Once upon a time there was a boy named Steven … this boy had a fascination with all things bicycle, especially all that was new and flashy and wonderful and expensive. But as time passed, the boy learned to love the traditions, the history, the elegance.

As he grew older and became a man, he found his love of tradition grew beyond bicycles and began to encompass other aspects of life. Bicycles. Music. Fashion. Movies. Eras past merging into the present.

The man grew up in England, Tennessee, Minnesota, Los Angeles, and Belgium, attended university in Santa Cruz, and lived in San Francisco for 12 1/2 years (okay, 11 years in San Francisco, on Nob Hill, and a year-and-a-half in Emeryville, which is the armpit between Berkeley and Oakland).

Then the man moved from San Francisco to Utah and found that what people in the Bay Area call mountains really don’t quite qualify, when compared to the Wasatch and Uinta ranges. It took a couple years, but then the boy rediscovered the joys of strapping a pair of planks to his feet and sliding down the mountain snow.

Politically, a Northern California Democrat. Moderate by NorCal standards, damn-near Communist by Utah standards, due to beliefs in universal tolerance, inclusion, compassion and respect for dissent.

The man tends to spend a lot of time in his own head, lost in thought … it’s better than a mindless video game! An information junkie, always reading something, whether its online, in a magazine, or a book, who just as happy sitting in a dark jazz bar, sipping a cocktail and listening to great music, as in a lively sushi restaurant, wandering through a museum, or playing in the mud and snow.

Witty and sarcastic, childish and campy, very dry and very subtle, with a love of debate and a willingness to argue pretty much anything, challenging peoples preconceptions, and being challenged in return.

A middle-aged man, who is still a punk at heart. Southern roots dictate a love country music, but tastes run to older country, bluegrass, and rockabilly.

Sinatra is a god, but Bobby Darin was always cooler, and Johnny Cash could kick both of their asses with his guitar tied behind his back. Jazz, Johnny Cash, and punk-rock. Great combo, eh?