Unusual Flavor: Cycling and the Unaccountability of Taste

As you may know, this past Friday was renowned director Stanley "The Manley" Kubrick's birthday. As such, that Robert Osborne guy from the cable was showing a few of his films, including "Lolita," which Osborne failed to mention is the "Citizen Kane" of pedophilia movies. Having recorded it on my Betamax (the Campagnolo Euclid group of audiovisual equipment) I was watching it yesterday evening when I noticed that, save for the dimpled chin, the Lone Wolf looks a lot like the film's star, James Mason:

For a moment I thought that maybe the Lone Wolf is James Mason, but then I realized that James Mason is no longer with us--and even if James Mason was still with us, he would have turned 100 this past May. Also, as I pointed out, the Lone Wolf has a chin dimple, which James Mason didn't, although it's not impossible that the Lone Wolf's is not genetic and he had it added surgically to enhance his aerodynamics. If this is the case, then it's still possible that the Lone Wolf is somehow related to James Mason--perhaps he's a cousin, or a nephew, or even an erstwhile son. This in turn opens up the enticing possibility that the Lone Wolf also shares James Mason's characteristically suave way of speaking:



If he does, the bicycle industry would be well-advised to seek the Lone Wolf as a spokesperson. I can see him rolling casually on a Tarmac, wearing an ascot and a smoking jacket and saying "I am Specialized" in that lilting Masonesque tone. Listening to James Mason is like watching a satin sheet billowing on a clothesline, whereas listening to Tom Boonen or Paolo Bettini is like listening to some tourist in South Beach try to order a mojito.

Speaking of Boonen and Bettini, it looks like neither will be riding in this year's Tour de France. Boonen of course was banned for having "indirect contact with cocaine" (which somehow sounds even worse than having direct contact with it, like maybe there was an assistant and a suppository involved), and Bettini of course is retired from cycling and has moved on to rally racing:

I'd like to think he has a smooth-talking James Masonesque navigator ("Do bear right after the crest in the road, if you'd be so kind"), or at least someone who talks like 80s Dom Irrera, but I'm guessing his navigator probably sounds more like Roberto Benigni after a night of partying with Tom Boonen.

Ah yes, there's no surer sign of summer than the start of the Tour de France. I, however, prefer to savor the sights and sounds of the sweaty season closer to home. For example, I recently ventured into Williamsburg, Brooklyn (I'm shopping for a new identity and I heard they were having a sale on the retro gas station attendant look) and found its main thoroughfare, Bedford Avenue, to be in the throes of "Williamsburg Walks:"

Not only was Williamsburg walking, but they were also schluffing--on their fixed-gears!

Of course, where there are large numbers of hipsters attempting to saunter off their hangovers, there are people ready to sell them crappy bikes:

Note the pie plate on this makeshift display. Actually, when I first saw this I was excited because I thought it might be some kind game show, and that this was a Wheel of Bicycle Fortune. Had it been, I doubt I would have been able to contain my excitement. Unfortunately, on closer inspection I realized that the wheel didn't spin, nor was there a hipster Pat Sajak or even a hipster Vanna White with a muffin top and a tramp stamp. There was just some guy with a bunch of "vintage" crap, and if I wanted it I had to pay for it. Oh well, I guess for that kind of entertainment you need to go to Portland.

But summer in New York City means more than just closed streets. It also means lots of people on bicycles. In fact, there are so many bicycles out there right now that people are locking them up two-deep:

I don't really have any explanation for this except that people must now be parking their bicycles in ascending order of cost. I'm sure if I'd waited long enough someone would have arrived on a Pista Concept with an Aerospoke and locked it on top of the Surly, and so forth, until there was some sort of custom Chari & Co. monstrosity with white tires and H+Son rims and tiny anodized riser bars at the very top. It seems we've officially reached the point here in New York where the street signs are now just skewers for gigantic shishkabobs of trendiness.

Personally, I'm more than happy to acknowledge the Ironic Orange Julius Bike's status as the low bicycle on the totem pole, which is why I still lock it at street level. (Also, it's too heavy to lift that high.) However, I suppose I'm still somewhat audacious, because I did recently dare to lock it up next to (instead of beneath) this:

I've noticed with both interest and annoyance that in a relatively short amount of time the narrow riser bar has gone from affectation to trend to de rigeur. Nearly every fixed-gear I see in New York City is now set up this way. Actually, I've come to think of these kinds of bars as "moustache bars." Of course, I realize that a real moustache bar looks like this, but the fact is that since the days of Wyatt Earp you seldom see moustaches that long and wide anymore--Tom Ritchey and this guy notwithstanding. No, generally, when you see a moustache now it's relatively short and tidy, with just a mild curve--like a narrow riser handlebar, or like the hairy curtain above James Mason's mouth:


Still, it's too confusing to refer to both types of bars as "moustache bars." Also, I'm certain that Grant Petersen would fight any attempts to wrest the term away from the bars he sells, and as a "woosie" there's no way I'm going to tempt his exquisitely-lugged fury. As such, in the spirit of compromise, I should probably refer to them as "unibrow bars" instead:

This term may conflict with "wheelbrows" (formerly "fenders") but at least it gets Petersen off my case.

Speaking of eyebrows, the constant increase in the number of bicycles has brought with it an increase in brow-furrowing behavior. In the past, I've written of the "sandbar of idiocy," which is the result of this infuriating unwritten rule:

If you stop at a red light and there is already another cyclist waiting at it, you must stop your bicycle in front of the rider who is already there.

Well, lately these "sandbars of idiocy" are eroding in a hurricane of ridiculousness. It's not enough to just come to a stop in front of somebody now; instead, you've got to do it with "flambullience:"

I was waiting at a light recently when I heard the now-familiar and unmistakable sound of a cheap tire skidding behind me. The rider then cut in front of me, revealing a gilded bike, and proceeded to trackstand in the middle of the busy intersection. Interestingly, while the bike lacked "unibrow bars," it was equipped with a brake, which made the skid seem that much more melodramatic. In fact, the entire episode was overly theatrical--to me, skidding into the middle of an intersection and then just (track)standing there is like showing up late to a dinner party, leaping up on the table while everyone else is eating, and doing a model walk.

Speaking of models, a reader recently forwarded me a video in which a model demonstrates the perils of improper saddle adjustment:


Yes, it turns out that if you attempt to mount a bicycle with a vertical saddle the results can be quite uncomfortable--so much so that I was forced to both sepiafy and Larry Kingify them:


Furthermore, the video goes on to show that continuing to ride a saddle adjusted in this manner can make you prone to mishaps involving other household items as well, such as vases containing floral arrangements:

Yes, it just goes to show that even obscenity is subjective, and that one person's pornography is simply another person's cycling PSA.

Veloship of the Chainrings: Riding on Water

Last Friday, I criticized the people of Portland for their flamboyantly ebullient (or, as I prefer to think of it, "flambullient") approach to cycling. Subsequently, I was pleased to see that they received this criticism with good humor--a quality which appears to be typical of them, and which is no doubt a product of light workloads, bicycle-friendly streets, and a wholesome diet of locally-grown organic foodstuffs. Meanwhile, here in New York City, cycling is all too often a dour business consisting of many insoluble subsets, each of which refuses to acknowledge (much less ride with) the others, regardless of whether theme costumes are involved.

However, there are some riders in this world who transcend these subsets. They even transcend the very notion of the theme ride, since their entire lives are theme rides, and that theme is cosmic oneness. They are simultaneously soluble and insoluble, as all of cycling exists within them. I'm speaking of course of cycling's Lone Wolves, who occasionally deign to take human form and ride among us:

I've been criticized in the past for posting images of the Lone Wolf, despite the fact that I do so with genuine reverence. Frankly, if revering the Lone Wolf is wrong, then I don't want to be right. The truth is that I am always simultaneously excited and envious when someone spots the Lone Wolf, as was the case this past Sunday, when a reader was fortunate enough to encounter him at the Manhattan Beach Grand Prix:

As you can see, the White Lotus bicycle is manifest here. Needless to say, it's no coincidence that this is what the Lone Wolf rides. According to that irrefutable authority, the "internet," in Buddhism the White Lotus "symbolizes Bodhi, the state of total mental purity and spiritual perfection, and the pacification of our nature." Note in particular that the USA decals on the twin disc wheels are in harmonious alignment. However, in stunning contrast to this is the Lone Wolf's countenance, which instead of its characteristic beatitude appears to be fraught with concern. While at first glance the source of the Lone Wolf's consternation is not apparent, the scene directly across the street from where he is sitting makes everything immediately clear:

Who would dare to display a lesser white bicycle in the presence of the Lone Wolf? This no doubt is the object of his lamentations. Of course, the Lone Wolf's expression should not be mistaken for anger, as he is above anger. Rather, he is simply in a state of deep compassion for this poor being. Clearly, this person is attempting to take a shortcut to enlightenment, and putting together a bicycle like this and taunting the Lone Wolf with it is like assembling a plastic Christmas tree next to the Bodhi Tree, napping under it for 20 minutes, and then springing to your feet and announcing, "I've attained enlightenment!" It just doesn't work that way.

Still, this does not prevent people from making premature pronouncements of cycling gnosis. A reader recently alerted me to these knuckle tattoos, with which the wearer claims to have attained a state of "Veloship:"

Apparently, "Veloship" is defined as follows:



veloship

noun, verb, Wes-ism, -shipped or -shiped, -shipping or -shiping

-noun
1. the condition or relation of being a fellow velo: the fellowship of cyclists.
2. friendly relationship; companionship: the fellowship between riders.
3. community of interest, feeling, etc.
4. communion, as between members of the same bicycle gang.

5. an association of persons having similar tastes, interests, etc. in cycling
6. a company, guild, or corporation.

–verb (used with object)
7. to admit to fellowship, esp. bicycling fellowship.
–verb (used without object)
8. to join in fellowship, esp. bicycling fellowship.

- Wes-ism
9. The fellowship of the bicycle. Basically what it comes down to is fellowship on bikes. You
ride with someone and talk about life, God, whatever... And that's what I'll be doing for
the rest of my life.

Synonyms:
1. velo-radeship, cyclo-camaraderie, friendcycle, velo-society, intimacy.

However, when I see a pair of hands that say "VELO SHIP" on them, I think of only one thing:


Since it now rains All The Time in New York City, I have a feeling that the "velo ship" conversion is going to become the next big thing. Forget horizontal dropouts and fixed cogs; soon it's going to be all about the pontoons. Not only will this come in handy for flooding, but it will also mean that you won't have to use any of the bridges; instead, you can just ford the East River wherever you feel like it. Actually, it looks like it's taking off already, since "velo ship" riders are beginning to organize alleycats:




That must be the post-race trackstand competition.

Not only that, but "velo ships" are also great for time trials, as the video page shows:


Aerobars Aweigh!

Fortunately, though, some riders are still more humble about their places in the universe, and as such they choose asceticism as the path to spiritual transformation. Here's one such example from the Fixedgeargallery:



While the rider's asceticism is not apparent from the Iro above, it does become clear when you see his second bike, below:

Clearly, this rider has divested his bicycles of unnecessary ornamentation to such a degree that he has but one saddle and seatpost, and he switches them from bike to bike as necessary:


ITTET I applaud such frugality. Really, if you think about it, what's the point of having a seatpost and saddle on every one of your bikes? You can only ride one at a time after all, and most people have a particular saddle they prefer anyway. You've only got one crotch, so why do you need five seats?

But while asceticism and a lack of attachment to material possessions can be spiritually healthy, that doesn't mean that you should invite theft, as is the case with this Bianchi spotted by Daddo One:

This may not be the key to enlightenment, but it is the key to a free bicycle as well as possibly the contents of the owner's home. Perhaps the rider is testing the "veloship" of his or her fellow riders. Personally, I think it's about as "bulletproof" as an R-Sys.

BSNYC Firday Fun Quiz!

As the week draws to a close, there is obviously one thing on everybody's lips, and I'm not talking about cold sores or ironic mustaches. I'm referring of course to Michael Jackson's death. Now, ordinarily I wouldn't even mention it, since everybody else is discussing it and will continue to do so for some time to come. However, mere hours after Jackson's death, I was reading the New York Times and saw this:



Impromptu vigils broke out around the world, from Portland, Ore., where fans organized a one-gloved bike ride (“glittery costumes strongly encouraged”) to Hong Kong, where fans gathered with candles and sang his songs.

Now, I realize Portland considers itself the home of "bike culture," and I'm sure it's a lovely place to ride a bike, but seriously--it's enough already. Is there any news or pop cultural event around which the people of Portland will not form some sort of kitchy theme ride? Do they just sit around waiting for things to happen or for people to die so they can put on stupid outfits and jump on their bikes? Also, where do they find the time? This ride had already happened before the Times even managed to complete its report. And while the people of Portland apparently have plenty of time on their hands, they are less endowed when it comes to dignity. Just look at this thing:


I realize Portland is a very progressive place when it comes to riding bikes, but I can't help thinking that they may have set the cause of cycling back to about the Michael Jackson x Mick Jagger "collabo" days. If I were not already a cyclist and I was headed to a bike shop to purchase my very first bicycle, and on the way I saw a bunch of people riding around dressed like Michael Jackson, I'd probably rethink the whole thing and start pricing motorcycles instead.

Then again, maybe the people of Portland do have it right after all. Here in New York City I was honked at by a driver this morning who seemed annoyed by the simple fact that I was riding in the bike lane. The driver was blasting "Billie Jean," and the crappy Buick he was driving probably rolled off the lot at about the same time that the song first hit the airwaves:

As irritating as this was, I opted not to chide him, and instead simply left him to wallow in his grief and rotundity.

Alas, while we no longer have Michael Jackson, we still have his music. More importantly, we still have both "Weird" Al Yankovic and his music, so things could be a hell of a lot worse.

With that said, I ask that you set aside any grief you may have and try to focus on a quiz. As always, study the item, think, and click on your answer. If you're right you'll know, and if you're wrong you'll see "So So Vegan."

Ride safe this weekend, and have a "collabo" with enjoyment.


--BSNYC/RTMS





1) Taints rejoice! Finally, a saddle you can:

--pump
--heat
--chill
--charge




2) Nice colorway! This crank is on a bicycle that is a "collabo" between:

--Fort x Philadelphia Flyers
--Ridley x Reese's Pieces
--Blue x NASCAR
--Cannondale x Halloween




3) If you're a "hater," which beverage might you be most likely to enjoy?

--Honeydew Bubble Tea
--Pabst Blue Ribbon
--Genesee Cream Ale
--Haterade


4) What is not included with this "Campy Track Crankset," for sale on Craigslist?

--A Campagnolo left crank arm
--The "OG box"
--Crank arm bolts
--An actual Campagnolo track crankset



5) Forget fixed-gear conversions. The hot new thing is changing your bike into:

--a tandem
--a cargo bike
--a Dutch city bike
--a recumbent




6) The "epic" pie plate on this Mavic R-Sys, if placed on a phonograph, plays "La vie en rose" by Edith Piaf:

--True
--False



7) Complete this knuckle tattoo: EPIC ____:

--RIDE
--TALE
--LIFE
--FAIL

8) Fixed-gears lend themselves well to wacky sound-effects.

--True
--False

These Colorways Don't Fade: Interviews, Encounters, and Collabos

Further to yesterday's post, I must say that one of the best parts about reviewing a Dutch city bike (or at least a designer interpretation of a Dutch city bike) is that one is automatically exempted from using the terms that are otherwise mandatory in bike reviews. These terms include: hoops, stoppers, clampers, rubber, and skins. (Incidentally, in S&M circles those things plus a bottle of wine equal a romantic evening.) Furthermore, one is also exempted from citing the bike's lateral stiffness and vertical compliance, as well as referring almost sensually to the "beefiness" of the bottom bracket, as epitomized in the famous Neuvation video.

However, if you found yourself missing any of these things, perhaps this video will help tide you over until the next James Huang review "drops:"



That must be the new BB30 standard everybody's talking about.

But while I have no idea to whom the above bottom bracket belongs, I can say with assurance that it is not attached to a hipster, since hipsters tend towards the small and diminutive. (You could smother at least three hipsters to death with that posterior.) And speaking of hipsters, there is a brief interview with me in the current issue of "The Fader," which can probably best be described as a "hipster" magazine:

In my defense, I was drinking during the interview, and unlike Tom Boonen who blacks out and has "indirect contact" with cocaine when he drinks, I just say boring things to hipster magazines. Also, there's a photo of me or else someone purporting to be me doing some kind of contrived urban cyclocross maneuver. Hey, that shark's not going to jump itself. However, I will deny any accusations that I did it "for the hipster pussy," unlike this person:

That said, if I was motivated by "hipster pussy," this interview could only help, since one day maybe I'll get invited to a party thrown by "The Fader." In addition to a number of articles about various bands and rappers, the current issue contains images from one of these parties, which from the looks of it was not lacking in the Impassioned Hipster Dancing department:


Also, it appears as though furry cossack hats may be the new flat-brim fitted caps, and patterned cashmere mufflers may be the new keffiyeh. It's a good thing the woman from the BB30 bottom bracket video wasn't there, though. I have a feeling nobody would have made it out of there alive.

