CAMP CUPBOARD

In with the new for two zero one two.

2012-01-07T06:36:00.011-05:00

In the last few years since writing in this blog, I left off with my status as a serious, amateur, yet dedicated (SAD) cyclist. In that time I have become more or less of each of all three at various times. I finally took the step from only participating in fake race/alley cat/weirdo unsanctioned events to competing in organized bike racing. And since I started racing, and I've learned a lot. Firstly, a few new acronyms and phrases:

DNF= Did Not Finish

DNS = Did not start

DFL = Dead Fucking Last

FTW= For the Win

Podiumed= 1-3 place. Yes, athletes have verbalized this word.

Dick Spot= First place out of the money/prizes/podium (Usually 4th or 6th)

HTFU= Harden The Fuck Up (Online 'cross blogger ramble to Cyclocross rally mantra)

Secondly, I've learned that I am a poor excuse for an athlete. The past two years, I've performed somewhere in between below average and terrible. From this I have also learned that it really sucks, in a deep-down, hurty stingy, I-hate-myself kind of way, to be truly crap on a bike. This year I'm trying something else. Something different and shockingly new for me. I'm going to try...trying.

I've prioritized my races. I've developed a training plan. I've hired a coach. I've dusted off the heart-rate monitor. I've even gone so far as general calisthenics. I'm in deep, dig-to-China-barehanded deep. Next time you see me, don't mind the dirty fingernails.

Summer schedule

2009-07-27T22:03:00.006-04:00

It's 89 degrees in my house. My pants are damp in conspicuous regions from sweat, my kitchen is infested with fruit flies, and the stagnant air in my bedroom does little to dissipate the odors wafting from my darling canines. Summer, like most everything else, is easy for me to hate.

But it's not all bad, because coinciding with the unyielding rise in temperature is the generous increase in daylight hours, and thus an increase in choices for exactly when to go out for a ride. Basically there are four temporal choices which a road ride may occur; early morning, mid-morning, mid-day, and late afternoon/early evening. All have benefits and consequences, some of which I shall enlighten you of now.

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The early morning ride.

This ride leaves at 6:00AM, 6:30AM, or 7:00 AM, or some other square and unholy hour, at a spot three miles from your house. And notice I said leaves at, not meets at. Morning riders are antsy- they have things to do during the day, and this little ride is just one of them. Usually that thing that people have to do is go to work, and people with jobs are responsible types that get irritated when you show up late balancing a half-chewed bagel and coffee on your handlebars, so don't bother dawdling. They are especially irate when you bail. Don't bail on these people, or they will stop answering your "u riding tomrw?" text messages altogether.

Pros: Punctual, ride before the heat sets in, ride gets home early, ride leaves before most bozos wake up, feel accomplished for rest of day

Cons: You'd rather be sleeping, everyone is uptight, morning drivers haven't had their coffee yet.

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The mid-morning ride.

This ride leaves at nine or ten o'clock. If this ride is on a weekend, the turnout might me huge. No matter if you're riding alone or with a group, you are never without company. This is the time of day when most people ride, as they have had their 8 hours of beauty sleep followed by a restful slow morning that probably included reading the paper, eating fiber cereal, evacuating bowels, and meditated to the crackling sounds of self-satisfaction. On these rides people are awake and genial and eager to race you up a hill, whether they know you or not, and whether your like it or not.

Pros: Get to sleep in, legs feel better, morning humidity dissipates, everyone's not in a hurry.

Cons: Must navigate every basketball-short-and-iPod-wearing bike rider before getting out of town, must navigate weekend-warriors though suburbs.

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The Mid-Day ride.

This ride can be similar to the mid-morning one, but with fewer organized rides leaving so late. The humidity is lower but the sun is beating down at highest intensity, so this ride is optimal for getting that pro-looking cycling jersey bicep tan line.

Pros: Fewer people on road, if you're on this ride you probably didn't have to work that day, can make it home with plenty of time to shower before dinner.

Cons: Other people have jobs and so rounding up riding partners may prove difficult, asphalt is radiating heat, painful mid-ride realization that most tan lines start off as sunburns

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The later afternoon/early evening ride.

This ride leaves at five or six o'clock PM, usually after work time. It's a nice way to unwind after an especially stupid day pushing buttons, answering questions, and fending off various forms of attempted idiocy (work). This ride is great! You meet up with your group of friends or cycling buddies, loop through the park for an hour or two, and go home stoked. Pay no mind that you haven't eaten since noon and your hands are shaking from hypoglycemia, or that it's rush hour in a major metropolitan city where they give out road rage with license renewals. The man just took eight hours from you, those last few belong solely to you!

Pros: Get a ride in before dark, stress relief after work, sleep better at night

Cons: Automobile traffic rush hour, low blood sugar, little energy to shower before dinner thus incurring wrath of loved-one who just prepared a delicious meal for the two of you and wants nothing more than to hear about your day without smelling sweat and soggy chamios...

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I have to hit the hay early tonight, I've got an early ride tomorrow morning.

Happy riding.

Accessory damage

2009-07-16T08:29:00.000-04:00

Mountain biking is probably the most laid back sort of cycling sport. It is the rare time when showing up to a ride wearing cut-off shorts and a t-shirt isn't frowned upon, when rest breaks are encouraged, or asking to turn around to do a hill again isn't a totally asinine request. Skill and confidence are far more important than equipment and accessories when blasting down rocky descents, hopping 0ver logs, and winding through twisting forest single track.

Mountain biking, like a hippie cousin, is also the most mystical and metaphysical of bicycle sports. Oftentimes the trails leave things with you. Overwhelming exhaustion, cuts and bruises are common parting gifts. Usually the trails leave you invigorated, determined, and totally stoked on shredding more gnar tomorrow; and perhaps even a transcendental sense of peace coupled with feelings of oneness and communion with nature stay with you on the journey home.

Usually though, mountain biking leaves dirt, mud, twigs, sand, detritus, and horse droppings with you, on you, and in you. Each earthy morsel travels its own special journey to end up lodged in your chain, grips, shorts, down your shirt, in your eyes and between your teeth. The dirt permeates every open fiber, sticks to every moist surface, and sandblasts chunks of skin off- depending how you land in it. Dirt is an enduring accessory.

Dirt pants however, only last as long as your next shower.

Happy riding.

Four days off

2009-07-13T17:59:00.008-04:00

Sometimes, riding feels like a chore. Times when the alarm goes off at six, and the sun is barely tiptoeing across the roof of early morning clouds, and the crust in your eyes is hardened to a cement-like texture; times when the realization hits that drooling on a pillow is an infinitely more enticing way to spend the morning than wheezing and floundering up a couple of hills. Or when you have been riding seemingly every day without enough rest, and your muscles cramp or twitch or puff like a startled cat at the thought of another day on the bike. Sometimes, as absurd as it may seem, you want time away from the bicycle.

And then there are times when you are forcefully dragged away from it. Typically the persistence of compulsory commitments is enough to substantially whittle time riding. And weather is a common culprit, as testing your physical limits is tenuous enough without being blinded and soaked by a storm. But sometimes, something unique hinders riding plans. Perhaps a morning off during the holy month of somethingorother is in order. Or maybe that festering saddle sore still hasn't healed up. And even once in a while (hopefully only once, or never if you’re lucky) during the humid summer months, hearty and seething bacteria ascend your urethrea, colonize your fleshy cylindrical urinary meatus, and inflict such tortuous pain upon your saddle-region that even the mere thought of swinging a leg over a bicycle sends spasms throughout the entirety of your alimentary canal.

At least it wasn't swine flu.

Happy riding.

Weekend at Burnies

2009-06-11T10:59:00.016-04:00

Like blacking out at a raging party and slowly recovering details bit by bit of the night before, the Philadelphia Pro race has slowly revealed itself over the last month. Because chronology, like blacking out, is overrated, I've decided to make mention of the events- no matter how tardy.

In following climatic patterns (which as any sort of outdoorsy type you must), it is worth pointing out that in the Northeastern U.S., for the entire months of May and June, it rained most every day. It was a season of stifled riding plans, or when one dared venture out; of constant drive train cleaning, chain lubing, and dirt-stripe having. (Dirt stripes are when the rear wheel kicks up water and mud on your rear in a stripe, often resembling a skunk pelt).

However, for the big race weekend, the stars and prevailing winds and asteroid belts aligned to provide two consecutive days of sunshine. This, along with the race festivities, made for double the reason to celebrate. As the race goes on for hours upon hours, it is customary in Philadelphia to scout out a prime picnic spot early in the morning to set up the traditional array of alcoholic beverages, food, shade tents, grills, and dogs. This is to ensure that everyone is entertained in the 12 minute windows of waiting for the peloton go by again.

This year I joined the masses setting up camp on Lemon Hill, a shady park that borders one of the few hills the cyclists must climb. The hill becomes infested with members from all factions, sects, and denominations of cyclist.

After the race was over, the park slowly emptied out- as all food and drink must be consumed before departing. Apparently during this time, some people are so inspired/intoxicated that they decide they must partake in some of the glory for themselves. It so happened that a group of khaki-clad young men decided to challenge my boyfriend and some other young male friends of mine- unbeknownst to Them, a group of accomplished racers- to a sprint race up the hill; the prize being a case of beer, their female partners honor, and reaffirmed manliness. It was a classic tale of Us VS. Them, and while team Them did show impressive facial expressions, team Us dominated the podium.

With my honor secured, it was time to cool off. At this point of the day, the mature adults of team Us, along with myself, wrestled in a public water fountain for a few hours before going home to nurse the weekend's accrued sunburns.

Happy riding.
(Race photos by A. Rodzinski and Zack D.)

Party Time

2009-06-05T12:29:00.010-04:00

The life of a serious dedicated amateur recreational cyclist is rife with social obligations. If there is anything that cyclists enjoy more than riding, it is talking about cycling with others who ride. The third and fourth things that cyclists like most are eating food and drinking alcohol. The fifth, sixth and seventh-place activities that cyclists enjoy most involve various combinations of entertainment media, reproductive organs, and illicit substances (cyclists love to eat mushrooms and listen to NPR while getting their bikini-lines waxed).

Tonight I will be partaking in a social event involving only items 1-4. Many teams, representatives, and supporting others of the "industry" are descending upon Philadelphia this weekend as there will be a giant Pro race held here this Sunday. Because of my prominence, eminence, and success in the cycling industry in the area, I have been invited to attend a super exclusive party tonight.

In celebration and anticipation of the race, Bicycle Therapy will be hosting Team Ouch including but likely not in attendance Floyd Landis. Aside from the fact that I work at this shop and thus was invited by default, and that the party is completely open to whomever feels like dropping in, I'm honored and flattered to attend. Plus, it means I get out of work two hours early tonight.

Bring on the Pros!

Happy Riding.

Pour Les Filles!

2009-06-02T08:20:00.009-04:00

Bicycles, as contraptions, are liberating. As transportation, they free folks from the binds of bus or subway schedules, oft obviate automotive obligations, and exempt those from the worthlessness of walking. Bicycles, as sporting good devices for cycling, may also be such. Riding alone may be from necessity or prerogative, and can be every bit as cardiovascularly challenging as riding with others. Sometimes, a long solitary ride can be relaxing, and possibly even therapeutic. Most times however, riding alone is horribly boring, dangerous, and regarded as to be avoided at all costs.

This is where the need for riding partners comes in. Fortunately for me, I work at a shop which has employed many like-minded and enthusiastic cyclists. Unfortunately for them however, I am much slower, less fit, and smell worse than them; which is another reason I end up riding in the back a lot. Also lending to why I'm a bit slower is the fact that I happen to be female. There are many incredibly strong and fast women out there, I am simply not one of them (yet).

It is difficult to convince non-cyclists to invest mountains of money into a play toy that forces them to both wear Lycra and exercise, as they could take up modest-appareled sports like jogging or play toys like Wii Fit for much less money and commitment. Typically one avoids the process of conversion altogether and instead seeks to find like-minded and/or similarly fit cyclists with which to ride.

A major exception to the conversion rule is in the case of romantic partners. As cycling tends to be an obsessive and hugely time-consuming endeavor, riding together can serve as a way of spending time with the loved one (the bike) and the boy/girlfriend at the same time. Cycling is hopelessly male dominated, and having the sport introduced with patience and understanding by a loved one can foster a real passion and devotion. Unfortunately many male cyclists are competitive, infantile jerks who think nothing of becoming frustrated at or completely dropping their novice girlfriends on rides, which only further intimidates and alienates them from the sport.

Thankfully I do not speak from experience, as I have the good fortune of not being romantically attached to a turd. Yet many other female potential cyclists are not afforded this luxury, and hence are put off and delay serious riding or training. Usually I employ a system of apathy in regards to the goings-on of others, but this directly affects me because finding like-minded women to ride with on a continual basis has proven difficult. So along with prodding, pressuring, and demanding that all my male cyclist friends immediately purchase bikes and equipment for their partners so that I can have more women to ride with, I have decided to take the "Field of Dreams" approach in creating my very own women-only road ride.

The powers that be at Bicycle Therapy in Philadelphia have agreed to let me start up a women's ride from their shop every Saturday morning. It starts this Saturday, and will be every Saturday from now on, weather permitting. I have pre-ridden it multiple times, mapped the route, and spread the word. I have built it. I just hope they come.

Happy riding.

Bicycle baby face.

2009-05-24T20:02:00.043-04:00

Lately it may have seemed as if I've left this blog to die of exposure like a post-partum sow rejecting the runt of the litter. I wish to confirm that this is simply not the case. It's just that like said sow's teats, I've been extremely busy, sore, and engorged. To summarize from March to nowish, I have ridden some odd rides, took (and passed) multiple exams, resumed bike-shop work, signed up for and backed out of my first race, signed up for and raced poorly in my first race, accrued a few new scars, moved my place of residence, and built up no less than two new bicycles. The next few posts will shoddily attempt to catch up.

To ensure that Spring would indeed sloppily erupt, I had to endure the final Philadelphia Spring Classic. With my last sorry attempt haunting me like a ghost from Pacman, I knew I had to release the spirits by tending to unfinished business. No matter how brutal the pain, how crappy the weather, or how bad of a hair-day I was having that day, I vowed to finish the next race.

The day started out atypically. It was a confounding fifty degrees (a heat wave by Classics standards), and even more shocking, I kept up with the pack and even felt somewhat physically capable. I should have known better and sensed that the fates/pacman ghosts had something sinister in store for me. But I didn't. I rode fast, clueless and joyously, so oblivious in fact that during a swift descent which went under a dark bridge I completely neglected to register a large and quite deep pot-hole. In the darkness of the tunnel, my front wheel dove. I was launched over handlebars into opposing traffic, landing fingers, arms, shoulders, and hip onto the gritty and decidedly hard pavement.

