Exhume to Consume: Survival of the Flushest

Do you like "bi-keen?" Of course you do! It's inexpensive, healthy, and clean. When you get around your gentrified neighborhood by means of "bi-keen," you feel good--not only because it's fun, but because you know what you're doing is helping to save the Earth. Like, you know those people who go to awful countries and give vaccinations to starving children? You're as good as they are, if not better! How many CGI polar bears have they saved recently?

But you know what the best thing about "bi-keen" in Uh-merica is? It's that, when you do it, you're just a traffic cone!



You know how, when you're driving, you're theoretically not supposed to run into the traffic cones, but if you "accidentally" do anyway nobody's really going to give you a hard time about it, even if the traffic cone flies out into traffic, gets run over by a bunch of other cars too, and is mangled beyond recognition? Well, here in Canada's underbite, it's the same thing if you hit a cyclist! Somebody from the Village Voice sent me this article awhile back, and I didn't really have the stomach to look at it, but now I have and I feel compelled to share it even though it merely serves to reaffirm our collective status as road furniture:



...even though the ditched car was found within 24 hours, a 1990 Nissan Maxima abandoned two blocks southeast of the accident scene, the police would never make any arrests. And that the detective assigned to the case would tell James, as the victim has consistently recalled for months, that the vehicle owner claimed he'd lost his keys at a local bar that same night and walked home—and that without an eyewitness putting him in the driver's seat, there was nothing that could be done. When James or Michelle asked what drinking establishment the auto owner had patronized and whether the police had questioned anybody there or if there were any clues in the car, the officer would become dismissive. They eventually stopped calling. According to the official police complaint, the unidentified hit-and-run driver's highest offense would be categorized a misdemeanor, which seemed preposterous, all things considered.



See, car sales are an important economic indicator, so it's really important that we don't make it too difficult to obtain them or burden their owners and lessees with too much responsibility. That's why, when someone gets mangled by your car, you can make up a story about how you got wasted in a bar and lost your car keys and then someone else "borrowed" your car to go run down a cyclist. I wonder if I could shoot somebody and then tell the police I was drinking and accidentally left my gun on the bar. Either way, if you're a sub-Canadian like I am you should feel comfortable knowing that, provided you're a consumer of durable goods (especially durable goods like cars, which also require you to buy lots of that non-durable good known as "gasoline"), your freedom and safety are guaranteed.

If, on the other hand, you're a cyclist and you don't contribute to the robustness of the economic indicators that encourage investment in our financial markets, and you should one day find yourself lying beneath one of these economic indicators in a bloody clump, then you really should have been wearing a helment. Because if they take the car owner's license away, he won't be able to buy another one to replace the one your head so inconsiderably dented, and we'll never get out of this pesky recession.

Of course, what "the system" (which naturally I don't need, along with your "society," which is why I used to draw anarchy symbols on my desk in school) fails to realize is that cyclists are also good consumers. In fact, I'd argue that we're some of the best, and if we were actually afforded protection and allowed to live out our full lifespans we'd eventually mature into gushing revenue streams ourselves.

See, bicycles too are durable goods (at least according to Sheldon Brown, and at least the non-crabon ones anyway) and when you buy one you need all manner of soft goods such as clipless sneakers, stretchy technical jeans, complicated luggage, cycling-specific fanny packs, t-shirts with clever cycling references on them, and of course tattoos, though I'm not sure if those are technically durable goods or soft goods. Yes, "urban cycling" has truly come into its own--so much so that a reader tells me there will be a whole "Urban Yard" at this year's Interbike:



As far as I can tell, this "Urban Yard" will be a miniature indoor climate-controlled Williamsburg (or Mission District, or [insert your local trendy neighborhood here]) and with its abundance of "urban cycling and culture magazines," visiting it should be remarkably like an appointment at a hipster dentist's office. (Hipster dentists ride Serotta track bikes with riser bars.) Naturally, as the "bike culture's" answer to Abercrombie & Fitch, Chrome will also be in attendance, and I deeply regret that I will be continuing my streak of 100% Interbike non-attendance because nothing is more edifying than experiencing "an incredibly dynamic landscape of products and lifestyle identities." Actually, there should be a sign that says that when you head over the Williamsburg Bridge into Brooklyn:

As inviting as this sounds, just remember the veneer of bike-friendliness only runs as deep as that lime green paint, and the streets beneath still belong to the cars.

