Can’t hardly write a prelude one day without writing the actual lude the next.
The sign outside the shop said “Fat Bert’s Hoops”. A brass bell on a string clingled when Dad opened the door and held it for me to go in.
The showroom displayed hoops up front. The best models against the windows circling left and right of our entrance with an aisle between them. Three rows of hoops to the left on the short side of the showroom. Four rows of hoops on the right with a few treads at the back. The shop arranged the wheels like church pews going up to a parts counter that served as the alter. Deep-from-the-earth smells of grease, oil, and rubber lingered like incense.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” the man behind the counter intoned. Dad half-waved and nodded like he knew what he was doing. I did too.
My attention lighted on the nearest hoop: a sleek street racer with a yellow body and pulse red highlights. These are the ones you lay down in with your chest on the tank and your face in the vid.
“No way, kiddo.”
“I know Dad, but we’ve got all afternoon to look.”
“Look! The vid even has a chase-cam view. I read about how they do that. Blending the fore and aft cams on the fly to produce a 3d view that looks like it’s from above and behind the hoop.”