Ubiquity: Wherever you Ride, There You Are

Webster's dictionary defines "ubiquitous" as follows:

ubiq·ui·tous adj \yü-ˈbi-kwə-təs\ : being all over the freaking place : like, everywhere : an especially pungent form of hummus [a ubiquitous outbreak of herpes]

And when it comes to ubiquity, nobody embodies this quality like the time-traveling t-shirt-wearing retro-Fred from the planet Tridork, who a number of readers in the UK have informed me has finally scored his first magazine cover:

They say once you've done a Digital Photography Enthusiast cover stardom is all but assured, so from here on in all he has to do is keep his flavor-saver down, hold on tight to those clip-on aeorobars, and let the offers roll in. I predict that he'll be on every billboard in America (or, if you prefer, Canada's flavor-saver) in a "fortnight," which Webster's defines as follows:

fort·night noun \ˈfȯrt-ˌnīt\: a pretentious two weeks : a night you spend in a fort [in a fortnight the time-traveling t-shirt-wearing retro-Fred from the planet Tridork will be ubiquitous in Canada's flavor-saver]

By the way, if you'd like to know what that issue of Digital Photography Enthusiast looks like in its natural newsstand setting, here it is courtesy of one reader, complete with a pair of disembodied hands:

Presumably as I type this, thousands of digital photography enthusiasts are enjoying a similar view as they peruse it on the toilet. And as for the question of whether the person who took the above photo is himself a digital photography enthusiast, it all depends on what he was thinking as he shot it. If he thought to himself, "Hey, I'm really enjoying this!" then I guess that would make him an enthusiast, but if he thought, "I can't wait to get this over with and check out that issue of Sky and Telescope" then that puts him squarely in the digital photography indifferentist camp. As for Sky and Telescope, I'm pretty sure what to expect for the cover of next month's issue:

Incidentally, Sky and Telescope is a magazine so nerdy it makes Bicycling look like Vice, and the typical subscriber probably spends hours a day watching the skies for evidence of life on other planets, having long ago abandoned the far more elusive search for a date.

Speaking of fruitless searches, as you're no doubt aware there is considerable unrest in Egypt right now, and as the story continues to unfold I've become increasingly concerned about the well-being of those fixed-gear riders who went there to look for the pyramids:

(Where are the pyramids? I must inflate them with my floor pump!)

Granted, at least one of them is wearing a truly "epic" helmet, but I fear that may not be enough to protect him. Indeed, in these turbulent times, whenever I read about trouble in any far-flung corner of the globe (insasmuch as globes can have corners, which is not at all), my mind immediately goes to the fixie crew that is undoubtedly trapped there. This is because, in the past few years, undertaking poorly-planned "epic" fixed-gear journeys to remote destinations and filming them has become the fixed-gear equivalent of a trip to Sandals, and there is scarcely a country left where one of these ill-conceived theme vacations is not underway. Once upon a time, the sun never set on the British Empire--now it never sets on some hipster with a track bike, a giant messenger bag, and a video camera. So ubiquitious is the phenomenon that the State Department even issues fixed-gear travel advisories now:

Fixed-gear filmmakers are like missionaries, spreading the Gospel of Self-Importance to exotic peoples with far more pressing concerns. Skid-patch calculation will surely be remembered as the navel-gazing of the 21st century.

This is not to say that you should refrain from taking cycling vacations--just make sure the place you're going is safe, and also think carefully about your equipment selection. For example, when traveling long distances, you might want to leave the bike designed for riding around and around in tiny circles at home and opt for something that can accommodate racks. Speaking of racks (and disembodied hands, as I was earlier) another reader has forwarded me the following:

Which includes not a disembodied hand, but rather the very tip of a disembodied digit:

My best guess is that they're fingertips, but without further evidence I won't rule out the possibility that the person (or simian) holding the rack has prehensile feet.