Of course, the fact is that even if I did attend one of these Impassioned Hipster Dancing parties, I probably wouldn't have much to talk to people about, since from the looks of the crowd they probably aren't conversant in the relative merits of the various bottom bracket standards, and they'd probably be quite bored by my thoughs on them. (Though the one person who rode a fixie to the party would probably say "square taper FTW!" at some point.) Really, the best I could do would be to refer knowingly to some of the bands on this "mix tape," which was sent to me by Barry Wicks:


Wicks actually sent me a first "mix tape" back in March, and I was extremely grateful to receive another one. Even better, in addition to providing me with Impassioned Hipster Dancing party small-talk, he also provided me with an ironic t-shirt to wear. Behold:



Yes, that's Barry Wicks with an Afro making karate-love to a flower. I can't help suspecting that Barry Wicks may be about to "drop" an energy drink, because I'm sure a beverage called "Wicknasty" with this image on the can would fly out of the bodega refrigerators. So I'd like to extend a sincere thank-you to Barry Wicks for the excellent hipster party survival kit, and if any of you wind up at an Impassioned Hipster Dancing party and see someone standing in the corner wearing a "Wicknasty" t-shirt and making awkward chit-chat about bottom brackets, come by and say "hello" because it's almost certainly me, and I'll almost certainly be really uncomfortable.

Speaking of comfort, I recently stumbled upon some photos of actress Famke Jansen looking a bit too comfortable on a Dutch city bike:

If yesterday's review inspired you to join the legions of people already happily palping Dutch city bikes, look no further than this pictorial for a guide to how to ride one properly. Yes, in a certain way the Dutch city bike is the SUV of bicycles--it's a little too big, it creates the illusion of safety, and nobody pays any attention when they're operating one.

Still, a Dutch city bike is downright stealthy when compared to a recumbent:


9:30pm, 2nd ave Brunnette on Bike 35th st to 10th(?) st. - m4w (East Village)
Reply to: [deleted]
Date: 2009-06-24, 11:26PM EDT

Hi--

I realize the chances of you seeing this are slim, slim, slim...but just in case lightning strikes---

We were riding bikes near each other down Second Avenue tonight. You have brown hair and brown eyes. Were wearing a white helmet and blue jeans and riding a blue 10 or 12 speed semi-vintage type of bike. I was on the recumbent.

You turned onto second Ave around 36th street (and narrowly avoided a cab at 35th street!) and then rode down Second before turning left on 10th street (?) or so.

I was totally struck by your looks (and liked the way you ride) and was hoping there would be a good opening to say hi... Hard of course as we were both kind of racing down the street, but... if you happen to see this, I'd love to race you to a coffee sometime!


Then again, a recumbent is stealthy in its own way, since the rider can prowl around the city safely below eye level like a U-boat of dorkitude. Even this post is stealthy--notice how he just slipped in the fact that he was on a recumbent in the same way that you'd gloss over the fact that you're already married or you have an STD. We've seen recumbent riders on the make before, and it wouldn't surprise me if the city is teeming with them. Nor would I be surprised to learn that some of them are equipped with crotchal periscopes in the hopes of encountering Famke Jansen or oversized bottom brackets. Maybe we'll see a RANS recumbent x U.S. Submarines "collabo" in the near future.

In the meantime, though, we'll have to make due with more fixed-gear "collabos." Here's one in the P.K. Ripper "colo[u]rway:"

Yes, heads will turn and bars will spin when you make the scene on your ironic nostalgia machine. Just top it off with a "Comeplaypolo" t-shirt and you'll be a shotgun blast of cycling references. Is "warmed over" a colorway?

Regardless, it seems as though people aren't going to tire of "collabos" (or "collabia," which is technically the plural form of "collabo") and limited editon colourways anytime soon. Even Tweeting celebrity Dennis Hopper is getting in on the act:



It looks like we'll have to wait a little longer for the Hopper x Krylon dayglo pussy "collabo" to drop, since Dennis Hopper seems to be wandering around his house in his underpants (he doesn't say that but with Hopper it's just assumed), rattling a spraypaint can and cooing, "Here, kittykittykitty!" He probably shouldn't have Tweeted about it, though, since now PETA's liable to join the collabo too.

But I'm sure he means well. He's only doing it for the hipster pussy.

BSNYC Product Review: Electra Amsterdam Original 3i Bicycle

Some of you may recall that, back in April, the New York Times ran an article about Dutch city bikes, surmising that they may be the "first real status symbol" ITTET. The article also went on to state that the Dutch city bike is an alternative for people who do not relate to the "machismo of bike culture," and who do not want to don "kamikaze messenger-wear," whatever that is. While I can certainly see their point, I also could not help noting the irony that in certain ways a Dutch city bike is as impractical for New York City as a "kamikaze messenger" bike, and that the supposed Dutch city bike trend may be as much about a fixie backlash as it is about practicality.

This seemed to anger certain Dutch city bike enthusiasts, who, among other things, accused me of never having ridden a Dutch city bike. This was untrue. I most certainly had ridden a Dutch city bike, though admittedly I did so in a Dutch city and not in New York. Furthermore, it was a long time ago, and I must also confess my memory of the experience is not as clear as it could be--due at least in part, no doubt, to the ready availability of the Wednesday substance in that part of the world. So yes, I suppose I should have confessed that I had not ridden a Dutch city bike in New York City while not under the influence of a controlled substance. Still, I was quite comfortable in my assertion that a large, heavy bicycle is in certain ways less than ideal in a city where street space is extremely limited and many people live in small apartments which often can only be reached by either stuffing oneself into a small elevator or else climbing multiple flights of stairs.

So there's the backstory, and eventually this heady, marijuana-scented cloud of controversy blew over--until I received an email from someone at the Electra Bicycle Company, offering me the opportunity to sample their take on the Dutch city bike, the Amsterdam Original 3i:

At this point, I'm sure Dutch city bike enthusiasts all over the world are practically choking on their toast and marmalade. "That's no Dutch city bike! Whither the generator light, skirt guard, and rack?" And yes, I agree that a bike like this without at least a rack is like a mountain bike without knobby tires. What's the point of a baguette-getter without a bread basket? Well, you certainly can get those things from Electra, but you've got to either buy the higher-end Amsterdam, or else purchase them as aftermarket add-ons. Even so, I have a feeling a true Dutch bike enthusiast would look as askance at even a fully-loaded Electra as a hipster would look at a fixed-gear without "true track" geometry. Still, it had the enclosed drivetrain, and the fenders, and the kickstand, and the upright riding position (and, from the looks of it, the tonnage) so I figured I'd take Electra up on it and see how the other half rides.

Electra had the bike sent to a Manhattan bike shop, so I dispatched an accomplice to pick it up, and together we rode to Brooklyn. My accomplice is a woman and is far from the "kamikaze messenger" type, though she is accustomed to riding a bike with drop bars. The Electra fit her well (she's tall) but she found the bike slow and unwieldy, particularly on the bridge. (The Electra was apparently about as good for climbing as the Steampunk 36er, which we encountered that day.) Her immediate conclusion upon reaching Brooklyn was that this was a country-house-get-the-paper bike and not a city bike. Given her feedback, I figured I should ease into the Electra and get to know its easy-going personality first. As such, the first test to which I subjected it was the Weekend Morning Bagel Run.

Part I: Leisure

Firstly, I'll just say that entering an apartment building with an Electra Amsterdam is about as easy as bringing a drunk home. If there are steps, you've got to drag it up them--and trust me, it does not want to go. Then, if you've got a foyer with double doors, you've got to try to hold both of them open at the same time and wrangle the thing through, sometimes employing your feet. Even if a helpful neighbor arrives on the scene, they're powerless to help you, since there's no way past the bike. Then, once inside, it's either more steps, or it's an elevator, and unless you live in a building with a freight elevator this thing will take up most of it. Forget popping the thing up on the rear wheel, which is standard New York City indoor bike-moving procedure. And of course, once you get the drunk inside, you think your work is done, until the drunk collapses on your floor. Similarly, once you roll the Electra into your apartment, you've got to find someplace to put it. You can lean, say, a road bike against your wall and it will sit there nearly flush--plus you can even lean another road bike against that one and it still won't take up that much space. With the Electra, though, I had no option but to just park it in the middle of the living room floor where it actually interfered with the workings of my TV remote.

Anyway, setting out on the Weekend Morning Bagel Run was the same thing, only in reverse. Finally, though, I got the thing out onto the street, and I settled in behind the cockpit--which, I might add, is extremely roomy:



Next, I ran through the three gears of the Nexus hub:



Now, ordinarily when I "slay" a bagel run, I'll palp either my Ironic Orange Julius Bike or my Scattante, neither of which is set up for a particularly aggressive riding position. Still, the difference between those and the Electra was almost shocking. I felt conspicuous, like Madeline Kahn in the sedan chair in "History of the World Part I." But I was also comfortable--that is until circumstances called for any maneuverability or acceleration, or until my route was obstructed in any way. For example, ordinarily I'd pass a double-parked car like the one below without even thinking about it. However, on the Electra it was daunting to slip through even this gaping space:


Still, though, when the coast was clear I was definitely comfortable--until I reached my first incline. As you can see, the bottom bracket is well forward of the saddle, and between that and the upright bars it's almost impossible to stand up while riding the thing. It's like trying to lean forward on the Tilt-A-Whirl, or like trying to get up out of your chair only to have some bully immediately push you back into it. Eventually you realize you've just got to keep the thing in first gear and lean forward. By the time I summited the overpass I was so proud of myself I immortalized the event in pixels:


Here's the Electra from the front:


And here it is from behind:


Eventually, I made it to the bagel place, where I flipped down the kickstand and tethered the Electra to a parking meter:


As I returned to the Electra with my doughy bounty, I reflected that this would be a perfect bagel-getter, if only there were absolutely no hills and it had a rack or a basket in which to carry the bagels. Still, I was enjoying the bike, so I decided to detour through the park on the return trip. It just so happened that this was the day before the Tour of Brooklyn:


Predictably, everyone was in serious training mode:


Almost immediately, I encountered an elite group of riders:


They dropped me. Then, I encountered a slower chase group:


They also dropped me. Finally, I encountered this kid:

I don't mean to brag, but I totally smoked his ass.

Of course, the fact is that this is not a bike designed for speed, and as such to ride it that way is to fail to appreciate it. And I must admit, despite the fact that the bike was not as maneuverable or as suited to going uphill as I'd like, I did find myself relaxing and noticing my surroundings a bit more. For example, had I been riding by Ironic Orange Julius Bike, I'd never have noticed that someone was having a stoop sale:

Alas, if only the Electra came stock with a rack, perhaps I could have swung by and returned home with someone else's dusty crap--though with the Electra now taking up half my living space I wouldn't have had room for it anyway.

After that it was one more time crossing the overpass:


After which I wrestled the Electra back inside and enjoyed my bagels. In all, it was actually a pleasant experience.

Part II: Business

Of course, it's one thing to ride a couple of miles for some bagels in residential Brooklyn on the weekend when traffic is light. It's quite another to commute by bicycle during rush hour into Manhattan. In my opinion, no bike deserves the "city bike" moniker if it can't be employed successfully in this manner. And while I enjoyed my bagel run, I must say that I fully expected that commuting on the Electra would be a frustrating experience, since the bike's main shortcomings (wide and hill-averse) would no doubt be thrown into sharp relief.

The first hill I encountered was in Prospect Park. I was not exactly climbing in the KOM group with the Electra, though I was hanging solidly in the fanny-pack-and-half-shorts group:


Once the hill was behind me, I settled in and decided to exploit the bike's strength, which is being comfortable. And I was comfortable. The front caliper brake together with the coaster brake mean it's always easy to slow down, leaving your hands free for things like texting and rummaging around in your handbag, which is clearly why the coaster brake is the component of choice for bike salmon and Beautiful Godzillas. Things were going well until I encountered my first traffic jam:


On the IOJB, I would have slithered through this effortlessly. However, on the Electra my only option would have been the sidewalk schluff, and there was no way I was going to demean myself to such a degree. Instead, I was forced to sit there behind a person on a vintage scooter wearing a sport jacket, hoodie, ironic chrome skid-lid, and iPod earbuds. This was doing little to improve my mood--that is, until he tried to pass a car service a little while later and got stuck:



Never has the sound of scraping metal sounded so sweet.

Eventually, I got through the traffic jam and came to the next potential trouble spot, the Manhattan Bridge. I knew all too well that this mild incline could be my undoing. As such, I downshifted and resisted the urge to stand. At first, I was passed by a motley assortment of riders on fixed-gears, mountain bikes, BMXes, and old crappy 10-speeds:


But then to my surprise I noticed that I was actually keeping pace:


At this point, I felt I had finally gotten used to the Electra and understood how to ride it. I no longer felt like Madeline Kahn; instead, I felt like, well, Sean Connery in "Finding Forrester." I also couldn't help feeling that pedestrians were reacting differently to me, and not necessarily in a good way. It may very well be my imagination, but generally when jaywalkers step out in front of me without looking and then suddenly notice me, they give a start. On the Electra, though, it seemed like they looked at me, shrugged, and just kept going. This was probably due to the fact that, in my upright position, I looked less like I was going to hit them than like I was going to hug them. Some people might like that, but personally I prefer jaywalkers to have a little more spring in their step when they see me, so if I were going to make a habit of commuting on the Electra I'd probably have to install some knives on the handlebars to make it seem more menacing.

Speaking of making a habit of commuting on the Electra, while it's not something that I'd want to do it was certainly better than I thought it would be. I'd still choose it over the subway, and I was even able to hang with some bike cops. (Though that's obviously nothing to brag about.) Furthermore, while I felt slower on it, I really wasn't. The truth is my commute only took me a little bit more time than it ordinarily does. This speaks to the greater truth that so much about riding "fast" in the city isn't about speed at all; really, it's more about the style of speed. We've all watched someone blow a light on a track bike, only to catch right back up to him two blocks later. On the Electra you're forced to wait where you might otherwise ride, and you're forced to sit when you might otherwise stand, but really for casual riding it all balances out in the end.

Plus, it's apparently a Rapha magnet, since I locked it up at one point and returned to this:


I guess they want to have little designer bike babies.

That said, in New York City a bike does need to be maneuverable, and that doesn't just mean splitting lanes. It also means bringing it inside, or wheeling it between parked cars to lock it up, or even just finding room to lock it up. There are bikes that take fenders and racks that are still relatively light and maneuverable, so in that sense the Electra is far from an ideal New York City bike.

Still, it did manage to win my accomplice over. While she wasn't crazy about her first ride, she subsequently rode it often, became very attached to it, and now wants to keep it:

(Thanks to Minnehaha for the bag.)

Of course, this is New York City, so while she wants to keep it, she doesn't know where to keep it. Yes, it turns out that here comfort is in fact a bit of a luxury, and practicality is indeed relative.

Turn, Turn, Turn: To Every Thing There is a Barspin

We've all heard the old saying, "The more things change, the more they stay the same." Obviously, this is completely untrue. Take Miles Davis, for example: he went from this to this. Mario Cipollini also changed a lot over the years, most notably with regard to his hair, which started out curly but increasingly sought close contact with his scalp as the years passed. And let's not forget Renée Richards and Rene Russo, both of whom were born male but now live happily as women.

However, this saying is true with regard to fixed-gear freestyling. You may have seen that old Thomas Edison video of the guy doing tricks on a fixed-gear bicycle back in 1899, since it's been making the rounds again recently. (In fact, you may even have seen it on this very blog.) Indeed, it's plainly obvious that most of the fixed-gear freestyle repertoire was already solidly established before 1900, including the so-called "elephant trunk skid:"




Well, it turns out that, when it comes to the fixed-gear scene, lame tricks aren't the only things that have precedent in the 19th century. I'm pleased to report that I recently uncovered an early edit of this historical piece of film complete with the original title card and spirited soundtrack, which proves that the fixed-gear freestyle filming style was also pioneered by Thomas Edison well before the great odometer in the sky rolled over to 1900. Observe:

Yes, everything old is new again and so forth--including "Angel of Death" by Slayer, which few people realize was actually a 19th century folk song.

Still, it's all too easy to dismiss cycling as a bunch of recycled styles and gimmics. For example, even Thomas Edison himself probably never imagined that one day we would ride ingenious bicycles of titanium, which can be disassembled with simple tools and carried on great flying tubes in the sky. Just imagine how amazed the great inventor would have been if he had watched this video, in which Sloane Peterson from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" assembles a Ritchey Breakaway road bike in a matter of minutes:

Maybe it's the hotel room setting combined with all the insertion and gentle twiddling, but I must say I couldn't help sensing some romantic undertones. The truth is, bicycle assembly just doesn't look like that in real life. I was ready to dismiss this as a coincidence, until I discovered this alternate "quiet storm" version:

"Get it together" indeed. Clearly this is just the bike for your next hotel rendez-vous. Just walk in and out with a suitcase and nobody will ever know.

