Tax This, Tax That: No More Red Tape

I've had a whole day to get over it, but I'm still angry at these two stupid moron idiots for saying parents shouldn't let their kids ride bikes and that cyclists are too cowardly to be soldiers.

I'd love to see this smug pair of snail tracks say that crap directly to these people.  I suppose if they had played more football then they wouldn't have been wounded in battle.  Stupid Wall Street Journal mediatards.

Speaking of stupid things, a sizable number of readers have informed me that Washington State wants to tax bicycles:

Why?  To make drivers feel better:

There’s even a $25 sales fee on bicycles worth $500 or more that would raise $1 million over 10 years, a nod to motorists who complain that bicyclists don’t pay their fair share.

By the way, it appears that the Seattle Times actually changed the wording on the above passage, because earlier emails I received quoted it thusly:

"There’s even a $25 sales fee on bicycles worth $500 or more that raises a total $1 million over 10 years, included for largely symbolic reasons."

This makes sense, because your bike doesn't burn any gasoline and it puts almost no strain on the infrastructure--and certainly none at all on all those highways were bikes aren't even allowed.  Also, it makes even more sense to tax only the more expensive bikes, since those are generally the ones used recreationally by people who already own cars anyway, which means they might as well put the tax on windsurfing boards for all it has to do with transportation.  Most importantly, you can't have drivers feeling singled out, even though they're the ones burning the gas and wearing out the roads and causing gridlock and keeping the government busy by crashing into each other all the time and forcing the police to respond to their stupid emergencies.  Then, after all this, they're only going to raise $1 million over 10 years, which is a joke, since these days your average hipster can probably raise that much money on Kickstarter to fund a "zine" about pickling.  Yes, clearly the bicycle tax is included for "largely symbolic reasons," and that symbol is "fuck you for riding a bike."

Fortunately, there's a way around the bicycle tax, which is for the bike shop to sell you your bicycle as a bunch of individual parts that happens to have been pre-assembled.  What's more likely to happen though is that people are just going to go to Portland to buy their bicycles, which should do a lot to inflame Seattle's already massive inferiority complex with regard to their hipper neighbor to the south.  Then the state government will have to spend the $1 million on a campaign to try to make its flagship city relevant again:

Sadly though, Seattle's cool days are long behind it, and I don't see it ever bouncing back.  Just imagine the Pacific Northwest is a bar on a Friday night.  You walk in, and there's Portland, Seattle, and Vancouver BC all sitting together having a drink.  Who do you think is still going to be sitting there come closing time, ranting drunkenly about how Portland's a slut, how Vancouver's "space needles" are fake, and about how it's going to die single?  And don't mention "Singles" to Seattle or you'll never hear the end of it:

Anyway, if nothing else, the $25 bike tax should go great with Seattle's mandatory helment laws.

I wonder if custom bicycles would be subject to the $25 tax, since technically you're just buying some tubing and hiring someone with a beard to weld them together.  And speaking of bearded framebuilders, here's a short documentary about Stephen Bilenky that was forwarded to me by the filmmaker:


Bicycling Magazine: Bilenky Cycle Works from Andrew David Watson on Vimeo.

I enjoyed this video, but what Bilenky won't tell you because he's far too modest is that he also turned down a shitload of money to be on the IFC television series "Whisker Wars," where he was going to be pitted against fantasy author George R.R. Martin:

The tagline was going to be "Two men, two hats, and one beard to rule them all."

Of course, if the Bilenky video wasn't enough custom bike porn for you, you'll be pleased to know that the North American Handmande Bicycle Show starts tomorrow in Denver and I'm going to just type random stuff now because if you're like me you fell asleep as soon as you saw the words "North American Handmade Bicycle Show" scranus nipple scranus crazy wild beard fight Don Walker scranus.  This year, Gates is sponsoring NAHBS once again, so expect lots of belt drives in applications where a chain would be much better, which is to say all of them.  You should also expect lots of disc brakes, and at least one bike that is slowed by a disc brake caliper that actually pinches a drive belt.

Hey, the NAHBS might feature a lot of gimmickry, but if there's at least one solid idea that Specialized can steal then it will all be worth it.

Lastly, I received the following video from a reader:


He sure says the "f-word" a lot.

He says "fuck" a lot too.

Overwrought: Hang It On the Wall and Call It Art

Last night, I made art:

(Art.)

