OUT WITH THE OLD, IN WITH THE NEW

By Charles Youel

The day after Thanksgiving has come to be known as Black Friday. The source of this appellation, it‚s said, is that the first day of holiday shopping is the push that merchants need to get them out of the red and into the black. For my part, I‚ve always thought that any day characterized by pre-dawn stampedes of bloodthirsty deal stalkers pushing, shoving and occasionally punching their way to savings is a black day indeed. It‚s hardly our finest moment as a species, and not an experience that I want any
part of. Even my wife, who loves bargain hunting so much that I expect her to enthusiastically shop for her own casket, has chosen to sit out this year's melee.

I usually spend the day after Thanksgiving combing through drawers and closets in search of items not recently worn or not likely to be worn any time soon. If it hasn‚t seen the light of day in six months, it‚s on its way out. If its drawer folds and hanger creases haven‚t been broken in a year, it's definitely in the donation box. A little sartorial Darwinism, if you will. But never before has this exercise included my t-shirt drawer. For most people (OK, most men), t-shirts are a wearable time capsule. Men
who couldn‚t remember their own anniversaries without sneaking a peak at the
spouse's day planner can recall the date, place and circumstances of a t-shirt purchase with astonishing clarity. Concert t-shirts are a gimme, of course, as are vacation souvenirs. Who could ever forget the trip that produced, "It's not a bald spot. It's a solar panel for a sex machine." Good times.

But truly, a screen printed t-shirt is always among the most durable and treasured items in the wardrobe of anyone sporting a Y chromosome. My wife has made some serious inroads in her attempt to cull premarital (and thus ill-advised) clothing purchases from my closet. For example, back in the grungy 90s, I used to live in flannel shirts. They disappeared faster than Candlebox. I can live with that, but I‚ve defended my t-shirt drawer with a tenacity that‚s at times bordered on alarming. Alas, today was judgment day for the short-sleeve set.

Most of my t-shirts were in no condition to be worn by me, much less anyone else. Hence, they were destined to be reduced to rags. Ripping up one obsolete tee after another, I started to feel like a pro wrestler. I discovered that if you stand with one foot on the tag side of the collar and pull up on the front side with a good tug, you can rip the average t-shirt clean in half, sleeves and all.

(For some reason I found myself thinking, wouldn't it be cool if you could clean fish this way? You have to admit, the thought of planting your foot in the mouth of a big walleye and giving the snout a good yank beats the daylights out of trying to separate skin, bones and innards from tasty filets the old-fashioned way.)

A few old favorites tugged at the heartstrings. The black t-shirt with the word "Useless" reversed out of a white oval on the front, and "100% Nothing Guaranteed" on the back. Still true, but a little too threadbare to keep around. The jet-black $75 Hugo Boss tee that the owner of the agency I worked for at the time casually tossed to me while he was sifting through an entire case of identical shirts that he‚d purchased. A gift accompanied by the words, "Here. This'll get you laid." It didn't. It was an XL and hadn't ever really fit me, but I think I kept it as a reminder of something I didn't ever want to become. Now, it's the most expensive rag in the house.

Four of them, actually. And then, there were the mountain biking t-shirts. A ratty, once-white IMBA t-shirt from the "Long Live Long Rides" era. And a newer, brown one
emblazoned with "Ride to Live." The obligatory Cars 'R Coffins tee. Shirts from friend‚s shops like One On One and Behind Bars. And of course, the Minnesota Off-Road Cyclists collection: The Riders Unite shirt done by Twin Six for the 2006 Minnesota Mountain Bike Summit. This year's "Shut Up and Ride" fundraiser, as well as two of last year's "Riders" shirts. A "Dirty Work" shirt that. And a couple years' worth of the generic old logo shirts that used to get handed out to trail workers.

A 100% cotton history of my days as a mountain biker each shirt attached to its own set of memories. Some dating back to the time when Lebanon Hills was still mostly double-track ski trail. To the time when riding Battle Creek started by climbing straight up the face of the hill. To the time when all of the trails at Theo Wirth were strictly don‚t ask, don‚t tell. To the time before ten miles of new singletrack at Murphy Hanrehan was a twinkle in anyone‚s eye. To the time when mountain biking in the Twin Cities didn't ‚t much resemble what it is today.

While the likelihood of me wearing some of these relics hovers somewhere on the latter side of slim and none, they‚re all safely ensconced back in the t-shirt drawer. Last time I checked, we‚re not running short of rags. And besides, I‚d rather wipe the grease and dirt off of my chain with the remains of a $75 t-shirt I never cared about, than a free one that I always will.

(Note: I should mention that my three Twin Six t-shirts (Ride, Crank and Fly) are housed in an entirely separate dresser drawer. One not subject to the annual culling. As they should be.)