Speaking of romantic imagery, BKJimmy recently forwarded me this picture of the Mavic Diminutive Frenchman tenderly teaching serial retrogrouch and uber-curmudgeon Jobst Brandt how to drive a tractor for some reason:

It's sort of like "American Gothic," except they're in the Swiss Alps, there's a garden gnome, and they both look exceedingly pleased and very much in love.

It may be though that their joy stems in part from the fact that they're driving the tractor with Mavic's EZ Ride pedal system:


Yes, it's about time that someone introduced a magnetic shoe/pedal interface. According to one review, "You can’t pull up on the pedals, and you don’t need to twist out of them, but the interface is sure to be more secure feeling than a platform pedal for most riders." So basically then it's like riding a platform pedal with chewing gum stuck to the sole of your sneaker. I just hope Mavic put the magnet on the pedal and not on the shoe, or else you're liable to get stuck to a manhole cover at a red light. In the best case scenario, you'll be late for work; in the worst case you'll just get run over, leaving only a shoe behind. Then maybe some bike activists will come along and paint it white as a memorial for you.

But while the idea of a city of "ghost shoes" is certainly a depressing one, there's still a lot to look forward to in cycling--particularly the Tour de France, otherwise known as the Grande Boucle. (That's French for the "Big Boucle.") This year's Tour certainly promises to be an exciting one, partially because the organizers have announced they will be banning radios from two stages:

A lot of cycling fans feel that riders' reliance on their directors' instructions has made for boring racing, so this should be an interesting experiment, though at the same time one might argue it's also a little gimmicky. In a certain sense, they're almost "novelty stages"--especially when you take into account some of the other less-publicized experiments in this year's Tour:


Yes, in addition to the two radio-free stages, stage 16 will be held entirely without bikes, forcing the riders to run or speed-walk. This is a mountain stage too, and it comes right after a rest day, so you can expect a major shake-up in both the polka-dot jersey competition as well as the GC (especially for those riders suffering from bunions). Shoe selection will be critical. Not only that, but the penultimate stage to Mont Ventoux will be held without performance-enhancing drugs (in honor of Marco Pantani's drug-free Ventoux win in 2000), and that in turn will be followed by a completely pants-free final run into Paris. Here's a route map to give you a better idea:

Incidentally, stage 21 is not the first pants-free stage in the Tour's history. It was actually first tried back in 2003, but with limited success:



Lastly, I'm afraid I have a bit of bad news to report. Stevil Kinevil reports on the epicly-titled "Guys Who Cut Their Own Hair" blog that someone has hurled a brick through the window of Mission Bicycles's new store:

I hope you will join me in denouncing this craven act of vandalism. I interviewed the Mission guys back in 2007, and they were as forthright and gentlemanly as anybody I've ever met. (Sure, I didn't actually meet them, but whatever.) Furthermore, while I may not be in the market for the sort of bikes they build, if I were I wouldn't hesitate for a moment to trust them in making my ideal "colorway" a reality. But by far the most disturbing thing about this crime is that it was probably committed by someone who feels fiercely protective of the fixed-gear "scene," which is completely ridiculous. Firstly, Mission started way back in 2007, and fixed-gear culture didn't even close its doors to new members until March of 2009. Sure, that's only a couple of years, but two years in fixed-gear years is like ten regular years. Secondly, as the Thomas Edison video proves, the only people who have any right to feel proprietary about the "scene" are people who were there from the beginning--which was 1899, or over 550 years ago in fixed-gear years. So unless the guy who threw the brick was wearing pantaloons and was really, really old, he might as well have just thrown the brick through his own window instead.

Let he with an antebellum birth date hurl the first brick.

Smear Campaigns: Nasty Ads and Greasy Grips

I freely admit that I am a person of many weaknesses. For example, an infraction as minor as a misplaced brake lever on a bicycle is enough to render me apoplectic, and that's no way to go through life. Also, far from being lactose intolerant, I never met a cheese I didn't like. And as any cheese addict knows, once you begin to chase the "fragrant dragon," you are eternally in its thrall. Yes, your life becomes one of cheese binges, blackouts (or as we cheese addicts call them, "moldouts"), hours spent looking at "cheese porn," and of course excessive mucus production.

Additionally, my lack of fortitude includes an aversion to images of bodily harm. Fictionalized movie gore is not a problem for me, but actual video of, say, surgery makes me wince. I'm especially sensitive to this sort of thing in the morning, which is why I was quite displeased to see this cycling-related awareness campaign shortly after waking up and switching on the local news:


Honestly, it was nearly enough to put me off my bowl of camembert and milk. I realize that the point of this campaign is to be thought-provoking and to shock motorists into realizing how vulnerable the cyclist is. However, I can't help thinking that something like this is liable to backfire. If anything, it seems like the message is that cycling is really dangerous and that you should drive a car instead. Actually, as I watched I just assumed that AAA was behind it.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised by this campaign, though. When it comes to PSAs, the graphic scare tactic is in vogue. In addition to the cyclist-on-the-gurney one, the local news station also regularly shows anti-smoking ads produced by the Department of Health. These generally involve images of doctors squeezing ricotta-like tar from the aortas of dead smokers, or of carcinomas, or my personal favorite, the one of the woman who lost most of her fingers to cigarettes. (I'm not sure how it happened, but perhaps she kept trying to smoke her fingertips.)

However, while I find all of these ads repulsive, I can at least understand the smoking ones. They're simply trying to scare you into not smoking. In the bike ad though, they're trying to scare you into not running over cyclists, which seems sort of indirect. Despite circumstantial evidence to the contrary, I'd wager that most drivers already don't want to run over cyclists. And on top of that, these ads also make the simple act of cycling seem excessively dangerous. It's like "Clockwork Orange" where they try to cure Alex of his violence and the accidentally make him hate Beethoven too.

Of course, as I said, I am fundamentally a weak person, so I'm probably just overreacting. However, I still think it's strange that there appears to be a bike salmon on the "Safety Tips" page of the Look campaign's website:


Oh well, at least she's not smoking.

It would seem then that we're going to have to leave the job of making cycling seem pleasant and appealing to the rest of the media. Fortunately, they're doing so with aplomb, but unfortunately they also often overshoot "pleasant and appealing" and venture into "dainty and precious." Take a recent article in the Australian design magazine Artichoke, a scan of which was recently forwarded to me by a reader:


I agree that bicycles and everything about them is simply "lovely." And of course nothing's simpler and lovelier than fixed-gears, which naturally figure prominently in the piece since design-y people love fixed-gears:

Like many, Mick Peel started riding a fixie after growing tired of his road bike and the necessary upkeep and expense. As the director of fashion at RMIT, it is not surprising that he was draw to the aesthetics of cycling. Where other cyclists admire the elegance and simplicity of steel frame bicycles, Peel is also interested in the details--to this end he creates beautifully finished leather saddles that are the envy of many.

As soon as I read this I headed straight to Mick Peel's site and checked out his custom ass pedestal work:

While I couldn't help thinking that this particular saddle looked like something you might find on a cheese plate next to a pile of Wasa crackers, I was also inspired--so much so that I decided immediately to start my own saddle-reupholstering business. In fact, I've already finished my first project, and I'm extremely pleased with how well it turned out:


I call this the "baked potato" colorway, though I also offer a "leftover crudité" option (plastic wrap) as well as "fromage" (wax paper). Also, for a small upcharge I'll extend the covering to beneath the seatpost clamp, which creates a smooth transition reminiscent of the Uni:



However, no sooner did I jump on the custom saddle trend then a reader forwarded me this set of brass knuckle bullhorns:


These are obviously even better than the original brass knuckle grips since they're integrated into the handlebar itself for additional stiffness, weight-savings, and finger-breaking potential. They also made me realize that a bike isn't truly one-of-a-kind unless it's got a custom saddle and a custom handlebar. Really, these days you've got to customize your bike from your moose knuckles all the way to your regular knuckles if you want to walk into the bar with your head held high. As such, I realized I was going to have to expand my new saddle business to include handlebar products as well, which is why I'm proud to introduce my latest product, the BSNYC/RTMS Grip-In-A-Can:

As everybody knows, Ourys are totally over and bare bars with no tape or grips are all the rage among fixed-gear riders. However, sometimes you still want to add a little color to your bars without sacrificing slipperiness, and that's when you slather on my Grip-In-A-Can (shown here in the blue colorway):

Not only is Grip-In-A-Can easy to apply, but it also won't cause unwanted side-effects like tackiness or increased control. Instead, you'll feel like you're wrangling an eel on every ride. Now that's dangerous--and danger equals "street cred:"


Best of all, once you swing your leg over your bars and dismount, you can use the residue on your hands to flatten down your ironic mullet or wax the ends of your handlebar mustache. Plus, it even works as a chamois cream as well as a general all-purpose lubricant.

You'll be doing the five knuckle chuckle in no time.

BSNYC Friday Fun Quiz!

(Moist, moist, baby.)

As much as I try not to come off as some sort of fender apologist or wheelbrow proselytizer, if you live in the New York City area it's hard not to notice that it now officially rains All The Time. It's also hard to imagine how one can manage without fenguards (which combines "fenders" and "mudguards" and as such is the pretentious "mid-Atlantic" term). Certainly the expression "biblical proportions" is an overused one, but we really have reached the point here where even the most worldly people among us are beginning to wonder if indeed we are being punished somehow. Personally, I'm starting to believe there may be some sort of cycling deity, and that deity has decided to drench us until we adopt the Way of the Fender. And while we've been granted a respite today, there's no end in sight to the deluge. Just check out the local forecast:


Tomorrow's weather will certainly call for wheelbrows. Furthermore, it looks pretty wild and unpredictable, hence the George Wipple advisory. (George Wipple is a local cable news "society reporter" known primarily for the twin toilet brushes which hover menacingly above his eyeballs.) Sunday and Monday will bring steady rain, hence the steady, reassuring brows of Sam Elliott. Tuesday's precipitation will be intermittent, and the week will finish off with isolated thunderstorms. While that may be an improvement, it's certainly no time to let your guard down, hence the groomed yet still ample brows of Vintage Brooke Shields. Also, make sure you palp waterproof makeup. (In a pinch I use drivetrain grime. It really brings out my eyes. It also makes them tear uncontrollably.)

Having sufficiently dampened your enthusiasm, I now present you with a quiz. As always, study the item, think carefully, and click on your answer. If you're right you'll see confirmation, and if you're wrong you'll see highlights from three-time Tour de France winner Greg Lemond's controversial talk at the recent "Play the Game" conference.

Ride safe this weekend, and keep the rubber side down--unless you're wearing a rubber hat.


--BSNYC/RTMS






1) The driver above:

--Loves Dachshunds
--Loves crocheted pillows and novelty license plate frames
--Loves heading the wrong way down a one way street until the presence of surprised cyclist forces him to turn around
--All of the above




2) This Top Tube-Mounted Brake Lever (TTMBL) was spotted:

--On Velospace
--On Fixedgeargallery
--At the Bicycle Film Festival
--On a Globe bicycle at the recent product launch






3) If you want to ride a "ghost bike," you don't need to settle for the monochromatic Globe "colorway." Instead, you can buy the real thing at:

--a Charleston, SC city auction
--Raleigh, NC Craigslist
--eBay
--the classified section at ghostbikes.org




4) Of which horned beast are these "epic" bars most evocative?

--The noble elk
--The mighty ram
--The swift gazelle
--The pirouetting lemur





5) If you can put your fixie in your bed, then it is:

--Too light
--Too clean
--Too monochromatic
--Too promiscuous





6) World champion downhiller Missy Giove was recently arrested for:

--Pulling a trailer containing hundreds of pounds of marijuana
--Pulling a trailer containing hundreds of pounds of downhill bicycles
--Consipracy to distribute performance-enhancing drugs
--Stealing the Wendy O. Williams nipple-tape look




7) This knuckle tattoo is only visible:

--Through special glasses
--Under a blacklight
--Under the influence of psilocybin
--To other hipsters

***Special Williamsburg, Brooklyn "hipster" courtship bonus question!***

In Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the phrase "haii boiii haaii!" usually precedes:

--A slap in the face
--A kiss on the cheek
--A punch in the groin
--A slap on the ass

Effetes of Strength: The Dandies of Cycling

Sometimes the world of cycling can seem elitist and unwelcoming. Certainly, this is true in certain cases. For example, in roadie circles, matters as seemingly trivial as incorrect sock height or inadequate leg hair grooming are enough to earn you derision and scorn from your peers. However, when it comes to being rarefied, the world of cycling has nothing on the snooty and effete world of literature. Roadies may be a bit stingy with their approbation (not like you should even want it), but the so-called "literati" won't let you in at all.

That said, there is one occasion on which the "literati" allow you to don your Primal jersey, clip into your SPDs, and ride with the big boys, and that's The New Yorker magazine caption contest, which I was recently contemplating in the restroom:



I find The New Yorker caption contest extremely irritating, since to me it's the literary equivalent of a rock band throwing their guitar picks and drum sticks out into the audience, and the notion that I'd want to play with someone's cast-offs is insulting. Plus, they're clearly choosing lame finalists on purpose in order to make their own jobs look harder, since the correct caption for this particular cartoon is glaringly obvious:

"Well, well, well. Look what the Lord dragged in."

Insert groan or polite titter here.

Yes, cycling is elitist, and literature is even more elitist, but sometimes the worlds of cycling and literature collide like two tweed-clad Dutch city bike-riding scintillating constellations in the night. However, unlike a cosmic collision in which diamonds can form, the collision of cycling and literature creates a much less valuable by-product. I'm referring of course to that unique literary gem, the Pretentious Cycling-Related Craigslist "Missed Connection" (or PCRCMC):




We Shared a Bike Route - 29 (Midtown)
Reply to: [deleted]
Date: 2009-06-17, 10:10AM EDT

You rode an old world bicycle and carried a weathered tan leather bag heading over the Williamsburg bridge. You had small zippers open at the end of your stone grey denim that left your feet dangling onto your pedals that had no use for cumbersome toeclips. We rode together up Elizabeth St. I smiled at you in quiet Greenwich Village. You knew the perfect route to coast into midtown. We both forgot to wear our helmets but made it safely to 42nd st where the bustle of midtown and the workday's sudden reality distracted me from you.

I hope to share another commute.
-Red Wheels


Yes, the evocative world of the PCRCMC is full of weathered leather, chance encounters on quiet Greenwich Village streets, woodcuts, and sometimes even weary Portuguese friends. The truth is that there are at least as many wistful, bookish, satchel-toting cyclists in New York City as there are trendy fixed-gear riders; however, instead of posting videos of themselves on Youtube doing tricks to stoner doom metal, they simply scribble quietly in journals or, very occasionally, timidly share their observations and longings with the outside world by posting them on Craigslist.

Furthermore, like any group of cyclists, the introspective, wistful PCRCMC author has an ideal to which he (it's usually a he) aspires, and that ideal is of course William Forrester as played by Sean Connery in "Finding Forrester:"

Even though the reclusive cycling novelist William Forrester is himself a work of fiction, he nonetheless stands as the Eddy Merckx of wistful cyclists. If you haven't seen "Finding Forrester," I wouldn't exactly recommend that you work quickly to rectify that. Really, all you need to know is that in it Sean Connery is a J.D. Salingeresque writer who mentors a prodigy, and he finally hops on his old Raleigh or whatever it is to save the day:


I'd wager that nary a tweed-palping PCRCMC author alive hasn't fantasized about the same scenario. This is true regardless of age, for no matter how old a PCRCMC author is he always imagines himself as being distinguished and gray. It's just not the same if you imagine yourself as the younger Sean Connery, which is obvious from this image (via HTATBL):


This Sean Connery is not literary, nor would he ride an appropriately literary bike. Instead, he' probably "rock" something like this:


Probably most appealing of all to the PCRCMC author though is that on top of being both literary and distinguished-looking, Sean Connery as William Forrester also has "mad skillz." Check out the confidence with which he dives into that corner. Even as an older man he's got the bike-handling skills of a youngish serial retrogrouch and uber-curmudgeon Jobst Brandt:


With the Bicycle Film Festival officially underway here in New York City, I think it's finally time for someone to produce a Jobst Brandt biopic, and I'm pretty sure that Sean Connery would leap at the opportunity to play present-day Jobst. Maybe by the time the 2010 festival rolls around there will be a line of PCRCMC authors and Rivendell-riding retro-grouches three blocks long waiting to see "Myth and Lore: The Jobst Brandt Story." Gus Van Sant would no doubt do a wonderful job with it, and I can't help thinking that Vincent D'Onofrio could play Sheldon Brown to critical acclaim.