Speaking of veneer, do you find yourself craving the artisanal smugness of alternative frame materials such as wood and bamboo, yet unable to break your addiction to the lateral stiffness and vertical compliance of sweet, sweet crabon? Well, now you won't have to, because another reader tells me you can buy a faux wooden crabon road frame on a popular Internet auctioning site:



It's laterally faux and vertically deciduous.

Or, if you want an inherently contradictory bike that misses the point in a more roundabout way, you could get one of these belt-driven two-speed "fixies" to which I was alerted by a reader in Denmark:

Oh, how we consumers want it all: vintage, yet reliable. Simple, yet modern. Fixed, yet geared. One speed for the fast, another for to make with the tricking. It's fascinating to see how desperately some people will cling to the notion of a fixed-gear despite their clear need and desire for qualities that fixed-gears simply don't have, and to see how ridiculous the bikes become in the process. They want to be riding regular geared bikes but they just can't let go.

Meanwhile, here in Canada's chamois, gears have been the new fixed for quite some time now, and the tide has turned so strongly against them that you can now by a "Thruster Fixie" at Walmart, as spotted by the august (like the Caesar, not the month) commenter Leroy:



Yes, we are a nation of labelers, and rebranding is our art:

To survive long enough to see your "lifestyle" become a brand name: that is Immortality 2.0.

Read more »

Life on the Open Road: Buzzkills and Vibration Damping

Before we begin, it is recumbent upon me to make two (2) important announcements:

1) Today's post will be something of a departure for me, focussing mostly on my newfound hobby of artisanal urban pickling;

and

2) On this past Friday's quiz, dated August 12th, 2011, the shoddy overseas testing service I use made a mistake on question three (3). In case you missed the quiz because you skipped school that day and were getting high while throwing bottles at passing trains instead, this was the question:

3) After happening upon a marijuana patch while out on a Wednesday ride, a California cyclist immediately:

--Filled his panniers

--Dropped to his knees and cried, "Thank you, Jeebus!"

--Passed it over in favor of an adjacent meth lab

--Called the police

The correct answer was "Called the police." However, the testing service originally inserted the wrong link (it's since been fixed), and had you clicked on the right answer what you should have seen this:



The irony that this "epic" instance of "narcing" took place on a Wednesday aside, I think it's a shame that the whistle-blowing cyclist is the subject of derision. Instead, he should be commended for alerting the authorities to the presence of a controlled substance. What if, instead of an adult cyclist, a group of kindergardeners had happened upon this marijuana patch and inadvertently consumed the substance with their Fisher Price bongs? Imagine the disaster that would have ensued: Fruit Roll-Up binges; incessant giggling; three hour conversations about the homoerotic subtexts of the "Barney & Friends" TV show... Their precious little brains could be warped forever, and everybody knows that children should be eating McDonald's and not thinking too deeply about stuff. It's for their own good. So instead of calling the cyclist "Señor Buzzkill," they should call him "Generalissimo Awesome," for he's truly an American hero--just like our brave and selfless day traders.

Anyway, given the error, please add one million bonus points to your quiz grade for Friday--or, if you prefer, I'll send you a jar of my very own homemade artisanally pickled Fruit Roll-Ups instead. They're totally delicious. Like, a bunch of us meet up every weekend in a bar in Park Slope (many of us with our children, who all have long hair and last names for first names) and share pickling tips and recipes. Our urban pickling club is even going to be profiled in one of those annoying New York Times trend pieces. Plus, we even have a few members who live in tiny houses, and who pickle individual corn kernels inside of tiny vials. Either way, whether you choose the bonus points or the edible handicrafts, please have your parents sign your quiz and then mail it to the following address:

BSNYC Educational Learning Systems, Inc.

c/0 Teach-O-Mat Conformity Factory

6rd Floor #2, Bannerghatta Road Bangalore-560029

INDIA

Thank you for your patience and understanding.