Terror and confusion jolted me upright. I shooed the tweeting birds flying in circles over my head away, and swung one leg over my bicycle attempting to clip back in. It was then that I noticed my bars pointing to nine o'clock, my brake levers at opposite angles, and the lack of skin on the left side of my body. I hobbled to the side of the road pushing my bike in defeat and saw Big Al, in his pink-clad heroic glory, coming to the rescue. He was wide-eyed and feared for my safety, but as feeling or sensation hadn't returned to my body yet, all I could focus on was my crumpled and disfigured bicycle. I presented it to him, which he dutifully whisked away to straighten out while I limped uphill walking off the stun of the crash. After a few minutes of tinkering, my bicycle was again road ready. Al was still terrified, but I had a seriously awesome endorphin rush which was goading me to keep riding.

We made our way through the tangle of wood which leads to Pennypack park, a planned stop along the way. While we regrouped, my endorphin rush dissipated. I was left with multiple aching bits and pieces and the pervasive sting of sweaty road rash. At this point the Classic was at the half-way point; riding home defeated would have taken as long as finishing the race, and would have been infinitely more boring. So when everyone started to leave, I resolved to follow.

Dan and Big Al towed me the next 14 miles to the liberty bell, the final stopping point, and where I ended the previous Classic. I didn't know the route from here, so it was dire that I hang on. However I wasn't aware that this last section (from the Bell to "the wall", through Forbidden Drive (4 miles of dirt), and to the finish) is treated as a ten mile sprinting party. As I was not wearing my party dress, I hopelessly fell off the back and watched the pack drift rabidly away from me, like a lycra-clad reenactment of my high school years.

I knew that the ride had to go west to ride up a large hill, "The Wall", before doubling back east and dropping onto the dirt path, so by my calculations I figured that by cutting that out, I'd meet them somewhere on Forbidden drive. I turned out to be entirely correct, and after being engulfed and spat out by the lead group, I was able to hang on with some stragglers all the way to the finish.

At the finish there were barefoot, candy-colored spandex wearing exhausted sweaty people rolling in grass, imbibing alcoholic beverages, and confusing passers-by. It was my kind of social gathering. The winner was awarded a highly coveted Bicycle Baby kit, and social good times were had by all. For team spirit, Al also awarded me with bicycle baby regalia (leftover kits that wouldn't fit anyone else).

Happy riding.

Classically Trained

2009-03-05T12:41:00.008-05:00

With winter's wrath waning, whisperings mentioning a triplicate of early vernal events, The Spring Classics, whipped 'round, effectively whetting my two-wheeled appetite. With mere pieces dictated to various peers, "Meet at ten/dress for snow/ Road bike with fat tires or 'cross bike recommended/canned fish optional", some detective work was in order. What are these rides? Who are these people? Road bikes though single track? Why sardines?

Since all modern detective work begins with Google, I promptly entered the phrase "Spring Classics Philadelphia Bikes", and returned with a lot of crap about baseball, some blog mumblings, and an entry dated 2002 from Bilenky Cycleworks featuring a Mr. Allan Rodzinski (Which I recommend reading in its entirety). Recognizing the name and further proving that yes, it's a small (bicycle) world after all, I discovered I was merely one friend removed from him on facebook, which I swiftly remedied by adding him. I also employed serious legwork, as I stopped by no less than two bike shops to ask people what they knew about these rides.

The reactions were rife with fear and venerable awe, with stories bordering on legendary folklore. What I found was that The Spring Classics have gone on for the past 24 years and occur on three consecutive Sundays, from the last weekend in February to the first two weekends of March. The rides employ miserable weather, forests, valleys, hills, mud, Big Al's house, snack breaks, lunch breaks, photo-op stops, and very, very high speeds in an oddly paced 5 hour battle for nothing but bragging rights and this kit:

With that description, my dedication was solidified. As I only started to hear about the Classics after the first one, I made my debut on part 2, March 1st. It was a windy 30 degrees, with a blizzard threat for later that night, so I dressed appropriately and generously applied socks. Dan and I arrived at the Water Tower park around 10:20, thinking we were late. We were in fact precisely on time, as in Spring Classics land "starts at 10" really means "race starts at 10:52".
The ride begins with a winding ramble through suburban North Philly/ Mt. Airy/ Jenkintown and on to Pennypack Park, then down to Center City, and back up through Manayunk and the Wissahickon, and back to the start. Here's one of the few photos with me in it from that day:

As this photo is small and because lycra tends to make everyone look the same, I have attempted to use my vast expertise in photo editing to enlarge the portion with me:

As enlarging digital photos distorts and pixellates them, I have taken further steps in photo-editing in order to clearly see my facial expression:

After hours of serious leg cramping, being dropped, flatting out, and being dropped again, I made it to the meeting stop at Independence Hall (35-40 miles of the 55), ate half of a soft pretzel, and realized every piece of my being was either throbbing with pain or was frozen. At this point I was sufficiently miserable and utterly demoralized, and so I went home and took a nap in lieu of finishing.

It was the best ride so far this year.

Happy (face) riding,

Windy February

2009-02-13T12:55:00.020-05:00

It's mid month already, which means that it's finally that time of year again.

The time to ravage boxes of chocolate, cut out holes in construction paper, decorate everything in red, dim the lights, and watch in suspense as Jason Voorhees brutally offs a bunch of camp counselors. Another Friday the 13th to enjoy with loved ones.

More importantly, this month is half-way over, which means this hemisphere is that much closer to Spring, and hopefully a break in crappy weather. It also means I am that much closer to the schism in school of the same name. Hopefully I can engage in more of this "riding outside" I've been hearing so much about.

Less importantly, It is Valentine's Day. For those lucky enough to have snagged a partner long ago, and thus have zero need to romance, impress and/or keep the magic alive, this day will simply pass unprotested like so much flatus from your long-time loved one's backside.

For those of you into cutting, pasting, and giving home-made cards (a lot of special-needs people read this blog), I thought I'd pass on some of my genius via a few V-Day card ideas.

From the romantic cyclist who enjoys plays on stereotypical Valentines sayings: Picture some rippling legs, with caption: I only have thighs for you.

From one unctuous, misogynous rider to another: Picture a jar, or handy stick of embrocation, with caption: Embros before Hos

From the very direct cyclist: Picture a lonely bicycle, with caption: Ride me?

The combination of bicycle terms with innuendo are endless! For a holiday about love (in the noun and verb sense) and a pass-time filled with riding, grinding, racks, power taps, tandem stokers and lube, creating just the right level of corny, cheesy, and sassy should be quite simple. Although with all that corn and sass you may want to invest in bean-o.

Happy bike riding,

Cold cuts.

2009-02-08T19:05:00.002-05:00

Just as the old saying goes, "Time flies when you don't get around to killing yourself", this week has flown agonizingly by. By continuing my sadistic short month toil-a-thon, I've made it to another Sabbath (or Sunday, for the heathens) with only 16 hours left of work to do: and around four to six hours in which to do it in. But because I'm utterly unafraid to reconcile with mathematics and probabilities, I've decided to take a pizza break. And slightly less irrelevantly, to simultaneously offer greasy, garlic-tinged droplets of anecdotal wisdom which I've masterfully accrued over the winter.

What I'm referring to is something I've had to learn the hardest of ways. A topic so serious and critical, yet so disastrously misunderstood, that likely just this one blog post will rapidly propagate throughout the world wide web and directly contribute to the saving of at least two to seven human lives. I'm talking about:

How to dress properly in order to ride a bicycle while it is really, really cold out.

As perchance, you may know, commuting by bicycle ill-prepared can be quite uncomfortable. While the seasonal elements will forever fling formidable feculence, commuting in the winter is especially miserable. Balancing on narrow nubs of rubber in the darkness of the early AM while navigating icy streets and frantic morning commuters is terrifying and all, but being cold is the most sentient obstacle, and hence most important to combat.

To begin a proper protective clothing application, one must first start with the base layer. The base is to neutralize the acids your body will likely produce while fearful for your safety. Coincidentally, when ingested it will ease the stress knot in your belly from nearly getting doored twice in four minutes. Apply liberally.

Next, you are going to need an insulating layer. I've seen fancy microfiber (or fibre if you read catalogues) or sport fleeces used abundantly, but I've chosen the original scientifically created insulator: fiberglass. The pink fluff will provide a nice visual contrast to the dismal gray winter.

As for the lower half, nearly every outdoor sporting goods retailer will sing the praises of goose down or merino wool. But If you want to do it right, I wouldn't recommend opting for watered down and processed materials. In the same tradition that brought you haggis and the turducken, for this portion you will need exactly one sheep and two ducks. First, fit the entirety of your body into the sheep á la Hans Solo. Then simply insert your feet into the geese, much in the same manner. They'll instantly form to the unique contours of your feet. (Shimano actually stole this concept for their custom-fit technology.)

Finally, face protection should be employed when riding in sub 20 weather. Because serious damage to the soft tissues of the cheeks, nose and chin can result if not completely protected, one must employ a dense, layered approach. Sweeten up the bitterest of cold with a nice slab of baclava:

And finally, a real tip. For the experimental and/or Eurocentric cyclist, I recommend a good embrocation. Like a light spanking, the oils are slightly irritating yet sensual, and quickly loosen and warm the muscles. I use greyhound juice. Don't worry, animal lovers-it's humane. The race dogs are put down long before liquefying their fastness and injecting it into easy to apply sticks.

Happy riding,

Lull Bye Bye

2009-02-03T22:35:00.003-05:00

February, like togas, was created by somebody in Rome who appreciated sensuality, flexibility and freedom of movement. Sensual because every fourth year it becomes the suggestively named bisextile. Flexible because depending where you live, in this month winter either keeps going or sort of slows down...or both. Like yesterday, how it was sunny and 45 degrees out, then today, how it wouldn't stop snowing :

February is unique also because it fits symmetrically into a calendar (just look at those full weeks!), but most importantly: it is lacking two to three days, and thus deserves special treatment. This final distinction is what makes this month so urgent. If you fall into a winter slumber, before you know it March comes and you haven't time to think or plan or even properly apply trousers. You may find yourself slack-jawed at the corner store, fogging the ice-cream case, wondering just why exactly it feels so cold.

During longer, more generous months, I could evenly spread my time-wasting, (or life-enjoying as I refer to it) over multiple days. In particularly life-enjoying times, I could have put aside a block of a couple days to simply fester in my pajamas, consume only animal crackers, and never actually leave the house. Yet, like my long underwear, these precious, stinky hours have been mercilessly stripped away, and so I find myself uncharacteristically motivated and uncharacteristically free of odor.

With exactly zero time to waste, on Sunday, Camp Cupboard set up at the re-scheduled and new-venued R5 flea market. Lets just say that we started the day with copious hats, many pouches, a plethora of neck-warmers, and an unnecessary surfeit of business cards; and ended the day with only a bunch of hats, a few pouches, a slightly smaller stack of neck-warmers, and still a surfeit of business cards (we ordered 500, after all). In short, it was quite fun and successful, with Dan and I spending the day meeting a bunch of awesome people, seeing good friends, and drinking free pots of delicious coffee. (Thanks again Brian and Laura!)

Typically, such a successful day would obviate any need to leave the house for weeks, if not longer. But again, this month can't get stifled, so the very next day I went on a 45-mile bike ride- outside. Now, riding is fun and recreational and all, but in the winter it's more of a chore that needs to be checked off a to-do list at least a few times a week, like showering. However, getting chores done is considered an accomplishment, and accomplishments deserve rewards. (Last night it was coconut curry and beers.)

And now, with a more dire event creeping nearer, my winter training has taken an embarrassing, exhausting, and painful turn. I've recently begun a particularly heinous athletic phase: weight training. And as if it couldn't get worse: I have to do it at a gym, with people around- including male people. It might be the most uncomfortable few hours that I willingly engage in per week (this should carry weight coming from someone who can sit on a bike saddle, or essentially a 3-inch-wide piece of leather, for hours at a time).

With February 14% over, I now have the weighty task of keeping the remaining 7/8ths of the month as fever-pitched as possible. Wish me luck. And go buy a hat, it's cold out.

Happy Riding,

It's always slushy in Philadelphia

2009-01-26T16:01:00.025-05:00

Alone in my chilly house, I often ponder not questions for the world, but four word questions. Today my question, "Where has January gone?", actually has the same answer as any would-be planetary pondering: Huh?

Because I'm wearing four shirts and two pairs of socks, I can admittedly tell you this month has been a wash. Literally, as at this rate I've had to amplify my laundry-doing ten fold to keep up with my ill-planned winter attire. Behaving like I'd imagine a mutant marsupial of academic pursuits (or scholarly wallaby) would, this semester has left me pocketing posts and studying in lieu of maintaining my likely huge and gigantic Internet fan-dom. So to this corpulent fan-dom I say, "Sowwee" for the lack of winter wonderland-y blog posts.

(Take this not as an apology, as I'm never wrong, but as an adorable and personable method of fault evasion coupled with a fragile pun on corpulent and sow:)

As a further act of pseudo-contrition, I will now proceed to take you on a virtual walk down my street to show you the highlights so far of this January.

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This is from a week ago, when it snowed and then melted rapidly:

Then the other day, where the same thing happened:

And finally this is from tonight, where the snow + rain slush has yet to completely recede:

(This concludes our walk, as my feet are becoming virtually damp.)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So you see all I've been up to amounts to....not very much. All the bike riding I haven't been doing, the leaving the house I rarely attempt, and the early nights to bed rarely make for points of deep contemplation and philosophical critique (the mainstays of this blog). I've fallen, albeit not completely against my will, into a seasonal lull. It should melt away soon enough.

Happy riding.

Its official

2009-01-19T17:02:00.005-05:00

The world has often tried stifling my attempts at greatness by typically requiring asinine amounts of paperwork to legitimize said efforts. The world apparently knew how lazy I am, so these attempts usually worked. Because I have become buddies with a little thing called the internet (that along with my two dogs raises my friend count to a boast-worthy three), I no longer have to go anywhere, write, turn in, or really do much of anything to sign up for or officiate various endeavors. And good thing, because my John Hancock would be limp by now with the amount of productive signing up I've been doing lately.

