Say What? Putting the "Con" in "Context"

There are a lot of things I love about "curating" my very own "webbing logue." The suite of luxury offices, the lavish travel budgets, my sexy bikini-clad IT staff-slash-beach volleyball team (well, it's not exactly what you're thinking, but they are very good with computers and they work for tanning products)--all of these things make waking up in the early afternoon and shuffling the nine feet from my hammock to my vibrating blogging chair feel like nothing less than a dream come true.

But the best part of all--better than the dozens of dollars, and the millions of spam emails, and the "mimbo" IT volleyball crew--is the knowledge I've acquired over the years. For example, before starting this blog I had no idea that riding a brakeless fixed-gear bicycle down a steep hill and into a busy intersection was, like, a Zen thing that made you feel totally connected to the bike. I thought it was just stupid. I also had no idea people would pay many thousands of dollars for custom high-end bicycles made from bamboo, having foolishly thought it was a material best reserved for panda consumption and papasan chair fabrication. Boy was I wrong! Most of all, though, I learned that when you say things to reporters, those reporters sometimes use what you say in a disappointing manner--kind of like when you sell someone a perfectly good road bike only to see it wind up on the Fixedgeargallery in sickeningly "tarck"-ified form.

Sure, not knowing this may seem like the epitome of naivete, but the truth is that before starting this blog my only experience with newspapers was stuffing them into my shoes after a rainy ride. Plus, I suppose I also have the old-fashioned notion that answering reporters' questions honestly is an act of good citizenship, like helping old ladies cross the street or reporting that neighbor you know is a terrorist because he wears unusual shoes and drives a minivan with a little too much Bondo on it.

Such was my thinking when a reporter from The Daily emailed me recently and asked for my thoughts on the success of the wildly popular Red Hook Crit. Plus, besides getting my merit badge for helping, I also thought it was a good opportunity to put a good word in for the race, since I happen to like it. Most of all, The Daily is an iPad-specific "newspaper," which means my words would be read by literally hundreds of minimalists.

Anyway, here was my reply:

Alleycats, which started as outlaw messenger races, are everywhere now and have evolved into great big scavenger hunts. On the other hand, USA Cycling are not exactly in touch with the zeitgeist, so sanctioned racing can seem too staid and rarefied to the young urban cyclist. I think Dave Trimble's done a great job with his race in combining the best aspects of both--it's a spectator-friendly circuit race on a closed course, but it's outside of the auspices of USA Cycling and takes place at night in an interesting part of Brooklyn. It's a criterium without the stuffiness, and an alleycat without the easter egg hunt.

A couple of days ago the article appeared:


While the both the article's portrayal of the race and the quotes contained therein were unabashedly positive, I was surprised to see that mine had been "retrofitted" to serve as the exception, and that I had instead been used to fill the role of the lone crank:

The Crit, as it's known, retains the renegade spirit of street racing while demanding serious prowess. Alleycats, or "outlaw messenger races, are everywhere now and have evolved into great big scavenger hunts," ____ ______, who blogs at the site Bike Snob NYC, wrote dismissively in an email.

That's it.

Am I a lone crank? Yes. Did I type the words in the quote they used? Sure. By providing the reporter with a quote of over 100 words, had I in effect given The Daily more than enough rope to auto-erotically asphyxiate myself with? Almost certainly. Nevertheless, I couldn't help feeling disappointed.

Naturally, I expected they'd shorten my quote, though honestly I hadn't expected them to shorten it that way. Plus, having given thought to her questions and then sending her a carefully-considered 107-word reply, how could she possibly say I "wrote dismissively?" A dismissive email from me would have looked more like this:

Race sux, fuck off.

But that's pretty much the opposite of what I wrote.

I suppose I shouldn't complain, since this is what comes of being a wise-ass bike blogger. "Live by the sarcasm, die by the sarcasm," as they say. Still, I am a lone crank, so I'm complaining anyway.

By the way, I did email the reporter to ask how she could have said I "wrote dismissively." She sent me a considered reply of over 60 words, but I prefer to render it according to what I now understand are the editorial guidelines of The Daily:

"I'd...cut the entire second half of it out. I...[had]...no context or no previous understanding of this world," she wrote dismissively in an email.

Live by the edit, die by the edit.

Of course, to truly appreciate how pathetically naive I am, you have to consider that this is the second time in less than a week that I've been disappointed by a publication owned by Rupert Murdoch.

This is like renting a hotel room to Charlie Sheen and being disappointed when he trashes it.

Speaking of Rupert Murdoch rags, via John del Signore at Gothamist, it seems that the New York Post is now suggesting that bike paths will desecrate September 11th memorials:

It's terrifying to think about how horribly misquoted you could be for an article like that.

Of course, if any publication would like to know my opinion of fixed-gear hillbombing, they're more than welcome to use the following quote: "It's stupid." [Though I'm sure The Daily would render it thusly: "'It's stupid [not to ride your brakeless fixie down steep hills and into traffic, kids],' he wrote dismissively.") Further to yesterday's post, I learned that the hillbomber featured therein actually has a "tumblr" which he uses to dispense advice to hillbombing aspirants:



Emi, you're one crazy mofo. By the way I'm diggin' your style!