I don't like to use the word "genius" lightly.  For that matter, I also don't like to use the word "scranus" lightly.  So when I say that the above photograph is a work of scranus-tingling genius then you know I'm being serious.  Then again, I shouldn't even have to tell you how serious I am, because when you look at a work of Art-With-A-Capital-A like this you just know.  It's the same feeling you get when you gaze into the Mona Lisa's preternaturally knowing nostrils, or stare at the Milkmaid's jug (that's jug, not jugs), or contemplate the floppy little penis of Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

It may surprise you to learn that I know so much about art, but the fact is that I do.  I know that truly great art can lay bare the very workings of the Universe.  I know that some of the greatest art in the history of humankind has been rendered in the age-old medium of macaroni.  And I know that a genuine masterpiece is equal parts mastery and serendipity, with just a sprinkling of paprika for flavor.

Take my masterpiece, which "Photo Slut" magazine has already said is "like having sex with God on a hot bed of sauerkraut."  Sure, to some extend it's the product of a lifetime of training: the elite boarding schools; the nine years as an undergraduate at Bard; and then the successive MFA programs in 1970s billboard art, limerick poetry, and modern phrenology.  After that came the tough years of paying my dues as an aspiring artist in Brooklyn, quaffing artisanal cocktails and living in a $3,500-a-month apartment in a building still redolent with the cooking smells of the ethnic families my peers and I had only recently displaced.

To be honest, there were moments when I had doubts, like Jesus on the cross when he came this close [indicates small distance with fingers] to giving up the whole martyrdom thing and getting back into carpentry.  Sometimes at the bar, when I was feeling the financial pinch and had to pass on that sixth $21 dark chocolate-infused malt liquor-and-single-barrel rum mojito, I'd catch myself thinking, "Maybe I should just take that limerick-writing gig at Hallmark."  But then, on just such a night, as I teetered once again on the edge of selling out, I spotted a Knog light submerged in a glass of water, withdrew my $5,000 camera from my $500 bag, and produced what will undoubtedly be one of the most enduring images in photographic history.

But as inspiring as my story is, it's hardly unique.  In fact, the same self-affirming moment of artistic catharsis happens somewhere in Brooklyn every night, and this means only one thing: all these hipster assholes are here to stay.

Anyway, as I thought about art I thought about longing, and about how the two are intertwined.  Then I went to Craigslist, where I saw this Ross Apollo:

There was once a time when I longed for a Ross Apollo.  I coveted its split top tube, and its lofty sissy bar, and its noble ape hanger handlebars.  However, I never got one, and while I'm not sure why it's probably because my father rightly recognized that the bike was completely stupid and thus refused to buy one for me.  Now, though, I'm a member of the 1% (not in the #Occupy sense, but in the "Skim Milk Appreciation Society" sense), and the $250 it would cost me to own a Ross Apollo is a mere pittance when you consider I spend about that on a single night of spirited artisanal cocktail quaffing:

But this is where the cruelty of longing reveals itself.  Sure, I could own a Ross Apollo now (and an "orking" one at that, which is nice because all too often the orking feature on a 40 year-old bicycle is broken), but the truth is I don't want one any more.  Yet, while I no longer long for a Ross Apollo, I still have that same longing for other things that lie just beyond my reach, like waterbeds filled with champagne, heated dimmer switches, and solid gold remote control bidets.  Furthermore, I may obtain some of these things, or I may not, but either way at some point they'll wind up just like that Ross Apollo--something I once wanted with every cell in my body but which now means nothing to me.  Yes, material gratification is fleeting, and the only constant is the rosebud of longing, that gnawing sense of discomfort and non-fulfillment that torments us all until we die.

Speaking of longing, the North American Handmade Blah-Blah-Blah is almost here, and bike dorks from all over will converge in Sacramento, where they will slobber all over custom replacement horses while longing themselves right out of their shants.  Many of these bicycles will be steel (increasingly stainless steel, probably because of all the drooling) but for sheer ferric abundance it's tough to beat a Ross Eurotour:

The only aluminum parts on the Eurotour are the shifters, the brake levers and the brake calipers. Everything else, except for a few plastic parts is steel. The weight before accessories is 39 lbs.

Now that's what I call a North American steel bicycle.  By the way, he didn't specifically exclude the tires, so I'm going to go ahead and assume they're steel too.  As I read this, I fantasized about dropping a 40lb Ross Eurotour from a helicopter and onto the Sacramento Convention Center, where it would crash through the roof like a set of janitor's keys through a piece of wet tissue paper.  Then, Don Walker would have to rent one of those scrap metal magnets just to get it out again.