Speaking of the New York Times, I wonder if Bruce Weber has found any marijuana patches so far during his cross-country cycling trip:

If he has, he's not saying. Either way, I briefly mentioned Mr. Weber's trip about a month or so ago and it seems as though he's since managed to put some distance between himself and the Pacific Ocean--though not without experiencing what Paul Sherwen would call the occasional "spot of bother." In any case, a number of readers brought this article to my attention, and in reading it I came to the realization that I could never, ever ride across the United States. For one thing, my geography's pretty hazy, but I don't think it would be possible to design a route that allowed me to avoid every single state except California and New York. (Other states scare me, especially the ones in the middle part.) For another, there's no way I could stand the barrage of Fredly "advice" from people who think they know better. Here's just a bit of what Bruce Weber has had to put up with so far:



Those Shorts!



Ditch those baggy shorts (you’re not going surfing) and buy some good padded biking shorts. You’ll feel much more comfortable and less prone to chafing. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?

B. S .B., Princeton, N.J.

Didn't your mother teach you to mind your own business? I'm sure he's got some cycling shorts underneath his baggy shorts, and I'd also imagine he's got his reasons for wearing them. Maybe he's insecure. Maybe he wants the extra pockets. Maybe when he clomps into some weird desert gas station he doesn't want to offend the locals with the visible outline of his penis. Or maybe he just finds the "whoosh, whoosh" sounds soothing. Anyway, not everybody is a paradigm of roadie style, like this guy:





Here's some more unsolicited advice:

Rethink Those Handlebars ...

I agree with those who’ve questioned the straight handlebar. I also think this is a mistake. A straight bar gives you only one position for your hands and, as others have pointed out, offers no option to drop down when you’re pedaling into the wind. A turned down handlebar gives a variety of hand positions, and some of the new ones, like the Cinelli Neo Morphe, add flat spots and bumps so you get even more hand positions.

Nicole Hamilton, Redmond, Wash.

I too think the flat bar is an odd choice, but the writer has ridden across the country before, and if he likes his flat bars then he likes his flat bars. (Plus, they do go well with his baggy shorts.) Either way, of all the drop bars to recommend to someone who's on a cross-country tour, would you really choose the overpriced lumpy crabon Cinelli "Neo Morphe?"

I knew these bars looked familiar. At first I thought it was because it looks like the sort of thing that might fall off your baby stroller and that you'd just throw away, since you have no idea how to put it back or in fact where it even came from, and anyway the stroller seems to work just fine without it. But then I realized I had actually written a fake review of this bar back in 2007--it's the one that has labels for the "Power Zone," the "3 Finger Zone," and so forth. (As it happens, Mario Cipollini has similar labeling on his "Little Mario.") Actually, maybe Rivendell should get into the crabon touring bar movement. Their bar could have a "Handlebar Bag Zone," and a "Friction Bar End Shifter Zone," and a "Bell Zone," and even an "Ornery Zone" for when you pass someone whose stem is insufficiently lofty.

Anyway, there's a point at which ergonomics give way to contortions, and with its vast array of superfluous bends and indentations the embodiment of this point is the Cinelli Neo Morphe. If you want to spend a bunch of money to steer your bike with something misshapen you might as well just wrap some sort of ultra-modern desk lamp and bolt it to your stem.

Plus, I'm sure if Mr. Weber was unhappy with his bars he'd change them, just like he did his gearing:

And most notably, after experiencing some of the hills between the Oregon coast and the Columbia River Gorge (O.K., I had to dismount and walk a few times, damn it), I stopped in Hood River, Ore., where the mechanics at Mountain View Cycles replaced the rear cassette on my gearing unit, giving me larger chain rings that allow for easier pedaling uphill.

I doubt larger chain rings would be a good idea for easier pedaling uphill, but then again maybe it doesn't matter if you use Neo Morphs and you put your hands in the "Power Zone."

The greatest piece of advice though was this one:

...Along With Your Bike

I ride a lot. My best road bike cost $14,000 (custom full-carbon). I think you’re underserved by a steel bike. But then, I’m old (75), though I do log 5,000 miles per year cycling, in the U.S. and Europe.

jbailiff, Stevens Point, Wis.

For a brief moment I thought for sure this was written by Larry Olmsted, but then I saw the name. (Also, Larry's a titanium guy.) I agree that Bruce Weber is underserved by a steel bike, and he really should have gone with a crabon racing bike that, while being wildly unsuited ot the task at hand, would nevertheless be a better fit with his Cinelli Neo Morphe bars. Really, it's too bad there wasn't someone around to punch him before he strayed from the Crabon Weave Road.

