Sideways: Take Me Away!

If you were around "back in the day," then you might remember this commercial:



Who among us can't relate? It's a sentiment that rings as true today as it did back then. The goddamn traffic. That sonofabitch boss! That Spawn of Satan baby!! And the dog!!! Oh my God, won't somebody kill that fucking dog!?!?!

Between David Berkowitz and the Calgon lady, people of the 1970s and '80s were highly susceptible to dog-induced stress. This, as much as anything else, was responsible for the so-called "cat boom" of the 1990s.

In any case, when I find myself overwhelmed by the barking baby and the crying dog and the boss who snarls indecipherable orders at me, I can't just slip into a hot bath with a bar of Calgon--mostly because the dog always follows me in, and the smell of wet canine is not exactly aroma therapy. So instead, I daydream about people whose lives I envy, and I imagine what they're probably doing right then.

I used to imagine Mario Cipollini, since it's a pretty good bet that at any given moment he's pectorals-deep in decadence at his Tuscan villa--either that, or he's just riding shirtless:

Now, though, I've found somebody who lives even more sumptuously than Mario Cipollini. That person is of course the man we met yesterday, Larry Olmsted, writer of "The Great Life" column on Forbes.com. In addition to being the author of canonical cycling classics such as "Why You Need A Custom Road Bike," he also penned "Dog Days of Summer? Not With the KoolCollar!," which you'll no doubt recognize as perhaps the single greatest thing ever written about how to keep your dog from getting too hot.

Anyway, there I was, once again drowning in life's travail as an overheated dog humped my leg and a baby, in turn, humped the dog. And once again, I wondered how I could possibly manage all this stress. Taking a deep breath, I thought to myself, "I wonder what old Larry's up to right now. Something fabulous no doubt." So I checked his Twitter, and sure enough he was in Norway stuffing his face full of moose meat:
Sigh... I can almost taste the fur. Moose meat, take me away!

By the way, when he's not gorging himself on moose, Olmsed is riding around Italy dressed as a cow:

Presumably he never saw the movie "Top Secret." Or, more profoundly, maybe he did.

But while it's easy to be jealous of people like Larry Olmsted, whose lives are filled with custom bicycles, and moose meat, and cow jerseys, and Golden Retrievers with ice collars around their necks, it's important to remember that life just isn't fair. The truth is, the universe doesn't owe you anything, and it all comes down to the fact that some people are simply better than others. Larry Olmsted is one of those people. You ride a Cannondale, he rides a Seven. You eat chicken, he eats moose meat. You have a regular jersey that's one color, he has a mottled one that makes him look like the world's Fredliest Holstein.

Look, he can't help it if he's naturally awesome. And how awesome is he? Well, he's so awesome that he had to get a singlespeed because he was too fast for the group ride:

I got my first single speed three years ago because I often participated in group fun rides where the pace was bit slow and not challenging, but that’s okay because I was there for the social aspect. But I soon thought, if instead of slacking off so I could hang and chat, what if I was working the entire time?

Sure, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "If you're so fast why don't you just find a stronger group instead of sandbagging on the MS ride?" Well, that's just the sort of thing a loser would say. See, what I've learned from reading Olmsted's work is that you can't think like a loser--you have to think like a Larry. Sure, a loser might just quit that slow group ride, but a Larry just keeps taking parts off his bike until the ride is hard again. Problem solved.

Actually, I think USA Cycling should introduce this concept to bike racing. Instead of having a bunch of different categories, there should just be a single Category 5, and instead of upgrading you they could just remove components every time you win. This way, the slow people could all ride their custom Sevens, and the fast people would have to ride unicycles.

This is the beauty of Larryism. Instead of seeking new challenges and experiences, you simply change your equipment. This allows you to live in a perpetual state of moronic condescension.

Speaking of singlespeeds, a reader has forwarded me one that is so "bad ass" that even Larry "Too Strong For The Group Ride" Olmsted probably couldn't handle it:

Bad Ass Bike - $315 (The Dalles Ore)
Date: 2011-07-19, 8:36PM PDT
Reply to:

This is a bad ass mother fucker Bike. This bike has no speed limit. Brand new chain tenser. If you can't handle it, I have the shimano derailer. Michelin Kromion tires ($60.00 per tire.) (Sugio) 52 teeth front sproket, fuji bars & seat post. Alex rims, tektro clip on brakes.
Adam 600 vintage pedals. 1 altar custom butted alloy frame.

This bike is meant for a hard-core mother fucker.....