Indeed, trolling for idols is something we all do. This is also readily apparent in the behavior of fixed-gear riders, who, just as soon as they hear about some legendary cyclist or company for the first time immediately render it and sell it in t-shirt form. The most recent legendary cyclist to receive such treatment at the hands of the "fixerati" is Tom Simpson:


As you may know, Tom Simpson was the British pro cyclist who died on Mont Ventoux in the 1967 Tour de France. At the time he died he was apparently riddled with amphetamines, and one of the last things he said was purportedly, "Put me back on my bike!" Not to belittle the tragedy of Tom Simpson's death, but it's hardly surprising that a story like this would immediatly be appropriated as "fixie fodder." Firstly, it involves drugs so it's totally a "rock star" way to die. Secondly, what fixter hasn't at some point botched a red light track stand, fallen over with his or her Vans inextricably stuck in his or her MKS toe clips, and implored some bemused onlooker, "Put me back on my bike! On, on, go on!"?

Personally, I have a suspicion that the next legendary cyclist to be appropriated will be Jobst Brandt. As such, I'm already working on a design, and plan to "drop" a shirt soon. Here's the graphic for the front:




I'm still thinking about the back, but at the moment I'm partial to reproducing this "epic" Jobstian tale:

"When I was riding my last Clement tubulars, that had poor stitch protectors that caused many pin hole leaks, my tires kept going flat. Knowing about the ability of the butterfat in milk to plug such holes, I poured a few ounces of milk, from a dairy on the Klausen pass in Switzerland, into my tire pump and pumped it into my tires. This solved my problem, but a few weeks later, back home, while riding to Santa Cruz with a bunch of bikies sitting on my wheel, I had a rear blowout and sprayed them with putrid milk, while I had a hard time controlling the bike as it slid around on the flat tubular like ice."--Jobst Brandt

Then again, that might be a bit long. I may paraphrase it thusly:

All You Haters Drink My Milk

I think it's got a certain putrid ring to it.

Fundamental Disconnect: Technicolor Dreams, Monochromatic Reality

It can often seem as though life is conspiring against you. We've all experienced this feeling. The one day you leave your umbrella at home, it starts raining. The one time you ride without a spare tube, you get a flat. And the one time you post an ad in the Craigslist "casual encounters" section, cover your living room floor with Jell-O, and hold a naked tag-team wrestling tournament, your spouse or life partner comes home early from that business trip. Such was my own experience this morning on my commute, when I almost missed what very well have been the chance of a lifetime.

Some time ago, I wrote about an "NYPD Gentrification Strike Force," which would utilize trendy vehicles such as fixed-gears to chase down criminals who commit crimes in fashionable neighborhoods. Well, the embarrassing truth is, in my idle moments I myself have fantasized about being recruited by the NYPD as part of an elite undercover cycling unit. Like a hybrid of Gene Hackman in "The French Connection" and Kevin Bacon in "Quicksilver," I would move as stealthily through traffic as I do through New York City's seedy underground. (Or at least what remains of it.) Never mind that I'm not particularly fast, nor that I tend to get tongue-tied and perspiry around the criminal element. The reveries in which I indulge in my private moments need not correspond in any way with reality--the Jell-O stains on my carpet notwithstanding.

So you can imagine my excitement this morning when, during the course of my commute, I happened upon what appeared to be a high-speed NYPD bike cop pursuit:



Now, generally when I commute by bicycle I "rock" the Ironic Orange Julius Bike. However, it just so happens that this morning I was riding a bicycle that a company has sent me to "test." I won't reveal the make or model of the bicycle at this time, though rest assured I plan to share my thoughts and experiences in the not-too-distant future. Suffice to say though that this is a bicycle built primarily for comfort, with any considerations of speed dangling off the rear like a sprinter on a mountain stage.

Yes, life was conspiring against me indeed. The one time I go without my trusty IOJB I encounter a high-speed bicycle chase. Naturally, had I been better equipped, I would have immediately joined in the chase, and once the officers observed my "mad skillz" they'd be compelled to deputize me. Thus empowered, I'd chase down and wrangle the suspect with my chain lock, thus earning me various commendations, accolades, awards, rewards, tax breaks, diplomatic immunity, lucrative development contracts, the key to the city, and so forth. Instead, here I was on what was essentially a wheelbarrow with a chain drive.

But then I asked myself, "Would a hero give up so easily?" Of course not. Jimmy "Popeye" Doyle certainly wouldn't--he'd commandeer a Smart car, or a pedicab, or a skateboard, or an apple cart, or whatever it took. And Kevin Bacon wouldn't either--he didn't give up when he took a beating in the stock market, nor did he give up when Jami Gertz and Paul Rodriguez put their faith in him. So I tightened my grip on the handlebars of my wheelbarrow, put my head down, and joined the chase anyway.

Fortunately, as it happened, the cops were only going like 13mph, so I caught up with them almost immediately:



As you can see, the bike cop isn't obeying the red signal. As such, I figured I didn't need to worry about it either. I soon caught him, and within moments we were joined by two other officers:



I was only slightly disheartened when I got a closer look at the cop's t-shirt and saw that it read "NYPD School Safety." After all, chasing down truants hadn't exactly been part of my fantasy. Still, it was better than nothing--and mind you, some of these kids can be pretty tough characters. Maybe one of them had defaced a billboard, in which case my justice would be swift. I strongly believe it is the inalienable right of every Hollywood studio to advertise crappy films without suffering the indignity of having penises drawn on the actors' faces. Sandra Bullock deserves better than that.

So we continued to run lights, but like a budding roadie doing the group ride for the first time I stayed on the back since the cops hadn't yet formally invited me to join. Soon though we reached a major intersection. The two cops on the front rode right through, and they waved for the third cop to join them:



However, she was visibly winded, and she chose to stop:


I stopped as well, since it gave me an opportunity to check out the sweet cop bike setup. Note the suspension fork, seatpost, and knobby tires with slick center. This enables them to pursue suspects on pavement and on singletrack. Note also the standard police issue pie plate. I'm not sure what she's carrying on that rear rack, but I bet it's an entire nylon bag full of "whoopass."

Anyway, the light finally changed, and we caught up with the other officers. They were at a bank, though I didn't see any crime in progress:


I guess one of them just needed to use the ATM.

Regardless, that small taste of excitement was all I needed, and I began to imagine my own ultimate cop bike. It certainly wouldn't be a low-end mountain bike, nor would it be the test bike I was riding. Actually, it would probably just be my Ironic Orange Julius Bike, but with deadly lasers. After all, the IOJB is an extension of my lifestyle and personal tastes, rather than simply a piece of sporting equipment. It's also inspired by and designed for urban cycling, commuting, and city dwelling. Yet, amazingly, it's absolutely nothing like this Globe Roll, which is also apparently designed exactly this way:


See?



Globe is a "boutique" brand from Specialized. In addition to a philosopy, they also have a movie:



Obviously, the Globe name has been around for awhile, and obviously the Roll isn't the only Globe model, but it's interesting that Specialized is using a bike like this to officially launch a brand that will focus on urban cycling and commuting for the "progressively minded and the eco-conscious," since the scope of possible uses for the Roll is slightly broader than that of a unicycle. Really, they might as well have launched the brand with a time trial bike. Still, reaction to an $800 bike with no clearance and no braze-ons and an integrated stem/handlebar seems to be generally favorable:

Ultimately, the Roll represents a phenomeon I call the "fixed-gear inversion." At first, when fixed-gears started getting really popular people said, "At least more people are riding." Essentially, the idea was that the fixed-gear was sort of a "gateway drug" for new cyclists, and that once you got hooked you'd eventually explore what the rest of the cycling world had to offer. However, now that the trend is firmly established, the opposite is happening, and instead companies must flash a trendified ready-made fixie at the door in order to gain access to the cycling market. Moreover, companies must refer to these bikes as "urban" and tout their functionality in cities, despite the fact that color-coordinated brakeless fixed-gears are being ridden increasingly by younger people in the suburbs who do tricks on them in their cul-de-sacs.

The "fixed-gear inversion" even extends to color. First people used black tires. Then, they used white tires as a striking contrast to black tires. Then the bikes became colorful. Now, it's all about monochromatic bikes as a striking contrast to colorful bikes. Here's another monochromatic bike which was given sort of a "stealth rollout" on Fixedgeargallery by the manufacturer:


But you can only flip something over and over again so many times before it either burns or falls apart like an overcooked latke. Sure, minimalism can be fun, but eventually you've got to take it out of the pan and put some sour cream and applesauce on it. Or, I guess you can just top it with a Top Tube-Mounted Brake Lever (TTMBL) that's attached to nothing:



I wonder if that light fixture was installed using the same principle. No wonder it's on the floor.

Of Mankinis and Men: Nuts on Display

Since yesterday's post, I have to admit that I'm still haunted by the Greg LeMond video. While the main thing that bothered me about it was LeMond's lack of coherence, I also felt that there was something genuinely scary lurking beneath the befuddlement. However, it wasn't until the end of the video that I finally realized what it was. Just before LeMond finishes up, he takes one last question, which is essentially: Will Lance Armstrong ever confess? For the first time in 50 minutes, LeMond gives a concise answer: "Him? No way! Absolutely not, he has no conscience."

Honestly, this statement freaked me out a little bit. I mean, sure, you can make a pretty convincing case that Lance Armstrong doesn't have taste, but it's something else entirely to say he doesn't have a conscience. Basically, this means that he's evil, and that's a disturbing notion. For one thing, it's a big stretch to say that Lance Armstrong is an evil person who has somehow duped the world into believing in his humanity. I mean, we all saw him in "Dodgeball," and we know he can't act. More importantly though, once you start obsessing over what someone's doing in the shower and claiming that they're the mastermind behind some kind of insidious scheme you're not only giving them way too much credit, but you're also venturing into Mark David Chapman territory. When you give someone that much power over your life--whether it's John Lennon or J.D. Salinger or Lance Armstrong--they start to control it. And that's when things get ugly.

Yet at the same time, evil masterminds are oddly fascinating. Think about it--what if LeMond is right? What if Lance Armstrong actually has no conscience, and he really is evil? While once I might have laughed off the notion, I've recently discovered some video evidence which is causing me to reconsider:


First of all, it's obvious from this still that before dedicating himself to cycling Lance Armstrong was angling for a role in the blockbuster thriller "Weekend at Bernie's:"


But while he wore the floppy hairstyle, slack-jawed stare, and garishly patterned shirt with aplomb, he was ultimately no match for Andrew McCarthy:

So, denied access into the legendary "Brat Pack," Armstrong was instead forced to sink his deadly claws into the tender flesh of professional cycling. Of course, since he was (and still is) evil, he did so by any means necessary. And, yes, those "means" included certain unethical substances, such as day-glo helmets and mankinis:

To me, this is infinitely more damning than any of the anti-Armstrong evidence presented by Greg LeMond, Paul Kimmage, and David Wash combined. Not only that, but like any person completely devoid of conscience, Armstrong also lacks remorse. In fact, he's admitted in print that he's planning to once again don the "Mankini of Evil:"

Will you ever do the Ironman? You've got a lot of triathlon fans out their desperate for an answer.

Yeah. Whenever I'm done with this [comeback]. I can unequivocally say yes to that. That's a fact.

So what does this mean? Well, using the same process of deduction as the Mavic Engineering Team, I have deduced the following:

Fact: Lance Armstrong has worn a mankini.

Fact: Lance Armstrong intends to wear a mankini again.

Ergo: Greg LeMond is right and Lance Armstrong is evil.

Really, then, all that remains to be seen is whether Armstrong will don his old 80s "lucky mankini," or if he will instead commission something totally new, like this horrifying "bibkini" from Alexander McQueen:


Yes, it's painfully clear that we need some accountability in cyclesport. Fortunately, in addition to Greg LeMond, we also have grassroots anti-doping movements, like "Stolen Underground:"

"Stolen Underground" was begun by Matt DeCanio, a former professional cyclist who garnered attention some years back when he spoke frankly about drug use in the peloton. Well, since then, Matt DeCanio has taken his anti-drug message to the metaphorical streets by intruducing the "SU // P90X Pro Team:"

Yes, you read that right--by joining the SU // P90X Pro Team, you can "earn a 6 and 7 figure income." Sounds good to me. Already convinced, I clicked on the button which said, "Yes! I'd like to turn pro," and here's what I learned:

Iturnpro.com is seeking athletes to become paid professionals.

Have you ever dreamed of becoming a pro athlete? Are you tired of being stuck inside an office working like a slave? Are you tired of working too many hours, for too little pay? Are you feeling depressed, sick, tired, out of shape, and want a change in your life and some hope for a better future? Are you sick of wasting your best years away when you would could be outside, traveling, experiencing life, competing in your sport, and living your dreams?

If you answered "Yes" keep reading...

Would you like a new job and would you be interested representing a company that sells $300,000,000 in fitness products, and helping others achieve health, fitness, and happiness? Would you like to receive 3 months of free professional coaching in your sport to kick start your new career and to help you become a better athlete?

Does the economy have you down?

Would you like to soon be earning a 6 to 7 figure income and to be able to buy all the things you need for your life and your sport such as Oakleys, Felt bicycles, Zipp wheels, Shimano racing shoes, Continental racing tires, Giro helmets, Look pedals, and Garmin computers for just 15-20% over cost with no hassle?

Are you looking to be part of a world class team?

Would you like to join a team of world class athletes and Olympians who you could proudly call your friends and teammates? And are you looking to use their knowledge, inspiration, and support to become healthier, fitter, stronger, faster, and more powerful than you have ever been as an athlete before in your life?

Um, does Lance Armstrong wear a mankini? You bet I do! I was ready to join. But first, I figured I'd watch the video:


The video explained everything perfectly. Basically, when I joined the Stolen Underground anti-doping team, I'd be selling weight loss products. Fair enough--I was still game. But there was still the small matter of my start-up costs:

Initial business investment details

Coach Starter Package: $134.85 pack cost + $39.95 kit cost = $174.80 + tax and shipping Includes: Business Kit, Website, Club Membership, 30 Day Supply of Shakeology, 1 fitness program, 3 months of professional cycling coaching by Matt DeCanio with no set-up fee or contract ($99 a month should you continue after your initial free 90 day period), 15-20% over cost at our PRO SHOP, all racing uniforms at cost, workout calendar, and a nutrition plan. CALL 786-991-____ FOR MORE INFO OR FILL IN THE FORM BELOW!

Ultimate Coach Starter Package: $289.91 pack cost + $39.95 kit cost = $329.86 + tax and shipping Includes: Business Kit, Website, Club Membership, 30 Day Supply of Shakeology, 6 fitness programs, 3 accessories, 3 months of professional cycling coaching by Matt DeCanio with no set-up fee or contract ($99 a month should you continue after your initial free 90 day period), 15-20% over cost at our PRO SHOP, all racing uniforms at cost, workout calendar, and a nutrition plan. CALL 786-991-____ FOR MORE INFO OR FILL IN THE FORM BELOW.

At this point, you're probably thinking the same thing I was--which is that the Ultimate Coach Starter Package is a total no-brainer.

Still, I admit I was a bit disappointed to learn that Matt DeCanio's Stolen Underground movement is just an Amway-esque pyramid scheme. Actually, between this and LeMond's Armstrong obsession the anti-doping crusade is even scarier than doping itself. As such, on a certain level the implications of buying into LeMond's "no conscience" comment are creepier than a whole paceline of "Freds" in Discovery jerseys and LiveStrong bracelets riding Madones. Sure, there are some naive people out there, but sometimes paranoia is even more dangerous than naivete. Either way you're buying in, but in the end paranoia can be a lot more expensive.

A Shot in the Dark: The Art of Appropriating Blame

If you've been following the Great Shattered Mavic R-Sys Debacle, you are no doubt aware that Mavic's team of forensic experts have responded to Ben Delaney's original article in which he describes how his front Mavic R-Sys wheel blew apart for no discernible reason. While they are still not able to explain the failure, they have predictably concluded that it was not their fault, due in part to the following:

The Mavic Engineering Team saw in Boulder:

- That the R-SYS front wheel had ovalized and the spokes had broken
- That the tire had separated from the wheel
- That the valve of the tire tube had been sheared off
- That the bike frame had broken on the main tube
Advertisement

The tire, the tube and the frame were not Mavic products.

This is damning evidence indeed. Certainly for best results, Delaney should have used the R-Sys in conjunction with a Mavic tire, inner tube, and frame. Sure, Mavic don't actually make tires, inner tubes, or frames, but that doesn't mean Delaney's component choice was any less irresponsible.

So, given that Delaney apparently had the temerity to "rock" a highly durable and well-engineered pair of R-Sys wheels along with a whole lot of other random crap for which Mavic can certainly not be held accountable, it's no surprise that Mavic is pointing their long yellow finger at the other crap:

Fact: The valve stem is missing. One can see on the picture attached the location of the hole in the rim where the valve stem to the tire should be.

A-ha! So the tube or the tire failed before the wheel. Furthermore:

Fact: The frame is made of carbon. The horizontal tube under the chest of the cyclist is broken. The fork (also made of carbon) is not broken and shows no evidence of scratches or impact.

