Cyclocross and Junk

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)

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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!

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.