Meanwhile, you may recall that not too long ago I was generally whining and griping about how I wanted to leave New York. This is no doubt due at least in part to seasonal affective disorder, since right now the area looks like this and we've got so much snow that the rats have started wearing penguin costumes. Meanwhile, yet another reader is taunting me about life in the cycling paradise that is Portland, and informs me that not only is there no snow, or ice, or police obstructing the bike lanes, but that there are also riders who have what appear to be prehensile butt-cracks:

I'm not sure what she's actually "portaging" in there, but I did fire up the Gary Klein telescope and it appears to be a paperback book:

I don't know why she wouldn't just carry the book in her fanny pack instead, though it's also entirely possible she realized that the moon was visible over the horizon of her pants and she stuck the book in there out of modesty. Either way, you certainly don't need a rack when you've got that kind of posterior dexterity.

Lastly, I should remind you that registration is now open for the Five Boro Bike Tour. If you want to know what this ride is like, just imagine the streets of New York choked with over 30,000 people who look pretty much exactly like the time-traveling t-shirt-wearing retro-Fred from the planet Tridork and you've got a pretty good idea. In any case, I was reminded that registration was open when I received this promotional brochure via the actual mail:


Which featured a bicycle equipped with a rather perplexing drivetrain:

I wonder of the bicycle crackdown will still be in effect when the Five Boro Bike Tour gets underway. Hopefully it is, since I think handing out over 30,000 tickets in a single day might finally get it out of the city's system once and for all. I also wonder if they gave out any tickets to the participants in this past weekend's "Idiotarod," which I'm sure involved plenty of light-running:

It's just like a Portland cyclocross race, only without the bikes.

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Tempting Fate: Look Ma, No Hands

(A reader's AYHSMB vanity plate in the eye-catching Massachusetts "colorway.")

Bicycle photography is a rule-bound art form, governed as strictly as any haiku or sonnet. Consequently, bicycle photographs generally include certain elements: among these are the drive-side shot; the Obligatory Robust Bottom Bracket Shot (or ORBS); and the "Wow, I'm a genius, I built up a fixie with a straight chainline" shot. However, my personal favorite is the "disembodied hand" shot, which I mentioned in yesterday's post.

The disembodied hand shot is my favorite precisely because it is whimsical and improvisational, and consequently an antidote to the contrived stuffiness inherent in most bicycle photography. This is why I occasionally catch myself slavering over disembodied hand porn, and why I was pleased to receive this example from a reader:

Sure, intentional disembodied hand parody shots like the ones I mentioned yesterday are entertaining, but nothing is as satisfying as the real thing--especially when it's in the classic Michelangelo "Hand of God" style:

("All You Deities Finger My Fixie")

Speaking of disembodied hands, another reader forwarded me this interview with a top hand model, whose manner of speaking is so ethereally lilting that she seems to be hypnotized by her own gesticulations:



"I can make a full-time living off about five inches," she reveals to Katie Couric while her hands twist slowly like shwarma on a skewer:

This is quite impressive--even more so than adult film star and total über-Fred Jack Lawrence, who also makes a living off of a single appendage, though presumably with a few more inches:



But still, nobody tops Adam, who managed to father the entire human race with little more than a centimeter:

Put that in your hand and model it, Ellen Sirot.

In any case, if you enjoy disembodied hand shots you owe a debt of gratitude to the fixed-gear "culture," whose obsession with photographing their crappy bikes has resulted in a veritable disembodied hand bumper crop. However, I'm not sure this makes up for the rest of their excesses--though you've got to give them a disembodied hand for continuing to find increasingly stupid things to do with what are essentially very limited bicycles. First there was the awkward herky-jerkiness of "fixed-gear freestyling," then there was the senseless knee abuse of long-distance fixie touring, and now there's the utter mindlessness of "hill bombing," as evidenced by that guy on the Stelvio, as well as these riders in San Francisco:

Potrero Hill Bombing from Lester Lyons-Hookham on Vimeo.

In it, we see a rider who looks less like an actual "hipster" than he does someone who has dressed up as a stereotypical hipster for Halloween:

Next, this parody of a hipster rides down a hill, skidding occasionally in order to scrub off speed and to show off his Daisy Dukes:

The object being, of course, to blow a stop sign and experience the thrill of almost being hit by a car:

I'm not sure why you'd make a video like this and put it on the Internet unless your goal is to figuratively urinate on the graves of every cyclist who has ever been killed by a motor vehicle through no fault of his or her own. Presumably they're working on a sequel in which they take one of those "epic" fixed-gear trips to an impoverished country in order to burn a bunch of food and money in front of the villagers. Anyway, you'd think that if your favorite pastime was riding down hills and skidding to a stop you'd at least put some thought into tire choice, but even this seems to be beyond them:

You'd also think that, in a city like San Francisco, climbing hills quickly would be the true measure of cycling prowess, but I guess water and stupidity always find their own level.