A-ha again! (Or, if you prefer, "A-ha-ha!") So the frame may have broken first! And of course Delaney wasn't "running" an imaginary Mavic frame as he should have; instead, he was riding a Specialized. Mavic aren't saying it in so many words, but I think we can all read the writing beneath the rim strip here:

While on one hand I'm disgusted by Mavic's refusal to admit any sort of responsibility, on the other hand it's nothing less than fascinating to watch a company issue a statement that's basically the equivalent of blaming the dog for your own flatulence. Not only that, but they're doing it in a comically overblown fashion by conducting a parody of an investigation in which the conclusion is already a fait accompli and by beginning every statement with the word "fact." Actually, they're following a template already established by another famous French investigator, and the whole Mavic debacle is actually strikingly similar to the plot of the 1964 film "A Shot in the Dark:"

Inspector Jacques Clouseau: Facts, Hercule, facts! Nothing matters but the facts. Without them the science of criminal investigation is nothing more than a guessing game. So consider the facts in the case at hand. Fact: Maria Gambrelli was found standing over the dead man with a smoking gun in her hand. Fact: She had a big smile on her face. Fact: No other fingerprints were found on the gun. So what do we conclude, Hercule?

Hercule LaJoy: Why, that Maria Gambrelli committed the murder.

Inspector Jacques Clouseau: No, you fool! You are forgetting the most important fact: motive.

Hercule LaJoy: He beat her.

Inspector Jacques Clouseau: He was Spanish!

Hercule LaJoy: He tore her dress off.

Inspector Jacques Clouseau: Oh, don't be ridiculous. Would you kill someone who tore your dress off?

Of course, in this case the Mavic Engineering Team is Clouseau, the R-Sys is the beautiful Maria Gambrelli, and that crappy Specialized frame is the hotheaded Spaniard. Still, in fairness to Mavic, there is one crucial difference between them and Clouseau, and that difference is that despite his bumbling nature and flawed logic, in the end Clouseau was actually right about Maria Gambrelli's innocence. But that's why "A Shot in the Dark" is a comedy, and the Mavic debacle is a tragedy.

Speaking of tragi-comic investigations, with the Tour de France coming up the issue of doping in professional cycling is once again flaring up like a cold sore before a big date. And these days one of the biggest manifestations of HSV-1 on the lip that is the pro peloton is three-time Tour de France winner and former eponymous bike brand licensor Greg LeMond, who recently gave a speech at the "Play the Game" conference in Coventry, UK which can perhaps best be described as "epic":

At over 50 minutes, LeMond falls just short of breaking the hour record for self-embarrassment, but you've got to give him credit for making a valiant attempt. With all due respect to the scope of LeMond's accomplishments and his obvious concern for the integrity of the sport, it's very difficult to look past the string of non-sequitors and illogical conclusions he presents. Highlights include:

On his thorough preparation for the conference: "I'm still kinda making sense of notes I've been trying to throw together."

On the secret of his success: "I was very fortunate to be very blessed genetically."

On his current condition: "I'm still fat as hell."

On his current condition: "On power output wise in 4 months I got to where I was in my last year of professional racing."

On the state of the Tour: "In today's world most people...it's almost embarrassing to be called a Tour de France rider or a Tour de France winner because it's assumed that you cannot win the Tour de France clean and I just pose the question back, 'If everybody is clean and nobody's taking drugs and there's a three week race that's called the Tour de France and you start at the start line three weeks later there's going to be a winner and most likely there'll be finishers too, and so can you do it clean? Absolutely. Will it be slower? Probably. Will it be more dramatic? Absolutely.'"

On climbing then: "I got really good at chugging water or beer or whatever you want to call it. "

On climbing now: "I see people talking on the phone now riding a climb at the front of the Tour de France."

On cycling: "I don't recognize the sport anymore."

On his own speech: "Where was I?"

On a tangent: "I helped create the very first hardshell helmet...oh God, I even forgot where I was going with this. How the hell did I get on to this? (Laughs) Oh, God, I'm just having a brainfart."

On being confused: "It's got to be lead poisoning, that's what it is. Can somebody help me where I was? Oh, Dr. Ferrari!"

On summing things up nicely: "This is embarrassing."

On 80s cycling fashion: "I raced with a plastic cup on my head for aerodynamics."

On his 1989 Tour de France win over Laurent Fignon: "I miraculously, I would say miraculously I did come back...I won it, I won it by 8 seconds"

Lance Armstrong to Greg LeMond on the 1989 Tour: "Your win in 1989 is like mine, it was a miracle."

Greg LeMond to Lance Armstrong on the 1989 Tour: "Hold on, mine was not a miracle."

In addition to rummaging around in his head for things to talk about, he also spends some time rummaging around beneath the podium:


Basically, it's like watching a hybrid of Steve Carell in "The Office" and Chevy Chase in "Vacation:"


Again, it's easy to admire Greg LeMond as a legendary athlete, and he's more than deserving of that admiration. However, it's a bit harder to admire him as a moral crusader when he steps off a plane with some hastily-prepared notes and alludes to all the facts he could cite regarding other people's guilt if only he wasn't involved in litigation. Certainly drugs exist in cycling now just as they did before--and during--LeMond's heyday. However, LeMond's argument simply seems to be that the practice of doping is worse now than it was in his time, despite the fact that there was much less testing then. Even the rider he beat in 1989 freely admits to his own drug use:

So does that mean because Laurent Fignon cheated that Greg LeMond cheated too? No. But when Greg LeMond retired, he attributed his diminished results to mitochondrial myopathy. Now, it's because everyone else was cheating. As a cycling fan, I certainly wouldn't accuse LeMond of cheating, nor would I argue against the obvious fact that he competed against other cyclists who did or that riders continue to cheat today. Still, I can't help but feeling like LeMond is taking the Mavic approach by claiming there's something wrong with everything except him. Yes, like Delaney's R-Sys sometimes you are surrounded by crap--but that doesn't mean you can't fail too.

The BSNYC Second Annual Self-Congratulatory Treacle-Fest!

(The Mavic Diminutive Frenchman and Jobst Brandt reenact the touching pottery scene from "Ghost," by BKJimmy.)

Today is June 12th, 2009. "So what?," you may ask. Well, apart from the fact that it's Dia dos Namorados (or Brazilian Valentine's Day), it's really just another Friday as far as I'm concerned. However, tomorrow is dripping with significance like Jobst Brandt's calloused hand drips with wet clay, because it marks the second anniversary of this blog.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

Alas, it seems like it was only yesterday that I first posted a picture of Robert Plant playing soccer without any pants on, and that's because it was. However, it also seems like two years ago since my very first blog post, and that's also because it was. This is a tremendous relief, since it means my sense of time is properly calibrated.

Still, a lot has changed in the past two years. For example, noted Twitterhound Lance Armstrong went from getting loaded, bedding celebrities, and riding tall bikes:

To fathering another child and riding professionally as a domestique for Levi "Letle Viride" Leipheimer:

(From Ashley to "classy": Armstrong cleans up his act.)

On the other hand, once-respected US bicycle maker Cannondale went from cockily rebuking Specialized's recruitment attempts:

To cravenly firing their employees themselves:

(From poached to reproached: Cannondale now farming it out.)

Meanwhile, fixed-gear freestyle impresario Prolly went from riding a "noob chariot" like this:

To designing and marketing his very own bike:

(From "Oh, gee!" to "OG:" Prolly is all growed up.)

Speaking of fixed-gear freestyling, what began as a bunch of people doing unimpressive tricks on ill-suited bikes has matured into a full-fledged sport in its own right and is now nothing short of amazing to watch.

But that's not all--this blog has also seen its share of changes. I once joked about manufacturers sending me products to review; now, manufacturers actually send me products to review. Also, I once joked about writing for "Bicycling" magazine; now, I actually write for "Bicycling" magazine. Fortunately, I never joked about getting my "pants yabbies" caught in the spokes of the Ironic Orange Julius bike, though now that I have I may be adding that to my "BSNYC List of Ironies" in a year's time as well.

The one thing that hasn't changed in the last two years though is that I still absolutely love writing this blog. It's something I look forward to every day, and I'm extremely fortunate and grateful that people still enjoy reading it. While generally speaking I eschew goals, I do have one goal, which is to keep writing as much as I can, so it's for this reason that I'm also looking forward to the coming year--which will even involve a book assuming the people involved don't come to their senses. I've also been lucky enough to actually meet some people and I look forward to one day tentatively slithering out of my hidey-hole and meeting even more.

In the meantime, though, I'd like to extend a completely unironic thank you to everybody for reading, emailing, commenting, sending photos, sending products, sending compliments, sending criticisms, and most importantly riding your bikes--regardless of how ridiculous some of those bikes may be. I'd also like to thank Dennis Hopper's Twitter:

If nothing else, you can rely on it to let you know when you've gone too far.

Ride safe, and mind your "pants yabbies" or your "VAGX," whichever applies.


--BSNYC/RTMS

PS: I'm pleased to present you with a short and easy quiz. As always, study the item, think, and click on your answer. If you're right you'll know, and if you're wrong you'll see Dennis Hopper selling...something. Thanks again, and have a great weekend.



1) Why is actor Matthew Modine receiving a lot of criticism lately?

--Because he rides a fixie
--Because he rides without a helmet
--Because he rides in lycra
--Because his movies suck



2) Caffeine-addled cycling is the new "schluffing."

--True
--False

3) How many DFUs (Diminutive Frenchman Units) does it take to crush the head of urber-curmudgeon and serial retrogrouch Jobst Brandt?

--200 DFUs
--2,000 DFUs
--20,000 DFUs
--Nothing can crush the head of the mighty Jobst Brandt



4) Why is Robbie McEwen breathing through a tube?

--He is simulating training at altitude
--He is simulating training in space
--He is actually training in space
--He is simulating training in flatulence

***Special Craigslist "Missed Connections" Fill-In-The-Blank Bonus Question***

I passed you on the way up from Manhattan. You had little shorts and a black tank top, with a tattoo peeking out on your back. Your hair reminded me of some __________:

--Silken flax
--Flaxen silk
--Ropey tresses
--Hawaiian shit

Working for the Clampdown: The Importance of Word Choice

("The Impact Broke My Scapula" t-shirt in the white "colorway," forwarded by a reader.)

Among the comments on yesterday's post regarding the incendiary Mavic R-Sys was this simple remark:

While the commenter's use of "golf clap" as a closing salutation would indicate mild appreciation and tempered enthusiasm, I was nonetheless disappointed in myself for not referring to rims as "hoops." As an occasional bike reviewer, it's essential that I demonstrate a working knowledge of review parlance at all times. If I fail to do so then bicycle companies will surely dismiss me as an amateur and never again will I taste the fragrant, sticky nectar of sweet, sweet product. The fact is, the cycling industry is like a giant speakeasy, and words like "hoops" are the code words you must speak through the door in order to gain access. Moreover, these code words change all the time. Of course, the undisputed master of cycling publication jargon is James Huang of Cyclingnews, who's so far ahead of the curve in this area that he's practically lapping the field. Take his recent review of the Cannondale Six Carbon 3 Compact:




In it, he refers to brakes not as "stoppers," but as "clampers:"



As far as I knew, "stoppers" was still the "cool" word, so to say that Huang's use of the word "clampers" threw me for a loop is an understatement. When I saw it, I actually felt like I was 30 minutes into a criterium and totally anaerobic, only to have my R-Sys explode beneath me. Even worse, on top of being surprised I was also embarrassed; I felt like some parent trying to be hip, only to be jeered at by his teenage children for using outmoded slang. So I beat my fist against my forehead like Chris Farley and repeated to myself, "clampers, clampers, clampers!" This seemed to do the trick, because I'm pretty sure I now have the lingo straight--though I had to make some flash cards to help me remember:


















This should ensure that my next review sounds like a bad parody of Kerouacian "spontaneous bop prosody." For best results, be sure to read it with bongo accompaniment.

Speaking of sad attempts to stay "with it," one of the best ways to fake "street cred" is to buy the right used bicycle. This is especially true in the world of fixed-gears, where bike choice is everything. Nobody wants to look like a "noob" by riding the wrong bike--especially now that the scene is closed. ("Rocking" a Pista or an IRO with bullhorns while wearing a Triple 8 helmet and a Chrome bag marks you as a modern-day "Fred," and they'll never let an obvious narc like you into the fixie speakeasy.) Similarly, ITTET, it's considered gauche to "run" an expensive NJS or vintage Italian track bike since so many people are losing their parental funding. Of course, you can always choose from among the current crop of fixed-gear freestyle bikes, but then you've got to start wearing limited edition sneakers, acting like Jamie Kennedy in "Malibu's Most Wanted," and demonstrating your ability to do barspinzzz. No, the best way is to sneak in through the metaphorical back door by pretending you bought a cheap track bike way back in the late 1990s, which is why the GT GTB is so highly coveted. Usually, beat up frames these days sell for about what a brand-new complete bike used to cost, so this particular specimen is a relative bargain:




Bad Ass GTB 1 - $450 (Jersey City)
Reply to: [deleted]
Date: 2009-06-10, 4:33PM EDT

Recently turning the big 3-1 has led to a number of changes in my boyfriends life. The most important, or at least pertinent to this posting, is that his ass just cant take it like it used to.

A former bike messenger, his hiney has kissed the seats of many a great bike, and this current beauty is no exception. Unfortunately, the fit young booty he sported at 29 just cant take the narrow seat and fixed gear set up.

If you are a nice young thing lookin to score a sweet ride and have an ass you can bounce quarters off of, this is the bike for you.

GTB-1
Good gear ratio
Easy ride
Fixed Gear
Fugino Crank
Brand new Bon Trager Tires

Air freshener included. Email inquiries only please.




This posting is nearly as eccentric as it is ass-centric--in addition to the "Fugino" crank, I counted five posterior references, and that's not including the air freshener hanging from the ass pedestal. (One wonders if simply replacing the current ass pedestal with a new one would solve the owner's comfort problems.) In a normal world, $450 wouldn't be especially cheap for an old mass-produced track bike, but in this age of fixed-gear insanity it almost seems too good to be true--in fact, between the price tag and the frequent ass mentions this could very well be a trap to lure some naive aspiring fixter into a freaky storage unit scenario.

I was also confused by the "Bon Trager" tires and wondered if they were French. For a moment I thought it was some kind of new Mavic product. I've actually been hearing rumors that they're working on a new power meter, but instead of measuring a rider's power output in watts it measures it in the force of one diminutive Frenchman trying to crush a hollow carbon R-Sys spoke:

Mavic is hoping that its proprietary Diminutive Frenchman Unit (or DFU) will one day become the industry standard. I hear that Tom Boonen can unleash over a thousand DFUs in a sprint--which is to say nothing of the massive amounts of cocaine he can consume through an R-Sys spoke, but I think on the streets of Belgium they still measure that in grams.

Speaking of drug consumption and "street cred," if you're a rock star you don't have to worry about which fixed-gear you ride, because you're automatically welcome in the speakeasy. I was stunned recently to receive an email from a reader informing me that Robert Plant rides a fixed-gear. I was doubtful, but the reader actually included a photo to back up the claim:


Yep, that's definitely Robert Plant, though with the sunglasses and pants I almost didn't recognize him:


Not only that, but the rider on the left is obviously New York Dolls frontman David Johansen:

Hopefully the fact that Plant and Johansen are riding fixed-gears together means they're working on a "collabo" of some kind. I wouldn't be surprised if they "drop" an album together soon. They could call it "Bulges and Nipple Slips."

Really, I think the only thing that would make me happier than a Plant/Johansen "joint" would be if James Huang were to use one of my words in a review. For example, it would please me beyond measure if he were to mention "rubbing" a component. While this has yet to happen, I was momentarily excited this morning when I spotted a hopped-up Dodge Ram palping a decal which read "Rubbin' is Racin':"

For just a moment there I thought that use of the word "rub" meaning "to use" had finally gone mainstream. However, a little internet research soon revealed that "Rubbin' is Racin'" is a common phrase in the NASCAR scene. (Or "NASCAR culture" if you're the kind of person who says "colorway.") This in turn led me to wonder if and when the "hipster" community will cultivate an ironic appreciation for NASCAR--the fixed-gear blog "Hipster Nascar" notwithstanding. Really, watching NASCAR would seem to slot much more neatly into the life of the typical hipster than fixed-gear bikes do; since they enjoy spending so much time in fake dive bars anyway, they could simply watch NASCAR races in them instead of getting their Deep Vs stolen outside of them.

Of course, it's all too easy to stereotype people. The truth is, not all hipsters are hapless fashion victims whose bikes get ripped off outside of bars while they're getting ripped off inside of them. Similarly, not all NASCAR fans shoot things with antlers. However, some of them do, which is why it can be dangerous to "rub" too many barends on your bike:

A reader recently spotted this specimen in Corvallis, OR. Personally, I'd be afraid to ride it, since some unironic NASCAR fan stereotype might mistake you for a buck and take aim at you.