We're off to see the Fred

The Wonderful Fred of Crabon

Because, because, because, because, because

Because he's laterally stiff and vertically compliant

We're off to see the Fred

The Wonderful Fred of Crabon!

The only thing missing from the article is someone writing in and calling Bruce Weber an idiot for not doing his cross-country tour on a tall bike, like these riders to whom I was alerted by a reader:

Though I do find it ironic that, after going through all the trouble of welding two bikes together, he still needs a foot of spacers and a nearly vertical stem:



Clearly he should have listened to Larry Olmsted and gotten a custom tall Seven.



In any case, maybe when they all finally reach the east coast they can move into this "cycling co-op," of which I was informed by another reader:



Cycling Co-op (Cambridge or Brighton)

Date: 2011-08-12, 5:44PM EDT

Reply to: [deleted]



I decided that I wanted to get involved in something different and unique, so the idea came along to get a housing co-op based around cycling. Pretty much I am looking for a group of cycling enthusiasts to share a place with. The idea is to find anything from a 5 bed to a 8 bed averaging around 500-600 a person + utilities. All types welcome, from bmx to fixed to road to touring. All can apply. The biggest thing would be focusing on the community aspect of the house, so in an ideal world we would tool share and cycle together. (if possible, setting up a small shop in the basement for our use.) If you are interested give me an email and we can see whats up.



I'm not sure if he's trying to found a utopian society or a reality TV show, but either way he should just save himself a lot of time and energy and move to Portland, since that's exactly what he's described in his post.

Read more »

On the Wings of Love: Deconstructing the Pigeon

Okay, here's the pitch: we open on the interior of a typical English pub. Inside, the patrons are drinking pints, playing darts, tending to flocks of sheep, or whatever it is drunken English people do in pubs. (We'll hire some kind of England consultant.) Suddenly, this pleasant scene is shattered when three men kick down the door. Boom! [Cue aggro soundtrack.] They're armed with mountain bike forks as well as a stick of some kind, and the leader bellows,"Oy! Vey! Throw some shrimp on the barbie doll mates and put the [insert local currency] in the sack!" (Again, we're going to need that England consultant.) Oh yeah, this gripping story is based on real-life events, and we've got Guy Ritchie attached to direct:



Of course, the above story (forwarded to me by a reader) raises more questions than it answers, chief among them being:

--Rigid mountain bike forks, or suspension?

--If rigid, were they steel or crabon?

--If suspension, how much travel, and were they standard or thru-axle models for enhanced lateral rigidity?

--So what's up with the one guy who had a small branch instead of a fork? Did he have a fork on order from his LBS but it wasn't ready in time, so he found a branch that kind of looked like a fork? And if so, did he put RockShox stickers on it?

--Most importantly, did any of the assailants look like this guy? Cause they may have just been testing a new Niner crabon fork:

Either way, this unfortunate incident should serve to sully the image of the mountain biker even more than it was already sullied, which was already a lot.

Oh, also in the Guy Ritchie movie, there will be a sexy femme fatale who rides a mixte and wears a skirt garter/clip, forwarded to me by another reader:





I'd expect this to appeal to disciples of the "Slow Bike Movement," though oddly it's being pitched to those who perform "track stands and fixie skids:"



Repeat after me. “Spandex is not a fashion statement.”

Repeat after me. “I can look sexy on my bike.”

Repeat after me. “Spandex is NOT a fashion statement.”



For those who agree, you don’t have to give up style when you ride your bike. Keep the earth happy, earn your hipster street cred doing track stands and fixie skids, and do it all looking good in a skirt.

I guess the whole snug girl pants craze of the mid-aughts must have now given way to the micro-mini. If this is indeed the case, I wonder what the women are wearing.

Speaking of the "Slow Bike Movement," manufacturers of heavy, clunky bicycles are now realizing that there's a new demographic for their wares--provided of course they can update their images and create suitably pretentious marketing campaigns for them. Indeed, what we're witnessing right now is a cultural phenomenon I refer to as the "Upscalification of Everything," and whether it's an extension cord or a Flying Pigeon bicycle, there's simply no product that's too mundane, utilitarian, or ubiquitous to rarefy:

The Flying Pigeon Bicycle from yulu canada on Vimeo.