Also, I was interested to learn that, "back in the day," Ross bikes were manufactured right in my backyard:

The company moved its manufacturing plant to the old Arverne Hygeia Ice plant in Rockaway Beach, Queens, New York in the 1950s.

Though by the time I was longing for an Apollo they had probably moved to Allentown--not that I cared where they were made, for as far as I knew the lovely Apollo bicycle was dropped from a helicopter straight from heaven.  Lastly, I had no idea Ross even dabbled in high-end race bikes like two or three bike booms ago:

This was also the year the pricey high-end Signature series, which featured Cro-Mo tubing and Campagnolo or Shimano 600 components, was launched with Tom Kellogg in charge of the division.

Meh.  Sounds pretty wimpy.  As far as I'm concerned, if it doesn't sink hub deep into moist soil then it's not a true Ross.

Speaking of Sacramento, a reader has forwarded me this article about the inventor of the "Bike Valet:"

How come nobody calls cars a "clunky burden when it comes to putting them away?"  People build entire houses for their cars, yet apparently a simple bicycle remains the greatest storage challenge of the 21st century.  In any case, one man has risen to that challenge, and this article contains the inspiring story of how he came up with the idea for a decorative bike hook:

Tiller, a carpenter and furniture maker who kept bumping into his bike in his cramped apartment, went to sleep one evening mulling over the problem and awoke in the middle of the night with a solution – one that's getting buzz on design websites and bike blogs throughout the U.S. and beyond.

I don't need to tell you the rest--after waking up and falling over his bike yet again, he simply hung it from his "night boner" while he went to the kitchen for a glass of water, and the rest is cycling history.  It's a story as famous as Tullio Campagnolo inventing the quick release wheel skewer, or Mario Cipollini inventing breakaway thong underpants.

Speaking of entrepreneurs, a reader in Cape Town, South Africa sent me the following photo, which proves Portland isn't the only place brimming with bicycle businesses (even if they are car-themed):

Plus, while you're waiting for your car to get fixed, you can always enjoy some fat cock:

As the reader explains, it's probably a phonetic transcription of a food called "vet koek" in Afrikaans, but a cock by any other name would be as fat:

I wonder if it could "portage" a Ross Eurotour.

Breaking the Chain: Feeling Contrary

When I was an adolescent, I began forming strong opinions about our culture and our world.  These opinions were informed almost entirely by Dead Kennedys albums, and they had almost no basis in actual life experience--not least of all because I had no actual life experience.  Nevertheless, I was enraged by all manner of injustices.  For example, I knew--knew--that evangelical Christians were determined to rob me of my freedom of expression, even though I had never, ever encountered an evangelical Christian, and even though my only exposure to religious fundamentalism had been via other kids whose parents made them keep kosher during Pesach which meant that for a week we had to eat at Pizza Pious instead of at the regular Italian pizzeria.

As I got older, however, I "matured," and my outlook on life became more pragmatic.  I no longer grouped things into "good" and "evil" categories based on where they fell on the Jello Biafra Outrage Scale.  (The more shrilly Jello Biafra sings about something the more evil it was.)  I no longer automatically rejected anything "mainstream," and I stopped assuming that anything that was part of the mainstream was somehow automatically tainted.  Most of all, I laughed at my own naïveté, I dropped the attitude, and I got down to the non-ideological business of becoming an adult.

But then, years later, something amazing happened, and I realized that all those albums I used to listen to were right.  Well, maybe they weren't right about a lot of the specifics, but it turns out that the general message--that mainstream culture is vacuous and bankrupt--is pretty much entirely correct.  The truth is, from birth we're all steeping in a tea of cultural dumbassery, and unless we wake up and pull ourselves out of it we become infused with idiocy for life.  Or, to use another metaphor, if we don't clear the cookies from our mental cache then over time our consciousness is basically just reduced to spam and pop-up windows.  Yes, this is the default browser setting on the typical American brain:

 

Actually, I'm not sure if he's American, since he mentions kilometers and Americans only understand the metric system in the context of illegal drugs.  Also, he says "aboot."  Therefore, I assume he's Canadian, and it makes me sick to to think that if he were to crash into a tree while filming one of his stupid "vlogs" that he'd actually be entitled to complimentary medical attention.  This may just be the stupid American in me talking, but the fact is that sometimes heath care should not be universal, and this is one of those times.