I would also be hesitant to rub this cyclocross tire belt, to which a friend recently alerted me:

Really, few people get away with such a hideous accessory. You'd have to be a real rock star to pull it off. Actually, now that Robert Plant is wearing pants, this might interest him.

Round and Round: Wheel in the Sky Keeps On Failing

A graduate student once observed to me that education is the only industry in which consumers actually prefer shoddy merchandise. In other words, the easier the class, the happier students are-even though they're supposed to be learning, and even though they're often paying top dollar to do so. Well, this particular graduate student was certainly not a cyclist, because when it comes to paying lots of money for crap nobody queues up for the privilege like we do.

By now, many of you have probably read that Ben Delaney of VeloNews was the victim of an exploding Mavic R-Sys front wheel:

The R-Sys was first introduced to the cycling world in 2007, and it featured Mavic's new "Tracomp" technology. This basically meant that, instead of being built with tensioned metal spokes, the R-Sys was built with hollow carbon fiber spokes which operated under compression--like the spokes of a wooden wagon wheel, as many people pointed out at the time. Despite the fact that the wheel essentially relied on 19th century technology, Mavic certainly broke new ground when it came to pricing, since a pair of R-Sys wheels costs about $1,400. One wonders what other outmoded 19th century relics Mavic could resurrect and charge exorbitant amounts of money for; smallpox, racism, and the Napoleonic Wars leap immediately to mind. Certainly building these into a wheelset might pose a bit of a challenge, but I'm pretty sure Mavic's marketing department would be up to the task.

Anyway, the R-Sys proved itself to be garbage in short order, and there were a number of highly visible front wheel failures. As such, they recalled the wheels in January 2009, and began delivering "upgraded" replacements in March. So what makes the failure Ben Delaney experienced particularly noteworthy is the fact that it occurred with one of these new "upgraded" wheels. Naturally, as a member of the cycling press, Delaney contacted Mavic, who sent no less than five representatives to Boulder. Ultimately, these representatives suggested the problem may have been "rider error:"

You've got to admire Mavic's audacity at this point. They design a wheel that is obviously flawed, recall it, issue a replacement, and then when that replacement fails in the same way--under someone from VeloNews!--they tell him he may have been using it wrong. Never mind the fact that it's pretty hard to destroy a bicycle wheel through "rider error," unless that error involves riding into a wall at 30mph. From what I can tell, all Ben Delaney was doing was racing on the wheel and turning left. Of course, it's entirely possible that's where the error lies. Perhaps the R-Sys is directional, and he was using the "right only" version. (Mavic's new directional wheelsets save weight by shaving material from the side opposite the one on which you're turning.)

Given that the R-Sys has a history of failure and Delaney's broke in normal use, it's pretty safe to say the design is fundamentally flawed. Nonetheless, Delaney is instead treating the incident like the Kennedy assassination and "spent more than two weeks tracking down people who had seen the crash and asking them what they saw." These people included fellow racers, course marshalls, and mechanics. Here's the gripping video testimony of one eyewitness:



Here's a conflicting account, which indicates that killer bees may have been involved:



And here's Dennis Hopper's characteristically unique take on the incident:

Certainly, paired spoke technology pioneer Rolf Dietrich does stand to gain financially from Mavic's demise as a company, and it's not completely outside the realm of possibility that he was hiding in a grassy knoll that day with a small-caliber rifle of some kind. (Though given Dietrich's propensity for pairing things a double barrel shotgun seems more appropriate.) Another possibility is serial retrogrouch and uber-curmudgeon Jobst Brandt, who never forgave Mavic for discontinuing his cherished MA2 rim, and who as the world's foremost proponent of wire-spoked wheels may have finally reached the breaking point like a spoke that has not been properly stress-relieved according to his detailed instructions in "The Bicycle Wheel."

But as compelling as these theories are, sometimes the simplest answer is the correct one, and the simple answer here is that the R-Sys, upgraded or not, is an overpriced piece of crap. Still, while Delaney's faith in the R-Sys has obviously been shattered like, well, an R-Sys, he continues to stand by Mavic as a company. While this is in no doubt at least partially owing to his journalistic due diligence, it's also a typical case of roadie congnitive dissonance. In the world of road cycling, components are always "bulletproof" until proven otherwise--and even then, people will still want them. Take this now-ironic Competitivecyclist review of the R-Sys. Not only does it say that "this could be a great criterium wheel" for "bigger riders:"

But it also says that "this is a great all-purpose wheel...particularly those hard on equipment." Why? Because it will "seemingly go for a long, long time with few problems.":

Firstly, you can't determine that something will "go for a long, long time with few problems" until it's actually gone for a long, long time with few problems. Secondly, what is it about a lightweight wheel with hollow carbon fiber spokes that even seems durable? They must have watched this compelling video, in which an R-Sys spoke is able to withstand the punishing forces of one diminutive Frenchman:

Yes, amazingly, it turns out there's a difference between actual durability and the suggestion of durability--which is why you can't actually buy an R-Sys from Competitivecyclist. Incidentally, I think the translation in the video may be incorrect. While the subtitle says the spoke "is able to work both in traction and compression," I think what he was really saying was that when compressed the spoke will put you in traction.

Ultimately, the big question is: have Mavic finally pushed their reputation to the breaking point along with their wheel technology? Until now, they've had an astonishing run, most recently having convinced legions of roadies that a $1,000 pair of Ksyriums is a logical choice for an all-around training and racing wheelset despite the fact that you could have a more solid yet equally raceable pair of wheels built for less than half that. But this starts to backfire when roadies start considering the Ksyrium just something you train on when you're not riding your $2,000 Zipps, so then Mavic has to introduce something even more proprietary and more exotic, hence the R-Sys. Unfortunately, though, while the "bulletproof" Ksyrium has some expensive aluminum spokes and a hub that tends to start howling at inopportune moments (all of which are easy for the roadie to rationalize), the R-Sys just plain explodes.

Alas, wheels can only get so round, so companies have to start getting creative with all the stuff between the axle and the tire in order to keep selling more of them. But it's a tricky proposition to engineer and market a product that lasts just long enough to be considered "bulletproof," yet not so long that the rider won't need to replace it after a season or two. And when you can't even convince a roadie that something's "bulletproof," then you're in real trouble. In any case, if you want a wagon wheel, you're probably better off just buying an Aerospoke--though I suppose knowing your wheel can blow up at any moment makes every ride that much more epic.

Won't Get Byrned Again: The Indignity of Being an Unwitting Participant

While many Craigslist "missed connections" posts are noteworthy in their specificity, some are actually conspicuous in their ambiguity. The following post is an example of the latter:



guy on a bike at david byrne show - w4m (prospect park )
Reply to: [deleted]
Date: 2009-06-09, 1:01AM EDT

we saw each other in passing not once but twice after the david byrne show. you were biking away on your bike and saying goodbye as i was walking home. i thought you were cute!


While it's possible the lack of detail is an attempt to solicit as many responses as possible by omitting any specifics that might serve as filters, it's more likely that this particular poster simply lacks descriptive prowess. The fact is that not everybody can describe a person accurately using only words. This is why if you're an eligible person in a large urban center and you want to be singled out for a "missed connection" it's extremely important to apply as many distinguishing features to yourself as possible. Just imagine how much more effective the above post would be if it included the sentence, "You were shirtless with a tattoo of Charles Nelson Reilly on your back, you were wearing fishing waders, and you had a pair of live macaws on your handlebars." Of course, this can backfire, since in a large enough city the more people try to set themselves apart the more they end up looking like each other. (For example, one needs only visit Williamsburg, Brooklyn to see that the Charles Nelson Reilly tattoo and waders is the tribal arm band and Dr. Martens of 2009.) Still, every little bit helps.

In truth, looking for a "guy on a bike" at last night's David Byrne concert in Prospect Park, Brooklyn was like looking for a guy with a helmet mirror at a charity ride--it described just about everybody there. And the reason I know this is that I myself was at last night's David Byrne concert; moreover, I was there on a bike as well. However, it just so happens that I was there completely by accident.

Firstly, I should say that I'm not much of a David Byrne fan, and as such I don't keep abreast of his comings and goings. Sure, since he's also become the Bono of local cycling advocacy it's inevitable I come across him from time to time, but for the most part he's like a Canadian parliamentary debate to me in that I know he's there and I know he's important to a bunch of white people, but nonetheless I have absolutely no interest in listening. Secondly, I should also mention that I regularly ride my bike through Prospect Park. Between my commute and the fact that most of the local races take place there too I've gone through that park more times than Paul Kimmage has been through Lance Armstrong's garbage.

Ordinarily, ignoring David Byrne and riding through Prospect Park regularly have never been a problem for me. However, yesterday evening, these two seemingly unrelated facets of my existence collided with disastrous consequences. As I entered the park, I noticed a larger number of people than usual in the vicinity of the band shell. "No big deal," I naively thought to myself. The summer concert season has obviously begun, and ordinarily there's no problem riding past the stage even when a show is in progress. "I'll just ride through slowly." Unfortunately, I didn't know that this particular concert was being given by David Byrne, nor did I appreciate the large number of people who apparently want to hear him. Before I knew it, it was too late to exit the park, and I was quite literally trapped in a throng of hipsters:

I valiantly tried to stay on my bike for as long as possible, but I was soon forced to dismount and walk. After awhile though even that became almost impossible. It was like being trapped in hipster quicksand. Even worse, since this was David Byrne, the quicksand was multi-generational, and the hipsters ranged from young ones desperately trying to find each-other via cellphone to older ones with "man boobs" (I believe the polite term is "manmaries") wearing Moog t-shirts and carrying their small children. I still did not know who was playing, but I was vaguely aware of a thin, warbly sort of ambient whining coming from the vicinity of the stage. I was too frightened to ask anybody who the performer was, but just as you can look at rock strata to determine the age of the Earth, I determined from the cross-section of the crowd that whoever was in that bandshell was probably pretty old.

Oh, and there were bikes. Lots of them. Some were locked to poles:



Others were under concert goers:


And to my utter horror, some people were even using them as dinner tables:

(All You Haters Scarf My Takeout.)

By now I was beginning to feel like Sean Connery in "Finding Forrester" when they go to Madison Square Garden and he has an agoraphobic freakout, and it seemed entirely possible that I might never escape this crowd. So panicked was I that I began to imagine that the world beyond the park was in chaos as well. After all, given the sheer number of people here, there must be empty apartments full of unguarded modern furnishings and late-model Apple computers from here all the way to Greenpoint. ITTET, surely hordes of bandits were now sweeping across Brookyn plundering recently-closed co-ops and gorging themselves from Sub-Zero refrigerators brimming with Fresh Direct produce. Overwhelmed by the thought that even if I survived this crowd a whole new set of horrors awaited me beyond it, it was at this point that I began to swoon:



I also realized that, while so much of what I had previously thought was important in life no longer mattered to me now, there were two things of which I was absolutely certain:

1) I don't want to die;

2) If I do die, I don't want it to be from choking to death on a blond dreadlock.

Then I saw something in the distance. At first, I thought the crowd had resorted to cannibalism and someone was holding aloft a human corpse. Soon though my eyes adjusted and I realized a concertgoer was literally raising a fixie in the air over the heads of the crowd. I managed to photograph it, though the bicycle is only barely visible:

Yes, apparently at concerts people don't hold their lighters or cellphones in the air anymore. Instead, they just use their track bikes. In a way, it would have been less terrifying had it been a corpse.

In the end, though, I managed to stay conscious, and to my intense relief I eventually made it through the crowd and to the relative safety of the streets of Brooklyn. Incidentally, if after reading this you actually still want to go to a concert for some reason, you can win tickets to something called "All Points West" on Fat Cyclist's sister's blog:

Yes, the Fat Cyclist family is a lot like the mafia, except instead of killing people they just make you help them raffle stuff off for LiveStrong. Sadly, I don't think David Byrne is playing "All Points West," but I was surprised to see that My Bloody Valentine are one of the bands on the bill, and when it comes to ambient noise they make listening to David Byrne seem like holding a conch shell up to your ear. So if you're ready for some Sidi-gazing, visit Pistols and Popcorn and enter the contest. And if you win, don't forget to bring your bike so you can wave it over your head during the power ballads.

From the BSNYC Culture Desk: "The Belle of the Ball Bearings" (A Musical)

As theater fans are well aware, yesterday was the [insert number here]th Annual Tony Awards. And as most cycling fans now know, the surprise winner for best play was five-time Tour de France winner Bernard "The Badger" Hinault's one man show, "Au Contraire," in which he rails against a world gone fou. Highlights from Hinault's performance include:

On whether the Tour is too hard: “The Tour is not too hard. It is necessary to stop complaining. Cycling is a hard profession, but it’s better than going to the factory. A racer who wins is never paid too much. If you really want to win, you fight until your last breath.”

On Armstrong’s comeback: “I hope he will not be there. Is he afraid of France? Nobody forced him to come, he only has to stay home! He cannot win the Tour. I hope that Contador gives him a beating.”

On doping: “The French have taken as much as the others. What is not normal is that they are not treated in the same manner as other sportsmen.”

On earpieces: “I am against them. It is just a ‘Game Boy’ that has a gigolo attached at the end telling the racer when to take a piss. With Guimard, we studied the map and the wind the morning before the stage.”

On Greg LeMond: “He was a good racer, but not an attacker. He was unable to make tactics by himself. In 1986, I kept my promise to help him win the Tour. Me? I just wanted to have fun!”

But Hinault also takes on more than just cycling in his curmudgeonly tour de force. Here are a few less-publicized quotes:

On North Korea: "I don't understand why everyone's giving them such a hard time. This world could use a little less freedom and a little more oppression. Kim Jong-il rules like I used to race: relentlessly, and with a slight pompadour."

On GM's bankruptcy: "What a bunch of sissies. They were on the right track with the Hummer. The public are sheep. If they're not buying your cars, make them buy your cars. As for the unions, it is necessary for them to stop complaining. Building SUVs is a hard profession, but it's better than going to the factory."

On Mickey Rourke's performance in "The Wrestler": "I don't see what all the fuss was about. That performance was lukewarm at best. Darren Aronofsky actually wanted me for the role but I turned him down because I didn't like the ending. I don't want to ruin it, but the wrestler dies. What a total loser."

On Dunkin' Donuts's new Waffle Breakfast Sandwich: "Surprisingly tasty."

However, while Hinault's show may be the toast of Broadway (I'm sure he's browbeating a waiter at Sardi's as I type this), there's another bicycle-themed production that was tragically overlooked. In fact, I didn't even know it existed until late last week. I am of course referring to Elizabeth Battersby's one-woman musical, "The Belle of the Ball Bearings," which is currently playing at The Theater for the New City at 155 1st Avenue in Manhattan. Here is the description:

In BELLE OF THE BALL BEARINGS you can ride your bike to the theater and not worry about locking it outside. In fact, you can keep your eye on it during the show; it'll be parked onstage and made part of the set. The show is inspired by Ms. Battersby's life experience as a bike racer, bike shop owner, bike messenger, and soul mate to everyone who lives life on two wheels.

Elizabeth Battersby sets her musical in 1995, "When computers were just coming in and New York City was a little more interesting." She portrays unique and memorable personalities that include Bike Mechanics, Bicycle messengers, an Irish Grandmother, a Mom, a Rabbi, and a Veteran. The show combines a rock band with added percussion, including the bicycle tools.

"Each brake pad, each sprocket - has it's own story!"


