Titles: Useless Constructs of Western Literature

Happy New Year!

We're all going to die.


How do I know this? Well, it's not because I subscribe to that Mayan Calendar nonsense. According to the Mesoamerican Long Count calendar the world is going to end in December 2012, but I refuse to believe in any calendar that doesn't even include Arbor Day:

(Where the fuck is Arbor Day!?!)

Sure, they got Lincoln's Birthday right, but how am I supposed to entrust my doomsday predictions to a culture who couldn't even foresee the advent of America's preeminent tree-themed holiday? This is the sort of gross oversight that casts doubt over their entire chronology.

No, the reason I know we're all going to die is because while vacationing last week in an undisclosed location I uncovered another primitive calendar that is clearly more accurate. Firstly, it was made by the ancient Egyptians, who were to calendars what the Swiss are to watches, or what the Canadians are to maple syrup. Secondly, it has cute puppies on it, and any calendar with cute puppies on it is eminently trustworthy:

In this calendar, which I found while recovering from a blow to the taint (more on that later), the End of Days is clearly marked, and is slated for this coming Friday:

Any residual doubt is allayed by the fact that they also correctly predicted the exact date of the "Ragin' Cajuns" reality TV show premiere on the Discovery Channel. Here's how Discovery describes the show:

Discovery Channel’s brand new series RAGIN’ CAJUNS premiering on Tuesday, January 17th at 10pm ET/PT, takes a trip down the Mississippi deep into the Louisiana Bayou for the start of their 3-month long white shrimp season. It may sound like fun in the sun, but life in the bayou ain’t no day at the beach.

How could the Ancient Egyptians have even know there would be a Discovery Channel, much less a shrimping industry? The answer is that they couldn't--unless they were possessed of an uncanny ability to look into the future, which clearly they were. Either that, or the aliens who built the pyramids for them simply told them when the world was going to end (and when "Ragin' Cajuns" was going to premiere, though due to the post-Apocalyptic time slot this could very well be the most poorly-timed premiere in television history). In any case, live every moment like it's your last, because come Friday it's all over. However, you do have one last shot at redemption, because if you act now and give generously to the Lobster God that I worship then The Mighty Genderless Crustacean may see fit to spare you. Just send your soon-to-be worthless (or, if you're on the Euro, already worthless) life savings to this Paypal address, and I'll send you a fully-faired recumbent inside of which you can survive the End of Days:

Fire and brimstone are no match for neon green tiger print.

Speaking of mortality, The New Yorker recently included the following cartoon in its "caption contest:"

I'm already cringing pending the announcement of the finalists since I'm sure at least one of them will be "helment"-themed, and I refuse to acknowledge any winning caption unless it is this one:

Either way, it's good to see that the New Yorker is finally adding dead cyclists to its exalted canon of cartoon characters that sort of almost make you laugh but ultimately don't, right alongside cavemen, executives in boardrooms, and talking dogs.

Anyway, earlier I mentioned my vacation, and while I generally prefer not to molest people with the mundane details of my comings and goings, I'm going to do so anyway because this blog is ostensibly about bikes and I operated bicycles on my vacation in a manner that was enjoyable to me.

At this point you may be wondering, "What the hell does a bike blogger have to take a vacation from anyway?," and all I'll say to that is if you've never spent 19 minutes a day between naps typing scranus jokes while wearing yesterday's underpants then you'll never understand just how truly difficult a full-time blogging career can be. Also, it goes without saying that "full-time blogger" is a synonym for "utter douchebag," and as an utter douchebag I needed plenty of time to enjoy my two (2) custom-made bicycles

See, until I became a custom-made bicycle owner I thought that cycling was something that one could enjoy even on a stock bicycle. How wrong I was! As it turns out, you don't really understand cycling until someone (preferably with a booth at NAHBS) makes you a bicycle frame completely by hand. Granted, this does lead to some confusion, since to all outward appearances I and other custom bicycle owners still completely suck at riding bikes. However, what you need to understand is that when you easily pass me on a moderate incline or see me writhing on the side of a trail cradling my "pants yabbies" and howling in agony, what I'm actually doing is savoring a higher plane of cycling enjoyment the likes of which you couldn't possibly imagine.