Indeed, from our smallest towns to our largest cities, and from our highest mountains to our plainest plains, and from our fanciest Starbucks to our filthiest Starbucks where the homeless all go to the bathroom, America is full of obstinate morons who just say stupid things and cockblock for no reason.  Consider the Prospect Park West bike lane in Brooklyn, and the handful of supreme douche-wallahs who live next to it:

It's a bike lane.  It's painted green.  The city put it there so people could ride their bikes without dying.  There is still plenty of room for the driving and the parking of cars.  Why is this a problem?  Why did the douche-wallahs sue the city to have it taken out, and why, after they failed, are they now appealing the decision and trying again?  Just leave it there, you idiots!  This is what's happening--New York City is getting bike lanes now so the rest of the civilized world will stop laughing at us.  Sure, you can try to reverse it and pretend it never happened, just like those guilt-ridden "born-again virgins" do, but in both cases the denial really isn't helping.  You're better off just reconciling yourself to the fact that it went in, and you might as well just learn how to enjoy it, because once it's in riding on it is actually a lot of fun.

Still, I'm sure the douche-wallahs will figure out some novel new anti-bike lane tactic.  For example, a reader just sent me this photo taken on the bike lane in question:

As you can see, someone has appropriated the wheels of a Cadillac Escalade and left it sitting on blocks.  I'm tempted to laugh, but it's only a matter of time before the douche-wallahs start arguing that the bike lane simply encourages auto theft by giving the thieves more room to work--and while nobody in America really cares if you get run over by an SUV on your bicycle, we have no tolerance for the molestation of our SUVS.  By the way, don't ask me how I know, but it turns out you can carry four Escalade wheels on the back of a Big Dummy.  No telling yet how they'll look mounted up on my new car, but once I've installed them I'll let you know:

Speaking of sweet custom vehicles, it's almost time for the North American Handmade Bicycle Situation, brought to you once again by Don Walker:

This year's installment will take place in Sacramenty, Californy.  NAHBS is a Don Walker production and registered trademark of Don Walker Enterprises, and anyone who attempts to so much as show another person a handmade bicycle within 100 miles of the Sacramento Convention Center during that time will be shot, or exquisitely lugged, or both.

The 2012 NAHBS will also mark the official kickoff of the Gates Belt Drive Anti-Bicycle Chain Conspiracy:

Not content with automotive industry domination, Gates now want to take over the sole aspect of a bicycle to which a belt is in any way even remotely applicable, and they're starting by infiltrating the custom bike scene:

Even if you didn’t ride your single-speed cyclocross or city bike today, you probably used a Gates product to move around.


Gates has a hundred-year history providing mechanical components for a whole host of industrial applications, including things like the timing belt and hoses in your car’s engine.

Yes, they use belts in cars, so that means they belong on your bicycle--even though it doesn't have any of the parts that would require a timing belt in the first place.  (As for whether an engine timing belt is preferable to an engine timing chain, I will defer to any automotive experts on that one.)  Of course, if you insist on comparing bicycles with internal combustion vehicles then a more relevant question might be whether or not belts are used on motorcycles as a final drive (as opposed to opening and shutting valves or powering fans), and indeed the answer is yes--but mostly on the big farty ones:

(Belty and farty.)

Whereas the performance ones pretty much all use chains:

(Chainy and speedy.)

Even the ones that race in the mud:

Given this, I can see the belt might be a reasonable option on a bicycle on which low maintenance is of far greater concern than performance:

Though when you consider that chain maintenance on a bicycle like this amounts to doing pretty much nothing anyway it seems like a moot point.  Then again, I've already reached my Retrogrouch Breaking Point, and my experiences with the Belt Drive Freakout Bike may have dampened my enthusiasm for belts irrevocably--therefore I may have officially become one of those people who has no business opining on new technology.

Plus, I'm still slightly conspiracy-minded thanks to all those Dead Kennedys records, so I worry that once Gates gets a foothold in the bicycle world they'll start adding all sorts of accessories to bikes that also require additional belts, and before we know it we'll be riding around like this:

It's clean and low maintenance, except for the thrice-monthly tension adjustments and $500 timing belt changes.

BSNYC Field Trip: The North American Handmade Bicycle Show of Two Thousand and Eleven

As a young child growing up on an Idahoan tuber farm in a strict Jainist household, I used to dream of three (3) things:

1) To get one of those cool novelty license plates for my bike;

2) To one day move to New York City;

3) To never, ever see a freaking potato again for as long as I live.