I've stripped and wrecked lots of hubs doing skids, how do you keep your hub from not stripping while doing those crazy as skids?

Thanks
Anonymous

Thank you, so much for being a fan! As far as hubs go and anything else for that matter, I only have one word for you!!!
Phil Wood, Phil Wood, Phil Wood!!! You will never go wrong with Phil Wood!!!
Phil Wood Bottom Bracket, Phil Wood Double Budded Stokes, Phil Wood Lock Ring, Phil Wood High Flange Hub…

My advice on how not to strip your hub while stopping would have been to skip all the expensive Phil Wood stuff and just get a $30 brake caliper, but then again I'm not a famous hillbomber. I wonder if he ever uses a CamelBak, like Frank Schleck:

It's good to see that the UCI are taking this infraction seriously, because if CamelBak use is allowed to continue unchecked it will only be a matter of time before the professional peloton are also riding in baggy shorts, growing out their leg hair, and using fully-suspended bicycles with fourteen feet of front and rear travel in order to ride off curbs. By the way, if you're wondering why you can't wear a bag of water on your back in a UCI road race, here is the reason:

The Leopard Trek rider was allowed to start the time trial by UCI officials present at the race but he may have broken rule 1.3.033 which says "it is forbidden to wear non-essential items of clothing or items designed to influence the performances of a rider such as reducing air resistance or modifying the body of the rider."

That last part about "modifying the body of the rider" also prohibits stuffing tubed meats and other phallic objects down your shorts in order to make yourself seem exceptionally well-endowed, though it's perfectly fine to do this on the podium after the race is over.

Speaking of mountaining bicycles, my esteemed blogleague Stevil Kinevil of All Hail the Black Market is spearheading (or in his case "spearbearding") a campaign to have a crappy Softride (is there any other kind?) inducted into the Mountain Bike Hall of Fame. Here he is on that Softride as seen in the March issue of Bike Magazine:

While I'm primarily a Y-Foil guy I would still very much like to see him succeed, so if you'd like to help you can appeal directly to the Mountain Bike Hall of Fame by following the directions at the end of this post. Then, while you're at it, you can also order a stunning "Smokey and the Bandit" replica jersey from the man himself.

Penultimately, if you're in need of inspiration, my other esteemed blogleague, Lucho of Cyclinginqusition, has shared with me this moving song about the virtues of riding without the aid of performance-enhancing drugs:

6

If you've been wondering whatever happened to that Michael Ball guy, I'm pretty sure that as soon as this song came out he exploded in a wet blast of denim and hair gel.

And lastly, if you haven't gotten around to giving your bike a spring tune-up yet, a reader informs me that you can finally outsource that chore to someone who will perform it while topless:

I'm sure Kiki is quite handy with the nipple wrench.

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Value-Added Content: You Get What You Pay For

Before launching BSNYC/RTMS Blogging and Investment Services, Inc. (NYSE: DOUCHE) and consequently becoming the sixth-most wealthy person in the world, I was in the employ of a small business concern, which meant that I had a boss. My boss was very much what people call a "self-made man," and he had built his successful business by the sweat of not only his brow but of his other body parts as well, which made our offices a moist and somewhat fragrant place to work.

I had a tremendous amount of respect for this boss. He provided me with a living, he taught me the business in which we were engaged, and he revealed much to me about the nature of life itself. Of course, like any boss he would occasionally abuse his power, and like any employee I would occasionally lapse into periods of puerile resentment, but for the most part it was a happy working relationship. In any case, I honestly believe that there are few more valuable experiences than working for and being shouted at by a self-made man or woman. It takes long periods of intense pressure to form things of beauty and value, as mountain ranges, coastlines, and diamonds prove.

Also, I made off with like $17,000 in office supplies when I finally left, so if you want a sweet, sweet deal on some printer cartridges then just email me here.

Anyway, if you work for a business comprised of more than one person you probably have "meetings," and this was also the case with us. Ostensibly, the purpose of these meetings was so that we could all apprise each other of what we were working on, but in practice they mostly consisted of my boss regaling us with tales of his latest achievements in his characteristically "flambullient" fashion. Certainly he was more than justified in doing so, since we all owed our livelihoods to the proceeds of his flambullience, but still I'd be lying if I said it wasn't sometimes a little difficult for me to watch. In fact, as someone who tends to think in metaphor, I could never completely shake the idea that the purpose of these meetings was so that my boss could wag his penis around in front of us and attempt to impress us with it.

"Wouldya look at the size of this thing?," I'd hear him saying as he recounted the value of his latest deal. "And it's not just the length, it's the girth," he'd further explain as he elucidated the finer deal points. Meanwhile, I'd just sit there squirming until he finally got around to sheathing himself and asking what I'd been up to lately, and my stomach would drop as I'd reluctantly unzip my metaphorical fly so everybody else could point and laugh.

