Bicycle baby face.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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


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

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.

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'

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)

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.