The above video was forwarded to me by yet another reader, and I must say it tickles the undercarriage of art in the way that few promotional videos do. Our protagonist is a bespectacled and fashionably disheveled fellow with one of those haircuts that doesn't look like a haircut and who almost certainly owns a lute, mandolin, or other "alternative" fretted instrument:



And our love interest is a pixiesh sort who doubtless used to cut herself intentionally as a teenager and who even today has no fewer than three (3) Gustav Klimt posters hanging in her apartment:



Both of these characters are accompanied by the sort of spectral, tinkling piano soundtrack you might hear over the credits of a really lavish and boring period film, and by the end of this video it will have driven you crazy.

Of course, Flying Pigeon is a Chinese bicycle company, so to evoke the brand's authenticity the filmmaker shows us some (I assume) Chinese people having an (I assume) authentic Chinese fan party:

The protagonist looks on with...what? Interest? Bemusement? Indifference? Is he even looking at them at all? His disconcerting expression belies nothing:



But then, the corner of his mouth turns up ever so slightly--almost imperceptibly--in what I can only assume is silent appreciation:



But this makes sense, for when you've got a Chinese bicycle, an MFA, and no job you spend your days communing with your bicycle by riding around town and appreciating Chinese things. Indeed, after watching the fan party he continues to appreciate Chinese things by watching a guy cut meat that will eventually become Chinese food:



Soon, though, he meets the pixieish woman. His libido awakens, and he is transformed from Unflappable Hilpster to Smitten Hilpster:



She too is stirred, and is transformed from a sullen woman who has her three friends over every year on the date of Ian Curtis's death into a Coquettish Hilpstress:



At which point the Metaphorical Pigeons of Love take wing and soar:



And the Smitten Hilpster takes a nap, because this is the most work he's done in months:



Notice, however, that his right hand is dangerously close to his waist, and while in a dreamlike state he begins fondling a filthy pigeon feather:



This, I should not have to tell you, is a subtle metaphor for "foffing off."



Once he's done "fondling his feather," he puts pen to paper and poses an analog "Missed Connection" in his analog iPad:



It's abundantly clear by now that our Smitten Hilpster has the soul of a poet, so here is what he writes:



Sure, the filmmaker doesn't actually show this, but because he is a master of subtlety he really doesn't have to.



Meanwhile, our Coquettish Hilpstress visits a garden, and you don't have to have gone to film school or majored in symbolism to know immediately that this portal is a giant vagina:



In entering the giant vagina, our Coquettish Hilpstress is effectively wandering into the lush garden of femininity and exploring her own sexuality, sensuality, and desire:



In other words, she too is "foffing off."



Next we see a gratuitous out-of-saddle shot that simultaneously evokes spirited humping while also letting you know that the Flying Pigeon is laterally stiff and vertically compliant enough for occasional Cat 6 racing:





Finally, the dénouement arrives, and the filmmaker executes the master stroke that sets him apart as a true cinematic genius. First, we see the Flying Pigeon downtube, positioned somewhat phallically:



Then the Coquettish Hilpstress appears, and stands in such a manner that the phallic Flying Pigeon downtube points right to to her vagina garden:



In other words, they're finally "doing it," and the message is clear: Flying Pigeon will get you lain.

Sure, it's all a bit precious, but it's a lot more artful than this, which is what I would have come up with:

That's just depressing, even if the pigeon does eventually wind up in a diaper.

Read more »

Easy Riders: Roam Wasn't Filmed in a Day

(Your daily affirmation, via the Tweeter)

Have you ever wanted to "light out?" Just grab your Scattante, stuff a few jars of Cheez Whiz into your panniers, abandon your tiny house to the next duder, and go? Of course you have. Sometimes it's hard to not to feel like you hear the open road a-callin' your name. "Wildcat, Wildcat!," I hear it whisper sometimes while I'm watching "Judge Judy," and I look longingly at my Smugness Flotilla. Why not just load my family aboard it, leave the workaday world behind, and roam free for the rest of my days as the wily patriarch of a roguish clan of street-savvy vagabonds?

Well, mostly because I need constant access to clean restrooms, and life on the road is "grody."

Some people however are not confined by such "square" concerns, nor are they afraid to set themselves free to fly upon the capricious winds of fate. For these whimsical souls, the bicycle is their wings, the road is their home, gainful employment is their sworn enemy, and crotch rot is their bunkmate. Most importantly, though, the video camera is their constant companion. And of course the car to carry the camera. And the cameraman. And all their stuff. They're like modern-day Huckleberry Finns, forsaking the mighty Mississippi in favor of the log flume at Six Flags Great Adventure.