Granted, this may be less revealing of my boss's personality than it is of my own profound insecurity and innumerable hang-ups, but whatever the case it should go a long way towards explaining why I retreated from the world of business and now spend my days hiding and blogging for free Scattantes with nobody but a helper monkey for company.

"So what does this have to do with, well, anything?," you may be asking as you either gag or experience the faint stirrings of sexual arousal. Well, those meetings were the first things I thought about when I read the following editorial in The Wall Street Journal:

As I mentioned this past Friday, recently The Wall Street Journal asked me to unzip and present to them my thoughts about bike lanes. I did so, and while they didn't exactly point and laugh, they did react with indifference and move onto something bigger--that "something bigger" apparently being the massive schlong that is satirist P.J. O'Rourke.

Obviously there is much that is inflammatory in O'Rourke's editorial, but also obviously, as a work of satire, we would be foolish and humorless to be inflamed by it. This is because, to quote another (and vastly better) work of satire, "It's not meant to be taken literally, it refers to any manufacturers of dairy products."

What is frustrating though is that, while this editorial is satire, it's also an excellent example of someone calling a meeting so that he can show everybody his penis. However, unlike my boss, who wagged his dick over things he had actually accomplished in a field in which he was an expert, O'Rourke is just sort of rubbing his dick all over an issue with which I can't imagine he has even the slightest bit of experience. "What's that? Bike lanes?" I could hear him asking an editor. "Sure, I can rub my big, greasy comedy penis all over that one." Like Peter Max simply slathers some paint on a photograph, calls it art, and holds out his hands for a check, in this case O'Rourke just smeared some of his smegma on whatever his idea of people riding bikes is and called it satire. It's not even new smegma, either. He did the same thing back in 1987, when he presented chunks of dick cheese disguised as bon mots such as this, and he's clearly had no new comic insights on the subject since then:

I don't like the kind of people who ride bicycles

At least I think I don't. I don't actually know anyone who rides a bicycle. But the people I see on bicycles look like organic-gardening zealots who advocate federal regulation of bedtime and want American foreign policy to be dictated by UNICEF. These people should be confined.

I apologize if I have the wrong impression. It may be that bicycle riders are all members of the New York Stock Exchange, Methodist bishops, retired Marine Corps drill instructors, and other solid citizens. However, the fact that they cycle around in broad daylight making themselves look like idiots indicates that they're crazy anyway and should be confined just the same.

Stereotyping for the sake of humor only really works when you understand the stereotype. Obviously he has never ridden a bicycle in Central Park, since his second paragraph pretty much describes the membership of the CRCA.

None of this is to deny someone's right to capitalize on his own whimsical secretions. Indeed, our entire economy is based on commodifying the "stank" on our collective "hang-lows," and to deny this would be positively un-American. (Or, worse, Canadian). Still, you'd like to think that if a New York newspaper wanted someone to skewer the bike lanes in New York, they could have at least found a New Yorker instead of some guy who lives in "rural New Hampshire" and was edgy back in the 1970s. But then again, why should they bother? After all, cycling is still one of those things it's perfectly fine for the mainstream media to completely mischaracterize or else dismiss as a fringe activity despite the fact that millions of people do it. Just throw it to the novice reporter, or else the old satirist who's hopelessly out of touch, and let them do whatever they want with it.

Meanwhile, between running BSNYC/RTMS Blogging and Investment Services, Inc., tending to my sustainable urban chicken coop, and eking out sufficient time to ride my bicycle in a recreational fashion, I completely missed the Tour of Flanders, which by all accounts seems to have been tremendously exciting:

I did manage to save the race to my DVR, and I plan to watch it just as soon as I've gotten through my backlog of "Glee" episodes, but in the meantime I do find the phrase "Cramps on the Muur" whimsically evocative, and I hope Cancellara will consider penning a memoir under that title. He can even use a ghost writer, which is the literary equivalent of a Gruber Assist.

Lastly, a reader informs me that the PistaDex in Seattle has just spiked dramatically, for you can now trade your track bike for a Picasso:

[ TRADE ] My Picasso Etching for your Road/Tri/Fixie/Mtn Bike ([ TRADE ])

Date: 2011-03-31, 11:43AM PDT

Reply to: [deleted]

I know this may be a little random, but I want a new bike, and am team broke like most people in this economy, so, I am interested in doing a little trade. What am I offering, I have an original Picasso La Celestina etching that I purchased a few years ago from the Franklin Bowles Art Gallery in San Francisco, CA for $4,500 and I am interested in trading it for a nice Track Bike, Fixed Gear, Mountain Bike, or ? If you are a racer and have an extra track bike or tri bike, that is what I am most interested in, but I will look at other options as well. I am 5/9 so a Medium size bike is what I am looking for. Please e-mail me with your potential trade. Located in Seattle.

No word if Picasso also rubbed his manhood on it, but we can always hope.