Now, I'm not one to wish crashes on people, but I can't help thinking that cycledom might be better off if these riders were to fall of their bikes and vow never to get back on again. Nothing serious, mind you--just enough to dent their fixies and their pride. Speaking of which, while I languished in the shed last week, the New York Times published the following article on just that, only with "Traditional Freds" instead of the "Nü" variety:

In it, the writer chronicles the events leading up to her own traumatic crash:

My crash came 8.9 miles into a 100-mile ride (of course I knew the distance, because of course I was watching my bicycle computer). My friend Jen Davis was taking a turn leading; my husband, Bill, was drafting — riding close behind her. I was drafting Bill when a slower rider meandered into his path. Bill swerved and I hit his wheel. Down I went.

Clearly this was a "clusterfred" of the highest order, but I'm not sure we're getting the whole picture and I think this testimony still requires some Johnny Cochran-esque cross-examination. Setting aside for the moment the fact that she was staring at her computer instead of watching what was going on around her, I'm not sure how, if she was drafting behind Bill as she claims, his swerving would cause her to hit his wheel. The only plausible explanation would be that they were attempting an "echelon," a maneuver that no Fred should ever attempt. In fact, I'm not even sure most Freds should attempt regular drafting, given that they're generally rapt by their various computers and gizmos like crows are transfixed by shiny things, and in addition to cars staying three feet away from them they should probably also stay three feet away from each other:


The only objects that move more erratically than Freds on Pinarellos are hummingbirds and UFOs.

Meanwhile, when I'm not browsing disembodied hand porn you can be reasonably certain I'm looking at ZBCs, or "Zany Bicycle Cockpits." Sure, the contest is long over, but fortunately for all of us ZBCs will continue to bloom on bicycles like flowers of absurdity. Moreover, the ZBC is not confined to the tinkerer's shed, and can even be found in the realm of elite competition. Consider this pair of hydraulic brakes, modified to work in tandem with road levers and documented by Cyclocross magazine:

Where there's a will, there's a kludge.

Lastly, I was pleased to receive from another reader what may be the most "epic" fixed-gear video to date:

Helps put all that hill bombing in perspective.

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Making A Point: Paint, Sponges, and Determination

Obviously the big Tour de France news yesterday (aside from "Sunglassesgate") was Alberto Contador's counter-attack on Andy Schleck while the latter struggled with his recalcitrant drivetrain. Contador's move was tremendously controversial, since in the French sporting world any action that results in victory is considered unseemly. (Thomas Voeckler is exempt from this due to his appropriately disproportionate failure-to-success ratio.) Consequently, Camp Contador went into "damage control" mode, and in an attempt to cap the gushing crude oil of negative public opinion they "dropped" this apology "edit:"



I was especially pleased to see that Contador employed the new "corporate fingerbang" insigniaway:

This lent the video that important "Contador: A Brand You Can Trust" feeling, and it was almost (but not quite) enough to overcome the fact that it was shot in a cheap hotel room about as artfully as a celebrity sex tape.

Still, it's doubtful that this video will be sufficient to turn opinion in his favor--especially when he has already been judged in high-minded fashion by the Last Word In All Things Cycling, Gerard Vroomen of Cervelo:

(Wisdom emanates constantly from The Vroomen.)

No hastily-uploaded hotel apology could possibly counteract the power of a clever flip-the-words-around-for-emphasis sound bite "tweeted" by a man with a thoughtful expression and an authoritative and clinical lack of hair.

Meanwhile, in an attempt to understand what exactly happened to Andy Schleck's drivetrain yesterday, Last Word On All Things Cycling Tech (Provided They Cost Over A Thousand Dollars) Lennard Zinn has authored a 1,600-word technical document that basically says he dropped his chain:

So, we’re left with my original theory. LZ’s Schleck chain-drop theory in a nutshell: ‘twas a perfect storm of upshifting under load with a derailleur that has a big loop on it to snag the cogset when the chain drops off the bottom to the inside of the small chainring.