Doughnuts and dollars aside, I've made the horrible and possibly life-threatening decision to race the Tour of the Battenkill. While the name may suggest, this is not a baby-seal clubbing contest, but instead something possibly more inhumane: a 62 mile bicycle race with major portions being on dirt roads. The race is isn't until mid-April, but my terror and anxiety have prompted me to begin serious training now. My regiment is so serious in fact that it is completely embarrassing, and thus worth a separate posting altogether. This is the first legitimate race that I'm planning to ride in, and I have learned that apparently I need some kind of license to participate; I'm guessing in the same way that gun owners, medical doctors or fashion police need licenses to practice. Basically I have to pay money to have my name on a rectangle of polymerized tree pulp, of which there are two options: a one day or an annual license. Since I'm still mulling over the math, I've decided to further practice non-committal avoidance by not purchasing one yet.

What I have purchased lately are as follows: Wool, thread, hot dogs, and a full table for February 1st. The punks at R5 finally made re-arrangements for the winter Flea Market, and unlike my riding speed I was quick to act. Dan and I, along with a mountain of hand-made goodies, will be present and representing our business empire, Camp Cupboard. The hot dogs are not for the sale, I was just hungry now.

To further solidify our attempts at computer commerce, I also signed up for a domain on the world wide web. Now the Camp has moved from the free, yet cumbersome-to-say-out loud campcupboard.bigcartel.com to the more official and dignified www.CampCupboard.com (the capital Cs command respect). Currently my website building skills fall somewhere between my ability to scuba dive and my knowledge of post-colonial naval ship reproduction, which is to say they do not exist. Fortunately for me and perhaps unfortunately for military reenactors, free online CSS tutorials abound, so I have no doubt that within the next one to six months I will become effortlessly adequate at bettering the site.

And finally, what can legitimize a business endeavor more than business cards? Sure- one can attempt to build a brand, design goods, grab market share, and sell quality items for profit, but all of that is worthless without a card. This is because the business world is a lot like elementary school, with all the cutting and pasting and glue eating, and business cards are like Valentine's Day cards for grown-ups. Giving out cards gives hope. A special, tingly hope.

Hope that perhaps the exchange isn't just an obligatory ritual or an attempt at networking, but that maybe- just maybe- you really do think of them y'know, like that*.

Happy Riding.

*For future reference, I think of everyone like that.

Spooky time.

2009-01-08T15:53:00.018-05:00

A while back I attempted to win a competition using only my natural given talent, spunk, and not a small amount of moxie. I lost, leaving me to ponder: what is moxie, and why did I feel that I needed to use it? So maybe I went out on a limb, but at least I learned from it- next time I won't attempt to stand on one leg the whole time. That was silly.
For once I'm not referencing any sort of scrappy, unsanctioned bicycle race, treacherous trail ride, or any sort of athletic masochism. I'm referring to that t-shirt competition I entered a while ago. The winning entry was cautious and conservative, including both bicycle imagery and the magazine's title. At least the shirt was printed on a dainty and dreary purple, the newest color of fast (white was the old one).

But I'm not sore about losing, as I have had ample practice failing at just about everything up until now. However I did receive a flattering comparison to the sorta-famous and totally weird-tastic frame builders, Spooky Bikes. As they are only sorta-famous, and as I tend to live in a weedy, candlelit hole (not unlike the Wissahickon's prayer hole), at first I didn't understand the association. Then I visited their website, where immediately it became obvious:

The same love for cycling, cartoon gore, and pastels coupled with a shared disdain for unicorns? Be still my heart, Spooky Bikes. As of yet I must swoon from afar, as the prohibitive price tag prevents me from owning one, no less the six to seven that I want.
As a dedicated follower of this blog you might wonder why I would bother to mention this revelation, as it really is quite petty and took place nearly a month ago. It's because while vacationing in Gainesville, I visited the best bike shop in Florida, and was lent a mountain bike to take up to San Felasco. It happened to be a purple (re:fast) rainbow-sparkled Spooky Darkside, and after riding it my gooey bicycle-company crush set like a gelatinous dessert parfait.

Sadly, the inability to afford a 75$ jersey makes purchasing an 850$ frame a foggy and distant fantasy, complete with headless galloping unicorns (it is a fantasy, after all ). Fortunately I read my 2009 astrological guide in the free paper, and I vaguely remember a mentioning of '09 being the year of the glittery object.

Happy riding.

Everyday I'm tusslin'

2008-12-30T18:21:00.004-05:00

Cycling has many unforeseen social side-effects. The bicycle enthusiast stands to seriously alienate non-cycling peers with constant ride stories, shop talk, and bicycle jargon. An obsession with body weight, macro-molecule intake, and frequent hypoglycemic grumpiness can dampen dinner dates. Waking up at 5:00 AM and going to bed at 8:00 PM typically do little to ensure the faintest semblance of a social life. However, one positive unintended consequence is making friends and acquaintances with a diverse group of people who share the same energy, dedication, and time constraints. Fortunately for me, the friends I've made here have more energy, better ideas, and slightly less schedule restrictions which enable them to put on fantastically fun and well-organized impromptu bicycle events.
Last week, some friends coordinated a competitive grass-track and cyclocross event (or, tussle) held on a neglected patch of green below the Walnut Street bridge (or, trestle). A decent gathering amassed with all sorts of bicycle riders present. Often times organized events cater to a specific faction of riders, but at this race the only line that was drawn was between those who wanted to ride and those who didn't. While the soggy grass was most apt for a cyclocross bike, nearly all denominations of bicycle were in attendance: fixed-geared road bikes, town bikes, mountain bikes, cyclocross bikes, commuters, and a glorious tandem.

The races were divided into a set of track-inspired events with a 'cross-race finale. The racer categories were split into varsity and junior varsity; considering I'm a pimple-faced, screechy-voiced freshman in the high school of the cycling world, I opted for JV. The grass track races involved varied combinations of a bell and going in circles, such as: hear the bell, then go faster, hear the bell and that signifies the last lap, and the classic: hear a bell, and then you're out.
I'm rather unfamiliar with traditional track racing games, but I caught on quickly as evidenced by the results.

Strangely, I won most of the track events, and was crowned homecoming queen of the JV.

I graciously accepted my golden crown and square, plastic scepter:

..which I promptly added to my new collection of unattractive prize caps:

A poor breakfast decision on my part (leftover fried seitan and brie sandwich and fries) inhibited me from participating in the cyclocross race, but watching it was immensely entertaining. The race course was set up with barriers, flats, muddy corner-rounding, and a menacing, tightly twisted spiral. The day concluded with a "BSO" race (bike-shaped-objects), which was rife with sass-laden finshes:
Hopefully we can all get together and kill some more grass next year. Maybe I'll be Varsity by then.
Before & After:

(Most photos shamelessly stolen from McGet- Go here for more!!)

Happy Riding.

Holiday (Celebrate)

2008-12-25T20:15:00.019-05:00

I don't celebrate Christmas. Firstly, let me clarify- I'm no Scrooge. Scrooge had money. I'm no Grinch either- the Grinch was so obsessed with the holiday that he stole it; while I'd rather not get that close. I treat this day in a similar manner as my dog does- I wake up, eat, sniff around some, and nap frequently. I'm not so into shopping, decorating, giving or getting, and am far fonder of alcoholic spirits than holy ones. That said, methinks Santa worked some magic today and surprised me with a shiny new unseasonable high of 45 degrees combined with some rare sunshine; thus inviting me to spend the afternoon winter-wonderland mountain biking through the Wissahickon.

The Wissahickon park, or simply "the Wiss" (if you're down), is a protected forest in North Philly with miles of dirt roads, hiking/biking/horse trails, and a picturesque creek of questionable contents.

The trails are rocky and have introduced me to a method of bicycle riding that I was previously unaccustomed to : Climbing.

There is also a carved out BMX bowl/jumping area, or simply "the jumps". As it is winter and everything currently is a graded shade of beige, it is difficult to make out the various hilly lines. Topographically speaking, this area starts from really high and goes to really low, with lots of mounds to "get air" over.

Also, if you find yourself needing to dig a clandestine pit and bury something illicit, the BMX area supplies you with shovels and rakes to do so.

And lastly, a trip to the Wiss need not be a totally sacrilegious affair. The park has preserved this old and creepy prayer hole for such activities as devout worship, animal sacrifice, seances, and other means of appeasing gods and the like.

Happy Riding.

Race Rapport

2008-12-23T20:11:00.020-05:00

Much like eradicating world hunger or running for the presidency, deciding to open up to the world and declare a serious dedication to amateur recreational cycling is an inspirational event. It inspires fellow cyclists, friends, family, acquaintances, on-lookers, passers-by, and any and all other witnesses to your attempts at athleticism to ask inappropriately pressure-filled and probing questions about intentions. Inexplicably, one can't just spend tens of hours per week and tens of hundreds of dollars per year on a personal hobby without first explaining clearly defined goals. Yet the explanations given rarely ever suffice, as non-cycling laypeople often have zero interest in everyday enjoyment or prosaic practicality (because if they had an interest, they would start riding bicycles). Instead these spectator-tots only wish know about the political, sexy and controversial side of bicycle riding: racing.

The problem is that racing has never interested me, because I lack a competitive spirit, drive, and physical ability. However just last weekend I gave in to the lure of the racing spectacle, and sacrificed my commitment to purely recreational pursuits in order to compete in the 2008 Bilenky Urban Junkyard Cross race. I follow quite a few cycling blogs, so I know that it is now that I should give what is known in the cycling world as the race report. However I typically find these reports boring and difficult to follow, so first I'll post pictures of my intimidatingly aggressive and powerful riding:
Ramp:

Mud:

Underpass:

And now for the full report:
The high that day was in the low 30s, and the ground was muddy and slushy from an ice storm the night prior. The course was narrow, windy and delightfully muddy, and contained one set of barriers, one set of ramps, one underpass, one stretch of pavement, and multiple risks for tetanus infection. The mud puddles were mercilessly deep and twinkled with psychedelic oil swirls. I got a good start and proceeded to ride my usual medium to fast-ish pace, and to my surprise even passed a few people. This took the sting out of the group of riders who ended up lapping me... twice. I did manage to accomplish both of my two goals of not falling and not getting last place, and thus I considered it a rather successful first race. In fact it was so successful that I won 2nd female, and was awarded what I surmise to be some kind of fleece cycling bonnet:

Dan did very well also, and was awarded the Cover Girl shot on Bilenky's website.

Now the question remains of whether or not to compete in a real race. There happens to be a 60-something mile race held in upstate New York: The Tour of the Battenkill that may or may not have piqued my interest. This race has won the hearts and crushed the spirits of many of my friends, as it traverses through some fabled scenic northern hills. Most enticing to me however is that it seems sadistically grueling and happens to contain a whole bunch of dirt roads- my favorite. Since I'm young and easily swayed by peer pressure, I'm going to leave this up to you, dear readers, via a blog poll I put in the sidebar. The fate of me on April 18th, 2009 lies in your hands. (And don't bother choosing "Doughnut" as I will eat plenty in the next few months anyhow.)

Happy Riding!

Camp Collabo!

2008-12-20T19:56:00.009-05:00

If sigmoid-Freud were in observation of my present predilections, he perhaps would mention I am of a panicky, plan-laden persuasion; likely the result (from his totally academic and scientific point of view, mind you) of something like playing with my feces too much, or maybe not enough (it's been awhile since Psych 101). As I'm not one to direct erect and dirty digits, the true cause of my perpetual planning/cramming regiment need not be determined nor even addressed. In fact, often times overworking and under-appreciating life have their benefits, as evidenced by my rather spectacular end-of-semester GPA.

Successfully ending the school year did not diminish my appetite for constant work, misery, and placing myself under unrealistic expectations; as after completing hours of testing I immediately began sewing for the R5 Flea Market. R5 is a group here in Philadelphia that aim to put on independent and often all-ages shows. Semi-annually they host a flea market/craft fest to help raise funds for the upcoming year. I took part in the Spring version in June, and with a little help from friends, cheese fries, and a bottle of Crown Royal, I had a rather fun and financially beneficial time. With the looming possibility of a repeat reaping, post-finals I dutifully locked myself inside to endure a rather epic five-day stitching session. Now along with the finest lock-securing waist-cases ever created, I also fashion woolen winter hats and neck warmers:

Saturday morning I arose early to tend to typical morning minutiae: print last minute price tags, pack my goods, eat a balanced breakfast, satiate my Internet addiction, and have my morning coffee. It was then that I discovered this blisteringly boring, wordy, and ultimately bummer-inducing email directly from the powers that be at R5:

"I cant quite believe it myself but it comes with great disappointment that I have to send out this e-mail. Early this evening the Philadelphia Police Department and The Department Of Licenses and Inspection visited the The Starlight Ballroom to dispute provisions in an agreement arranged with the City Of Philadelphia. The full story is pretty boring and is not very scandalous but it does greatly effect our Flea Market scheduled for tomorrow.

In short - the Starlight can not host any events this weekend till the meet with these officials on Monday morning. Unfortunately there was nothing we could do to facilitate this meeting earlier (we found out about it from the owners after city offices were closed). We attempted to re-locate the venue to multiple nearby halls and locations but with this short notice and an event this big - nothing could be worked out. We have no other choice but to postpone the flea market till after the holidays. At this point it is what makes the most sense rather than try and cram it into an already busy holiday season.

No one is more bummed than us, as we count on this fundraiser to pay our annual insurance policy (which we are a bit screwed for now). Full details regarding the new date and possible new location will be released in the next few days. For those who had table reservations - we are very sorry! We know many of you prepared for weeks to have goods ready to sell just in time for the holiday season. This is our biggest event of the year and takes about seven days to prepare for. We know first hand as to what's at stake and the potential income that you were counting on. Again the Flea Market will have a new date shortly after the new year - all existing reservations will be honored and carried over. If for some reason the date does not work for you - we can fully refund you including all service charges. Once the refund period is over - we will turn over any available tables for those who requested a table after they sold out.

So once again Tomorrow's Flea Market is Postponed. A new date announcement will be made in a few days. We lost more than anyone in this mess...

Signed,
The Saddest R5 Staff In The Land.
=( "

Apparently this ballroom was found lacking in both boring and un-scandalous obligations, what I can only imagine to be two very serious infractions. As my life thus far has been pretty full of boring, unnecessarily verbose let-downs, I was able to handle this situation like a professional. I simply redirected the leftover anticipation and coffee-induced energy into merging my design empire with a co-conspirator, and by creating a shop website. With Dan's talents of athleticism, aesthetics, and pattern-making coupled with my ability to use the Internet and type fast-ish, we plan on greatly elevating and expanding the current Camp Cupboard catalog. (Check back soon for our latest in-the-works projects, included but not limited to: cycling shorts, bibs, tights, and skin suits. I can't guarantee when they will be up on the site, but I can guarantee that they will be useful, well-designed, not exorbitantly-priced, and likely libido-enhancing.)

