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chairs

premier essai

(not so new) typo

fixed lamp

le balon

Philippe decida de ne plus jouer avec la bande de Joey.

Le petit salon

after having reached the top of the mont, I descended fast. my spinning legs burned, my neck hurt, my saddle was as hard as stone and drops of sweat were rolling down my red forehead. yet I was nothing under the crashing heat of the midsummer sun. all day it had been burning the riders. this giant lightbolb piercing the sky like a eye of white fire. it'd been a heavy burden during the parcours but what would I have done without it? ironically the sun was my main source of existence... I was dwarfed by the force of the colossal mountains, one lonely individual out of billions, one madman and his bike. the green mountainside was laying so peaceful. the thick warm air blew through the trees and my hair. I concentrated on the sound of my breath getting calmer as the descend offered a rest. the ratling of my chain was probably heard even on top of the peak towering over the dark green pines whose scent caressed my senses. the birds were seen fluttering around the pines tjilping away free of worry. this suddenly filled me with energy and happiness. a wonderful feeling, a feeling as if I could dwarf the pines, the mont, and even the sun, from whom I now felt all he had actually given me. the energy was sent straight to my legs and I pushed and pulled, pushed and pulled, pushed and pulled. speeding down the mountain, rushing through the trees It was as if I could already see the finish line ahead.

2 willows

his music was...

But I'm not the only one

avec les petits crayons.

mon pti velo

mon pti bateau

cow boy

the west ain't what it used to be, the oldtimer said. on these words the doors of the bar flew open and three men walked out, hands on their belts and hats on their heads. as they walked down the street they looked around squinting their eyes in a somewhat superior way. the townsfolk that were out on that particulary hot afternoon were startled at the sight of the three men, for they used to be known in this town. they were known as the Smith brothers, back in the days they were feared by all of the people for where they went they brought destruction and murder. in that time people would run back into their homes and hide behind locked doors for the rest of the day. but now it'd been so long since the Smith's were sighted committing any crimes, that fear had left the townsfolk, and some of em didn't even remember the Smith brothers.
poor townspeople, as dumb as cattle they went back to their business and didn't pay notice to the three tall men passing by. they didn't even see the oldtimer stumbling away. he had noticed it, the oldtimer, he'd not forgotten how Robert Smith killed reverant jones, slaughtered the O'haras, robbed the Brownville bank and shot billy boy junior. he'd not forgotten how billy boy was bleeding to death in front of the post office, lying face down in the scarlet turned dust.

sherif Dawson put down his weekly herald, got of his porch and went of to the shop to get some apples for his mum's apple pie. the sherif had never seen any of the Smith's. he only knew them from the old tales so wouldn't be able to recognize them if they crossed his path. he wouldn't arrest them for the 28 crimes they'd committed. but even if he knew who were the three men now walking about 20 yards in front of him he wouldn't have laid a hand on his gun. he wouldn't have shot a single bullet. Dawson was a coward. he was mummy's boy, nothing more.
as the Smith brothers approached they could see the thing that had shone in the sun from far away. it was a sherif's badge pinched on Dawson'd jacket. In olden times they'd shot at sherif's feet to make him dance as they did with all the sherifs in cactus valley. now though they only smirked at the sherif who was startled by this weird lack of respect. "hey you there!" he said "wipe them stupid grins of ya faces!"
Robert turned to Dawson and replied "you better try to wipe them of yourself boy."
Dawson opened his mouth to say something but nothing was heard.
the Smith's walked on and he followed them with his eyes his mouth still hanging open, disgusted at his own lack of courage.

oldtimer shook his head in disappointment and moved away from the window.

frehse

of was het nouw freshe?

service secret

un peu plouc

extreme commuting

FML; he had to cross a desert to get home every day.

il lui fallait traverser un désert pour rentrer chez lui.

"the west ain't wat it used to be"

old timer said

bike designs

so I started designing some bike frames and wheels and stuff here are the first three...
( j'ai commence a dessiner des cadres de velo, voici les premier trois )

here the wheels are too small, this was my first drawing, of a light pursuit frame.

here is a pursuit frame, the wheels are too small for the bike though

this one is a triangle frame inspired by the bull. it's got a "toksik" front wheel