While any sensible person would read this and resolve to stay as far away from the theater as possible, as someone who has made it his life's work to probe the unseemliest recesses of cycling "culture" I knew right away that I had to see this production. This was extremely unfortunate for the person who alerted me to the show, as she had expected me to laugh it off but was instead forced to accompany me. And so it was that within hours of learning of the existence of a bicycle-themed musical we were on our way to the Theater for the New City to see it:



When it comes to art, I endeavor to approach any new work with an open mind. However, I must confess that as we approached the theater I felt very much like I was entering a burning building from which everybody else was fleeing. This sensation only grew stronger as I studied the poster:

Few words are more horrifying when used together than "Bike Shop Musical." It's a phrase almost as off-putting as "Do Not Enter," "Danger of Death," or "Sun Dried Tomatoes." I knew I would need to fortify myself, but we only had a few minutes until the show began, and there was only one bar close enough to the theater affording us ample time to bolster our resolve:


Yes, that is indeed the Coyote Ugly saloon, basis of the 2000 feature film of the same name. Now, I'd never been to the Coyote Ugly, nor had I seen the film, so I figured that if the place had been the basis of an actual movie it couldn't be all that bad. Naturally, I was mistaken:

If anything, you should probably avoid visiting places that have been the basis for an eponymous feature film. The Titanic is a good example of this. You should also expect to spend way too much money. Despite the fact that it was still happy hour along most of the Eastern seaboard, a brace of name-brand whiskeys at Coyote Ugly relieved me of a brace of sawbucks:

Now, I should point out that I don't count pennies when I'm entertaining, and I'm fully appreciative of the fact that one should expect to spend a bit extra when going to the theater. Also, in some establishments you're not paying for the drink; rather, you're paying for the surroundings. However, it's hard not to feel slightly indignant when those surroundings consist mostly of a curtain of dirty bras:

By the way, there are signs in Coyote Ugly which forbid photography on penalty of a fine. As such, I took these photos surreptitiously, though at the same time I felt entitled to snap a few pictures since I had essentially already paid a hefty fine at the bar. Also, it's a good thing I was wearing my Vittorias, since their proven bathroom traction allowed me to remain sure-footed when I visited the urinal:


After we finished our drinks and I did a little jig on the bar in a wet t-shirt, we headed over to the theater, which contained an anteroom being employed as a large art gallery. At this point, I felt like I was in a dentist's waiting room, since I had a bad feeling I was not only about to endure an hour of pain, but was also paying for the privilege:


Once through the gallery, a Fuji poster alerted us to the location of the theater itself:


And here's the set, which as you can see is in fact a reasonable facsimile of a bike shop:


As we waited for the show to begin, we studied the program and contemplated the list of songs we were about to endure:



We also read about the show's writer and star:



Sufficiently assured of Ms. Battersby's "street cred," I took a closer look at the set. Props included not only a fixed-gear bicycle:


But also a p-far:


The playwright Anton Chekhov (or was it Dmitri Fofonov?) famously said, ""If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there." I assumed Ms. Battersby was familiar with this quote, so I wondered how these particular items would be employed, and what sort of grisly tragedy they might portend.

Speaking of portentous, here's the band, whose keyboardist backed Ms. Battersby on vocals and sounded almost exactly like Mr. G from "Summer Heights High:"



After we were briefed on the location of the fire exits (I had to restrain my reluctant accomplice for making off towards the nearest one at this point) and instructed not to take photos without the permission of the producers (an instruction I chose to disregard) the play began. Some patter ambiguously conveyed that Ms. Battersby's primary character, Bobby, was some kind of third-generation family bike shop owner and spinster, after which she launched into "I Fix Things," an ebullient number about how she fixes things. As she sang, she also pretended to, well, fix things. It was at this point that Ms. Battersby's earnestness coupled with the absurdity inherent in the idea of a bike shop musical caused me to shift awkwardly in my seat and to avert my gaze, since even though I was all the way in the back of the theater I was still pretty close to Ms. Battersby and I was afraid that if I met her eye I might start laughing. This would have been a terrible thing, as I had no intention whatsoever of embarrassing Ms. Battersby. Moreover, she seemed more than capable of embarrassing herself.

Fortunately, my facial muscles relaxed and I eventually settled in. For the third number, Ms. Battersby took the metaphorical Chekhovian rifle off the wall by grabbing the fixed-gear and singing "Streetwise:"


Streetwise was a song about Bobby's messenger days, and Ms. Battersby straddled the fixed-gear bicycle and mimed riding through traffic by rocking it back and forth as she sang:

By now I was beginning to find Ms. Battersby's unfettered enthusiasm endearing, though at the same time the fact is that watching bike messengering rendered in musical form is exactly what you'd think it would be: cringe-inducing. "Quicksilver" seems like a documentary in comparison.

On the other hand, "Spinning Rabbi," which Ms. Battersby sings in the "Uncle Rabbi" character (complete with Yiddish accent), was supposed to be funny, and to my profound relief it actually was:


Less humorous was "How Do You Explain," a heavy-handed number in which Grandma Penny Farthing (note the shawl) sings of the empowerment women gained from bicycling at the turn of the 20th century. Yes, "The Bell of the Ball Bearings" is that ambitious. Needless to say, the second Chekhovian rifle was fired here:

By the time the Bobby character implies she may have killed a teenage girl visiting from the midwest while out on a messenger run in the song "14th Street Union Square," I was positively reeling, since it was now clear Ms. Battersby was going to leave no melodramatic stone unturned. I assume "The Belle of the Ball Bearings" is a work of fiction, but if it is indeed based on fact then this revelation certainly adds a whole new dimension to the play. Either way, though, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was watching someone trying to work their way through some emotional issues. Then again, I get that feeling from pretty much any musical, so most likely the problem lies with me.

In any case, I sincerely applaud Elizabeth Battersby for having the courage to mount such an ambitious and uninhibited performance. I also applaud her creativity and admire her obvious commitment to providing entertainment. Sure, it turned out in the end that a bike shop musical is exactly as absurd as you'd think it would be, but that's certainly not for Ms. Battersby's lack of trying. Of course, one could argue that it's because of Ms. Battersby's efforts that the play is absurd, but I disagree. When it comes to bike shop musicals, I would argue that absurdity is the only possible outcome.

BSYNC Friday Fun Quiz!

In Wednesday's post, I posited that perhaps "hipster" bikes are not the best choice for longer road rides. Well, it would seem as though at least one self-professed hipster agrees with me. I recently received an email from "The Bikefag," who has written what is (at least to date) the definitive guide to "Hipster Road Biking:"

I'm sure you will agree that useful information overflows from this article like an overweight hipster's muffin top bursts forth from the waistline of his or her skinny jeans. (Yes, there is such a thing as a male muffin top, though it should not be confused with a "hairy muffin.") And speaking of muffin tops, I was recently perusing the site "Muffin Top Mayhem" (it's where I get the bulk of my news) when I discovered what very well may be the World's Most Pretentious "Tramp Stamp:"

While some might argue that a Biblical quote is more self-righteous than it is pretentious, I think most of us can agree that it is significantly more pretentious than this.

That said, without any further debasement, I am pleased to present you with a quiz. As always, study the item, think, and click on your answer. If you're right, you'll know, and if you're wrong you'll see this inspirational video, courtesy of the Metal Inquisition blog.

Oh, and while there's no time limit for this quiz, if you'd like to make your test-taking experience "epic" you might want to apply one anyway. I suggest using "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" as your timer; not the seventeen-minute Iron Butterfly original, but rather the unfortunate and embarrassing three-minute Slayer cover version. (I'm not sure what Kerry King is holding there, but it appears to be an Iron Skunk.)

Thanks very much for reading, and ride safely and epicly this weekend.


--BSNYC/RTMS





1) Bad news for hipsters! A recent MSNBC article warns that skinny jeans can cause:

--"Tingling Thigh Syndrome"
--tramp stamp fading
--infertility in males
--"Muffin Top Syndrome"


2) While some hipsters may be catching on to road cycling, fixed-gear food shopping may be the next big thing.

--True
--False



3) How many hipsters does it take to parallel park successfully in Park Slope, Brooklyn?

--One (the driver)
--Two (one to drive the car, and one to stand on the sidewalk and make sure the fixies don't get crushed)
--Three (one to drive, one to stand on the sidewalk and make sure the fixies don't get crushed, and one to download the iPhone parallel parking app)
--This is a trick question because it is impossible to find parking in Park Slope



4) An $80,000+ car covered with stickers is:

--A desperate play for "street cred"
--Even more obnoxious than an $80,000+ car without any stickers on it
--Probably a hand-me-down from Mom and Dad
--All of the above



5) Why is the orange bike humping the green bike?

--Because green chains are aphrodisiacs, like green M&Ms
--Because the green bike gave the orange bike that "come hither" look
--Because in New York City, cheap conversion trumps old three-speed
--Because in New York City people can often be inconsiderate




6) This is an example of:

--Epic dog-walking
--Epic unicycling
--Cruelty to animals
--Epic fenderlessness




7) Which is not an actual quote from a recent Cyclingnews review of the Storck Fenomalist?

--"Any unwanted flex is virtually imperceptible and the Fenomalist surges forward under power with an eagerness distinctly lacking in lesser rigs."
--"Rise up out of the saddle on the climb and you can feel the rear contact patch clawing into the pavement."
--"Fenomalist? Phenomenal!"
--"Short of an internal combustion engine it's the next best thing to a gas pedal."



8) Where was this fixed-gear complete with rabbit fur spoke pelts spotted?

--Outside a vegan cocktail party in San Francisco, California
--Outside a taxidermy shop in Mobile, Alabama
--Outside a faux "dive bar" in Red Hook, Brooklyn
--At an Elmer Fudd-themed alleycat in Minneapolis, Minnesota




9) This ride is "epic" in the:

--Rapha sense
--Homerian sense
--Wagnerian sense
--Slow and meandering sense




10) The sticker on the top tube of this cargo bike says, "The Revolution Will Not Be _________:"

--Televised
--Motorized
--Dignified
--Unable To Carry Things



11) In this video, what reason does the rider give for painting his rear Deep-V black?

--"I didn't want to look gay."
--"I wanted it to match my jeans."
--"Black is the radness."
--"My sponsor insisted."

***Special Bonus Extra Credit Philosophical Essay Question***

A reader in Germany forwarded me the above photos of unusual bicycles. Do these machines lend themselves well to "epic" riding? If so, what would an "epic" ride on these bicycles entail? Is one better suited to "epics" than the other? Is any ride on a bicycle like these automatically "epic?" And does the magnitude of an "epic" increase along with the likelihood of elbow abrasions?

The Indignity of Commuting by Bicycle: Riding in Circles

In the world of urban cycling, intersections are to riders what watering holes are to animals on the Serengeti, in that they are the place where various species who might not otherwise interact are forced to come together. As such, there is no better place to observe urban cycling behavior than at intersections. This is especially true here in New York City now that cycling weather is optimal and just about every species of cyclist has come out of hibernation.

One species of rider who displays different types of behavior at intersections is the fixed-gear rider. Generally speaking, a fixed-gear rider approaching an intersection with a red light will behave in one of three ways:

1) Assertive

If the fixed-gear rider is of the hardened messenger variety (or at least aspires to be), he or she will simply refuse to acknowledge either the red signal or the vehicular traffic and continue through the intersection at full speed. Once in the middle of the intersection, the rider may skip-stop or adjust course slightly if necessary. Almost as soon as you see these riders, they're gone, leaving behind a trail of angry motorists and the scent of unwashed pants in their wake.

2) Pensive

The more conservative rider will come to a stop at the intersection, but in no circumstances will he or she put his or her foot down. In fixed-gear circles, allowing your foot to touch pavement is career suicide; it's like when Milli Vanilli got caught lip-synching. Instead, the rider will trackstand, which involves assuming the stance of a pointing bird dog and staring off into the distance until either the intersection is clear or the light turns green. Nothing can break their steely, comical resolve--even the most scantily-clad pedestrian is not enough to draw their eyes away from the distant horizon. So crucial is the trackstand to fixed-gear society that they practice it in their homes.

3) Tentative

As fixed-gear bicycles continue to proliferate so do riders who are visibly uncomfortable on them. While these riders have not owned fixed-gears long enough to master the trackstand, they have owned them long enough to know that they're not allowed to put their feet down. As such, many have developed sort of a work-around, which involves riding in circles or figure-eights at the intersection until the light changes--like sharks, only nerdier.

In fact, some of these riders will go so far as to ride circles around you if you happen to be sharing the intersection with them, and it just so happens that I encountered one of these riders today. Here I am in my chicken suit, waiting patiently at a red light and meditating on vital issues of the day:

As I mused, I was approached from behind by a rider of the "mountainger" variety, in that he was wearing the brown hikey SPD-compatible shoes and baggy shorts of a mountain biker, yet was riding the fixed-gear and wearing the bag of a messenger. He then proceeded to circle me, after which he finally came to a stop in front of me in typical sandbar fashion, at which point he attempted to trackstand unsuccesfully, ultimately forcing him to unclip at the last second and do the unthinkable--touch the street with his foot. I believe in fixed-gear freestyle parlance this is what's known as a "360 to trackstand fail." (Note the "mountainger" is represented below by the pair of baggy shorts.)

Now, you'd think once he'd gone though all that effort not to dab a foot yet still wound up doing so that he'd simply stay put and make the best of the situation by taking a little respite and waiting out the light. Not so--instead, he clipped back in and rode through traffic at the first opportunity. Furthermore, he continued to run subequent lights by employing a variation on the tentative light circling technique, which involves turning and riding halfway up the intersecting block until the coast is clear, and then doubling back and riding through.

While I don't care if people run lights or go to absurd lengths to keep their feet on their pedals during their commutes, I must say that I am against actually circling other riders. In most situations, circling is something that prefaces an attack, so when someone starts riding around you slowly like a bird of prey or a drooling dog you can't help feeling that they are trying to dominate you and that danger is imminent. Really, it's only slightly better than urinating on someone.

On the other hand, coasting riders behave differently at red lights. Instead of trackstanding or circling, they will roll as far into the intersection as they can until some approaching vehicle forces them to stop. Here is a rider resuming pedaling after riding right into and stopping in the middle of the intersection:


What you can't see is his handmade filth prophylactic which jutted from his seat tube nearly vertically. It looked like the erect tail of an animal, and his day-glo windbreaker looked like a deflated neon green mating pouch.

I did however manage to get a shot of this diminutive and slender filth prophylactic, which resembles the pubic landing strip left behind after a Brazilian wax:


Of course, now that the sheltered bike lanes of New York have their own bike-specific traffic signals, cyclists get the opportunity to awkwardly disregard two red lights for the price of one:


Note that the rider closer to me is picking his way through the intersection with one foot on the ground like a novice offroad rider trying to make his way through a rock garden. Really, as much as the idea of a network of bike lanes and traffic lights for New York City's cyclists seems like a good idea, in practice it is only serving as a new venue for stupid riding. These bike lanes are also just large enough to fit a garbage truck, but not large enough to let you pass a garbage truck:

The fact is though that refuse will always need to be collected, and as long as it's placed curbside garbage trucks will always have to stop curbside in order to pick it up. So really, you can't blame them for using the bike lane. Actually, in retrospect, we'd have been a lot better off if the city had created dedicated garbage truck lanes instead of new bike lanes. That way, not only could I just keep riding in traffic like I always have, but I also wouldn't have to deal with all the garbage trucks.

Alas, instead the new bike lanes are a place where the lightest and the heaviest vehicular traffic gets to interact exclusively. It's like keeping your keys and your Freshen Up gum in the same pants pocket; something's going to cause the other to explode in a gooey mess, and the victim isn't going to be the keys. And even if you do get around a giant truck, they'll still come around you and turn in front of you while you wait, forcing you to the curb. Here's one making a right on red and revealing a drycleaning-bearing bike salmon in the distance:


Indeed, bike salmon can be almost as dangerous as trucks. Here's the tragic aftermath of one cyclist's salmon encounter:


If you saw the bike on bike accident tonight on Ave A... - m4w (Lower East Side)
Reply to: [deleted]
Date: 2009-06-03, 2:49AM EDT

...and picked up a phone, it's the delivery guy's. Please find out where he works, because they owe me a new fork, and possibly a medical bill. He was going the wrong way.

If you have the phone, you get my undying appreciation and I will gladly trade it for a bottle of vodka. A good bottle, not that $10 per handle garbage. I'm no cheapskate.

Actually, if he's looking for accident witnesses, he should probably ask the drivers of large trucks. Many of them have seen a lot, and they can often recount the details of crashes with stunning accuracy.

Yes, life in the bike lane is ugly, and it would appear that our only hope for beautification lies with students of the Fashion Institute of Technology:



Amazingly, a publicist actually deigned to send me a press release about this contest as well:


Furthermore, it included some of the winning sketches:


I'm really "feeling" this Tech-Chic Envelope Bag, which hopefully will be available in a number of "colorways:"


But while the envelope bag would appear to be suited to little else but toting the change of clothes your fashionable cycling garments should obviate the need for, I suppose I could expect much worse from a LVMH x FIT student "collabo." So I extend a hearty congratulations to the winner and I hope she goes on to design many a poncho. I also hope she can reach the Final Fashion Frontier, which is designing a pair of shoes you can actually stand up in:



I had Many Facial Piercings and Platforms You Vintage Bicycle - w4m - 22 (East Village)
Reply to:[deleted]
Date: 2009-05-30, 11:30PM EDT

Friday 6pm ,19th on St Marks,I was 5 foot 10 in heels , Skinny and leggy with long dark hair pulled back in a high bun. I had a septum ring in my nose,several facial piercings, big stretched earlobes and ridiculously high platform wedges on with thigh high black stockings I was having trouble keeping my balance while I waited for my friend. you bicycled by on a old school bike and waved, but that was it, didn't bother to stop, barely got a look at you, then you looked back and kept peddling. Liked your little short denim jacket and tight jeans. You also had a fidel castro like hat and old converse . Remember me?

I guess it can be hard to stand up when you've got that much weight above the neck.

