Feeling Small: Big Tickets and Tiny Houses

When I was much younger, I enjoyed music that fostered in me a deep contempt for conformity as well as a suspicion of government institutions and authority figures.

In other words, I was a huge Madonna fan.

Sure, as an American I was oppressed only inasmuch as Al Gore's crazy wife wanted to censor my records, but nevertheless it seemed the height of injustice at the time. Over the years, I have abandoned many of the trappings of my petty adolescent rebellion (or re-"meh"-llion). I've sold my collection of Madonna "cassingles," I've recorded over my VHS copy of the cinema classic "Who's That Girl?," and I've relegated my pointy cone bra to the deepest recesses of my underpants drawer. Nevertheless, I still can't rid myself of my fundamental suspicion, which is this:

They don't like you.

So who's "They" anyway? Well, they're the forces of conformity and cultural vapidity of course: Tipper Gore, Ryan Seacrest, people who wear fitted caps, men who wear cologne and heavy gold bracelets, and so forth. Even without my armful of vacuum cleaner o-rings and my pointy cone bra, I know that they can smell my outsider status just as plainly as I can smell their Drakkar Noir. I've often tried to convince myself that my attitude is juvenile and inappropriate for a person my age. (I'm 76.) I've also tried to dismiss it as residual insecurity from my teenage years. However, even as an adult father of 19 and grandfather of 36 (all named Madonna, by the way), the evidence is overwhelming that they really don't like me--or you, or any of us.

Consider the latest chapter in the Great New York City Bicycle Crackdown, in which radar gun-wielding police recently ticketed cyclists in Central Park for a nonexistent 15mph speed limit:

To me, the most shocking revelation in this article is that the police actually possess some sort of futuristic gun that can tell them how fast stuff is going, since I always thought the only guns they carried were the ones that killed people. I find the existence of these so-called "radar guns" very encouraging. Not only are they non-lethal, but just imagine how much better the lives of all New Yorkers could be if they'd actually point them at cars and trucks--you know, the speeding vehicles that keep running people over and killing them--instead of at people exercising in the park. Because as they're using their radar guns now, it's the equivalent of having a cancer cure and only administering it to completely healthy dogs and cats.

Anyway, I can only draw one conclusion from all of this:

They don't like you.

From a cycling perspective, I'm deeply ashamed of New York City, which, after flirting with bike friendliness, has apparently instead settled on a policy of being completely bike-tarded. I'm also ashamed of myself, for after traveling to Austin and then to Seattle I found myself only happy to be home and in fact actually enjoying it. The snow was finally gone, the weather had finally improved, and I could once again enjoy the chain pharmacies and "dollar stores" and pizza places claiming to be the "original" Ray's for which New York is justly famous. Clearly though, I'm a sucker for forgetting that they don't like me and for not escaping when I had the chance, and it's only a matter of time before I end up serving a 20 year prison term for operating a bicycle in excess of 5mph without wearing full body armor.

So whither goest you (or however you'd say it) if you seekest true bike-friendliness? Well, American cyclocrossers would have you believe that Belgium is a cycling paradise, though in most cases their knowledge of that country goes no further than liking the beer and owning a Ridley. Still, a reader did just forward me an image of someone he claims is "the time-traveling t-shirt-wearing retro-Fred from the planet Tridork's Belgian cousin," so they may not be so far off:

Arguably any culture that can produce that is highly enlightened as far as cycling is concerned.

Somewhat less enlightened is Australia--though I suppose that's unfair to say, since I'm basing that conclusion on only two things:

1) Their nationwide bicycle helmet law (I hear you have to wear them even when you're thinking about riding a bicycle);

and

2) The fact that I don't understand them.

See, as a typical American, not only do I have a massively self-important victim complex over stupid things like album labeling and traffic tickets, but I also find other countries highly confusing. On the confusing spectrum, the countries that don't speak English are extremely confusing, whereas the countries that do speak English but are not America are merely very confusing. But of those very confusing English-speaking countries, the most confusing is Australia.

Take that Fyxomatosis guy, for example. Not only do I have no idea what "Fyxomatosis" means (I think it's a particularly virulent strain of hipster halitosis), but he also sends me emails from time to time and I can't make heads or "pants yabbies" out of those, either. Just this morning in fact I awoke to an email from him in which he called me a "cunt" like eight times, and besides "cunt" the only other words I understood were "Bruce," "shits," and "Australia." On top of that, you can't just email back and say, "What the hell are you talking about?," since on top of everything else Australia is all screwy with the time and their day is our night and our night is their day and you don't get a reply for like a week.