For years, it seemed as though I would never achieve any of these goals. As the bearer of an unusual first name (it's Increase if you must know, my parents were deeply interested in Puritan culture), I would browse the novelty license plate racks fruitlessly before collapsting in tears. Also, New York, that fabled land immortalized in cinema classics such as "Tootsie," "Big," and "Midnight Cowboy," was impossibly far away, and it seemed as elusive to me as a novelty license plate that said "Increase" on it. And as for escaping the crushing ubiquity of the potato, let's just say when even your bed is a giant hollowed-out yam, the notion of a tuber-free existence can seem like nothing more than sweet potato pie in the sky.

Nevertheless dreams do come true--though be careful what you wish for, and other clichés. For example, after winning multiple scholarships I eventually obtained simultaneous liberal arts degrees from Bard, Sarah Lawrence, Wesleyan, and Oberlin, and I did indeed move to New York City, though I was tremendously disappointed to learn that it's actually bereft of culture and is instead full of beard-and-flannel-wearing "hipsters" who like to pretend they're living in Idaho. Also--and who'd have thunk it?--I actually miss potatoes very much (you can't buy them legally here, they were banned under the Rockefeller Drug Laws to discourage the use of potato bongs) and often cry myself to sleep while cuddling a Mr. Potato Head. And as for that license plate for my bike, it looks like I may finally get one after all, though since New York State would actually force me into it the proposition has lost all of its appeal to me:

The only thing more insulting than some boneheaded politician trying to make you put a license plate on your bike is some hokey journalist equating bicycles with children's toys. I'd almost rather register my bike than perpetuate the notion that bikes are for toddlers and belong on the sidewalk.

Of course, we all know that not only are bicycles a legitimate form of transportation for grown-up adult human beings, but that they're also Serious Business. That's why I was in Austin, Texas last week, testing crabon fribé toys for grown-up adults with the editorial staff of Bicycling magazine. I'll share some of my bike-testicular experiences with you at some future date, but this trip also afforded me an opportunity to visit the North American Handmade Bicycle Show (or NAHBS), which took place last weekend and which I visited on Friday.

Cycling is full of paradoxes, and the NAHBS is no exception. Just a few contradictions I found myself puzzling over included:

--How come it's called the North American Handmade Bicycle Show, yet the biggest news to come out of it is that Ritchey is bringing back the "Swiss Cross" and it will be mass-produced in Taiwan?

--How come everybody seems to hate show organizer Don Walker, yet somehow he remains in power, like Muammar Gaddafi?

--Why doesn't the NAHBS simply adopt the tagline "Sassy, smart solutions for everyday living" and admit that it's the new Interbike already?

Unfortunately I'm no closer to answering any of these questions now than I was before the show. However, as a NAHBS virgin I knew I'd have to fortify myself before engaging in all that lug-slavering, and so I visited one of Austin's many food trucks:

Food trucks are one of those things people get way too excited about these days, like boutique embrocations and designer axes, though I did enjoy both my lunch and the idle conversation the guy in the black t-shirt was having with the food truck "curator" about his nascent handmade jewelry enterprise. (Austin and Portland need to have an artisanal craftsperson cage match on Pay-Per-View already.) I also enjoyed the Jamis something-or-other I borrowed for the afternoon:

Yes, in addition to vast quantities of crabon, as a bicycle tester I had access to a number of "townie" bikes, and for my trip to the NAHBS I opted for the bicycle above, which (and I can't even believe I'm saying this, but I guess I've finally attained full-on bike-dorkdom) sorely needed a kickstand.

By the way, Austin is famous for its live music scene, and mountain bike pioneer Gary Fisher was gracious enough to provide the lunchtime entertainment:


By the time I finished my lunch Fisher had raked in two whole dollars and a single cent:

That's almost one dollar after taxes. [Insert cynical Obama joke here.]

Having finished my lunch, I straddled my Jamis and headed off to the Austin Convention Center:


The bike was equipped with an Exitement-O-Meter, and as I drew closer to the NAHBS my anticipation went from a "3:"

To a "4:"

And eventually topped out at a "6" before I managed to calm myself down and return to my default state of pessimistic nonplussitude:

Until I encountered a man riding a motor-assisted bicycle chopper:


In true "Cat 6" fashion I tried to get on the chopper's wheel, but unfortunately I lost him when I got stuck behind one of Austin's many cowboys:

By the way, you haven't seen trackstanding until you've seen someone do it on a horse.