Hopefully R5 can find a decent locale for a January market, until then the web shop must suffice.

Happy Riding.

Please Hold

2008-12-18T20:28:00.002-05:00

I've been very busy sewing wool hats, wool neck warmers, and standing longingly in alleyways.

Camp Concentration!

2008-12-10T11:42:00.009-05:00

In the past few months of describing my riding, designing, and social schedules I may have conveyed that I lead a life of extemporaneous, philosophically-driven glory. While this is mostly correct, this week I am begrudgingly engaging in obligatory academic assessments (translation: it's finals week). As I must thoroughly apply my genius to preparatory pursuits, there is little left of me to adequately and entertainingly update this here blog. As consolation I have uploaded some photographs of interest that perhaps If I find the time later I will explain in full detail.
Enjoy.

Camp Cupboard as a Contestant!

2008-12-05T11:50:00.004-05:00

As an overstressed academic participant, pseudo-athlete, warrior-philosopher, and purveyor of precious pouches, I am nearly always engulfed in solitary and/or self-indulgent activities. However with so many personal interests and dedications, it is rare that I am able to entertain my very first self-indulgent love: drawing. Yet a newly implemented coupling of unfriendly weather with the impending end of fall semester has graciously offered me an artistic oasis: manic, cabin-fever induced artistic visions and ample time to doodle them out.

I may be about as competitive as a road-killed armadillo, but I can draw at least five times better than one. So when my favorite* irregularly printed, independently-produced artistic cycling magazine announced they were having a T-Shirt competition, you can bet the business-end of your nether-regions that I submitted an entry. You can view (or "peep") all of the submissions Here.

I'm not going to tell you which one was mine, but I'll mention that I absolutely did not invoke any glaringly obvious depictions of bicycles or legs, use the word "Embrocation", or really follow any of the other guidelines. I will tell you that my drawing was a contemplation piece, recognizing savage wilderness, lost innocence, and post-constructionist retrospective mal de siècle. Keep your fingers crossed for me!

*And Only.

New Genou

2008-11-30T14:32:00.007-05:00

As a follower of this blog, you know that the world of amateur non-competitive cycling is one filled with endless excitement, drama, and spandex. Likely the prospect of belonging to this atmosphere of glory has prompted you start rigorous training, or buy a new bike, or maybe to just try to look out from your car window at those on bicycles with just a tiny bit less outright disgust.

Whatever your reaction, surely it has been transforming. But as a serious amateur dedicated recreational cyclist, I can tell you the transformation happens on and off of the bicycle. Specifically, the body undergoes multiple changes in response to frequent riding. With an increase in fitness comes toned muscles, a decrease in fat, and many other less sexy and boring attributes (heightened skills, new abilities, increased confidence, etc).

Being a cyclist during colder months is especially gratifying. There is the undeniable perk that your physique will remain relatively unchanged while everyone else is gnawing on holiday goodies, growing gleefully bloated and hence more grotesque and malformed. There is also a less conspicuous benefit to off-season cycling: that epidermal curiosities aggravated by continual exposure to dirty sweat tend to go dormant.

In winter perhaps the cyclist's body looks even better, as helmet-line acne recede, mid-thigh and mid-bicep tan lines fade, and rigorous full-body shaving schedules relax. Cyclists bodies also look better in winter because the scars and scabs collected after a summer of exceptionally fun yet accident-laden trail riding can heal. While fantastic visions of cycling as a tan and glistening thigh-throbbing heaven are mostly apt, an array of lesser-attractive bodily changes do exist. These include but aren't limited to ingrown-hairs, back-acne (bacne), and embrocation chemical burns.

I'm particularly fond of hiding one of my new-found body parts from the cruel gaze of the world, at least until I can sort out my feelings thereof. To adequately describe this novel anatomy, I perused the divine and all-knowing dyad of google/wikipedia for at least twelve to fourteen minutes, and could not find a proper name for this unique form. I find this odd indeed, as many athletes (as well as chubby grade-schoolers) tend to have them. It is a personal duty of mine to always describe and christen new findings, as I have a Bachelour's in Science degree which affords me the knowledge and societal significance to do so. From now on I will refer to this skin-flap as a greater geniculate groove. This is not to be confused with the lesser geniculate groove, which I believe to be a dance popularized in the 1920s. Being that this is a rare case in which the phenomenon I'm referring to is best depicted in image, rather than though excessive adjective-use coupled with oft-poignant narrative, I have googled a few photos to illustrate:

Figure 1. Old body part:
(Disclaimer: not my legs)

Note total separation of Knee/ Thigh area.

Figure 2. New body part:
(Also: not my legs)

*Note with tension of Vastus Medialis, greater geniculate groove is formed around the patella.

I understand that on me, this new body part is indicative of gaining muscle on my legs over the past few months. However it remains unsettling and reminiscent of my own chubby grade-school years. Fortunately it is winter, and my layers upon layers of clothing conceal all of my cycling-related (as well as multiple other) disfigurements. If I'm still wearing knee-warmers in June, you'll know why.

Love gloves

2008-11-25T10:24:00.008-05:00

I'm from Florida, where 10 months out of the year it is oppressively hot and the other two moths are rife with hurricanes. As such, I'm accustomed to wearing string bikinis and galoshes year-round. However no matter how appealing this ensemble may be, I have found it rather incompatible with northern weather. Up here we have "seasons"- like those things Indian food. From what I can gather, somehow curry causes leaves to turn yellow (I think because of the saffron), and the temperature to incrementally and consistently drop.

As I'm relatively new to seasonal variations, I've been placed in the unusual situation of not owning proper garments to combat the elements. Through unfortunate instances of under dressing, I've learned just how viciously the wind amplifies the penetrability of cold. I've revived enough blue and throbbing fingers in the past month to warrant the purchase of some new gloves. While typically my insistence on looking really good wins out over logic, function, price, or necessity, I think I've finally discovered that functionality may indeed serve a function. I suppose I've matured some over the last seven weeks; or possibly it was the looming threat of gangrenous digits and amputation that prompted me to start rocking these grotesque crustacean/carny-inspired gauntlets :

These gloves impart a buddy-system on your fingers, as phalangeal loneliness accelerates heat loss. I especialy like these because the claw fingers allow enough dexterity to manipulate a U-lock, turn a doorknob, or give proper salute to your vulcan friends.

I was lucky enough to purchase a size small, which means they're only one-and-a-half sizes too big. They are so big that while riding I can lodge one befisted hand fully in the palm to warm it. However, I must advise in the alternating of one fist-hand with one fully-extended, frigid fingers-hand for safe brake-operating purposes: as I've already found myself curling up both hands, basking in blissful cozy warmth only to be wretched from my mid-ride margarita-themed meditations to perform a spastic, flaccid-gloved fist/wrist-to-brake-lever maneuver to slow down. (While that may sound like a description to a sexual act, I can assure you no such sensuality was involved).

Stay warm folks, and keep riding.

Season's gleamings.

2008-11-18T16:16:00.008-05:00

I have moved about twenty times in my life and lived in no less than five significantly different latitudinal regions. This experience has melded me into a sort of world-class climate connoisseur; a self-taught atmospheric savant, trained on the meanest of suburban streets. As a participant in multiple realms of recreational outdoor athletics (road and mountain biking constitute different realms), and as a self-proclaimed academic of ambiance, It behooves me to remain abreast of current climatic conditions. Being that this is my first Fall in the North East, I've tried to pay special attention to these distinct, fantastic, and fickle few months.

Meteorological rules dictate that Fall spans the first of September through the first of November, with astronomical rules book-ending the season with the autumnal equinox (22nd of September) and winter solstice (21st of December). However, with the authority that my meteorological mastery endows, I will promulgate the end of autumn to be today- November 18th. This is partly because rules are for fools, but mostly because it snowed in my face today.
Street climatology 101 clearly dictates that:

(Note the definitiveness of the equal sign.)

With Autumn already over, I wanted to disseminate some knowledge I've gleaned from my experiences here to my lesser-traveled and/or more equatorially-located cycling peers:

1) Fall is named as such because the leaves fall off the trees.

2) Mountain biking on leaves is slippery and fun.

3) Before the leaves fall off, they turn red. This makes road riding more scenic.

4) Putting Red on your bike makes it more scenic, too. (And lighter and faster).

Cyclocross and Junk

2008-11-11T14:31:00.017-05:00

Some posts back, I may have mentioned some perhaps possible intentions of mine to compete in a bicycle race. My noncommittal determination to maybe race one day assumably left you with a pit of burning suspense in your belly and/or groin region. While burning gut (or crotch) suspense may produce an interesting odor, like a pop-tart catching fire in your toaster oven, it remains important to extinguish. Allow me this instant to unfence my fixed intents in participating in an upcoming competitive event:
Bilenky Urban Cyclocross 2008.

There are multiple photos of the '06 and '07 races on their website, but unfortunately there aren't any diagrams or descriptions of what this year may hold. In order to suitably tailor my training regiment to the course, I attempted to use my vast industry insider connections to gain access to the top secret plans for this years race. All I ended up learning however is that apparently it is not customary to plan out a race course months in advance and have said plans available for on-demand review. In light of this, I took the liberty of generating my own images of what the course and the riders may look like this year:

Now I just have to work on my outfit.

Happy Riding!

R.I.P. Mr. T. (the bike)

2008-11-03T16:50:00.002-05:00

Building up a bicycle is a process not unlike I assume childbirth to be. It's painful, time-consuming, costly, patience-requiring, and greasy. And after all the work (or labor to resume the matador), you get to bring a beautiful, innocent new presence into the world, likely to immediately begin systematically abusing and mistreating it.

I suppose one could just purchase a complete bicycle from a shop, and have a professional mechanic do all the work. We've already been over what I think about that. You can't tell heroic stories about walking to a store and making a purchase. Missing out on the full experience of building up a bike yourself nullifies bragging rights about your grueling hours of labor, much like getting a c-section might be. If there's one thing I've learned about bicycles, it's that you must know how to brag about them. Because bragging about physical strength is frowned upon, cyclists must channel all need for incessant one-upmanship into their equipment. If nobody is going to covet your skills, you absolutely must present something more tangible for your friends/opponents/the jones' to be jealous of.

As finishing a new bicycle is like taking home a newborn baby (as it can be both bundle-y and joyous), taking apart one can be like dismembering... an old person. Presently I'm unsure as to the correct simile, however I am sure that discombobulating a bicycle is in a sense, ending a life. Bicycles live quiet yet noble lives of dedicated servitude, and for this they deserve deference.

Join me in saying sayonara to my heavily guilded Tommasso 3-speed:

...which I dubbed "Mr. T"

Mr. T the bicycle was christened such for both its ostentatious affinity for gold and its munificent mercy of morons, or pitying of fools.

Since I would indeed be a fool (or foo', if you're not staying in schoo') to let a beautiful, steel, hand-made Italian road frame sit around unused, I have decided to promptly resurrect it. It is being rebuilt into something more along the lines of what it was originally intended- road riding. Here is the bike in an inchoate stage, and as it is yet unfinished I've added a fig leaf to protect its modesty:

Now to answer the question that always comes next after the announcement of a having a bike-in-the-basement: if you look closely you can see that the pedals are in fact pink.

Polemical Political Post, part 1

2008-11-02T13:01:00.009-05:00

Because I'm young, broke, well-educated and not from the mid-west or deep south, you can probably assume correctly who I will be voting for on Tuesday. And that's fine, I don't mind following along with certain demographic patterns. What's important is that I still have a decent grasp of our collective differences as a country. I know that I like to read and ride my bike, while others like to play World of Warcraft, or watch sitcoms, or smoke crystal meth and buy prostitutes. Still others even enjoy eating babies or shooting animals from helicopters. I get it! This is 'merka, we do what we want because we're cut from a different cloth; a square, chunky, Puritanical cloth, not unlike broadcloth or linen.

Speaking of cloth, I've read some boring yet persistant rumors that the Illinois senator is not truly patriotic because he does not stand for for the Pledge of Allegiance. As a disgruntled youth, partly because of the Dead Kennedys and partly because I learned about Nazism, I stopped standing, too. How asinine is it to ask schoolchildren with zero grasp of the complexities of international affairs to espouse unwavering dedication to a striped piece of fabric, anyhow? Unless of course that fabric has been delicately melded into a Camp Cupboard© hip-pouch, then and only then would I see the point.

Can the U.S.A. hold your U-Lock? Your wallet, phone, keys, your et cetera? And what about your change- that stuff we've been hearing so much about lately? If you want change, you should buy a bag to hold it in. For America.

Now that I've exhibited my true, red-white-nblue American spirit by making light of a situation that is of paramount importance for the possiblity of monetary gain, I want to remind you to go vote on Tuesday. One demographic I am not comfortable with is my age-bracket's consistent political apathy. I also want to point out what is most important this election year. It's not the economy, or the war, or education, but instead it's the unique once-in-a-lifetime chance to really freak out and piss off a lot of cracker redneck yokel racists. Don't let it pass you by.

Game plan

2008-10-21T13:02:00.005-04:00

A burgeoning relationship with bicycles rapidly assumes a form quite different than other machines that one may deal with on a regular basis. Refrigerators aren't entertaining, can-openers can't increase your physical prowess, and when was the last time a group of friends each met with their blenders in tow to just hang out and crush ice in the park? I can't remember the last time I emptied the crumb tray in my toaster oven, but I can tell you that I meticulously sponged off my cross bike at least twice already this week. Indeed, cycling becomes a sort of unique person-on-machine love affair. While bike riding can't keep you warm at night, like a new love it can give you butterflies in your stomach, increase your sense of well being, and even set your crotch ablaze (for better or worse).

But when the spontaneity and excitement that originally lured you dwindles, it can be increasingly difficult to find excuses to avoid real-life commitments and dedicate ample time towards building your relationship. As with the unfortunately reality of modern existence, planning and scheduling become important tools to adequately allocate apropos temporal portions towards bike practice. Dually unfortunate for me has been the abandonment of my life philosophy of remaining perpetually yet delightfully ill-prepared. With school and work and family and a truly absurd (and likely unprecedented) number of friends and social engagements to tend to, I have acquiesced to the superiority of premeditation.

While perhaps not as queasily unromantic as penciling-in sexual encounters in advance, I do believe one should remain cautiously apprehensive towards over-planing a ride schedule. Most obviously one has to incorporate some flexibility for the weather, however it is also important that one remain flexible enough to account for family emergencies, impending schoolwork, drops in motivation, holidays, mood swings, full moons, and of course: seasonal insects and bird migrations.
Currently my ride schedule remains uncomplicated yet dedicated, with my planner looking something like this:

Friday: Go on bike ride

Tuesday: Maybe go on ride (if doesn't rain)

Sunday: Ride???