Anyway, eventually I just ran the damn thing through an online English-to-Australian translator, and I finally figured out he was asking me to mention some sort of ride he's putting together, so here you go:

I should mention I don't understand what this event is either, since as an American I also have no concept of "bike share." (Americans don't even understand the concepts of either "bicycling" or "sharing" by themselves, so when you actually combine the two we become hostile.) Still, I'm obliging Fyxomatosis guy, but only because I don't want him to keep calling me a "cunt." So there you go, Fyxomatosis guy, and best of luck with the event--or, as they say in Australia, "Go get your 'roo stick stuck in a Sheila, you vulva-breathed Bruce face." (I don't know how Australians even manage to communicate with each other at all without all their emails winding up in spam folders. Then again, everything's backwards there, so in Australia they probably think "spam" means "inbox.")

By the way, if you don't believe me about Australians being foul-mouthed, just take a look at this Australian eBay auction that was forwarded to me by a reader:

Once again, I have no idea what the seller is saying:

Hey guys and girls, up for sale is my 2007 (before the stupid integrated seatpost) FUJI TRACK PRO!
You'll notice, just by looking at the frame, that it has a custom paint job, which was done by Spray Ya Bike in Melbourne. It's gold, and has the word 'F**K' sprayed on the side in a black and glitter paint. The idea for this was that you could change the word fuji to f**k with just a little bit of texta, so when I got the custom paint, I went for the sparkly f**k, for lols.
The frame is very light, being alloy, and the fork is light AND strong, being carbon. Don't say carbon isn't strong, I've been hit over the head with carbon forks at my lbs and they didn't break.
The frame size is 58, which is the measurement center to top on the seat tube, and center to center on the top tube. This is the LARGE frame by fuji. The fork and rear bridge are undrilled, but, like, if you wanted to put a brake on there, you could drill it out easily enough, your local bike shop could do it for you.
Since it is a track bike, you can only run a ss or fixed gear hub on there, so it's not a road frame. Also, the geometry is very tight, very aggressive, and very racy, which is expected from a track bike.
The entire bike was $1600 new, and for just the frame with such a sweet custom paint job ($280), this is a reasonable Buy It Now price.
This has been raced in alleycat races and skidded in skid comps (my mate Ferg said I came 7th, but I was a little drunk that afternoon so I don't remember).
It's a quick beast, and is in good condition, except for a few tiny paint chips (the main one is pictured, it's on the top tube)
There is also a tiny dent from a barslap, but that was through tape, and I couldn't really get a photograph to show it, due to it's size (a few mm across, probably 1mm in)

Located in Narre Warren, pick up from Narre OR Armadale, but I can deliver within the S/E suburbs of Melbourne for $30, or meet you in the city for a longneck of VB ;-)

Oh yeah, I'm selling this to fund my new project, need some $$$$

Though for some reason I'm oddly captivated by his mention of "my mate Ferg," who manages to remain cognizant enough to tell him things like where he placed in the skid competition. I wonder if all Australians have the equivalent of "my mate Ferg"--sort of a preternaturally sagacious Jeevesian character who shepherds them through their near-constant blackouts. I'd ask Fyxomatosis guy, but he'd just call me a "cunt" again.

Granted, "cunt" may not be the insult in Australia that it is here in Canada's underpants, but nevertheless I was always taught that those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones (nor should they walk around in their underpants). However, it's perfectly fine to throw stones if you live in a tiny house, like this one which was built by a man named Derek Diedricksen and forwarded to me by another reader:

As I've mentioned, I'm like totally "down" with "shed culture," so I perused this gallery with interest. However, as a hardcore member of the shed culture I was obviously disgusted by them, since they are to sheds what "tarck" bikes are to regular bikes. Honestly, I don't really understand the point of these things, unless you've been looking for a dwelling that splits the difference between a tent and a shack. This is why I'm relatively certain you'll soon be able to buy these from the douches at Best Made Co., though they will be ridiculously expensive and require a Best Made Mortgage. (A Best Made Mortgage has a 50% APR and comes in a handmade presentation showcase.) Then, you too can be a dick Diedricksen in a box:

Actually, I do think these would be a huge hit in Portland, since people there could finally realize their lifelong dream of "portaging" their own artisanally scavanged house on their artisanally fabricated "porteur" bikes. With the power to not only swarm but also settle, Critical Mass could become "Critical Gentrification."

I wonder if I could portage one on my Big Dummy...