Yesterday, I mentioned a Kickstarter campaign in which a disgruntled MFA will draw his way across the United States of Canada's Athletic Cup. He will travel a well-worn furrow, plowed by many before him--including the members of Bandcycle, a pair of intrepid Brooklyn duders who rode across the country in order to see bands play and then made an Internet TV series out of it. Here is the trailer, which was forwarded to me by one of the members:

As a clean bathroom enthusiast and person who's always found it necessary to do some kind of "work" in exchange for the money with which I can purchase essential goods and services, I've never "lit out," and so I'm always interested in what empowers those who do. In most cases, the protagonists of these "lighting out" videos sort of skirt the issue, but the Bandcycle duders confront it head-on:

"We grew up with them telling us, 'You can do whatever you want. Any dreams you have, you can accomplish them.' And we believed it. And we, we still kinda do."

That's it! I finally understand it now! In fact, this may very well be the Rosetta Stone that explains every lifestyle trend, project, video, product, "collabo," artisanal enterprise, and social phenomenon by which I have heretofore been vexed or flummoxed. Apparently, people are actually growing up being told that they can do whatever they want! And so they are!

"I want to ride my bike and check out bands for an extended period of time instead of working."

"I want to sell fashionable extension cords."

"I want to be an ascetic even though I have the same amount of crap everyone else has."

"I want to build human dollhouses."

Actually, Best Made Co. might want to rethink their entry into the fashionable extension cord business, since if the tiny house craze continues to grow then there's going to be zero demand for them.

Anyway, like (I thought) most people, I grew up being told that you can't do whatever you want--or, more accurately, that you can technically do whatever you want, but if you do you'll be fucked. It's a good thing I did, too, since even if I had made it through samurai school I don't see how I could possibly have made a living at it. Therefore, the idea that there are now entire neighborhoods inhabited by people who really do believe they can do whatever they want is simultaneously fascinating and horrifying to me. I can't decide if this belief is the secret to a new era of human liberation and fulfillment, or if it's an insidious delusion that will lead us swiftly to our own artisanally curated demise.

Either way, I'm pretty sure that the Bandcycle crew saw the wrong side of Fred Woo-Hoo-Hoo-Hoo speed on numerous occasions:


Though evidently they also hit Fred "Oh Shit!" speed at least once:


And also fell fell victim to the "double-Fred body sled:"


And even the dreaded "triple-Fred chainring tattoo:"

Though it wasn't all bad, and there was the time they got to be totally lazy in two states at once:

In any case, I'm sincerely glad the Bandcycle duders got to live their dream and enjoy what looks like an "epic" adventure, and I'm also convinced we're now living in a new golden age of bearded American back-country adventure cycling:

If you don't believe me, look no further than Rapha, who are to "epic" as Primal Wear are to charity rides:

Rapha Continental USA Pro Cycling Challenge Prologue from RAPHA on Vimeo.

The above is their latest "Continental" video, and in it you will see untrammeled beards flowing wild and free:


By the way, if you're wondering what the "Continental" is, so are the riders themselves:

"I was asked at the start of this trip, 'What is the Rapha Continental?' It seems like no one knows."

It seems odd to me that something Rapha invented and made innumerable movies about would still be so difficult to define at this point. I mean, if you made something yourself, how can you not know what it is? Sure, there are exceptions to this, like the amorphous blobs kindergardeners make out of fingerpaint and macaroni, but I can't imagine this is what they were going for. (Though I could see Primal Wear introducing a fingerpainting jersey.) In any case, since everyone's having so much trouble, I'll take a stab at it and say that the Continental is a bunch of people who make movies of themselves riding bikes in Rapha clothes. Feel free to add something about the ineffable spirit of cameraderie that grows out of self-imposed suffering, and about how the smell of boutique embrocation mingles tantalizingly with the heady aroma of Stumptown coffee in the morning, and I think that pretty much nails it.

As for the beards, that's a bit more ambiguous. I'm guessing it's a symbol of freedom and individuality. Then again, it could also just be something the rest of the riders like to rub for luck:

(A friend with a beard: it's like a rabbit's foot for vegans.)

