About Me

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Mountain Home, Arkansas, United States
My name is Dimitri Harris and I have been building frames for over 6 years now. I learned the basics after spending two weeks with Koichi Yamaguchi. He is one of the most interesting people I have ever met and I am thankful to have worked with him. Since then I have just been building one frame after another and learning as much as possible along the way. I build steel fillet-brazed frames that go by the name of MEECH, its an old nickname that I have had since I was a kid. I build mostly cyclocross frames because I love their versatility however I also do road,single-speed, and mountain bikes as well. Custom frames start around $1400. All the frames are handmade by me here in Mountain Home, Arkansas. I am insured and guarantee all of my work so if you are in the market for a custom steel frame I would be glad to build it for you. I am also building frames from carbon fiber so if you would like to ride a prototype frame give me a shout. Thanks for stopping by. You can email me at meech151@hotmail.com or call (870)897-6703 or visit www.meechcustombicycles.com Thanks.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Taylor Made Frame

Just got done with the finish work on Scott Taylor's frameset.  Everything was pretty straight-forward on this build and went about as smooth as possible. A short trip to my hometown and a family visit delayed things a little bit but life is short and you gotta make time for family and friends.  I always have an idea of when I would like to have a frame done however you never know what may come up and so sometimes you have to reassess the situation. I'm super-fortunate that every customer I've had has been really patient and understanding and I do my best not to drag them along too badly.  I've been feeling like I was behind for the last couple of weeks so to get this one finished up and ready to paint I'm starting to feel like I'm getting back on track.  The days are longer and its getting warmer so I've been able to get a lot more done.  I immediately start to feel better once cold weather moves on out.  We have a little cold spell coming through right now but its only gonna last a couple of days and then we should be finished with the cold for good. Amen.

Let's go check this frame out,  but first I had an idea.

I've been thinking.  "Uh oh." I believe now would be a good time to bring back The Lance Chronicles.  Remember that show? You know, back when Lance Armstrong was basically an American super-hero and he was trying to save America from being destroyed by the Hitleresque Jan Ullrich. I could envision families, who had just discovered cycling, gathering around the tube with lowfat popcorn, while dad explained the entire scenario to his kids.

"Now kids, that is Lance Armstrong.  He is an american who loves everything pure and white.  He's trying to save us from that evil guy in the pink jersey named Jan Ullrich who I hear worships the devil."

Umm, sorry dad.  You got it all wrong.

Oh geez! I can remember sitting through one episode where Lance was showing us his newly remodeled condo in Spain, where apparently they had a code as to how big you could build.  Anyway, poor Lance just didn't have enough space for all his precious stuff and so he proceeded to tell the world how he basically bought off the mayor and turned two condos into one. 

