When GRID grand poobah Alex Mulcahy and I sat down to plot out this magazine’s editorial calendar back in the icy deep freeze that is Philadelphia February, we suspected that when the mercury climbed into the 90s, we’d be ready for a double dose of two of our favorite things: beer and bicycles.
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The last time was a pork sandwich, with greens, from the local pizza shop. The sandwich arrived soggy with grease; the pork, a glum gray; the broccoli rabe limp and lifeless. It was, for all intents, a waste of my 10 bucks. That was a Friday. April 8. I’d come home from work feeling tired,
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