Of course, there's more to the Continental than that, too. There's also the bikes. The Rapha Continental riders ride handmade steel bikes in somber hues. They do not ride Dayglo plastic singlespeeds, as forwarded to me by a reader:

So what is it? It's a bike made entirely out of venetian blinds:

With bike design, it's almost impossible to produce something entirely new because the basic format has been perfected over 100 years. Leave it to a design student to shake things up with an altogether different take on the urban bike -- a groovy, multicolored ride made from plastic with shutter-shade slats.

Indeed, leave it to a design student to ignore a century of subtle refinement and build a shopping cart without the grocery-"portaging" ability. Then again, the venetian blind technology could be useful in time trialling--just open the slats in crosswinds and close them in headwinds. Perhaps Andy Schleck, who was undone by his subpar time trialling, could benefit from this innovation since I'm sure he's getting desperate:

Or else maybe Frank Schleck could grow a beard and Andy could rub it before every stage for luck.

Read more »

Beating the Sense Into You: Experience is Overrated

If you've been cycling for a long time, you may have noticed that with each passing year you understand it less and less. I know this is the case for me. Just when I think I've finally learned something, I check in with the "experts" and realize that I've actually got it all wrong. This is because experience is no substitute for "facts," at least when it comes to bicycles. I was reminded of this recently when reading the following article in Bicycling, in which a novice cyclist chronicles his attempts to purchase a road bicycle and encounters some good old-fashioned bike industry "expertise" :


Unsurprisingly, as a middle-aged gentleman with negligible road bike experience, he is profoundly uncomfortable on a crabon TrekCialized S-Wanks Whatever SL:

I waited while he rolled out a speedy-looking carbon-fiber model from a major brand, left over from last year. I don't know much about bikes, but I know a few things about shopping. I test-drove the great deal around the neighborhood and felt completely miserable. This was the first time I'd ever sat on such a bike before, and I was unaccustomed to the slender seat. When I put my hands in the drops, they were so low and far away that the position threatened to put me in traction. The shifters were Martian technology. Mostly, though, I was freaked out by how fast the bike wanted to go and how vaporously light it felt. I've owned kites that weighed more.

At this point in the article, you may have been thinking exactly what I was, which is: This guy is total Grant Petersen bait. He's befuddled by STI shifters, he's profoundly uncomfortable in the drops, and his soft posterior is being savaged by that plastic "ass hatchet" of a saddle. In fact, I almost stopped reading at this point, since I couldn't imagine any way this guy wasn't going to wind up on a Rivendell with a Brooks saddle, bar end shifters, mustache bars, and roughly 19 feet of quill stem.

Amazingly, though, I was wrong, for I underestimated the seductive powers of the crabon--and, more importantly, the marketing forces behind it:

Still, carbon interested me. At Central Wheel in West Hartford, I asked Al the Shop Guy about it.

"One thing carbon does is smooth out the jolt from a bump," he said. "On an aluminum frame, the bump might feel more like the equivalent of this."

And then he punched me…in my damaged shoulder. I knew cycling can be a risky sport, but it hadn't occurred to me that I might get hurt just talking about bikes. "On the carbon frame, it would feel like this." Al whacked me more gently.

If someone not only gave me a line like that but then had the audacity to punch me after delivering it I can't imagine I wouldn't reply with a swift kick to the "pants yabbies." But then I'd be forgetting that when people repeat some marketing "wisdom" over and over again--like the one about how somehow it's better to ride into a pothole on a crabon bike than on a metal one--it eventually hardens into a little wart of "truth" that no amount of real world experience can ever dissipate. I have an aluminum bike I ride fairly often. Sometimes I even catch myself thinking it's at least as comfortable as any crabon or steel bicycle I've ever owned, but then I remind myself that it's beating the crap out of me. If only a bike shop employee would sock me every once in awhile to drive the point home then maybe I'd be cured of these lapses of sense once and for all.

Anyway, after the bike industry literally beats some "sense" into this guy, he eventually finds a crabon road bike he likes:

I tried another bike brand, just because they had one. Then I took a day to "think it over," but who was kidding whom? It turns out that Jim Felt was destined to build a bike ideally suited to a middle-aged left-handed Irish-American writer with a penicillin allergy. When I went back for a fitting, Dave's colleague Jeff put the bike on the trainer and watched me pedal for a while. "This doesn't happen very often," he said, "but I wouldn't change anything."