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Breaking the Duck: Coming to Terms with Cycling

This past weekend, the Amstel Gold Race took place in the Netherlands. The Netherlands (which is in Europe) should not be confused with the "nether regions" (with are in your pants); nor should the Amstel Gold Race, which is a "Classic" road race, be confused with the "Amstel Light race," which is when a bunch of people who have been drinking large quantities of watery beer compete for the use of a bar's only restroom. In the case of the latter, to the loser goes the spoils--if of course by "spoils" you mean "wetting your nether regions." In the case of the former, apparently the big question on everybody's mind beforehand was whether or not the Dutch would be able to "break their duck:"

Not being a sports fan, I had honestly never heard of "breaking your duck" before I read this (though I have heard of stepping on a duck), so I assumed that it either referred to the consequences of excessive "foffing off," or else that it was actually a typo for "brake your duck" and was intended as a nod to the growing "freestyle ducking" scene. Anyway, I guess their duck remained intact, since Philippe Gilbert of Belgium won, after which he went around embracing his teammates one duck at a time:

Inasmuch as "palpable" means "able to be touched or felt," I was a little concerned that Gilbert was able to literally touch or feel his teammates' relief as he hugged them, as it implies that his victory may have raised a little more than some eyebrows. Indeed, it sounds like the ducks over at Amstel Gold may have been a little too intact. This is not the first time relief at Amstel has been palpable, either; back in 2001, when Eric Dekker beat Lance Armstrong, you could "palp" his relief from quite a long distance:

Tragically, Dekker broke his duck later that day while celebrating privately (and vigorously) in his "nether regions."

Of course, the naysayers ("naysayers" is pretentious for "haters") will say that Gilbert had an easy time of it since a bunch of favorites were unable to travel due to that Icelandic volcano that sounds like a death metal band:

I too invoked the volcano as an excuse (praise be to Lob, mighty Provider of Excuses) for not doing any number of things this past weekend, including: visiting relatives; getting out of bed; brushing my teeth; or putting on pants. There's nothing easier than spending a weekend in bed and occasionally poking your head out from under the covers in order to utter the words "Can't--Eyjafjallajökull" when someone attempts to wake you up--except for actually saying "Eyjafjallajökull," of course, which is pretty hard. (I mostly just pronounced it, "Leave me alone.")

I did manage to do one thing this weekend, though, which was to visit the bathroom and peruse the May issue of "Men's Journal," which is the one with Robert Downey, Jr. making "karate hands" on the cover:
I'm totally "feeling" the "karate hands" gesture and am now incorporating it into my everyday interactions by using it as visual punctuation at the end of my sentences. I use it not to be threatening, but more as a sort of "douche-clamation" point. For example, it's great when you want to be that irritating guy ordering food. "Can I get a Jarritos with that 'epic' burrito? Thanks, dude. [Insert karate hands "douche-clamation point" here.] " (For extra "douche cred," wear an expensive watch and have an idling Range Rover or Mercedes SUV double-parked out front.)

Anyway, the reason I was reading this issue of "Men's Journal" is because I'm in it [insert karate hands here], but I was amused to see it also features a cyclocross-themed fashion photo spread, complete with Tim Johnson wearing a $1,930 Louis Vuitton windbreaker:

Obviously, few things go better together than cyclocross and windbreakers--except possibly cyclocross and Luis Vuitton. Ironically, this is a huge coup for Rapha, since it makes the $195 Rapha jersey and $205 Rapha bib shorts Johnson is wearing seem eminently affordable. Still, as incongruous as this is, I was nonetheless pleased to see hardworking riders like Tim Johnson, Jeremy Powers, and Jamey Driscoll getting the sort of attention usually reserved for more "mainstream" athletes. I also hope they at least let Johnson keep the windbreaker, and that he'll wear it on the podium next season while making "karate hands."

Of course, in addition to wisecracks from some guy with a book to promote and photos of hip athletes modeling "lifestyle" clothes, no glossy men's magazine would be complete without a first-person account of some guy undertaking an "epic" adventure in order to shake up his otherwise mundane life. Just as the "Hero's Journey" typically involves the elements of "Separation, Transformation, and Return," the tale of the Glossy Men's Magazine Hero (or "GMMH") generally follows this template:

1) GMMH (think Robert Mackey) is having a "Midlife Crisis;"
2) GMMH learns of a highly organized, pre-packaged "ordeal" that takes place in an exotic location (otherwise known as an "adventure vacation");
3) GMMH purchases a bunch of expensive equipment for aforementioned "ordeal;"
4) GMMH succeeds in completing "ordeal", seemingly against the odds though in fact totally in keeping with the odds since the "ordeal" is designed for and marketed to people exactly like him. (Think me.)

In this particular issue of "Men's Journal," the GMMH "epic" adventure story is called "What Doesn't Kill Us Will Save Our Marriage," and it's about a guy who, along with his wife, decides to take part in the "Speight's Coast to Coast," which is some kind of cycling/running/kayaking thing in New Zealand. (Multi-disciplinary "ordeals" provide for maximum equipment-purchasing opportunities.) What was particularly noteworthy to me was that, despite choosing an "ordeal" that involves cycling, the author really doesn't seem to like it. In fact, he says in the beginning that, as a result of his adventure vacation, he "made my peace with road cycling (except for the dorky helmets, clumsy cleats, fey costumes, and cyclists themselves)."