I give you this intimate glimpse into my training not to boast, but so you will see that the possibility doing something 1-3 times a week is in fact rather serious. And perhaps that you will know why on Fridays I smell kinda bad.

Now that I've exposed my sole planner to give you this example, like playgound show-n-tell I believe is now time to show me yours.

Happy riding!

(Flappy riding-->)

Carry on.

2008-10-20T18:44:00.011-04:00

Often I am asked to fully explain the duties, designations, and dimensions of my life-changing creations in order to convince interested parties to confidently abandon thirty-five hardish-earned U.S. Dollars. I don't even blame them for their hesitancy, as 35$ now is more like 47$ was five years ago, and is at least six or seven Euros today; not a measly sum one would like to see squandered on non-essential goods. While I do believe my productions are ultimately beneficial and that everyone I know should own a minimum of two, I am realistic in knowing that no matter how mouthwatering my material marsupiums may be, they remain inedible and unlikely to appease even the most fashion-forward of landlords.

Here I will describe with photographic aids, what precisely one may carry inside of a Camp Cupboard© fanny pack hip-bag lock holster pouch (©,©,®†©®,†, respectively).

Primarily, these pouches are produced for varying velocipede powered individuals. Like flat-kit carting bike kids:

(Easily fits a tube, patch kit, mini pump, levers, wallet, keys, phone)

Or if you prefer ample spandex and Bike paths, and thus toe the line closer to the roadie persuasion:

(Pack your science food to combat low electrolytes, sunglasses to combat high UV rays, and cell phone to get a car ride home in case of a "mechanical", etc.)

Or if you prefer to merely roll on over to your favourite café and brush up on Française whilst drawing on fags and penning poetic ponderance in a Céline-inspired moleskin notebook:
(Disclaimer: poetry is unhealthy)

Or maybe you're a raw-food freegan and just want to bring your tall-bike over to to your friends' dumpstered potluck impowerment pow-wow picnic:
(Room for book, recycled bunny bookmark, and snacks)

Whatever your purposes or plans, just know if it's smaller than 8x3 inches, it will probably fit in a Camp Cupboard pouch-which will no doubt radically improve your romantic success, standard of living and general disposition.*

I also now have an ETSY shop, which you should go to and spend 35-40 of these: $

*unsubstantiated claims

Slop Meat

2008-10-12T12:20:00.013-04:00

In the various and varied arenas of my life, one theme continually arises. While at first guess you may assume that theme to be "endless and unimaginable genius", in fact it is closer to "constant and insufferably inadequate forethought". To combat my tiresome and decidedly square life, I've concocted a methodology of unpreparedness which keeps everything new and exciting enough for my exceptionally small attention span to grasp. I approach every endeavor equally: lacking expectations, hopes, desires, or plans. While others with my predisposition may readily adopt a low expectation method, having zero expectations has a two-fold advantage: boredom and disappointment are impossible. Low expectations merely guard against disappointment; zero expectations ensure that every instance of every day is unexpected, and thus exciting enough to pursue with my characteristic daring enthusiasm (which by now, you have no doubt begun to know and love).

Last Saturday I attended my very first cycling-related swap meet; I even brought some bags with me in case the patrons were of the accessorizing sort. As I entered with zero expectations, I was relatively unphased when I sold exactly zero* bags. However as I also had zero concept of the magnitude and absurd-itude of this gathering, i spent most of the day overwhelmed and aimless. Thousands of people were ambling about with about as much purpose as I had expectations, with seemingly as many tables selling the ends, outs, after-thoughts, over-stocks, and even dirty laundry (in the form of polyester pique cycling jerseys from 1972) of the cycling industry.

Compared with the masses of old bike dudes selling masses of old bike thingys, my wares were somewhat out of place; this explained their uncommon unpopularity. Yet I was immune to disappointment, and while my day was lacking in funds it surly wasn't lacking in funs. I got to wo-man the table that my shop set up for a bit and hang out with my adorably hungover co-workers, where I proudly exhibited my newest batch of of liberty bell pouches to uninterested yet friendly parties. I took breaks to wander, idle, fiddle, and fidget my way through the cycling-stuff-smorgasbord. I made just one purchase, a pair of tights from the most fashionable decade of athletic-wear (the 80s).

I also met Taliah Lempert, the artist who does the thing that you wish you thought of first (she paints bicycles!). She was sweetly sympathetic to my lack of sales and let me trade her a pouch for one of her bicycle print shirts.
As nothing really sold, I have on hand a gaggle of new bags which can be yours, dear reader- for a mere 35$. I lovingly took group photographs for your viewing pleasure. If you are sufficiently tantalized, email me.

*Trades don't count. Also, I did sell one to my co-worker, but I'm not counting that, either.

Swapping Spit

2008-10-01T10:12:00.003-04:00

When you preside over a major (albeit fake) design empire as I do, certain expectations are put upon you. People ask you to make them things, or to make them anything, or to re-make that thing you made before but better because it was kinda crappy at first. When these expectations are followed though, it carves a special place in the collective local psyche. Then you start to become a sort of local hero or minor celebrity, like a t.v. news anchor or someone well known because of a readily identifiable physical deformity.

People often ask me to show up places and sell things that I've made, and often enough I do so even without requests because I know If I don't preemptively tell everyone they will simply beg relentlessly anyhow. So to avoid the agony of actual human interaction I will declare my intentions to be physically present at Trexlertown on Saturday. Trexlertown (that's T-Town if you're nasty) is about an hour north of Philly and hosts a semi-annual bicycling swap meet at the Lehigh valley velodrome (or Valley Preferred Cycling Center, again if you're nasty). I have secret insider knowledge that scores, mobs, hoards, and gobs of cycling gear will be unloaded in a glorious haggling-friendly fashion from various local shops, and as such you, dear mid-atlantic-resident-cyclist-reader will likely benefit from a visit.

I cannot promise what I will bring to sell, because as with most local fake-design-empire-having almost-celebrities I have concurrent pressing matters and engagements to fulfil which may hinder my attempts at producing adequate pillage. I can say that I might have things to sell, and they will be life-changing and substantial; or I might simply perform a walk-though cameo to ensure elevation of estrogen levels throughout the arena. I may even shed my disdain for interaction and colloquial words and "hang out" with some "folks".

See you Saturday!

Track marks

2008-09-25T09:51:00.008-04:00

Living in Philadelphia and commuting by bicycle has its perks: bike lanes, slow and predictable traffic patterns, one-way streets wide enough to dodge cars on either side, constant construction that brings cars to a stand-still that bicyclists may still navigate, and incorrigibly confused vehicle operators. Yet as with any major city the dangers often manage to outweigh the pros: ample bicycle lane-drivers, doors opening sans logic or warning, ambivalent taxis, unbridled car-on-bike animosity, cellphone-occupied drivers, iPod-occupied jay-walking pedestrians and joggers, incorrigibly confused motor vehicle and bicycle operators, and lesser-known yet perhaps more unique to this area: trolley tracks.

Before the big three dominated the nation, trolleys and trams frolicked the cityscape freely whisking the public from place to place with infinitely greater charm than their modern replacement: the bus. I'm much too lazy to research on precisely why the trolley/tram system tanked in Philadelphia and in most of North America, but I do know that a few lines still operate here, and Montreal and San Francisco have extensive extant trolley operations.

Where does this leave Philadelphia in regards to public mass transit? I don't care. I ride a bicycle everywhere which affords me the luxury of not filling my brain with useless bus schedules and connecting stops. I use those open braincells to memorize more relevant information, like the length and count of spokes I will need for the white DT Swiss 240S hub/white DT RR1.1 rim wheels I'll be building up soon. (Oh-28 295mm and 28 288 mm {dt revolution black!})

What I do care about is the miles of abandoned tracks strewn about which have an effect not unlike a bear trap to bicycle wheels. They catch the width of rubber and wheel which ejects the rider many feet away in a precarious diagonal line. This has happened to most people I know who live here with stories ranging from margarita/rain debacles, being flug into oncoming traffic, and even breaking stems and handlebars from landing so hard. Just today I fell into the "most people" category by falling into a track, and like Yogi bear I got a little Boo-Boo. Ironically I was not riding with any intensity or vigor (I was going slow), and my dawdling was likely the cause.

I wasn't thrown into traffic or parked cars, but my bartape and pants did suffer casualties. And I take all attacks on the aesthetic vaules of my bicycles very seriously. I automatically declare war on any entity that hinders me from looking really, really good on my bike (only my physical person is allowed to do that). Like Sarah Palin I have zero concrete plans or specific ideas of how I'm going to carry out this war, but I do know that It'll be more like a cold war, consisting of me avoiding 11th street from here on out.

Race Pesos

2008-09-24T19:01:00.005-04:00

Last Sunday I finally made it out from under the rock I've been living under for the past few weeks. Since I didn't catch a glimpse of my shadow, I ventured out to to see Baltimore, MD. And I'm not talking about my primary care physician, but Charm City; home of a really important hospital, that show about the cops and drugs and such, and most pertinent to me- a cyclocross race. I went down with my partner and some other folks who are quite interested in this 'cross racing business, which as I can gather involves pedaling bicycles around a narrow, grassy obstacle course for an hour or so whilst hoards of others try the exact same thing at the exact same time and aren't very nice about it.

Since I have the attention span of a goldfish I vacillated between watching some racing, playing with my dogs in an adjacent field, and riding my own bike through the woods. When my dogs were too tired to entertain me any longer, I loaded them up and proceeded to sit down to watch the final race. I think the category was "Men's #1&#2", but since I don't have a potty-mouth, I prefer to simply refer to it as the "major babes race". (But not out loud).

There weren't too many of them starting out, and apparently this is called having a "small field". Although the grassy field it was held in was indeed pretty big, whatever. They started out at a speed I can only describe as mega-fast, with the field effectively bottle-necking and dispersing throughout the course. I could tell the six or seven leading the pack were serious cyclists; they must have been been bike riding for at least a year or two, maybe even more, in order to get to that level of strength and speed. It was so inspiring to watch the first lap that i had to get up and leave and ride my bike some more though the park.

I came back to the race at mere two laps to go, or as I learned-when it gets surprisingly very exciting. People were screaming, ringing bells, and imbibing alcoholic beverages all to show their unwavering support. The two finishing first had a huge, and hence boring, lead on the next three. The showdown between the next three was exhilarating to watch. I laughed, I cried, I was anxious for their safety and for the safety of their livers. My partner got a stellar fifth place, which I immediately took some of the credit for from my consistent show of support.

Because at this point, so many people know how sad I am on the bike, or S.A.D. (Serious Amateur who is Dedicated) they ask if I race or tell me that I should race. This is because when people think of serious cyclists, they assume some kind of test is needed to determine current standings with others of their same sex and experience level. This is completely untrue, and as of yet I have no desire to compete in something I merely do for fun and fitness. I mean, I like cooking, I'm not about to enter a chili-cook-off or something, right? Besides, I have the emotional fortitude of a small child, and would be seriously upset by people yelling at me while I was dry heaving and covered in dirt. I don't want to pay money to entertain people, that's why I have a free blogger account. And this blog notwithstanding, I'm really not an exhibitionist, and am totally not sold on nor am I even ready for any type of racing.

Yet.

Get down with the sickness!

2008-09-22T18:39:00.004-04:00

Continuing existence on this planet is gloriously futile. Whether we over-populate and drown in our own feces or are gallantly whisked away to some nether-realm by a mystical overlord, we are all merely fanny-pack clad tourists in a big, dumb interstellar theme park. To prevent this pesky notion penetrating too deeply I often fill my time with delightfully frivolous activities. I have been fortunate in that school, work, and cycling serve rather adequately as shields to the lurking danger of endlessly ruminating on the total uselessness and depravity of life.

However, today the universe has forsaken me. I have been unjustly wrested from my favorable position in the cosmos, just as so many lepers and pariahs before me. Fate revealed its fickle temperament and unleashed its molten head, leaving me practically petrified in volcanic ash not unlike the peasants of Pompeii. Just as summer meets its official end, as the weather becomes so delightfully pleasant and endlessly inviting to epic and glorious bike rides, I get dreadfully sick. And not the urbandictionary.com definition of sick, but stricken with the most undignified of illnesses. I'm talking about the fabled and deplorable stomach flu.

It started innocently enough, a few aches and a sore throat; nothing excessively torturous. Forgoing social activities I dutifully logged a decent night's sleep, a modest yet sufficient 11 hours. I ate a healthful breakfast of raisin-speckled peanut butter and celery, or "ants on a log" if you had any gleaming of a decent childhood. Sluggish yet determined to resume daily activities, I rounded up the dogs for their morning walk; and that is when all worldly truth, honesty and decency eroded to reveal hideous, treacherous lies. The ants came swarming out of me with speed and intent, the logs rejected gravity with the determination of spawning salmon, splintering my throat and coating my cardigan with vile, acidic peanut butter chyme. The episode was absurd and shocking, a blasphemous way to start any day, let alone the first official day of fall. I hobbled home, projectile-spewing with every few steps, and proceeded to lock myself indoors for the rest of the day.

Today is barren of any worthwhile distraction (bike riding) to the constant rumination that life is essentially useless. The whirs of refreshing breeze and tapping of dry leaves are tugging mercilessly at my heartstrings. All of this is further proof that we, the inhabitants of earth, are indeed orphans in the mid-90's Eastern bloc of the universe... mindlessly drifting, alone and unwelcome. Can you hear me Major Tom?

In sum, barfing all day instead of riding my bike apparently bums me out.

Mo' money, mo' problems.

2008-09-18T19:27:00.015-04:00

As some of my more loyal readers may know, I was the luckless recipient of serious crash related injuries earlier this summer. I was new to the city. I had no job and few friends and very little funds even to meet my basic needs of food, shelter, and bicycle upgrades. A thoroughly hapless fall crumpled me into a misshapen ball, like origami folded by a quadriplegic. This happened in a forest where there isn't car access or cellphone service. As I could not move, I could not leave the park. And as I was new to town, I really had no one to call to get me; and with the lack of car access it would not have done much good anyhow. An ambulance came but the thing about ambulances is they simply will not- even with sufficient reason-based arguments and sophisticated persuasion- just take you to your house. So I went to a hospital, got out three days later, spent another few weeks feeling like garbage, and here I am now- A true survivor! Why this recap? I wanted to give some sobering advice: Stop drinking so much.