All You Riders Flog My Product: Epics in the Service of Publicity

As cyclists, I think we can all agree that it can sometimes be quite enjoyable to occasionally take a ride that's longer than the ones we usually take. Whether or not you choose to call this ride an "epic" is up to you, but underneath all the evocative language and imagery the fundamental truth is we like to spend time on our bikes. Furthermore, whether you find Rapha's presentation of the "epic" ride seductive or pretentious, I think we can also agree that when it comes to taking long rides the Rapha Continental do it right. No, I don't mean that you need a Richard Sachs frame and a pair of $200 bibs to take a long ride, nor do I mean it needs to be documented in black and white photography and recounted in overwrought prose later. I simply mean that if you're going to spend five or six hours riding on the road and you don't need to carry any clothing or supplies with you, a road bike, a pair of cycling shorts, and a jersey is a pretty good choice.

However, some riders have a different way of approaching the "epic." For them, an "epic" ride isn't pushing themselves and their equipment as far and as hard as possible. Instead, it involves simply using the wrong equipment altogether. One group of riders selling this version of the "epic" is Nabiis, who have undertaken what they call the "Tour de Taiwan," and they're doing it on fixed-gears:








Now you might think that track bicycles equipped with riser bars of the sort normally used by urban cyclists to cover short distances and perform unimpressive tricks would be a bad choice for a longish road ride, and from the looks of their times it seems you'd be right. Here's how they fared on day one:


Please note I've converted the data from pretentious to cumbersome for the convenience of my fellow Americans. As you can see, the Nabiis crew managed to cover a distance of 51 miles in roughly three and a half hours, making their average speed about 15mph. To put this in context, on May 24th Rapha had one of their "Gentlemen's Races" in upstate New York, in which various six-person teams from the region covered a distance of roughly 120 miles. The winning team, Empire, finished in five hours and 28 minutes. The last place team, HUP United, finished in eight hours and 15 minutes complete with a rider who had never ridden over 100 miles before.

So what does this mean? Well, given the fact that HUP averaged about the same speed as the Nabiis riders over some significant climbs for well over twice the distance, it means that Nabiis might want to consider rethinking their choice of bicycle. Sure, I realize Nabiis aren't necessarily racing or even trying to finish quickly, but if that's the case why are they posting finishing times and riding with a follow car? Even the Rapha riders don't have support. The only conclusion I can draw is that they're trying to prove that hipster bikes make pretty bad road bikes, and in that respect they've succeeded admirably. Either that, or they don't want to tire themselves out for the post-stage stunting sessions:

In that respect though, I suppose doing a half-assed road ride and then doing some half-assed tricks all in the same day and on a bicycle ill-suited to both could be considered "epic."

Speaking of riser bars, the latest reason I've been hearing often for using them on fixed-gears (besides freestyling) is that they let you see over traffic. This is ridiculous. Firstly, people drive enormous cars these days, and unless you live in a town where everybody drives a DeLorean there's no way you're seeing over traffic unless you're riding a tall bike--and that's to say nothing of all the vans, trucks, and buses. If a high vantage point made a better city bike then we'd all still be riding p-fars. Secondly, even if you could see over traffic, why would you want to? When you ride in the city the most important thing by what's happening a few feet in front of you, particularly with regard to the road surface. It's no good craning your neck to see what's happening down the block if you're going to ride right into a pothole or a storm grate. Plus, you don't need to see over the cars, you need to see between them. You're riding through traffic, not over it. Then again, when you've got no brakes and it takes you half a block to stop, I guess you need to see as far down the street as possible. Maybe Soma can make an urban periscope. In fact, the reason you can't see over traffic is because everyone's driving SUVs so they can see over traffic, and you can see how well that turned out for everybody.

Of course, well before Nabiis set out on the "Tour de Taiwan," MASH already proved that track bikes make bad road bikes by riding the Tour of California stages on them:

Yes, the track bike is beautifully simple, but sometimes simplicity is complexity--especially when you need to stop yourself with your foot on a descent after dropping your chain. Actually, in this case, simplicity has leapfrogged over complexity and gone right to absurdity.

Furthermore, MASH seem to be positioning themselves as the fixed-gear Rapha. Just take a look at the copy for this "epic"-themed t-shirt:


One of the most beautiful moments in cycling is when riders are climbing up a mountain pass with their explosive energy and descending down to a valley floor with equally explosive power. There is a sense of sublime that bring us closer to the most primal part of nature within us. For this shirt, I wanted to create a single-minded design that captures this sense of sublime and to commemorate their incredible effort that went into riding the Tour of California by MASH riders on their fixed gear bikes this Spring. It was an epic attempt to provide all of us with much needed courage and possibilities to live our lives with beauty and simplicity.

Wow, that's a lot of words for picture of a mountain with an explosion on the top. Actually, my understanding of successful road riding is that you're not supposed to blow up on the climb. Being able to downshift on the ascent and upshift on the descent instead of stomping up one side and frantically spinning down the other can go a long way towards preventing this from happening. Throw a couple of brakes into the bargain and you won't even have to peform a "foot jam" if something goes wrong.

Even those "Albion in the Gloaming" guys are palping derailleurs on their own iteration of the "epic." As you can see from their site, they're well under way, and they don't seem to be rubbing the bikes from the bird-miming video:



While I'm pleased to see they seem to be riding relatively sensible bikes, I hope they realize doing so is not a good way to get attention--especially if they want to sell something. That's why I'm planning my own publicity-seeking "epic," in which I'm going to ride across the country on a singlespeed mountain bike. 50 gear inches, 30psi, and absolutely no point.

Epic-curious: Riding Long and Hard

As I posted yesterday, this past weekend I took the winner of the Fat Cyclist contest on a typical New York area road ride. However, while it was both typical and enjoyable, it was by no means "epic." Frankly, as a mediocre cyclist in all respects I don't possess the necessary passion, fortitude, and effortless style to lead an "epic" road ride. For that matter, I don't possess the proper clothing either. Sure, I once thought I had all these things, but then I read about the Rapha Continental:

Here is how Rapha define an "epic" ride:

No formula exists for epic. It happens when the right conditions are present and it cannot be manufactured. Mental, physical and emotional stress are all components as is suffering, which in the case of cycling, usually means extended periods of self-inflicted pain. Exposure, distance, duration, elevation, great camaraderie, road surfaces, waning sanity, exhaustion, rapidly fading sunlight, weather, empty pockets and broken chains. And competition both healthy and not so healthy are all likely a part of any epic ride. Epic is essentially the result of a series of intense experiences and hard riding.

I like easy-to-follow formulas, so I was disappointed to learn that I cannot employ one to have an "epic." Even though "mental, physical and emotional stress" are important components, as is "self-inflicted pain," these things alone cannot make your ride "epic." I know this because I recently thought really hard about the dire state of the economy while reminiscing about childhood traumas and administering a "purple nurple" to myself during a ride in Prospect Park, and while highly unpleasant, the ride was far from "epic."

Further proof of my intrinsic lack of "epicness" is my experience at the Runcible Spoon. When Rapha visits the Runcible Spoon on an "epic," everything is all sepia and "epicy:"


When I go, it looks like this and I get served a hairy muffin:


But does this mean I lack soul and "epictude," or do I simply lack epic photography skills? Is there really such a thing as a serendipitous state of cycling perfection--a narcotic cocktail of pleasure and pain called an "epic?" Or is there simply a calculated state of visual cycling perfection--an opiate haze of seductive images and words called "epic roadie marketing?" Is it possible to experience this blissful state by riding with the Rapha Continental team-that-is-not-a-team who shave their legs in cold mountain streams and who poke at their deadened muscles with pins to elicit the last few spasms and twitches that will get them over that final, nearly insurmountable 19% climb at mile 135? Or do they just want me to buy some shorts?

I don't know, but whether it's reality or illusion or some combination thereof there are few other cycling companies that could get away with it--although I'd love to see them try. One such company who might want to consider taking a shot at marketing the "epic" is Primal Wear, makers of novelty cycling apparel such as the "Crankkin' Stein" jersey:


Primal Wear are often criticized for their outrageous, tasteless, and arguably hideous graphics. However, I think they should be applauded for having the courage to produce a jersey like this one that empowers Jewish cyclists. I'm not sure what the "Crankkin' Stein" jersey says on the back, but I'm guessing it's something like "Crankkin' Stein Cranks, but Never on Shabbos."

In my ongoing efforts to jump the shark, Primal Wear represents to me the great white. Sure, I may have a column in Bicycling, but that's just hopping over a baby nurse shark on a Razr scooter compared to my actual goal, which is designing Primal Wear jerseys. To that end, I've been working on some concepts, which I'm pleased to share with you here in rudimentary sketch form:



Primal wear have demonstrated a fondness for sexually suggestive double entendre in the past, so I'm hoping this "Derailleur?!? Damn near killed her!!!" design (complete with long-cage Sora rear derailleur) appeals to them as well. Obviously it needs some heavy airbrushing, but you get the idea.


If that's too subtle for them, maybe they'll go for this "I've Got a Compact Crank" design. Because it's not the size of your chainrings; it's how you spin them.


But Primal isn't only about bad puns. It's also about references to popular culture. That's why I think this homage to Charlie Sheen's epic hair in the 1989 baseball comedy "Major League" will be a home run.

But as Rapha has proven, it's not just about showing the clothes; it's also about showing what you can do in the clothes. (And I don't mean relieving yourself in them during a triathlon.) This is why Primal also need to market their version of the "epic" by putting together a group of riders who embody the Primal spirit. This group would be called the "Primal Continental" and they would participate in charity rides across North America. Of course, they'll also need bikes. Rapha Continental has tapped the country's most respected framebuilders to construct for them some of the most pretentious bikes ever made:


Likewise, Primal Continental would have access to the finest bicycles that Performance has to offer:

Plastic, stamped steel, and aluminum play indifferently, ride sufficiently, and look acceptable together. This bike would also look great in front of the Runcible Spoon--as photographed by me, not by Rapha--during a hairy muffin stop on a Primal "epic." Actually, I wonder if Primal would be interested in making "hairy muffin" jerseys. That would be epic.

In the meantime, though, I still can't help but feel inadequately "epic" most of the time. Not only do I have a hard time getting the rarefied blend of leather, carbon, camaraderie, and self-inflicted pain just right, but I also don't have that much time. Sadly, the best I can do most days is try to make my commute "epic." Fortunately, I often succeed--as long as your definition of an "epic" commute includes the words "infuriating" and "miserable." If an epic road ride involves steep climbs, gravel roads, road rash, mechanical mishaps and inclement weather, then an epic commute includes something like this:



Not only is this car disgorging an oblivious passenger on a cell phone right in the middle of the bike lane:


But it turns out the door was also hiding an oncoming bike-salmoning "Beautiful Godzilla."

Even more irritating than the Rapidly-Appearing Bike Salmon (RABS) are the Rollerbladers, whom I've been encountering in the bike lane with increasing frequency:


I wonder if it's possible to do an "epic" Rollerblade ride:

It seems more "meh-pic" to me.

BSNYC Ride Report: Slippery When Hairy

As you may recall, awhile back the ironically-named author of the Fat Cyclist blog, Fat Cyclist, raffled off an opportunity to travel to New York City to meet me, and this past Saturday that meeting in fact took place. Of course, the real fruit on the bottom of the yogurt container that was the Fat Cyclist contest was the free plane ticket. Meeting me was just the sour and boring part that gets in the way of the deliciousness. And fortunately for the eventual winner of the contest, Brad Wedemeyer, he lived close enough to New York City to visit without squandering his plane ticket, which he can still use to take a trip that's actually interesting. Even more fortunately, Brad also received an additional bonus prize, when he got to watch me fall off my bike after urinating, which I will address in due course.

Brad opted for a road ride, which was fortunate for me since my recumbent is in the shop. (Visibility is paramount when you're palping a recumbent so I'm having a commercial grade Hurricane Illuminator Series outdoor flagpole installed.) As such, I figured we should "slay" the quintessential New York metropolitan area road ride, which is of course the ride to Nyack. If you're unfamiliar with the cycling patterns of the New York region, here's a very general map of the sort you might find rendered as a line drawing in the opening pages of a lengthy fantasy novel:

The pink thing shaped like a piece of lox is the island of Manhattan (where, as it happens, most of the bike salmon reside). On the northern tip of the piece of lox you can see a green line heading west. That is the George Washington Bridge, which leads to "The Land of Make Believe," so called because it is a mystical place filled with people on all manner of misshapen crabon contraptions and clad in a bewildering array of colors. Essentially, it's a kingdom full of court jesters without a king, and every weekend New York City's cyclists don their most absurd outfits, and head over the bridge to The Land of Make Believe. Some ride in tight pacelines, others hunch over their aerobars, and still others weave dangerously as they ponder the cue sheets clothespinned to their handlebars. The "Smurf Village" of the Land of Make Believe is Nyack, which is about 20 miles north of the George Washington Bridge on the west bank of the Hudson river and contains the cafe in which most of the jesters purchase and consume their comestibles.

Meanwhile, downtown Manhattan (and, to a larger extent, the portions of Brooklyn adjacent to it) contains "The Fixie Hatchery." As the name suggests, this is the place where fixters spawn and conduct their first experiments in customization and color coordination on their new IROs and Pistas. While the fixters rarely stray far from the hatchery, you will occasionally find them in The Land of Make Believe, where they look exceedingly disoriented and uncomfortable due to their sweaty jeans and overgeared bikes.

But the most mysterious and forbidding of these domains is The Hunting Ground of the Lone Wolf. This is the marshy, flat portion of Brooklyn and the Rockaways where forbidding individuals on exotic bikes roam. Here, the Discman is the music player of choice, and the mountain bike reigns supreme. In The Hunting Ground of the Lone Wolf, cyclists do not fly in formation like those in The Land of Make Believe, nor do they flock together like the fixters. Instead, they pick their way through the reeds in conspicuous solitude like the egret.

And so it was that on a warm, sunny Saturday morning I met Brad in Manhattan for a trip to The Land of Make Believe. I had with me a one-man security detail (in the form of a stealthy assassin who can hurl a multi-tool with deadly accuracy) as well as a brace of CamelBak Team Garmin Slipstream bottles, which were sent to me unsolicited by Slipstream for this very occasion and which I presented to Brad:



We then headed over the George Washington Bridge and into The Land of Make Believe, which was resplendent with court jesters due to the favorable weather conditions. As we approached the New Jersey/New York state line, we stopped to answer the call of nature, since I was almost certain I'd heard a maple tree calling my name. It turned out I was mistaken about the tree, but we figured while we were stopped we might as well urinate. However, I had come to a stop atop a layer of wet leaves, and when I clipped back into my pedal after relieving myself and attempted to ride away from the curb my wheel slipped out from under me and I fell over in a manner slightly less graceful than this. Fortunately, I fell away from the patch of ground I had just moistened and not onto it, though given the volume of cyclists in The Land of Make Believe that morning I choose not to think about what may have made those leaves wet in the first place.

Eventually, we made it to Nyack, where we stopped at the Runcible Spoon, which is the Performance of cyclist cafes. Characteristically, it was bustling, and here was the scene as we arrived:


As always, the full range of bicycle brands, lycra hues, and unfortunate bar tape "colorways" was on display in front of the Spoon, and as hard as it was to tear ourselves away we finally headed inside. I ordered a muffin, from which I picked and nibbled until I spotted something that stopped me cold:


While it's not visible in the photo, there was in fact a hair in my muffin, and it was way too long to belong to Brad, my security detail, or me. Also, the fact that it had not been visible initially led me to suspect that it had somehow been baked into the muffin. Now, I hesitate to blame the Spoon for this, since it's quite possible it simply fell from someone's head as they passed and alighted on the muffin while I was eating it. (Plus, I'm prone to paranoia, as evidenced by the fact that I hear trees talking to me.) In any event, I elected to discard the muffin at this point. While there's certainly nothing wrong with enjoying a hairy muffin, it's something that's better left to consenting adults in the privacy of their own homes.

I was still shaken by the muffin debacle as we left the spoon, so we detoured slightly on the way back towards the bridge in order to ride up some hills. At this point I should mention that Brad, who is a strong rider, is also a triathlete. In fact, he is an Ironman, having completed multiple whatever the plural of Ironman races is. (Maybe it's "Ironsman," like "Tours de France.") This puzzled me greatly, since triathletes are supposed to be bad bike handlers who can't climb, yet Brad climbed quite well and also managed to stay on his bike the whole time and generally ride it with aplomb while I had nearly fallen headlong into my own urine. It was very nearly enough to convince me that I should discard my misconceptions about triathletes, though in the end I just decided to consider Brad an anomaly since I find stereotypes and sweeping generalizations comforting.

In any case, I enjoyed myself greatly, and I hope Brad managed to enjoy himself too despite my tedious company. Thanks to him for making the trip, and I wish him the best in all his endeavors. I guess it couldn't have been too bad for him since he does seem happy in this post-ride shot, though that's probably just because he's already reminiscing about my unfortunate post-urinary accident:


Shortly after this, we parted ways and I headed homeward. My route took me along the Great Hipster Silk Route. Here is a rider in Queens heading back towards The Fixie Hatchery which lies just across the bridge in the distance:


Yep, nothing more comfortable than a well-worn generalization. It's just the thing to assuage my wounded dignity.