It's coming

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

Party Crashing!

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)

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.

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

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

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!

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.

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?"

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

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