You know, because there's nothing dorky about running and kayaking.

One essential component of the GMMH ordeal is that it be sidebar-friendly so that the magazine can provide a handy list of stuff you can purchase in order to do the same thing. Here's the bike portion of that sidebar:

Yes, nothing "nichey" about a custom Seven. I mean, I realize the guy is really tall and that a custom bike makes sense, but this is a pretty extravagant purchase for someone who, four months before a cycling trip to New Zealand, doesn't even own a bike and has "never used clip-in pedals." Then again, he does plan to still be riding it 20 years from now. (In a strange universal paradox, custom titanium road bikes are always "The last bike I'll ever buy" yet are also perpetually for sale lightly used on the Serotta forums.) Also, I know what you're wondering, and the answer is, "Yes, the headtube on that Seven is massive:"

("Epic" headtubes for "epic" rides.)

Despite (or perhaps because of) owning a fine custom titanium Seven bicycle, the author is still at odds with cycling. As he says at one point in the article:

I've become familiar with several subspecies of athlete--from data-driven, can't-shut-up-about-it triathletes to aggro, ascetic power lifters--but cyclists are among the worst. Because I'm tall (6-foot-7), I bit the bullet and went custom, shelling out five grand and change for a Seven Axiom S. The featherweight titanium goosed my speed but also got me hazed.

"Seven, huh?" asked one cyclist who came up from behind me on a country road in January. He wore clear wraparound Oakleys to keep me from tearing up in the wind and Gore-Tex booties over his cleats to keep his toes warm (it was 40 degrees). We chatted briefly about how I liked the Seven (a lot) and the company's pedigree (Merlin, the titanium mountain bike specialist). Then he mused, pointedly, "Yep. A lot of money on these roads. Makes you wonder if they'll ever learn to ride." They?

It's possible the guy with the shoe covers (I'm not sure what's wrong with wearing shoe covers when it's 40 degrees) was hazing him, but it's also possible that, after spending thousands of dollars on a custom bicycle, the author has become acutely self-conscious. (Ownership is pain.) Either way, though, regardless of how experienced you are, at a certain point you sort of forfeit the right to be critical of others' elitism. It's like writing an article about your winery tour and saying, "Boy I hate these wine snobs with their talk of bouquets, grapes, and mouthfeel. Anyway, as I was leaving the wine shop with my $900 bottle of 1982 Chateaux LaDouche..."

In any case, the guy and his wife eventually manage to finish the race. While I would never begrudge anyone (or couple) their vacation, this article still makes me wonder why so many people seem to want to spend thousands and thousands of dollars to equip themselves for activities they don't seem to enjoy. Sure, glossy magazines need to promote this whole "adventure" idea to bored people with money, but just once I'd like to read an article called "Having a Really Awesome Time Using Shit You Already Have."

As for the GMMH in this article, I hope he really does keep his Seven for 20 years; moreover, I hope he also continues to embrace cycling, "fey costumes" at all. However, if he doesn't, he can take solace in the fact that he can always trade the bike in for a suit of armor (as you can see in this Craigslist post which was forwarded to me by a reader):



Power X Bicycle and Accessories (willing to trade for suit of armor) - $40 (Knoxville)

Date: 2010-04-18, 9:59PM EDT
Reply to: [deleted]

1 Bicycle
1 UT Construction hat
1 Broken Pair of sunglasses
1 Franzia Helmet
1 Slightly Used Baseball Bat

$40 or willing to trade for 1 suit of armor, 1 box of dino snacks, and $15 for booze.

If he thinks cyclists are bad, just wait until he hits the "renaissance faire" circuit.

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Feeling Freaky: Who Needs Insight?

Like the brakeless rider who does not consider how he will stop his bicycle until he's at the bottom of the hill, the light is red, and an SUV is approaching the intersection, I do not always think things through. For example, when I announced "The Great Meh BSNYC Free Scat Contest!" yesterday, it did not occur to me that perusing people's tales of lament would take a great psychic toll on me. Indeed, to "curate" this contest is to enter a world of injury, theft, pain, and heartache, and the subsequent angst can be assuaged only with spirits. It was not yet sundown yesterday when I began drinking, and it was not yet time for the evening news when I found myself passed out face-down in a bowl of cold macaroni and cheese. Alas, there are too many deserving souls and too few mail-order singlespeeds, and it saddens me that I have but one to give.

