Relentlessly, my BRA tour marches on, and this evening I will visit San Jose (the city, not the person), where at 6:30pm I will deface merchandise at a Barnes and Noble bookstore. Afterwards, I will join something called the San Jose Bike Party, which, to be perfectly honest, looks terrifying. Then, tomorrow, Saturday, June 18th, at 2:00pm, in the year 2010, I will visit the University Bookstore in Seattle. Finally, on Sunday, I will be in the Portland that's in Oregon (and not the one in Maine). At 5:00pm I hope you will enjoy me for a meandering ride starting at the headquarters of Chris King Precision Components and ending at Powell's, where I will appear at 7:30pm and make my PowerPoint presentation one final time before returning to New York City, where I can crawl back into my hidey-hole, never to emerge again.
Just as you can supposedly find north from the moss on the trees (though I find it much easier to simply look at the street signs), you can always tell you're in California from the pristine condition of the "vintage" Volkswagens:
Granted, you may see the occasional pristine Volkswagen in New York, but it will certainly not be sporting a Campagnolo decal:
As I took this photo I noticed that the person in the passenger seat was studying something on his "smartphone," so I leaned in for a closer look:
I was glad to see he was using an "alternative" search engine (the kind that run on "sustainable" fuels), though sadly for the people at Dogpile they've had to resort to developing "apps" for off-brand iPhone knockoffs.
Having an espresso (or "expresso" if you're the kind of person who says "supposably" instead of "supposedly") special named after you in San Francisco is a true honor, and it's the equivalent of getting a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, having a sandwich named after you at the Carnegie Deli, or being named in the Floyd Landis confession. The moment I saw this, I knew I had arrived--not in the sense that I had become successful, but in the sense that I had literally arrived at the coffee house and someone thad taken nine seconds to scribble this sign with a ballpoint pen prior to my getting there.
We encountered danger (and by "danger" I mean pleasant weather and lovely Victorian homes) at every turn:
This is the harsh urban landscape from which emerged hard-core "fixie" crews like MASHSF:
In this sense, MASH are kind of like that sullen kid with the nose ring sulking in the back seat of his parents' Mercedes.
Ironically, we had to go upstairs to reach the basement. Then, once there, we were apparently supposed to enter a "grotto." I was apprehensive, because a basement grotto sounds like the sort of place in which you'd be liable to contract an STD.
As it turns out, though, the grotto was more of a loungey place with sofas, and there was even a professionally-printed sign in addition to many fabulous prizeways which we raffled off later. ("Raffling off" should not be confused with "foffing off," which is something you might do while alone in your basement grotto.) It was truly a bike dork's delight:
If you would like to see a few moments of video footage of my BRA, you may do so by clicking here. Otherwise, I leave you with this:
...as well as with a very short quiz. (I have little time on the road for grading.) As always, study the item, think, and click on your answer. If you're right you'll know, and if you're wrong you'll see sailing.
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