It seems to me that Zinn could have simply "tweeted" the words "he dropped his chain." Not only would this have been simpler, but he would have had an extra 120 characters left to engage in some Zenlike Vroonenese wordplay:

Incidentally, Zenlike Vroonenese is very similar to Yakov Smirnoffese:

Of course, Schleck could have obviated the issue of chain-droppage altogether if he had used this revolutionary new chainring design, which was forwarded to me by a reader:

"By removing the rear derailleur and cassette, the mass is relocated between the riders feet and away from the suspension, which gives much better small bump response, as well as increased grip and cornering ability," explains the designer, and I'm sure you'll agree that this a far more elegant and practical solution than a single chainring and a Rohloff Speedhub.

In any case, Andy Schleck was not the only rider with a stomach full of anger after yesterday's stage. Nicolas Roche (who Phil Liggett will duly remind you at every opportunity is the son of Stephen Roche) was also so angry at his teammate John Gadret that he actually threatened to take his life:


Indeed, on the very climb on which Schleck was undone by his SRAM Red drivetrain, Nicolas Roche asked Gadret for his wheel, to which Gadret simply replied, "Non:"

As our team car was No 11 in the cavalcade and it would take a lot of time for them to get to me through the streams of dropped riders, I asked Gadret -- who was there to help me -- for his wheel. I couldn't believe what happened next. He just shook his head and said 'Non'. At first I thought he was joking, but soon realised he wasn't when he kept riding past me.

By the way, "Non" is actually French for "No," which should help frame the incident in its proper linguistic and cultural context.

Speaking of cultural contexts, while I was browsing the Irish Independent I also noticed this article about yet another naked bike ride:

Apparently, this sordid procession delighted motorists, who "largely stared and whooped and gave the cavalcade the thumbs-up." (Though thumbs up what the article did not specify.) Yes, nothing is more delightful than "paint, sponges and determination:"

In Cork yesterday, it was all paint, sponges and determination at the day's first stop -- the pre-ride painting party.

While these elements may have characterized the "pre-ride painting party," unfortunatly at the after party it was all mineral spirits, loofahs, and sore crotches.

I wonder if there will be also paint, sponges, and determination at the Fifth Annual Fixed-Gear Symposium in Traverse City, Michigan, because I do know there will be "tight events:"

By which the organizers obviously mean "artistic cycling:"

As well as the usual assortment of bicycle-themed social activities:

While the "media" prefers to focus on the "outlaw" element in fixed-gear cycling, it's easy to forget that just as many if not more fixed-gear cyclists are simply complete dorks. Fortunately, we have the Fixed-Gear Symposium to remind us of this, as well as of an age when the reassuring countenance of Sheldon Brown (and not the collective faux scowl of "crews" like "MASHSF") was the face of fixed-gear cycling. Basically, it's like a Star Trek convention, but for "fixies."

I did note, however, that there was no mention of a skidding contest, and I can't help but wonder of the time-honored tradition of the inanely "epic" sliding stem-hump has finally come to an end. Here's some thrilling footage from the contest that took place at the 2006 Symposium:



If it is indeed the end of competitive skidding, then perhaps it's all for the best, since if you get excited by watching living creatures remain stock-still while riding slow-moving objects you can always watch dog surfing:



Sure, it looks cute, but 147 dogs lost their lives at sea that day. This one survived, though, thanks to his owner's well-honed "portaging" technique:

In lieu of a skidding contest, I think the organizers of the Fixed-Gear Symposium should hold a "disembodied hand" contest. The disembodied hand is as essential to bicycle photography as the rifle was to frontiersman portraiture, and here's an excellent example that was forwarded to me by a reader:


As well as a photograph of the actual body from which the hand was most likely disembodied:

Speaking of drawing conclusions, another reader forwarded me the following photo of a Brooks saddle he spotted while visiting New York City recently:

As any Brooks apologist will tell you until you politely insist that they be quiet, a Brooks saddle will eventually conform to the contours of one's anatomy, so one wonders what sort of cavernous crotchal region this particular rider must possess. It's enough to make you scratch your head with your pencil--which can be dangerous if it has just come back from the "artisanal pencil sharpener" (as forwarded by yet another reader):


I suppose "artisanal pencil sharpening" is better than "anal pencil sharpening."

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