Today, however, brings perspective, and after consuming my customary hangover concoction (consisting of apple juice, black pepper, skim milk, and a shot of that disgusting yellow water that's always first to emerge from a squeeze bottle of mustard) I now realize that I must focus on the positive. So instead of dwelling on the many people I will disappoint, I will instead imagine the joy that will fill the life of the winner as well as the beauty that is a brand-new Scattante Americano Courier whatever-the-hell-they're-called. Which bike will the winner choose? Perhaps it will be this one:

It's clear from the new Scats that Performance did their homework this year. (I'm not saying they got an "A" or anything, but they did hand in a piece of paper with something written on it, and as a former mediocre student myself I say that counts.) Most noticeable is that Performance are keyed into the whole "different color fork" thing, which is very fashionable in fixed-gear freestyle right now, and which I assume they stole from the BMX crowd along with all their tricks. (I wonder if fixed-gear freestylers also install their forks much more slowly and awkwardly than BMX riders do, since that seems to be their approach to the tricks.) Performance is a bit behind the times on fashionable foot retention though, and I'm surprised they didn't spec any of the new bikes with some bootleg Hold Fasts. I've actually been using the real thing on my Scattante, and I've been pretty pleased with them. If you're unfamiliar with Hold Fasts, they work exactly like a pair of velcro bedroom slippers--the footwear of choice for the Thorazine-addled. This is why Hold Fast is an especially good choice for the intoxicated or those of limited faculties. (The latter is certainly why I chose them.) I may even "drop" my own version soon:

Made of tough drool-resistant materials, they'll grip your feet with the strength of a thousand patient restraints.

Of course, if you win the Scattante you're also going to need to win a proper bag. Fortunately, over at All Hail The Black Market, Stevil has announced a contest wherein you can do just that. Then, with a free bike and a free bag, you'll have plenty of money left over to drape yourself in Rapha. After all, spring will be here before you know it, and you can't cruise around town on a Hold-Tite®-equipped Scattante sporting a fancy new bag without a proper pair of "shants." Even if Rapha is out of your price range you have no excuse, because there's always eBay. In fact, a reader just forwarded me this auction for a pair of Rapha shants that would excite even the most heavily-sedated shopper:





Today, I'm selling some Rapha cycling shorts. Fixed Shorts, they are called. Rapha, for the uninformed visitor, is the pinnacle of aesthetic cycling wear. It is expensive, and only for the true connoisseur of design and performance. Or something like that. The point is, ladies and gentlemen, that possessing and wearing clothes made by Rapha makes you cool. It makes you rich. It means you go cycling in the French Pyrenees on the weekends until you get tired, then pop into your Audi A-whatever and go home, satisfied that your sleek, rich body is glistening with sleek, rich sweat.

Actually, I don't know if that's true. All I know is, my girlfriend bought them for me, found out I was a fixed-gear poseur (I rode a geared bike on the weekend) and cheated on me with a clove-smoking, knuckle-tattooed douche. And he wore cutoffs and white plimsolls. Double douche. Or she dumped me for him because he has a bigger penis than I do. Either way, I want nothing to do with these pants. And you do.

If, by some cosmic chance, you aren't sure if these pants are for you, you are wrong. They are. To prove it, I want you to read this. It is a secret story patch found WITHIN THE VERY WALLS of the shorts. Pants. Whatever:

Fixed.
Blue has been around for well over ten years now. When he started, his nickname made sense to everyone. Nowadays it doesn't need to make sense. After all, names rarely do. It could only be assumed that blue was the colour of his bike. That's how the guys identify each other. If you ask anyone where 'Bill' or 'Nick' is, you will always be faced with the question "What bike does he ride?" But now Blue's bike is an old green and white Puch track bike. No brakes, of course. His name hasn't changed though. "Hey Green and White!" wouldn't have the same ring. And besides, there's already someone else called Puch.

All true. I've even included and appropriately blurry picture so you can half doubt me with the aching curiosity that tells you it's true. Buy the Rapha Fixed Shorts.

Rapha really needs to hire that guy. He'd move more shants than a naked woman at bike polo tournament. (You know, because of the erections.)

So once you've got your urban singlespeed, and your bag, and your boutique foot retention system, and your shants, you will be ready to take to the streets--yes, the streets, and not the sidewalk. Most of us realize this, but sadly there are some motorists out there who do not. One of these motorists is someone named Gloria Fallon, who issued this "tweet" about 10 days ago which was forwarded to me by a reader:

There's certainly nothing new about people sharing moronic observations via social networking sites. For example, there's that Facebook group everybody was talking about, which I couldn't even be bothered to look at for the same reason I simply flush the toilet after using it instead of rummaging around in there for awhile and then smelling my own hand. However, this one held my attention for a number of reasons. Firstly, it's that particularly irritating form of idiocy that masquerades as wit. Secondly, there's nothing more noxious than the gas that forms when ignorance mingles with entitlement. Yes, why are bicycles allowed to ride on the street with cars? Well, I don't know, Gloria, but you can rest assured that your fellow idiots out there are at least trying to relegate bicycles to the skies. (Other questions along these same lines include: Why are women allowed to vote? Why can't I just kill people? Why are poor and ugly people allowed to shop in the same supermarket I am?) Thirdly, I'm reasonably sure that Gloria Fallon is Jimmy Fallon's sister (Why are bad comedians allowed to host talk shows?), which is the only reason I can think of that her quip was "retweeted" like 29 times:

Now, I'm fairly new to Twitter (yes, I'm on Twitter), but my understanding of a "retweet" is that it implies an endorsement, or an expectation that the sentiment expressed in the original "tweet" will be shared by one's followers. So, since Gloria Fallon appears to be the sister of a "celebrity," I wondered if any other "celebrities" shared her beffudlement. As it happens, there was one person of note who did seem to agree with her: columnist Joel Stein, who has over a million followers.

