Yesterday, in the place in which where I live at, Lobster Nature temporarily spared us from the punishing weather we've been experiencing and instead blessed us with sunshine as well as temperatures above that at which water gets all hard and slippery and turns into that stuff you put in cocktails. So, after paying obeisance to the Almighty Lobster by smearing myself with ceremonial roe and genuflecting before my makeshift altar, I set out for a bikecycle ride. As it happens, the city was in the throes of celebrating two occasions I do not observe--Chinese New Year and the Superbowl--which meant that downtown people were parading with dragons, and in midtown tourists were walking around with green jerseys and cheese on their heads. At first I thought they all looked ridiculous, but then I realized I probably looked equally ridiculous to them--especially given the somewhat garish nature of my "kit." I suppose we all have our own idea of what constitutes "normal" flambulluence.
For this reason, I've been approaching each bikecycular outing in the same way I approach cyclocross racing: slowly and cautiously, while every other rider blasts by me like I'm just another plastic stake for the course tape. Call me a "woosie" if you will, but with 19 children, a subprime mortgage with a 786% APR, and 16 months still to go until the lease on my Hummer expires, I simply cannot afford to receive a costly traffic ticket while riding. Instead, as the saying goes, I mind my Ps and Qs (the expression "Ps and Qs" comes from Medieval Latin and stands for "Penis and Quiznos")--at least until I'm outside of the city limits, at which point I exact my revenge by violating the traffic laws and terrorizing the populace of whichever municipality I'm in with impunity.
As you may know, Assos's slogan is now "Sponsor Yourself," and I'm reasonably certain this is a euphemism for "foffing off." This is why the above model has ascended Mont Douche, only to splay himself out seductively upon an outcropping of rock before withdrawing some "embrocation" and engaging in a truly monumental wank-fest.
Suddenly that "epic" Whole Foods run doesn't seem quite so impressive. Ordinarily, I might take him to task for running the red light, but in this case I think he's more than adequately protected since all those aluminum cans form a very effective crumple zone. Incidentally, I took this photograph last Friday, and just a few blocks later I encountered somebody on one of those "bake feets:"
Some people need thousands of dollars of special equipment to carry a few organic comestibles, while others just need a pair of wheels and a shoulder to carry a thousand cans. The irony of this juxtaposition can also be expressed using the "smugness quotient" formula:
In other words, carrying 20lbs of produce from the co-op on your $2,899 "bake feets" from Adeline Adeline would have a smugness quotient of 144.95 (extremely smug), while carrying 50lbs of recycling on your $25 old crappy 10 speed would yield a smugness quotient of .5 (negligibly smug). As a smugless baseline, consider that a fully-loaded stock Big Dummy has a smugness quotient of something like 10, which I would consider "moderately smug." Therefore, by assembling your own cargo bike, it's challenging but certainly not impossible to attain a smugness quotient of one (1), otherwise known as "smugness stasis." Also, there are certain intangibles when it comes to determining portaging smugness, such as whether or not there are "underlying gentrification subtexts;" whether or not the portager is "transient;" and other factors that cause people in Portland considerable angst.
Notice I have finally de-"curated" the Hold Fast straps, as in these miserable riding conditions they're about as effective as gluing a tube sock to your pedals. Thus endeth that experiment.
I deeply resent when people do idiotic things on bike--not because I care about their safety, but because if something were to happen and I were called as a witness then I'd have to say, "Yes, it was totally the cyclist's fault." This is not a position in which I'd like to find myself. Instead, I'm tempted to stop such cyclists and present them with ironic "awards," and by way of a statuette perhaps I'd use this broken crabon headtube which I was alerted to via the Tweeter:
While I'd fashion an award out of it, as the seller points out, "the possibilities are endless:"
Naturally, it also comes with a disembodied hand:
As the seller says, not only can you use it to pick up chicks, but it's also "a cool way to see inside the frame and get an idea what carbon technology is like"--though I think I've learned all I need to know about that from the pictures.
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