Call Kirk at 541-993-[deleted] $ 315.00 or best offer


Do you know what the definition of "bad ass" is? It's a chain that contains at least two right angles:

The only way you can outdo that is with the elusive "Cat's Cradle" setup:

Show up at the SSWC with that and they'll give you the winner's tattoo before the race even begins.

Meanwhile, moving from "bad ass" to "bad Assos," another reader tells me that the gilded "A" is still running ads which feature egregious examples of cleat/pedal incompatibility:


To wit:

You'd really think they'd have noticed by now. Then again, the model is probably another Larryist, and he set his bike up that way on purpose since his local charity ride wasn't hard enough.

Also, the very same reader also sent me this ad, which features a disembodied hand:

As much as I admire downhill mountain bike chic and the manner in which it evokes chin-strap facial hair, "peeing Calvin" decals, and that whole 1990s "cat boom"-era Limp Bizkit aesthetic in general, I also can't help thinking that the hand would be doing him a huge favor by handing him a change of clothes instead of a camera. At the very least, perhaps the hand could proffer him this anorak, to which I was alerted by high-end clothier Outlier:

Here are three (3) quick facts about this garment:

--It is "experimental;"

--It has a magnetic dickey;

--It costs $425.

It's also an ideal choice for scurrying crab-like on all fours:

Beyond this though I'm sorry to say I can't provide you with any additional insight. For example, I have no idea why it's "experimental," though perhaps the magnetic dickey is untested and there's still some danger of strangulation. (Warning: never use your magnetic dickey while wearing metallic neck jewelry.) Also, the jacket appears to have something on the order of 97 pockets, and from the looks of things can be folded up into the shape of a teddy bear, but as for how you'd do this or why I have no idea. Presumably, if you break your leg while scurrying on stuff and get stranded in the wilderness, you can snuggle the teddy bear as you alternately scream for help and sob about the cruelness of fate.

I will hand it to Outlier, though, for this appears to be by far their most complicated garment to date. I'd get one myself, except I'm reasonably sure I couldn't figure it out and would get caught in it like a straight jacket. Also, I try to keep the crab-like scurrying to a minimum. And, it's $425, which I could use instead to buy like 20 moronically simple baja-style pullovers with the marijuana smell pre-impregnated:

Thus attired, I'd hop on my sideways bike (forwarded by another reader) and ride off into the sunset:



Of course, you really should get a custom sideways bike, but I'm saving that article for Forbes.

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BSNYC Ride Report: 2009 Singlespeed World Championship

As I mentioned in last Friday's post, cyclocross season began this past weekend. (At least it did around these parts.) However, this weekend the 2009 Singlespeed World Championships also took place in Durango, Colorado. As some of you may recall, I took part in last year's race in Napa, California. While I don't like to brag, the truth is I came very close to winning that event--in fact, according to the number emblazoned on my Official SSWC Finisher's Bottle Opener, I was only about 100 riders away from a high double-digit placing. Actually, at one point I was even side-by-side with the eventual winner, Carl Decker. (Though admittedly that was at the counter in the 7-11 before the race.) So, given that the only things that had kept me from becoming the Singlespeed World Champion last year were like 200 other people, like two hours, and the fact that I suck, I knew I'd have to return this year in order to claim victory. So I bagged my bike, left my dignity with a neighbor, and headed west.

I rolled into Durango like the carpetbagging city-slicker I am, strapped on my six guns, donned my 10 gallon hat, and sauntered off spurs a-rattlin' down Main Avenue to find that the town had already fallen victim to Singlespeed Fever:


Even the local bookshop was shamelessly attempting to cash in:


If you've never been to Durango, it has a real "Wild West" feel, since as I understand it the frontiersmen ate in expensive restaurants, drank gourmet coffee, and spent most of their free time engaged in outdoor sports like cycling, skiing, and white water rafting. It's also a real cycling town; not only was it the host of the first-ever UCI mountain bike world championships, but you'll also find pretty much every type of bicycle in use on its streets--which, as you can see, are pretty rough:

Anyway, in Durango you can see brakeless fixed-gears:


Leopard print road bikes:


Horrifying recumbents (yes, in Durango it seems people use recumbents as bar bikes);

and even tall bikes:


There are also titanium bikes hanging from the trees:

But by far the most common type of bicycle this past weekend was the singlespeed mountain bike, which meant there was plenty of quick-spinning, ironically-clad bicycle traffic--especially on race day:

There was also similarly ironic foot traffic. Note that the lady sheriff has rounded up an irony posse--they've even deputized a guy in Birkenstocks:

Fortunately, despite the fact that I was not wearing a costume (generally my performance on the bike is ridiculous enough that I don't need to enhance it with my wardrobe) the posse spared me and so I was able to continue on to the registration table in front of Durango Cyclery:


Inside the shop, there was even more evidence of the rich local cycling heritage. Here's an autographed photo of Tom Danielson, proudly hidden behind the gloves:


Meanwhile, outside, riders were already assembling at the start and being interviewed about their panties:


At this point I figured I should not only secure a spot, but also find a rider to mark, so I chose Shamu the Killer Whale:


However, this had less to do with my confidence in his riding abilities than it did with the fact that he was clothed relatively modestly, and I had no intention of spending the next 20-something miles trying to follow this guy:


I also wasn't going to try to compete with Michael Phelps:


Sure, Phelps's specialty may be swimming, but an Olympian is an Olympian. Plus, he was packing his "aqualung" which would almost certainly aid his performance:


But despite the seemingly festive nature of the event, I was still nervous. Sure, I had a bottle opener to remind me that, barring hundreds of other people (not to mention the hundreds of thousands of other people who had not bothered to make the trip to Napa), I was one of the best singlespeeders in the world. And sure, I had a distinct advantage due to the fact that I was completely unencumbered by props. Still, as I looked off into the distance at the mountains we would soon be climbing I knew that I was going to suffer. This was no Cunningham Park, and despite all the costumes I also knew that people were going to be racing. After all, a beating is no less painful when it's administered by a man in a dress. If anything, it's even more painful, since it wounds your dignity too. I suppose this juxtaposition of absurdity and pain is really what's at the heart of the event:

That, and riding your bike while dressed as Amelia Earhart:


Soon though the time for contemplation ended and we were off. Unfortunately, I lost Shamu and wound up in the "dirt jumper" group:


However, since I knew that it wouldn't be long before they started riding the same section of trail over and over again like a bunch of autistic chipmunks, I moved up to the Wiccan group:


However, I was not comfortable in this group either, so I moved up to this wheel, where I decided to stay for awhile:

After some road climbing we eventually hit the singletrack, where we proceeded to hike:


And hike:


And hike:


At this point I was beginning to get irritated, as I had been led to believe by the organizers that this was a bicycle race, and had I known I was actually entering the Singlespeed Hiking World Championships I might have stayed home. Worse, the hiking was not going to end anytime soon. To my horror, the splash of color in the distance was not the foliage of early autumn--no, it was people:

And they too were still hiking:


Eventually, we made it to the top, where I took a beer hand-up, paused briefly to appreciate the view (thunder rumbled in the distance, though the storm never reached us), and began the descent:

Unfortunately, I was unable to photograph the very technical and rocky descent, as I was too busy trying to remain on my bike and stay alive. And while I did dab, bobble, and do everything else one would expect a poor New York rider to do on a Colorado trail, I'm pleased to report that I did manage to not actually fall, and that I did in fact survive. Also, while the beer did little to improve my bike handling, it almost certainly gave me the confidence to confront the terrain in the first place.

Emboldened by survival, I pressed on, and encountered a variety of terrain, spectators, and beer. Close to the finish of the race, we encountered one more obscenely long hike:

Then another long descent followed by a final kicker of a climb:


And, finally, the finish line:


Immediately upon crossing it, I turned around to see if I had actually beaten anybody:


And in doing so, I inadvertently captured a perfect image of myself in another rider's mirrored sunglasses:

Then I collapsed in the grass:


I had passed, and as far as I'm concerned that's just as good as winning--a "victory," I should add, which was greatly aided by the good people at Fox, who were kind enough to lend me a suspension fork since I don't actually own one:


If you're wondering, it was a 32 F-29 in the traditional 9mm dropoutway:


Feel free to call me a woosie for using it, or a shark-jumping sellout for lauding it, but the fact is that it performed excellently and quite literally saved my ass on a number of occasions, and my affection for it is such that it warrants being sepiafied:

But while the fork doubtless helped me finish the race unscathed, it could do little to prevent the painful injury I incurred later on at the Ska Brewery post-race party--which, as you'd suspect, contained all the requisite "bike culture" party elements:

The injury occurred when, upon my arrival at the party, the guy who applied my "over 21" bracelet got a bunch of my arm hair caught in it, necessitating a highly painful extraction process:


This greatly diminished my enthusiasm for the ensuing ironic basketball game between Italy and New Zealand to decide the location of next year's race. (Deciding the location of The World's Whitest Sporting Event by means of a basketball game is highly ironic.) However, it was still amusing to watch people messing around on the court before the game:

For some reason, this spectator is especially riveted:

Meanwhile, this spectator puts the "sin" in "singlespeed:"

I can't say I do the same--though given my general "woosieness" I would assert that I at least put the "I peed" in it.

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