The Corrections: I Can See Clearly Now

This past Friday, on October something-or-other in the year 2000-something-or-other, I administered a series of challenging questions, or what people in the education industry refer to as a "quiz." This so-called "quiz" can be viewed by clicking on the following phrase:

NEW ENGLAND CLAM CHOWDER IS DELICIOUS

Or, alternately, by clicking on this photo of a bowl of New England clam chowder:

For those of you who don't know your chowders, New England clam chowder is the white one, Manhattan clam chowder is the red one, and "Cleveland clam chowder" is not actually a chowder but rather a slang term for a particularly filthy sex act, so keep that in mind when ordering to avoid disappointment, embarrassment, or arrest.

At this point, you're probably thinking, "That quiz was like months ago! Why are you bringing it up now?" Well, it has been brought to my attention by a popular cycling-themed bag, clothing and shoe company that the so-called "right" answer to one of the questions on this quiz was actually wrong. Here is the question in question:

As the Chrome representative explains:

...the two people who got the Chrome logo did so at their own will and were unexpectedly gifted bags as flattered thank yous. We definitely didn't expect people to volunteer the logo designs, and felt our die-hard loyalists deserved a special thanks for their continued support.

So what does all of this mean? Well, it means the following:

1) Anybody who answered "False" to question #7 on the quiz dated October something-or-other, 2000-whatever, will receive full credit on the question;

2) Anybody who answered "True" to this same question will also receive full credit, unless your urine or blood samples are found to contain Clenbuterol and/or plastic residue;

3) The members of the "bike culture" who got tattooed are not "bag whores" as I implied, since they did not get Chrome logo tattoos in exchange for money or goods. Instead, they are technically "bag sluts," since they got Chrome logo tattoos without expecting anything in return. This is an important distinction;

4) The sex act known as the "Cleveland clam chowder" is legal in Nevada, but it is illegal if you also order it in a "bread bowl."

My sincere apologies to Chrome Cycling Trends, Inc., all affected quiz-takers, and any unintentionally maligned "bag sluts" for my error. I guess that's what I get for not attending Interbike. (Though I did get to keep my dignity as a consolation prize.)

Speaking of dignity, Nylon--which, according to a popular user-edited online encyclopedia, is "an American magazine that focuses on pop culture and fashion"--recently published the musings of a cyclist who is dismayed by the haughty attitude displayed by the "fixerati:"

Apparently, they did not approve of his bicycle, which he describes thusly:

I have a silver 8-Gear TREK bike. It is not stylish. I bought it off a fidgety thug in the East Village. “Look at this seat! You know how much this seat costs?” He asked.

“No.”

“Two hundred dollars!”

“The seat?”

“Yup.”

“How much do you want for the bike?”

“Fifty.” Money switched hands, and thus my mountain biking life began.

Following this, the Nylon writer says: "If you ride a fixed gear bike, you don’t actually get to scoff at me." Actually, this is wrong, and the truth is everybody gets to scoff at him. Why? Because when you buy a bicycle for $50 from a "fidgety thug in the East Village" it means you're riding around on somebody else's stolen bike, and whether it's "a silver 8-gear TREK bike," or a Chari & Co.-curated freewheel "tarck" masterpiece, or a "Bicycling" magazine-reviewed road-tarded crabon fribé Fredcycle, you automatically forfeit the moral high ground and relegate yourself to the bottom of the cycling hierarchy the moment you hand the salesman his drug money. (Or, I suppose, the moment you decide to keep the bike instead of at least making an attempt to find the rightful owner.) I certainly have little patience for the preening self-importance of the "fixter," but at least most of them buy their bikes legitimately (with their parents' money). In any case, if you've recently found yourself less a silver 8-speed Trek bicycle, you might want to contact the editorial staff of Nylon to get it back.

If nothing else, that fateful encounter in which a pair of "fixter" doofi and a rube from Nylon wearing a wool blazer and riding a stolen Trek stood there glowering at each other must have been nothing short of a "circle jerk" of cluelessness, and this article was the inevitable "issue." Alas, if only some cycling optics company would make a pair of glasses that allowed clueless people to see things as they really are (sort of like those glasses in "They Live"), then the rest of us could be spared this kind of ejaculate in the future. In the meantime, it looks like we have to settle for glasses that show us our heart rate and wattage, like this pair forwarded to me by a reader:

As if roadies and triathletes weren't already "dorking out" hard enough, here comes a pair of sunglasses that means they won't even have to look down at the displays fastened to their crabon handlebars to see how slow they are. I wonder if the glasses also tell you what to say in certain situations, like in the famous "Fuck You, Asshole" scene in "The Terminator:"

They could allow you to choose from any of four Fred-tastic phrases:

It's perfect for that next group ride, Cat 5 road race, or charity event.

I was also intrigued to note that the glasses have an "audio system," which must be like like having your own personal directeur sportif:

Click here to experience what they say when a gap starts to open;

Click here to experience what they say when a gap gets too big;

Click here to experience what they say when you encounter a "fixter" or fashion writer on a stolen bicycle;

Click here to experience what they say when you encounter more than one vagina.

If they come with customizable regional accents and a free cleaning cloth, I don't know how you could say no.

Speaking of exciting new products, I recently received an email from the manufacturers of something called the "Stemie," which evidently protects the "pants yabbies" or vaginae during the sort of groin-to-stem contact you might encounter during elephant trunk skidding or other forms of pointless bicycle dry-humping:

What puzzled me most about this product was the actual name. I assume "Stemie" is supposed to refer to the "stem," and that you would pronounce the name of the product to rhyme with "Lemmy." However, with only one "m" I can't help reading this as "steamy," which--if you're immature like me--evokes a certain "steamy" companion act to the "Cleveland clam chowder." Then again, that could be what they were going for, and it does explain the final question in their "FAQ:"

In any case, if you have an inordinate amount of trouble with your stem jabbing you in the "breadbowl," then perhaps this is the product for you.