingly distracted by my dark head unit not displaying how many miles I’d covered or had to go. I was slowly peeling back the layers of resistance, but not fully embracing the essence of what was happening. 

And then it happened, the last curtain of distraction was about to be pulled aside. The upcoming transition from the paved path to the dirt trail requires a short connection through a dead end residential street. I rounded the right hand corner into the cul-du-sac, where at its terminus, the entrance to the dirt came into moonlit view. The scene hit me with force. My hair was on end, and my breath was absent. It’s the WHY. Right here in this place I’ve been a hundred times and failed to acknowledge. Everything extraneous melted away, and there in the darkness I could finally focus. It was just me, and that bike, and those woods. Only now the portal was open and I shot through it with everything I had in me! Familiar twists and turns by day were now completely foreign, I knew where I was but my bearings were dizzyingly upended. I was entirely lost on trails I knew by heart. Streetlights were gone, replaced only with the glint reflections of eyes in the brush. Everything in my periphery was moving like it was on fast forward, and each low spot in the terrain sent a 10 degree temperature drop straight up my spine. Time disappeared, my destination was of not plotted, I had everything I needed, and for the remainder of my ride I was connected to the source. I was back IN IT! 

Did I bury it with years worth of distractions, not seeing the forest for the trees? Had I simply just forgotten? Did a pair of shorts actually play an instrumental part in this reconnection? The answer is not as important as the result. Although I firmly believe that if I’d have been wearing my normal bike kit and had all the accoutrements that day, I would have missed it again, but no there’s nothing magical about a pair of shorts. We assign importance to things for untold and infinite reasons. Sometimes we misplace them to never be seen again. Lost to time. But on other occasion, we unearth a clue that serves as a subtle reminder. A whisper of a memory that can bloom into raging chorus if you give it your ear. My Lukens shorts now act as a simple talisman to reject over complication and embrace the fun. A bookmark of that ride to keep “the why” close to my heart and act upon it. Always take the “morfun” line, never ignore the chance to find out where a new path leads. Leave some of the comfort behind on the next ride. Really connect with the people, places, and feelings that ignited your love of riding. Never stop the quest for your Midnight Caper.

Written by Brad Click