The real advice is to never, ever, ever get into an accident and be picked up by an ambulance and stay in the hospital for a few days and be penniless, jobless, and insurance less. Unless of course you have a spare 69,0028 dollars burning a hole in your diamond-encrusted, endangered species pelt pocket; in that case be my guest. Also in that case: Fur is murder- and have you read anything about diamond trading and mining, you politically impassive caveman Liberace turd?

The good news is that in Philadelphia if you happen to be unemployed at the time of an emergency hospitalization, your bills get paid by a combination of Charity funds and medicare*. I ended up only being billed 150$; that's like a 4.6% co-pay. I don't think my legitimate insurance can offer that small a percent. It's more of a "No money? No problem!" system. As somebody who plans on being destitute and in and out of employment for the next few years, I find this system particularly reassuring.

Why would somebody like me, with excessive talents, skills, and resources, plan on being grossly underemployed and impoverished for the next few years? Through cunning and inescapable charm I duped an unwitting University to lavish fantastic scholastics upon me for the next five or so years. I won't bore you with the haughty details, but let's just say in a few years my full and proper appellation will be rife with with gravity-lending acronyms. Hopefully I will remain on the business end of the health care system this fall.

{*Special thanks to the taxpayers of Philadelphia}

PART DEUX: ALPACA LIPS NOW!

2008-09-02T10:52:00.005-04:00

Friday night after sufficient primping, priming and preparing I painstakingly packed my black knapsack for a weekend in western Massachusetts. For the next two days the ever urbane Camp Cupboard was to be a rather redoubtable Randonée Chalet.

On Saturday morning at the wholly indecent hour of 5:00AM, I found myself amidst a gaggle of hairy-legged, sandal-footed, wool-clad cyclists. Over the free coffee-and-muffin breakfast, I eyed longingly their wide gear ratios, fat tires and camel-backs. My carbon/aluminum road bike with 25mm tires and double gearing started to look space-aged but highly inappropriate, like an astronaut showing up for a deep-sea dive. Six AM and sunlight came upon us, leaving the ridiculous option of starting the ride. Too groggy for any sort of ebullient entree, clusters of riders left rather anticlimactically over the span of a half hour. Fortunately for me, I had successfully conned a friend of mine to ride along. Unfortunately we found ourselves several miles in the wrong direction; our excitement from the upcoming physical activity seemed to blunt our cognitive abilities and hence the tiny neon green flags which signaled turns went largely undetected.

And turns there were. Our cue sheets were four pages long; nary a strip of path longer than a mile would be traversed without a change in direction. Cyclists are pack creatures trained to follow the group ahead and ask few questions. This tactic dissolves when the terrain is so demanding as to continually separate seemingly evenly matched riders. My riding partner wore a bright red jersey which made keeping his person in sight easier, as I often lagged clumsily behind. (Or walked).

The roads were not what I would describe as "dirt", but more like "rocky", "dry and uneven loose gravel", or even "steep, torturous and unyielding; much like I'd imagine Lucifer's pitchfork in your soul for all of eternity to be". At the first of three checkpoints, my computer read 47 miles, an extra 10 more than everyone else. It should impress you however that even with the ten extra miles we caught up with many riders. It it also to be noted that by this time in the ride my white kit remained brilliantly clean and endowed upon me a pure, heavenly glow which was noticeably intimidating to everyone else. But even with a cheerful partner and no embarrassing stains to appear, we became concerned about the time limit and planned to nip out a 10 mile section as we saw a tiny connecting road on the map. Considering I've always been a trailblazer and very very bad at following directions, this was a natural option which left not a tinge of guilt.

The second section, or mid-section as I will call it from here on out to give it a sexy anatomical sounding name, consisted of perhaps the most brutal of all: zero flats, only multiple asinine climbs with wretchedly unridable descents in miserable succession. Areas so loose and jagged that going 17mph felt more like falling devoid of control or finesse. It is one thing to be disappointed by ascents, going uphill is substantially harder than riding on flats. But to have to hold back while going downhill is like giving birth to a broken robot, it's not natural and totally disappointing. I had no regrets that we took a scalpel to the mid-section.

The last section we gained a second wind, mostly because the roads were more road-like and less pitch-fork-prong like. We caught some beautiful riverside descents, and met some adorable and admittedly well-dressed farm animals. I had a short yet meaningful discourse with the white alpaca about the benefits of white gear; he bid me adieu and wished us on our way. At this point I should add that some serious deliriousness may have set in; I may or may not have tied my white bandanna (of course I had a white bandanna) around my head and tried my best Axl Rose voice while singing Guns n' Roses songs for a few miles. Eighty miles out and we were ready for the last bit. Until our combined deliriousnesses lost sight of a misprint on the map and we turned down a gloriously fast two mile road descent; I was afraid to go faster than 35-40mph yet could have easily. While at the bottom the right road to turn off on was nowhere to be seen- we surmised that to get back it would mean climbing what we had rode down with such gaiety. Before I could fully fathom adding more climbs onto this ride my friend, now reassuringly exasperated proclaimed, "That's it-ride's over!". And after a small whimper of dashed alacrity came a wave of sincere relief. It was nearly 4PM, we were cranky and peckish, and our ride thus far was pretty damn phenomenal.

We rolled in, back to the start which was also the finish, around 4:15. We met up with our much more physically adept group; who I should add finished the 112 miles before we finished our measly 85. We traded war stores, showed each other our battle wounds and wiped down our mighty yet muddy steeds. My legs throbbed, the misplaced rage I had collected throughout the day subsided, and all I could think about was how much stronger I will be when I come back next year...

Happy riding.

{Special thanks to A. Suko&K, Dan L. and the Rapha non-team, and all of you from Cambridge Bicycles}

Hot Shots: Part 1

2008-08-25T21:30:00.014-04:00

I did it.
This past weekend I completed, albeit in my own special way, the randonée which I had been preparing for since the very beginning of the cruelest months of the year, summer. And if there is one lesson cycling continues to reinforce, it is to never underestimate my ability to greatly overestimate my abilities. And if this specific ride taught me anything, it's that I am incapable of reading maps while riding a bicycle, that "climbing hills" has variable meanings depending on your locale, but that I am capable of riding a bike while looking really, really good.

A week before the ride, I had a conversation with a fellow rider about the inherent vanity of cycling and indeed in all athletic endeavors. Like most conversations with living beings that aren't my dogs, I had no idea what exactly he meant, but I nodded on and even argued with conviction to reinforce my accordance. Later that night I decided that maybe it wasn't my equipment or lax training schedule slowing me down, but my lack of vanity. In order to better equip my exterior and assumably greatly enhance my performance, the very next morning I ventured out in search of the perfect kit. I trekked eight miles to the only cycling shop that would have anything worth purchasing apparel-wise: the little-known, homey hole-in-the-wall that is Cadence.

Why go such a distance for some flatlocked spandex? Well, athletic clothing manufacturers design women's gear with a quite narrow demographic in mind, and as far as I can tell that demographic happens to be 48-year-old kindergarten teachers. After being subjected to the masses of butterfly and/or flower-patterned pastel-pink or baby blue women's gear (typically complete with rampant overuse of italics), I simply cannot fathom anyone but a middle-aged schoolteacher with an entire room dedicated to her porcelain doll collection to be truly enticed.

So as to avoid dressing the way children's Tylenol is packaged, I opted to buy an entire cycling kit in the fastest-looking color ever: white. When I was the fat kid in gym class, I would walk briskly with my arms bent as they would be in a running position, sure that nobody would notice I wasn't actually running. While it may seem I have employed a similar strategy here in my pursuit of fast appearances, a critical difference is that this way I might still look good while going slow. And if there's another thing I learned about cycling, is that looking good while suffering is a success in itself.

THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

2008-08-22T19:46:00.003-04:00

I have approached this last week of training with solemn reverence and sacrifice. Along with grueling hours in the saddle, and to further prime my body for impending torture, I have eschewed caffeine, alcohol, MSG, and roller coasters for five consecutive days. I have endured multiple caffeine-withdrawl headaches and ensuing drops in midday patience. I still managed to trudge on through the week, undeterred by all of the customers who were discouraged by my lashings of indifference.

In an effort to maintain a strict nine hours per night sleep minimum, I've blown off all my friends' incessant requests for my presence at various social functions; or possibly I've only blown off the same friend twice, or maybe it was just once I ignored the dog barking and once I didn't answer a phone call from my brother. Anyhow, with burning determination I have rigorously eaten my vegetables, taken my vitamins, stayed out of the sun, and gotten plenty of sleep in lieu of likely raucous nineteen twenty-something style debauchery.

With a sound body, clear mind, and an admirable dedication to training,
I am finally ready to go on... a bike ride.

Build me up, buttercup

2008-08-19T12:05:00.001-04:00

There comes a time in every cyclists life when the idea of purchasing a complete bicycle becomes a thoroughly repugnant option. Accepting the manufacturer's stock combination of geometry and componentry is an affront relegated to the credulous beginner. While athletes of any sort grow increasingly numb to physical pain, the seasoned, discerning cyclist becomes hypersensitive to mechanical equipment, geometric specifications, and manufacturer's logos.

While I remain serious and dedicated, I am still an amateur lacking any real athletic intrepidity; however this does not stop me from taking up arms in the unspoken component and brand wars with my cycling peers. While I could use equipment suitable to my needs and budget, every time I get thrown off the back during a ride, I would be left questioning whether my lack of athleticism is purely due to mechanical disadvantages. If there's one thing I hate more than physical exertion, it's thinking hard. So to alleviate these conundrums I have been amassing a collection of pieces that when bolted together properly will form the entirety of a bicycle. In the industry, this process is commonly known as "building up" a bike.

This will not be some plain ole "normal" bike, a "plain" bike, a "street" bike, or a "neighborhood" bike as the oblivious and often obnoxious customers in our shop searching for sub 200$ transportation tend to call them. It will in fact be a cross bike. Cross is short for cyclocross (CX), and while "cross" and "hybrid" are synonyms in botany, they are absolutely separate distinctions of bicycles. Hybrid is a type of bicycle named such as it contains aspects from road bikes and mountian bikes, which make it perfectly useless for both types of riding yet inexplicably desirable for indigent students, soccer moms, and baby-boomers. Cross bikes also contain aspects of road and mountain, yet in substantially different allocations. Cross bikes are kind of like when two average looking people mate and create an exceptionally good-looking offspring. They look like road bikes, but with nobby tires and cantilever brakes, suitable for riding fast over grassy and gravely terrain. They are often utilized as faster city commuter bikes, winter beater bikes, or even as mountain bikes for skilled riders. However they have drop bars and cost more than 500$, and this deems them terrifying to ride and a shocking extravagance to the layperson; so while logical and useful, the concept of the cross bike is lost on most people.

In my quest to build a respectable CX bike I have collected a series of higher and lower end components that when combined will offer the impression of serious industry knowledge, budget savvy, understated sophistication, and even modesty. I will also likely look really, really good on it. Secondarily, it will be a decent ride and hopefully I'll be able to go a little bit fast-ish and have the bike hold up and such. I'm presently breaking in my Brook's Swift (sophistication) titanium (extravagance), and I put my Chris King wheel set on my road bike (industry knowledge) while the rest of my group- Shimano Ultegra (budget savvy), along with Chris King headset and Thompson post and stem (industry knowledge), Ritchey handlebars (budget), etc. sits in a box in the basement, waiting for the frame I wish to purchase- the Surly crosscheck (modesty) to make themselves useful.

With this shining level of decent-ness, soon enough I'll only have myself to blame for my inexplicable dilatory performances- I can't wait!

TRAINING CAMP

2008-08-01T15:55:00.006-04:00

With less than four weeks to go before the D2R2, it has come to my attention that perhaps a more regimented training schedule will assuage the impending misery I have carelessly agreed to: the 107 mile, 70% dirt road ride known as the D2R2. Equipped with the driving forces of terror and imminent suffering, I have decided to seriously amplify my training in anticipation. For the next four weeks camp cupboard will turn into a veritable cottage of wattage; with one rest day and twenty total hours of exertion a week.

What prompted this unparalleled jolt of heroic motivation was partly the obscene price tag of 60 red-blooded, green-backed U.S. dollars needed as the entry fee. And that price is without the t-shirt. While I thoroughly understand this is a fund-raiser for the Franklin Land trust, sixty dollars seems awful steep a price to pay somebody to inflict lots of pain upon myself; especially when over the years I've inflicted untold amounts of pain upon myself completely for free. When signing up, I had the option of opting for either of the two shorter rides, a 30 mile or 70 mile one, and my budget consciousness reared again compelling me to get the most ride for my money. Why buy 30 miles when I could get 107 for the same price?

Until post-August 24th, my life schedule will become even less conducive to social activities or personal well-being. My bedtime is reaching newer lower limits; whereas before I would wait until after sundown, lately I have found myself keeling over with the soothing sunbeams of diminishing dusk still perceptible through my eyelids. I've begun to wake before six AM without aid of an alarm, and I'm having trouble with showing up to grocery stores well before opening. My friends are distant memories, mere ghosts sending me messages in what seems like the middle of the night but may more likely be ten or eleven PM. The TV is never loud enough, it's always too hot or too cold out, and I can't remember when to take what pills when. It's like I'm living the life of an octogenarian but with chewing ability intact and fewer fiber supplements, so it ain't all bad.

Group ride the lightning

2008-07-20T21:09:00.002-04:00

A huge reason I was impelled to cycling was the independence it fosters. I was never a fan of driving nor much a fan other people so I tended to avoid cars and public transportation. Discovering a simple, practical and comprehensible form of transportation was at once liberating and empowering. After so long, solitary commuting evolved into solitary training. Shedding my hardened antisocial exterior-which took an entire upbringing submerged in suburban dystopia to form-was absolutely out of the question; and luckily for me that question never even arose. Riding became my own personal island where I had trained monkeys feeding me cocktails out of coconut shells and where I could sunbathe like a European without fear of making children cry.

Just last weekend my own personal pleasure island had been rocked by a force not unlike a category 5 hurricane: The Group Ride. Riding in groups is like taking a practice test, it simulates riding in a peloton without the emotional repercussions of being dropped, the financial blow of wasting money to be in a race, or even the the athleticism required to be in a real race. While constantly reassured this was a slower ride and hence I would be fine, the terror of being boxed in a cluster of roadies was paramount to any fears of athletic incompetence. Determined not to ride like a triathlete, I knew conquering this group ride thing was imperative to my development as a cyclist. I approached the ride like a child forced into eating spinach; I held my breath, grimaced, and focused on the ice cream I'd be eating soon enough.