I hated that show back then but now I think it would make for some interesting TV.  The show would open with LA laying on his sofa down in his basement with a week old beard and a gut poking out from under his torn Livestrong t-shirt.  He'd be watching old videos of himself giving Jan Ullrich "the look" while holding a beer and eating jelly beans, that he stole from a Team Jelly Belly Christmas party that he crashed a couple of years earlier, out of one of the Tour de France trophies that now sits on his coffee table.  Keep in mind that this is a purely fictional scenario, as I don't know if Lance has ever stolen any jelly beans or not.  In the background there would be cases of unopened Michelob Ultra (crap) stacked up in the corner with  lopsided yellow jerseys hanging on the wall. The old Trek that he won #7 on would be sitting on a trainer with a old, sweaty bib-short hanging from the bars. Am I being unfair? Not at all.  Uncreative?  Maybe. I'm just trying to think up a good pilot for all those retired neo-pro cyclists, that continually complain about how they got cheated out of victories and the chance to win a Tour "only if", to spend their evenings watching. Which is more than I should do.  What have they done for me? What about me? I only made it to Cat 2. Have they forgotten what that was like?  Let me remind them.  How about a more or less 8 hour car ride  in the Kansas City direction by yourself.  You're in the middle of Nowhereville and the only thing on the radio is a bunch of locals playing banjos and blowing in jugs.  You get to town and find a $100 hotel room around 10:30 p.m.  Now you're hungry and the only thing open within a small trek is Lucky's Lounge.  You wake in the morning and bust hump to get some breakfast in you, sign up, and pin a freakin number on by 8:00.  They say, "GO", and for two hours you grit your teeth like the tail of a kite only to get dropped 5 miles into the second 55-mile loop and ride the remainder of the 90 degree race into the wind by yourself. When you arrive, everybody is gone and the finish line has already been taken down. The only way you even know you finished is because you see your truck sitting in the middle of a field by itself with some wheels leaning on it that the wheeltruck guys left. I didn't get to raise my hands either cowboy, just my finger. Was it the dozen oysters on the half-shell and pecan pie that I had at Lucky's last night?  Who knows?  I just loaded up my stuff and drove down the field and turned out onto the road home anticipating 2 more hours of banjo and jug funk.  One last look over to where the finish line was and in the distance I can see another lone rider coming home. A little voice comes into your head as you're pulling away and says, "At least I kicked his ass!" And my celebration was stopping at Lucky's again on the way out for some more oysters.  They were out of pie.  Did Velonews call me up 15 years later and want to hear my story.  I don't think so.  I was telling everyone Lance Armstrong was a cunt in 1996, but nobody believed me.  They thought he was Jesus on a bicycle. Lowfat Popcorn Daddy stood in line all day with his kids waiting to get his copy of "It's Not About the Bike" signed, or whatever the title was. Who cares? I read it.  It was nothing. I used to be bitter toward Lance, but after Contador took his notebook from him mid-race, and proceeded to ride away with it up that mountain, my wounds immediately healed.  I've made my peace with Lance Armstrong, although its probably hard to tell while reading this. Wonder where Johan Bruyneel has been? Church of Scientology maybe?  If anyone sees him tell him his pot pie is burning.  

Supposedly Lance is going to do a charity ride during the Tour de France this year.  Geez!  Is he really that stupid?  Where's his mother at?  She needs to step in and just pull him aside and say, "Please son, don't do it. Take your kids camping in Yellowstone or something."

Ok.  I'm done.  C'mon y'all. Let's go check out some backyard pics.  Actually these were taken in my sideyard.  Didn't see all that coming did ya? I'm pushing for fortune and fame here.  One day I want to sell duffle bags with my name and a catchy phrase on them. 



Words...

words...

words...


words...

...hey there's a dog! Yeah, but check out those beefy chain stays. You couldn't flex those with your granny's 6-shooter.

True story.  I have a 6-shooter that my granny, Gran-Burt, God rest her soul, gave me.  The barrel has a bulge about half way down it, and the story goes something like this. 

 The gun had been sitting in the drawer (hopefully not the panty drawer) for dozens of years when she got it out to show some friends.  Well they started talking, and unfortunately thinking, and before you know it one of 'em said, "Let's shoot it!"  So my Gran Burt goes and gets a couple of bullets out of a different drawer, and one of the old-timers takes the pistol, loads it, and fires it at a tree about 15 feet away.  All the other old-timers start laughing and say,
 "You missed it.

 And he said,

 "There's no way! I can shoot a flea off a dog's arse at 50 paces after a fifth of whiskey."
So they started looking at the pistol and the bullet had gotten stuck half way down the barrel. And then they all looked at each other and said, "So now what do we do?"  And then, the smartest one of them (had the most teeth) actually took the pistol and shot it again to knock the bullet out. 

That's the story my granny told me.  All I know is that I've got an old 6-shooter with a bulge in the barrel.

My other grandmother, YaYa, lived in North Memphis and just kept a huge pipe by the door. My dad used to tell me, "YaYa can't speak English but she can sure swing that pipe."




This pic is actually from the last post but it's such a great photo I had to repost.  I'm probably gonna have to scuff it up just to get the primer to stick. To be perfectly honest, after seeing this picture there was a little jealous voice in my head that said, "You should keep this fork for yourself."  Don't worry Scoot.  This one is your's brother. 

Got a special paint job in store for this one.

Thanks for stopping by.






2 comments:

  1. The word that comes to mind is "sleek". The paint scheme will be the icing.
    So I'm guessing Meech you're not interested in a free ticket to meet and greet lance while he's in LR next month for a charity ride? So much for that idea.

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  2. Sleek it will be Scoot. I'm hoping to get it painted this week. No thanks on the LA ticket. Lance used to make my skin crawl however these days I don't have a problem with him. If I were to meet him, I would shake his hand and wish him well. Talk to you shortly.

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