I suddenly imagined some awful cocktail party at which a tipsy Gloria Fallon approaches Joel Stein and, her lips and teeth stained with red wine, remarks to him: "Oh my God, Joel, I had the most annoying drive over here. There was like totally this biker guy in my way the whole time. Why are bicycles allowed to ride on the street with cars? Am I allowed to paddle a kayak in front of the QE2?" Instead of correcting her, Joel Stein simply clinks glasses with her and says, "I know, right? You're so clever, Gloria. Nice boating reference." Two hours later, they're groping each other in the bathroom.

Again, it's entirely possible that as a novice Twitter "curator" I've missed something, and that Joel Stein does not share Gloria Fallon's view on bicycles--especially since he's written about cycling for mainstream publications on a number of occasions. Maybe he simply retweeted her comment because he just assumed his legions of Twitter followers would realize immediately it was moronic. Then again, while Stein writes about cycling, he's not necessarily the most insightful commentator. For example, here's something he wrote about the Tour de France for the Los Angeles Times in 2008:

If you're like me, I'm sure you can't get enough of mainstream journalists associating doping and cycling--because, you know, there's no cheating in baseball. (Manny Ramirez was tested 15 times in 5 years. Lance Armstrong was tested 15 times since breakfast.) Then, he goes on to tip Cadel Evans as the winner:

Sure, Evans was looking really good there for awhile, but any real cycling fan knows he's about as likely to get through a Tour without choking as Jimmy Fallon is likely to get through a skit without laughing. Still, it's much easier to hire dilettantes with recognizable names, which is why the media industry is doing as well as it is. Here's another Tour bit from Stein in 2009, this one for ESPN:

I guess Stein has found a nice little sideline making fun of a relatively obscure sport for "mainstream sports" fans who know even less about it than he does. Incidentally, he does mention that he rides a bike, if only for brief periods of time--though presumably not in the street, since he'd be liable to delay Gloria Fallon. In any case, if you feel like a total freak--either as a cyclist or a cycling fan--this might help explain why.

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Say It Loud: "I Ride and I'm Proud"

I've made no secret of the fact that I am a strong believer in full fenders (or "wheelbrows") for everyday, non-competitive cycling--so much so that I even produced a PSA. The truth is, while some may scoff, a set of wheelbrows can keep you significantly drier in wet conditions and is far more effective than a clip-on "filth prophylactic." I've also occasionally employed actor Peter Gallagher's lush eyebrows in order to issue advisories when weather conditions calling for wheelbrows are imminent--even though, to my knowledge, Peter Gallagher is not particularly interested in cycling. Well, you can imagine my pleasure when Peter Gallagher, his eyebrows, and cycling finally came together in the season premiere of the Showtime series "Californication" this past Sunday. That's right--Peter Gallagher was riding a bike.

Unfortunately, like a teenager in a crowded house with only one bathroom, my pleasure was short-lived. Not only was Peter Gallagher's bike depressingly bereft of wheelbrows, but Gallagher himself was also dressed like a complete doofus, complete with pointy time trial helmet:

Actually, I'm not sure this is Peter Gallagher at all--it could be a stunt rider. At least one commenter has observed that Cadel Evans looks a bit like Gallagher, so at first I thought maybe it was the newly-rainbowed World Champion:


However, it seemed more likely to me that they'd pick an American rider, so my next guess was George "Bad Luck" Hincapie (click here for the Hincapie theme song):

But while it was tempting to imagine that Hincapie is picking up a little off-season bakshish (which is not to be confused with a little Wednesday hashish) by doing stunt work in Hollywood, it really doesn't look like him, so I ultimately decided that, if this is indeed a stunt rider, then it's Grant Petersen. (I based this decision solely on the rider's upright position.)

If you're unfamiliar with "Californication," it's about a lascivious, hedonistic writer with a heart of gold who's played by David Duchovny. He also drives a beat-up Porsche, which symbolizes his downfall from literary wunderkind to washed-up cad. In any case, Duchovny is in a hurry to get to the next scene, so he starts honking impatiently at Gallagher, or Evans, or Hincapie, or Petersen, or whoever is actually riding the bike:


Predictably, an argument ensues and obscenities are exchanged:

(At this point it's definitely Gallagher, though he might be using stunt eyebrows.)

As the argument escalates, Duchovny exclaims, "Live Strong, asshole," and flicks his cigarette right into Gallagher's face:

Presumably, this causes Gallagher's trademark bushy eyebrows to burst into flames, and he (well, the stunt double) winds up crashing headlong into somebody's flower box:

("Do not put anything in my flower box"--including Peter Gallagher's stunt double.)