The ride started out slowly, winding its way north and out of the city. Once into the suburbs, the group remained at roughly the same speed, which I assumed to be a warm-up of sorts, so I remained in the back waiting for something exciting to happen. While I maintain a healthily inflated self-concept in most areas of life, cycling is as of yet the only endeavor to systematically erode my wall of hubris into humble crumbles, and as such staying out of the way is nearly always the most appealing option. An hour and a few hills later I was convinced the ride would be starting at any second, and my death grip on the handlebars tightened in anticipation. Yet even later, a small group of us who had to work that day broke off to go home; the ride was officially over and I hadn't even known it began. Although the pace was relaxed, the perpetual anxiety I had been riding with and the tension in my arms was immensely fatiguing, but the most painful part may have been the three stings I endured after a wayward wasp wandered down my shirt.

I had mentally prepared to feel vulnerable, like a soft freshly molted salamander seeking camouflage on a carnivore's tongue, which was apparent in the way my jaw ached from grinding my teeth and from the numbness coming from my blood-starved pinkie figures. After arriving home I realized how overblown my fears and concerns were; I also realized that salty sweat pouring into an ever-swelling sting wound is shockingly awful. But like the first beer I drank as a teenager, this first group ride left me with nary a buzz, yet I'm inexplicably drawn to try it again.

Ladies First

2008-07-18T21:12:00.004-04:00

Ever since I was old enough to comprehend the nature of sexual dynamics in modern society--around five or six years of age--I decided that boys seemed to ruin most everything.
Apparently others out there agree. In light of this enduring fact, some radical women are putting on a women-only race tomorrow. While I must miss the festivities to "work" at the shop, for this event I gave a few bags to sponsor, including one with a meticulously crafted appliqué of an anatomically precise uterus. For those of you less scientifically savvy, the uterus is the moon-goddess organ seated in the depths of the abdominal pan's labyrinthine cavity, and is the source of our carnal power.

My other ride is a LSR

2008-07-13T22:37:00.005-04:00

In the course of human evolution, our prehistoric ancestors crawled on the ground as mammals, lived in trees as more advanced prosimians, then came back down from the forest and began to walk and run as proto-humans. Because of this, walking and running are easy enough to learn; we evolved to be good at this. Bicycles have only been around for 100 years, giving zero time for our species to selectively repopulate the earth with scrawny yet oddly pear-shaped and totally hairless uber cyclists. As such, training is not a natural nor intuitive process.

To follow common cycling lore, one must first collect a large sum of miles, between 500 to 1000, before real training can commence. This acquisition of miles is referred to as base miles, named such because this set of miles is morally devoid, dishonorable, illegitimate, and has a pH over 7. It is not recommended to exert maximal effort during these, and hence the name Long Slow Ride (L.S.R.) is apt. It is during this establishment period that the body becomes attuned to the demands of the bicycle; capillaries branch, the heart becomes stronger, and unique muscle groups get used to working together. Like a funeral home beautician applying foundation to a corpse, the base miles serve to fill in the gaps.

LSR to me has come to mean Long Solo Miles, because at this point in my S.A.D. cycling career, no intermediate cyclist really wants to ride with me. Its not just the slow but erratic pace I likely ride at, but the lack of something referred to as bicycle "handling skills" which can realistically put others in danger. From what I can gather, all it really means is the ability to keep your bike upright, usually going in a straight line, but sometimes turning. The difficulty arises due to inconsistencies in the terrain and is further burdened by increment weather, traffic patterns, relative fitness and exertion levels, time of day, and of course the trajectories of the other riders. It seems simple enough.

Because I'm new to this city and because I'm much too cowardly to venture out forging paths of my own, I choose to do the bulk of my LSRs on a 24 mile paved bicycle path to Valley Forge. A somewhat lackluster rail-to-trail, this concrete strip hosts splendid views of industrial parks, busted-out industrial parks, and even: industrial parks under current construction. Yet it ends at a giant valley that is paved, pre-forged, and even chocked-full of somnolent colonial chronicles, so it has its charms. The park also features practical amenities which I take complete and unbridled advantage of; these include a clean-ish public restroom and close proximity to some off-highway mini-marts.

Two hundred years ago, this was the location that Washington and his troops spent a miserable, epic, and treacherous winter (however with so many stories about soldiers being naked and socially isolated it couldn't have been that bad); where they seemingly lost all hope only to meet a bountiful spring that restored them body and spirit, and changed the course of the Revolutionary War and thus the history of the United States. And it is here that I go on epic, treacherous LSRs then refuel with abundant, glorious amounts of gas station junk food. It's like my rides are microcosms of historical suffering being repeated on the hallowed ground, the ghosts of Freedom and Revolution urging me to keep riding, to forge on, and to promise "just this once" and to not tell anybody when I get back to the city.

Going #2

2008-07-09T14:11:00.004-04:00

I never had younger siblings, so as a child I didn't have the opportunity to fully realize my most likely awesome potential as an instructor. Now that I am a wealthy, wildly successful adult I have the Internet, where I get to teach, praise, and even taunt freely and without fear of parental interruption or retribution. While I do have a surfeit of wisdom I could share, much like the greedy, maladjusted middle child I would have been, I have chosen merely one to delve into online.

This one topic is of course, cycling. As you may well be aware, I have been gracious enough to grant front row admission to my epic, coming-of-age journey of becoming a serious, amateur, dedicated (or S.A.D.) cyclist. I have been doubly generous in condensing and dispensing indispensable cycling sapience. Coinciding with my unapologetically ingenuous internet simulacrum and coupled with my passionate exhibitionism, I wish to squeeze off yet another glossy pearl of wisdom to adorn the collective bare heaving chest of my adoring audience.

Like losing your virginity, my first tip probably left many uncomfortable, confused, and with Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" stuck in your head. Why bother investing so much in something which real reprocussions include a 10PM bedtime and ingrown crotch hairs? Yes, cycling is unnecessary, painful, and brutally spirit crushing, but so is nearly every endeavor other than breathing oxygen and procreating. I could go into a lengthy discourse about the falsity of the American dream, of the hopeless persistence of suburban anomie, of self-induced existential dilemmas, but it is already 9 o'clock PM and I have to get up really, really early to ride tomorrow. So here is where the real carrot stick lies, why serious cycling has such an immediate allure.

More tersely, here's my Tip #2:

As a beginner, you will advance faster than any other time. Every month you learn new things, become stronger, smarter, faster, better looking. In the first six months of serious riding it's possible to double endurance, to shave substantial chunks of time off the same ride, and to rapidly increase muscle and lung function. You can progress from gooey fetus to full-blown, bedwetting, phallic-stage penis-envy toddler in the course of a year. When you've only been riding for seven months, even on your crap days you can tell yourself, "I'm not as crap as I was 3 months ago". And unlike pathetic rationalizations of poor performance in other areas of your crap life, you won't be lying this time.

Happy riding!

Help me, help you

2008-06-29T23:25:00.012-04:00

Long ago I made the weighty declaration to live my life in such a way that would be beneficial to humankind. Like Gandhi and Mother Theresa before me, I have vowed to sacrifice my own well being and luxury to help others; only instead of liberating countries or feeding the hungry I contribute by using my finely tuned, highly trained scientific mind in an attempt to solve some of life's slightly less pressing but no less irritating problems. There's no doubt that starving or being systematically oppressed can put a damper on letting the good times roll, but smaller problems too can have life-inhibiting consequences and thus should not be neglected.

In my quest to solve the problems of humanity and bring happiness to the world, I have decided not to be bogged down with matters huge, glaring and/or obvious. Instead, I focus on small conundrums specific to my time and place and habits. By focusing on myself I am really concentrating my already impressive talents into a tight, dense ball of genius; idea bullets to be muzzle-loaded into the musket of hope. As cohesive and logical as that may sound, there are unique difficulties in focusing on too small of a realm. Creating solutions for extremely specific or esoteric instances can lead to inventions like the hands-free umbrella, extravagant wastes of talent and time that don't even make you look good.

I have long been perplexed by the options available for cycling-related personal object transport. And by my ''C-" math-student calculations I am convinced that a substantial proportion of cyclists are too. My solutions took the form of numerous cleverly designed bags and pouches, of which I have since refined and streamlined in attempts to mass distribute.

In my first small-scale attempt at fulfilling this dream, I partook in the semi-annual R5 productions Punk Rock Flea market. This past weekend I unloaded a cornucopia of colorful canvas creations, my very own Camp Cupboard U Lock holster hip pouches, onto a charmless wooden veneer table at the Starlight ballroom. I was selling my bags along with thingys, doo-dads, and other curiosities at fair and affordable prices. Fueled by whiskey ginger-ales and cheese-fries, I espoused the numerous life-changing benefits of comfortably carrying U locks while looking really, really good. There were some onlookers rife with disbelief, some interested yet impecunious parties, and many passers-by using the derogatory term "fanny pack", but my spirit was high and my sales tallied up as pretty damn decent.

As scintillating as my stitching my be, I am begrudgingly aware that carrying stuff while riding may not be a true scourge of many of my peers. Many of my sweet, charming patrons did complement the logical design coupled with interesting and pleasing aesthetics, and thus reinforced and reinvigorated my mission. I wish to give a giant, sappy, and totally appreciative thank you to everybody that came out to visit my table, and to everyone that used their money on my table as opposed to someone else's, or even just stopped to chat.

Gotta be starting something

2008-06-26T15:04:00.003-04:00

I often take pop song lyrics from the 80's directly to heart, and since I don't wanna be no vegetable, I've been starting many many somethings.

This week I made my triumphant return to the bicycle, I've been working full time at Trophy bike shop, and I've been slaving away in preparation for this Saturday's R5PPRFM.

I've got many glorious things in the works; including but not limited to setting up an Etsy shop, posting newer, more genius-er bicycle related designs, buying my first 'cross bike, and training for the D2R2.

So please continue to enjoy the internet documentation of my adventures, as I'm so busy in "real life" I've become rather impossible to keep track of.

Nature Vs. Nurture

2008-06-26T09:50:00.007-04:00

I had a typical middle-American childhood. And by that I mean I was a depressed, friendless, awkward, chubby, socially isolated youth held captive by padded walls of modern suburbia. My concept of "outside" was that of a toxic landscape rife with spiders, snakes, and boogey-men; a place that one dared not enter lest one truly desired to be ravaged by the heat, sun, flora and fauna. Leave the house and the possibilities of victimhood abound; one could be the recipient of a watermelonesque welt from an unidentifiable insect or even be chased by MadDog swigging wilderness men. Or if particularly lucky, one could hike around the local canals and be the first to discover a freshly dumped human corpse--my fear of "outside" was not completely unfounded.

I have often expressed my disdain for heat and bugs and dirt and nature and being outside, and usually my tirades are intercepted with the lame yet well intentioned references to the beach. Oh yes, I am from Florida, and thus I had 2,000 miles of glorious shoreline to savor. The beach however is akin to a bowl of wax fruit on a table in a furniture store. I suppose it looks good in photographs, but there isn't much to really do with it. People go to the beach to sit on towels and get sunburned. Maybe they'll go into uncomfortably cold jellyfish infested water for six or eight minutes then sit around soggy for the rest of the day. Maybe they'll swallow some red-tide and have heinous diarrhea for a week. Usually a trip to the beach involves a lot of driving, getting sweaty and sandy, getting your car sweaty and sandy, and coming home with inescapable exhaustion yet having accomplished nothing. In short, the beach is for assholes.

Cycling was the first activity I came to enjoy that placed me inexorably inside the outside. At first I was just road riding though urban areas or riding a paved rail-to-trail which tended to buffer me from the real icky sticky of nature. But like so many first dates, one thing rapidly lead to another and I was borrowing mountain bikes to ride in the local trails; I was all up in nature like a bouncing balloon of narcotics inside a weary drug trafficker's duodenum.

While I built up a hefty tolerance to the outside due to my love of riding, my unease has eased since I moved north. From the first ride though the Wissahickon I discovered there is a different kind of nature here that is increasingly eroding my long standing grudge. There aren't alligators in the lakes or massive glistening webs filled with bird-sized spiders. I can even stop riding for a moment without worrying about attracting a swarm of rabid mosquitoes. The trails are dark because massive clusters of old growth trees have canopies which actually shield the ferocious sunshine.

It isn't merely the lack of irritating stimuli to which I had become inured that so rapidly changed my view of outside. The background noises aren't frantic insect mating calls but bird songs. The dirt here is rocky and full of mica so even the mud sparkles. The forests run along major rivers so there is always a breeze, and the patches of darkness are soothing. During the daytime rabbits and beavers frolic across the trail, and at dusk there are fireflies. The forest here twinkles with magical blinking creatures and glitter dirt and I have realized there is a reason the Transcendentalist poets were not from the South. Try and wax nostalgic about the swamp all you want, but I can not fathom romanticizing about humidity that makes you feel like a claustrophobic at a mouth-breather's convention held in a gas station bathroom.

Bedrest and beyond

2008-06-18T19:00:00.002-04:00

Like the expulsion from Eden, my post-hospital bed rest was replete with cursed suffering. Not long after absconding from my foggy, supine corner of the ICU, the pain returned with vicious ardor. My enthusiasm for freedom was extinguished with the realization that being on an IV drip of Dilaudid for three days lead me to greatly under appreciate or even realize my injuries. For three much longer and unfortunately much more cognizant days I endured mental and physical battles with low energy, low appetite, and a most uncharacteristic sluggish wit.

While I am an acidic pickle I am absolutely not one to dilly dally. The very day I felt completely not-so-bad-ish I set off with the vigor of a fifteen-year-old house cat to resume fulfillment of my life's goals, dreams and aspirations. I'm very happy to say that I finally found some work. I have merrily joined the ranks of the post-collegiate purposefully underemployed, as I will now be (wo)manning the sales front of a very fine shop. This shop deals in all matters pertaining to the bicycle, and hence this career move places me somewhere between cannon fodder and Civil War Reenactor on the battle ground that is the cycling industry.

I now have the life-affirming pleasure of enlightening the layperson on all topics surrounding the glory that be: the bicycle. Aside from the obvious perks of working with awesome, interesting, like-minded people, I am also the lucky recipient of vast amounts of mechanical knowledge to which I am accepting with pious reverence and perhaps poorly concealed avarice.

A week spent on cajoling my liver to re-congeal and landing a steady job did not sate my appetite for exhaustion. I've also been in steady preparation for the great big R5 Productions Flea Market, at which I will likely sell out of my impeccably designed and highly limited batch goods. Because of this I seriously advise all planning on dropping by to come to my table first, to spend all your money on my stuff, and also to donate pizza and beer to my needy stomach. Seriously.