At the convention center I parked my Jamis next to a Vanilla:

And locked it up Pee-Wee Herman-style with my 500-foot cable lock:

This was more difficult than you'd imagine, since I was actually trembling with excitement by this point. Yes, finally, after years and years I was about to see the show everybody talks about--the Texas Middle School Association's annual conference:

Stepping into the convention center, I was afforded a closer look at the chopper that had eluded me earlier:

And then I entered the show itself, where Birkenstocked bike dorks shuffled about in a steel-induced daze, like extras in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest:"


I'm talking about the Smell of Steel:

Yes, those ferrous pheromones have compelled even the most aloof bike dork to crawl into his own giant messenger bag and emit heaving sobs of joy.

Now, by way of dispensing with the obvious, the NAHBS is filled with talented builders and very appealing bicycles, and I'm certainly not above admiring them. The first bikes I admired were from Engin Cycles of Philadelphia:

Drew Guldalian of Engin built the above bicycle for someone who will ride it in Paris-Brest-Paris, which is for retrogrouches what Monster Track is for "hipsters."

Next, I ambled over to admire Chris King's line of bicycles, Cielo, where they were showing a bike with an integrated charcuterie tray:

In Portland, cutting boards are the new fender:

There were also many important personages, such as Sam Whittingham:

Not only is the the curator of Naked Bicycles, but he's also the world's fastest recumbent rider:


Yes, he's the guy inside the suppository:

I'm sure by now Whittingham is incredibly tired of people saying to him, "Hey, almost didn't recognize you outside of that gigantic sperm bike!"

There were also heroes of the upright cycling world, such as Grand Tour winner Andy Hampsten of Hampsten Cycles. As everybody knows, Hampsten won the Vuelta a Espana after a truly "epic" sandstorm stage:

It's inspiring to see someone of Hampsten's stature getting his hands dirty by manning a booth in a convention center--and he did get them dirty, because he actually shook my hand. (Ordinarily I do people the courtesy of handing them Action Wipes after they shake my hand, but unfortunately for Hampsten I had just given my entire supply to someone who was totally "skeeved out" after meeting Don Walker.)

Speaking of dirty things, security tried to eject this guy's dog:

However, the owner flashed his "service dog" credentials and so the canine was allowed to stay. As the owner was not blind I'm not sure what service the dog actually performed, but since he seemed to be very interested in the Richard Sachs cyclocross bikes my best guess is that he was one of those lug-sniffing dogs.

But NAHBS isn't all about sweet bikes and even sweeter celebrities. It's also about exercises in pointlessness, like this bamboo tall bike from Craig Calfee, the man who starved a thousand pandas:


There were also these:

At first I thought they were cocoons, but I stood there for almost an hour and a frame that wasn't horribly ugly failed to emerge, so I can only assume these things are actually the finished product.

And who wouldn't want a crabon tnadem?

Meanwhile, Vanilla's wait list is now so long that they didn't even bother showing any bikes and instead brought a huge booth in which they recreated the entire city of Portland:

Here's Sacha White laughing at an aspiring Vanilla owner and telling him to come back in 30 years:

By this point I was already getting tired, so I stopped by the Chris King back massager:

The whole assembly rolls on precision sealed cartridge bearings, and all you do is lean against it and rub.

Thus reinvigorated, I mistakenly thought I could handle the Geekhouse booth, where "hipster" cycling had reached its apotheosis in custom form. Here is the touring bike they built for former fixed-gear freestyle impresario turned aspiring traditional Fred Prolly, which is finished in a bruise-purple-to-raw-steel fade "colorway" and may be one of the ugliest custom bicycles I have ever seen:


Though it's positively classy compared to this custom polo bike:

If bike polo had one thing going for it, it was that it was one of the last remaining bastions of cycledom in which people didn't use expensive equipment. However, with the advent of the polo showbike, it would seem that those days are officially over, and poloists have finally evolved into agoraphobic roadies.

In search of relief from this heady atmosphere of bike dorkdom, I stepped outside for some fresh air, only to be attacked by a phalanx of people on Segways:

Like UFOs, they hovered for awhile in a way that somehow seemed both haphazard and choreographed:


As their numbers swelled, so did the general sense of menace:


I stood there frozen with terror until, worldessly, as if in possessed of some sort of hive mind, they suddenly rode away on their dork podiums:

Even now, it's as if it happened in a dream.