In other words, after test riding a bunch of bikes and not liking them because they don't fit well, he finally gets on one that does and--surprise!--he likes it. And thus another Fred is born.

None of this is to say there's anything wrong with crabon, or that he doesn't love his Felt. I just find it frightening that cycling is now so invested in crabon that salespeople will actually beat you if you question its superiority. But I suppose they have to, because when it comes to cycling experience is often the worst teacher, and fortunately the author of the above article was spared before he might actually have any that led him astray from the Crabon Mistress. So, lest we all fall victim to the delusion that comes with experience, let us all repeat the Frame Material Mantra:

Crabon is Comfy

Steel is Real (But Only If It's Handmade)

Titanium is Forever

Aluminum Will Beat You Up On Long Rides

That should keep us all on track.

By the way, in case you don't believe me about the danger of experience, consider this video which was forwarded to me by a reader:

Basically, it's about a guy who rides obsessively, and when I saw the following warning I just assumed it was more mainstream media anti-bike propaganda:

The bike industry wants us to believe that crabon is a miracle material that will turn the pain of cycling into the handjob that never ends, and the mainstream media wants us to believe that riding bicycles of any material is something dangerous and risky in nature that viewers should not attempt. However, in this case, it turns out the warning is totally accurate, because the guy they feature does in fact have a serious problem:

No, the problem isn't that he wears a tank top tucked into half-shorts, or that his stem angle is identical to his seat post angle, or that he uses aerobars to replicate the upright fit of a Rivendell. The problem is that he's so compulsive he even rides a stationary bike while he's working:


As cyclists, we're all compulsive. We also tend to argue about who among us is too compulsive, or not compulsive enough, or what constitutes someone who doesn't ride enough, or what constitutes someone who rides too much. We will probably never reach a consensus as far as these eternal debates are concerned, but I do think most of us would agree that you're riding way too much when you're going pee-pee in a tennis ball can instead of using the bathroom:

By the way, this image raises two questions for me, and those are:

1) The presence of a wedding ring on his left hand indicates that he has a spouse. How is this possible?

and

2) How many times has he accidentally drunk the contents of that tennis ball can?

This second question in turn reminds me of the time when I was shopping for a new road bicycle. I was checking out a jaunty crabon number, but suddenly a more modestly price aluminum bike caught my eye. I'd never really owned or ridden a road bike before, so I didn't understand the reason for the price difference. So I asked the salesperson about it, and he produced an empty tennis ball can.

"Urinate in this," he said.

"Wait...what?," I replied.

He then punched me in my bad shoulder, grabbed me by my polo shirt collar, pushed me up against the pegboard where they hang the gel gloves, and growled, "Piss in the fucking can."

So I did, and handed it back to him.

"Now drink it," he commanded, holding the warm can of urine just beneath my nose as I cowered next to the Oakley display. "Because that's what riding aluminum is like."

I could smell last night's asparagus, and it began to rise up my throat. I was going to vomit.

"No, no, I get it now. I'll take the crabon," I sobbed.

"That's right, you will take the crabon. You will," snarled the salesman. Then he pulled off a latex mask, revealing himself to be Specialized chairman Mike Sinyard, and he licked his own eyeball with his reptilian forked tongue.

The bike, I'm too afraid for my own safety not to report, is fantastic, and my only regret is that I didn't fork over $15,000 for one of these.

Speaking of lavish purchases, I received an email from a reader with the following subject line:

I would like your views on this

As well as a link to this limited edition €1700 (or roughly US$126,000) Rapha espresso machine:


Well, it should go without saying that I would totally buy this if it was made out of crabon. In the meantime, though, I'll stick with my Nashbar version:


Not only can the Nashbar Microshift Hot Brown Beverage Maker make up to four (4) cups of hot brown beverage, but it also features a timer that's accurate to within six hours, as well as an integrated shift lever with Shimano-esque ergonomics that serves no purpose whatsoever. For best results, visit sister company Performance and buy their new Scattante beans, as well as that Spin Doctor Clean Machine combination chain cleaner/coffee grinder that looks exactly like a penis:

It takes the mystery out of drivetrain maintenance, thanks to the handy indicator that lets you know when you're doing it right:

So how long does it take to clean a chain with the Spin Doctor Clean Machine? Well, it varies, but trust me--when it's finished you'll know.

Read more »