Of course, it turns out the dinner party to which Duchovny is headed (unbeknownst to him) is actually at Gallagher's house, which I believe they call either "situational irony" or "hackneyed plotting." Here's Gallagher a little while later in his non-cycling attire, having fortunately survived his journey into the flower box:

If you want to actually watch this for yourself, you can do so for free at Amazon.com, though be aware it is heavily censored--especially the weird "mangina" scene:

Anyway, after watching this scene, I felt torn. (I mean the driver/cyclist encounter scene, not the mangina scene.) On one hand, here is the "mainstream" media once again making cyclists look foolish. On the other hand, it is only a TV show, and Duchovny's character is supposed to be an asshole. Also, while we don't really know Peter Gallagher's character very well yet, I'm sure he's supposed to be the sort of Fredly person who would ride around slowly in a time trial helmet. So really, it's foolish to get offended by art (or at least entertainment). Plus, in real life David Duchovny is actually a triathlete, as you can see from this video which I have edited slightly to conform to the Mavic R-Sys testway:



Even so, one can't help finding these sorts of portrayals somewhat vexing. In a way, Duchovny ridiculing a dorky cyclist when he is actually a dorky cyclist himself is reminiscent of a time when actors had to change their names in order to hide their cultural backgrounds. (Fortunately, those days are well behind us, which is why the host of "The Daily Show," Jonathan Stuart Leibowitz, proudly uses his given name.) One wonders what other "celebrities" are also cyclists. Sure, we know about Carson Daly, and Jake Gyllenhaal, and even Conan Vinokourov. But that's just the tip of the Fredberg. The guy who coined the phrase "weird style diktats" recently forwarded me this photo of Liev Schreiber and Naomi Watts, and as you can see Schreiber is not only "palping" a set of celebrity-approved aero extensions, but he's also coming in for a textbook sidewalk "schluff:"

That notwithstanding, it pleases me to see two people enjoying themselves on bikes. The fact is, Hollywood's relationship with cycling is an uneasy one--like homosexuality, it seems like something they're reluctant to embrace even though many of them are doing it. Similarly, the relationship between the media and the fixed-gear trend is equally strained, and a reader has informed me that one outlet is boldly announcing its death:

Intrigued, I read the Washington Post article referenced in the post, and it certainly was one of the most refined fixed-gear form articles I've read in quite some time. It contained all the necessary elements. There was the dubious explanation of how a fixed-gear works:

The "fixie bliss" testimonial:
And a reference to the brake debate:

Nothing says "street cred" like "brakeless" and "high school math teacher."

Really, the only way to date a fixed-gear form article is by the bicycle models it references. This one is clearly more current since it references the Globe Roll:

In case you're wondering, "late adopters" is the polite industry term for the people who decided to buy fixed-gears after the "culture" closed, and who are more colloquially referred to as "n00bs." These people are in contrast to "pioneers" like Garrett Chow, who have been riding fixed-gears since waaay back in 2003. In the world of fixed-gear marketing, it's very important to read the subtext. When Chow says, "This is a lifestyle tool," he really means, "This is a lifestyle, tool." Clearly the reporter did not pick up on his inflection. It's a polite way of saying, "All you 'n00bs' suck my product."

The truth is, the simple act of cycling can be a source of tremendous embarrassment and guilt. Between the closeted celebrities and self-conscious "late adopters" it can seem like nobody's comfortable simply getting on a bike. And when cycling is combined with white gentrification, the embarrassment and guilt can be, well, palpable:


Sorry I spat at you this morning - w4m - 29 (Clinton Hill)
Date: 2009-09-29, 9:49PM EDT
Reply To This Post

I'm a white woman who was riding my bike to work this morning, and you were a young Black adolescent boy (either really young or really short). As I rode past you, you suddenly lunged at me and barked really loudly and scared the shit out of me, which was your intention. So I spit at you, out of rage, without thinking, and I rode away. You shouldn't do things like that because they are dangerous and can cause accidents. But I really shouldn't have spit at you, and I'm sorry. I think that automatic, but rather weak glob of saliva that I dropped in your direction was fueled by years of bike commutes full of pedestrians, motorists, and even other cyclists doing and saying really fucked up things to me that I always ignored, but the hostility built up. And years of feeling frustrated and angry and guilty when groups of young Black men in my neighborhood would periodically decide to chase me and threaten me and say sexually disgusting things to me and just generally make me feel unsafe in my gender because of resentment and tension around the fact that I'm a gentrifier. But my spitting at you just adds to whatever it was that made you feel like you should try and scare me, which is not at all what I want to do. You acted obnoxiously, but you did not deserve to be spit at. Not at all. I'm sorry we had that interaction, and I'm sorry we represented to each other what we did, and I hope that if we ever run into each other again, we can just recognize each other as two people who have a lot going on in their lives and who just want to go to where they're going on peace.

Flicking a cigarette at a Fred is bad enough, but spitting on a child is something else entirely. Whether it's bikes or people, sometimes it seems like "gentrifiers" are far too preoccupied with colorway.

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