Happy riding.

It's coming

2008-06-18T15:08:00.004-04:00

R5 PUNK ROCK FLEA MARKET- SATURDAY JUNE 28TH At STARLIGHT BALLROOM

Party Crashing!

2008-06-11T22:28:00.014-04:00

Life on earth is a ceaseless battle between your existence and that of the rest of the universe. It is an eternal tug of war set on a rainy field day; to which your only strategy is coercing your fat friend to sit in the loop at the end of the rope to serve as an anchor. Typically you'll be lurched across the line in an anticlimactic few seconds and simply go home with blistered hands. Use any tricks up your sleeve and the fates will level the field by stirring up a bout of lactose intolerance or case of mono. I'm fairly certain the universe was becoming uneasy with my silky smooth transition into the cycling realm; as I was just dealt a random albeit excruciating and training-schedule-halting blow.
Last Monday, on a gloriously swift training ride though beautiful Wissahickon park, I suffered an epic disaster. While navigating a downed tree, my back wheel was violated by the grubby paws of a tree branch, and I was unceremoniously ejected from my bicycle. The wind was knocked out of my chest with violent force and I was lodged in a Venus fly-trap of mud, gasping for air and waiting to be digested whole.
Shock rapidly evolved to panic as I could not find the strength to breath; nausea came sharp and fast but the retching proved too laborious for my body to handle. I was found in a tight ball moaning and drooling in the mud.
As I was presumably riding at an effortless yet formidable pace, my riding partner was too far behind to witness the crash; she merely came up upon this surly absurd and chaotic scene. Helpful strangers offered assistance, and I did what any frightened, immobilized, and injured person does: I became unnecessarily combative and likened the sounds of their voices to emetics. After more peaceable deliberations with passers-by and many trips made by them into and out of the park for cell phone service, a sensible course of action was generated. We reasoned that since a substantial amount of time had passed and I was still unable to breath without agonizing pain or even stand up, calling an ambulance was likely the best decision.
A harrowing trip via ambulance was made to a local ER trauma ward where I was briskly escorted absolutely nowhere and left sobbing and alone on a gurney near the entrance. After impatient discussions with the hospital and EMT staff I was subjected to the most unholy of hospital procedures: the trauma triage. This included having my cycling kit cut off leaving me totally nude aside from mud splatters, fingers and/or needles in every orifice imaginable, and being forced to answer the same four questions to twenty different people. My pain-induced hostility and impatience was palpable and apparently yucky-tasting to the triage team, so a large dose of narcotics was squirted into my IV to allay my inappropriate rage. After the burning sensation in my neck subsided, the glare of the fluorescent white room dissipated to become a pleasantly glowing bubble filled with silvery-winged worker bees graciously attending to me, their glistening and revered queen.
A few X rays and either a PET or DOG or CAT scan later, the full extent of my injuries was revealed. I had no broken bones and hardly a physical gash, but my internal organs suffered some intense sloshing. My spleen had lesions and my liver was actually severed in two. I learned that much like my ego, my liver is needlessly massive. In an average human being, the bulk of this organ is primarily tucked in the upper right quadrant. In my extraordinarily unique body, my liver goes fully from right to left, serving as a kind of frosting to the delicious cupcake that is my abdominothoracic cavity. While this surly offers me some sort of extreme advantage survival wise, it also put me at risk for this bizarre and immensely painful trauma.
After three days in the ICU I could no longer stand the indignity that comes with being a patient. I left against doctor's orders and was not given any pain medicine or real advice as to my course of healing, aside from "don't do anything where you could fall". Obviously by being bedridden and drugged I had not been able to convey just how graceless and clumsy I truly am in daily life, so I took this advice to mean "Watch DVDs and eat pudding until it doesn't hurt anymore". And unlike haughty New Year's Resolutions, that is a self-prescribed regiment I can abide by.

Some tips and tip-offs (#1)

2008-06-06T11:31:00.004-04:00

Over the past month I have come to the realization that cycling is one of the least approachable sports to begin. Aside from the substantial monetary investments and the vast quantities of time spent riding, the most prohibiting aspect has to be its difficulty. Becoming a dedicated, serious, non-competitive amateur hurts.

So far I've suffered breathing difficulties, back stiffness, knee aches, lung soreness, debris lodged in my eyeballs, near-choking, falls, scrapes; and these are merely the physical injuries. Never mind the mental and emotional tolls of incessantly beating myself up over my stubborn physical ineptitude, the taunts shouted from passers-by, or the way I envision gravel roads to be constituted of a billion tiny middle fingers aggressively mocking my efforts.

As it's nearly been four weeks of grueling effort, I feel I now have amassed enough experience and anecdotes to begin passing on helpful, enlightening, life-changing advice. So today and in further posts I will share some handy tips intended for like-minded riders: the utterly, at times dangerously, clueless.
I will inject some drama by keeping today's counsel short yet weighty.

The most valuable tip to becoming a serious amateur recreational non-competitive cyclist:

Never, ever forget how much you suck. Every time you swing your leg over your saddle, remind yourself that as a beginner, you start at the bottom caste of the cycling world and that you may as well have leprosy and the plague. That your current state of athleticism in no way has prepared you or offered you any advantage. That your questions are irritating, your confidence laughable, and that nobody cares you rode for the first time up that big scary hill instead of your usual dismount and walk-up. Always remember that even on your good days you are still miserable, slow, and weak.

While that sinks in, I'm off for the weekend to watch a whole lot of cyclists who do not suck, as the pro cycling tour Triple Crown is in Philadelphia this week.

Happy Riding!

Black and blue sabbath.

2008-06-04T18:35:00.000-04:00

Days of rest are highly recommended not just by acolytes and labor unions, but by athletes and trainers too. Luckily resting has always been one of my strong points; and I believe that it is vitally important to asses and nurture strong points on the rare occasion they exist. In my undertaking as a fully committed yet non-competitive amateur cyclist, I have thus far taken the time to examine my strong and weak points to better tailor my severe and intense riding regiment. In this I was mostly hoping to be afforded less training time due to my innate cycling prowess, and thus spending time analyzing myself would have ultimately added efficiency to my work-outs. After a final tally, however that may not be the case.
Here is a list of my strengths thus far:

a) changing a flat on a front quick-release wheel in less than twenty minutes.
b) descending.
c) grabbing and eating snacks out of my jersey pockets without too much veering.
d) getting repeatedly asked "Are you all right?" by concerned roadies.
e) looking good.

And remember- I list these not to brag, but to assess where I stand as I start this endeavor. To prove that natural talent only goes so far, here is my list of mostly technical feats I have yet to master. Or more succinctly-
My list of weaknesses:

a) clipping into my pedals. Specifically the right.
b) clipping out. Both sides.
c) climbing hills.
d) pedaling on flats.
e) braking.
f) coordinating drinking out of the water bottle with breathing.
g) inhaling bugs and choking (see letter D in strengths above).

So I may have a ways to go before I can hold my own. Fortunately I typically ride alone, so there's little to no accountability of even that.

Rest days are also paramount to getting other things done. Like today, I signed up for this:

R5 Productions Punk Rock Flea Market. I will be there hocking my beautiful, life-changing creations for minimal profit and maximal goodwill.
I have some good stuff in the works for this, and you can bet your sweet ones I'll be tantalizing the masses with masses of tantalizing photo-laden updates.

Training pants

2008-06-01T16:52:00.000-04:00

There are very few things in life I'm good at, and of those even fewer have ever proved to benefit me. Thus far, my penchant for effortlessly taking multiple naps in the same day or for inhaling an entire box of Little Debbie® Oatmeal Cream Pies in one sitting have yet to manifest meaningful results or even practical uses.

What I am good at is embarrassing myself, and at subjecting myself to undue torture for the sake of wasting a lot of time. To sufficiently exploit these abilities I have decided, not without exhaustive excogitation, to become a truly dedicated novice amateur non-competitive strictly recreational cyclist.

Becoming an amateur non-competitive athlete isn't something to be taken lightly; and as such I've been reading about cycling training, events, and culture. I found an issue of Cyclist Magazine from 1988, and Dan even let me borrow some biblical book to aid in my enlightenment. The magazine has far more pictures so naturally I've focused my attention on that, but it's hard to elucidate any usable advice when I can't stop giggling at the 80s style hair-dos. (More like Hair DON'TS!)

By now I'm assuming that you are astonished, shocked, and likely curious of the hair in my magazine. You might even be impressed but confused with my resolve to dedicate my recreational time to one seemingly healthy yet fruitless endeavor. Well it turns out that in cycling, like in soccer, goals are good make. My summer training regiment is actually to prepare me for this. The D2R2 is a 107-mile randonnee primarily on dirt and gravel roads through Old Deerfield, Massachusetts. It is here that my brutal, couple-days-a-week training will bear fruit.

I have nearly twelve weeks from today to become confident and capable in a saddle for seven+ hours. Currently, my athletic capabilities wane around mile 30 but my confidence dissipates just after I'm done clipping my right foot in.

And readers, here it goes: along with life-changing avant-guarde design creations I will be keeping updates of my training progress here as well. So please, join me in my cycling toddlerhood and help me pick out some good training pants.

Decisions

2008-05-29T17:44:00.000-04:00

I rather painstakingly took seventeen thousand photographs of my fabric and put it up on flickr. I then-more painstakingly, heart-wrenchingly, even!- edited them down to 25 or so, now go check it out and make me make you things.

Philadelphia!

2008-05-28T18:23:00.000-04:00

For all you fearing that Camp Cupboard would lose creative momentum from the constant distractions of a "big city", I wish for nothing more than to assuage these (in all likelihood, non-existent) fears. I left the original "camp", my tiny and uncomfortable 350 square-foot studio apartment, for a surprisingly cozy yet nearly-as-tiny 432 square-foot house.
Philadelphia neighborhoods are populated with row homes, multi-level houses built mostly out of brick, usually with only one or two rooms per floor. My house is the archetype of Philly style dwelling- the trinity house. One room per floor, on three floors. The house even stands on an archetypal Philly street- an alley maybe six feet wide, which cars can't really drive on, with some of the pavement eroding to reveal cobblestones.
Dan, ever the proponent of non-traditional living arrangements, has a book written by Lester Walker titled Tiny Houses. The trinity, or bandbox as they used to be known, is the only multi-storied tiny house extensively chronicled. For your educational benefit I've scanned a page:

In conclusion, I'm sufficiently confined enough to fresh-squeeze creative juices with slightly more privacy and room for visitors. So start visiting.

Don't call it a fanny pack.

2008-05-26T12:03:00.001-04:00

Like most artistic people, I like to think that my ideas are better than everybody else's.
Like most narcissists, I'd like everybody to agree.
And like a used car salesperson (but with better hair), I'm going to give you a pitch complete with erroneous back plot in an attempt to thoroughly convince and dispel any and all doubts.

I've been toying with the concept of the cycling hip-pouch for some time now, and over the past year refining my ideas and constructions to reach the apex of good design with logical and utilitarian features.

The hip pouch is especially appealing to the bicycle user frequenting bars, restaurants, clubs, shows, and even errands-running (return your dvd to the video store with my pouch! yeah!!!) for a multitude of reasons.

First, it makes easy carrying for that necessary evil: the U lock. Don't you dare put that thing on your handlebars! Or down your pants! Or in your septum-ring hole!
And mini-locks are great and all, but that banging racket from locking them directly onto the seat-stays while riding can't be good. And the the minis that fit in your pocket mean well...that you are sitting on your lock. No, thanks.

Inspiration to design bags which aid my fellow riders was not wholly unselfish. Impetus was also derived from being perpetually annoyed by every kid wearing her or his (mostly empty) jumbo size messenger bag as if it were some essential utilitarian fashion necessity-like a belt or maybe shoe laces. Aside from the Linus van Pelt-esque security issues evinced by such dedication to the messenger bag, it simply takes up too much space. When you are at a show in a 12x20 room it should oblige and encourage you to take up the least amount of space possible, for your and everyone else's benefit.

All right, let me re-orient my tangential self and describe the bag.
The dimensions are around 6" wide x 5" tall x 2" deep, big enough for a surprising amount of your junk, while narrow and low-profile enough to not induce premature hip dysplasia. See how much I care about you?

Features include a reflective strip with a gap to place a clip on light, a U lock holster that fits both standard and mini U-locks, a wide belt loop to provide stability while on your blet as well as structure to the bag, waterproof lining, double velcro closures for multiple flap positions, reflective stripe and belt for visiblity, all with a pleasing and seemingly simple design.

Currently these are for sale at the best bike shop in Gainesville, Fl- Bikes and More www.bikesandmoregainesville.com, and for sale through Me (nvanderson@gmail.com).
So go to BnM, or email me, and pick one up. Forty dollars, removable belt included.

"So Long!" And..."Why it's been so long?"

2008-05-23T13:51:00.000-04:00

All right chickens. It's been a pathetic two months of blank blog-ed-ness.
I've got back posts saved up and forward posts in the ole' noggin anxious to escape.

I've successfully moved out of Gainesville, Florida, to Philadelphia,PA.

With the multitude of new directions I'm taking "IRLs", I've decided to make this blog more personal than I had originally planned. I'm still making things and designing like mad, (those are the back-logged posts I still need to clean up and slap up here), but as I've left so many loved ones back in the Purdy Souf I'd like to keep this blog-a-log up dated for "all y'alls" to keep track of my Mid-Atlantic shenanigans.

So revel in your Internet voyeurism and enjoy your new found interest in my affairs.

Business Casual Style Points & Awards

2008-03-24T12:42:00.001-04:00

Sunday April 6th---> Whip out your pleat-front khakis and subdued neutrals, starch your collars, comb a perfect line into your side-parted coif because I've been trudging away in my studio to bring yous guys some sweet prizes.
Only a week and a half to prepare!
Race sponsors include:Recycled Bicycles

Bikes & More

Villin Cycle Works

The Top / The Atlantic

White Industries

Surly Bikes

Velocity

Camp Cupboard Designs

Dan L. Industries

Arena Baggage

Camp Cupboard Designs

2008-02-28T11:10:00.000-05:00

As sticking a flag into dirt is the uncontested method of determining new land allegiances and ownership, creating a logo officiates and legitimizes every design endeavor subsequently undertaken. So kittens, here's some cabins.
Welcome to Camp Cupboard.

Saturday!

2008-02-26T11:15:00.000-05:00

Forty dollars.

2008-02-16T18:35:00.000-05:00

These are for sale at Bikes N More-----> bikesandmoregainesville.com

Ride Safely

2008-02-07T13:37:00.000-05:00