In fact, I'm savoring it so intensely that I need to stop every few miles and rest:

When you look at this bike, it's amazing to think that somebody actually made it for me, since taking the time to make me a bike is like cooking a five-course meal for the dog.

As for where I went on my vacation, I wanted to go someplace where I could ride on pavement as well as on dirt. Also, I wanted to see cows occasionally, but I get nervous in most places that have cows because I'm deathly afraid of "rural folk." Plus, when I'm traveling with my family I like to be near a natural boundary of some kind--preferably an ocean--because it greatly reduces the possibility that we'll be sacked by visigoths. So I found a place that had both ocean and the occasional cow, as well as the sorts of gentle gradients over which even I can struggle:

You can't see them, but I fucking swear there were cows down there:

(The natural camouflage of the domesticated Bovinae allows them to blend seamlessly into the landscape.)

When I wasn't making "epic" Rapha faces on my custom road bike while looking out for cow sightings and struggling up gradients roughly the percentage of the fat content of skim milk, I was in the wilderness on my mountain bicycle putting pennies on the train tracks:

I suck at riding mountain bikes just as badly as I do at riding road bikes, but the manner in which this sucking manifests itself is completely different on both. On a road bike I suck for the simple reason that I'm extremely slow. On a mountain bike I suck because the forest confuses and disorients me, I get hopelessly lost in about nine minutes, and finally wind up sobbing in a comfy patch of something that inevitably turns out to be poison ivy.

This is another reason I appreciate being near large bodies of water, since they make it nearly impossible for an idiot like me to get lost. Usually in a place like this I'd have a snot bubble the size of a cue ball coming out of my nose as I pedaled frantically in search of anything remotely familiar and shouted at all the trees for looking exactly alike:

Though in this case I needn't have worried, since the trails were clearly marked:

(He has a point.)

But even if they hadn't been marked it wouldn't have mattered, since no matter which direction I chose I'd eventually wind up someplace like this:

See, even I'm smart enough to know to bear left.

The seaside location also offered various pleasing backdrops, from this:

To this:

To this:

And while not what one might call "technical," there was plenty to pose a challenge so a rider as sucky as I am. For example, sometimes the trees would be close together, and I'd clip one end of my epic-ly wide cockpit:

In fact, it was while attempting to pass through this very gap at high speed (well, high speed for me anyway) that I clipped the tree, veered off course, and sustained the aforementioned taintal injury. My only consolation is that, judging from the marks on the trees, I'm not the first person to have done this. Also, the pile of skeletons clutching their "pants yabbies" would further support this theory, though I suppose they may also have been victims of the Blair Witch.

In the end, it was a lovely excursion in that I was able to reconnect with my inner suckiness, and I will attempt not to lose sight of it again for the remaining three days of 2012.

Refinement: Trimming the Trim

For many years, I used to go into Mahattan every day. Now, though, I visit the city infrequently enough that I notice the changes that have taken place since my previous visit. This makes me feel like a befuddled rube. For example, what happened to all the pushcarts on Orchard Street? Where are the checkered cabs? And who was the genius who got rid of all the fully-enclosed phone booths? Like, where's Superman supposed to change his clothes? How are the homeless supposed to relieve themselves in private? I suppose when Clark Kent needs to fight crime he's supposed to go to a Starbucks bathroom and wait on a huge line for 20 minutes while a homeless person washes his undercarriage in the sink.

Nevertheless, I enjoy feeling like a befuddled rube in my own backyard, and to underscore this effect I sometimes like to take my Big Dummy into town:

(I don't know why this photo has a bluish tint and I can't be bothered to find out. I didn't get into the bike blogging racket to "work.")

When I visit Manhattan on the Big Dummy I'm the "bike culture" equivalent of a dorky suburban father driving the family station wagon in from the 'burbs, and the bike's considerable heft, greenish hue, and ample load-carrying capacity all conspire to make me feel like Clark W. Griswold in a way that warms my cockles:

In fact, I'm often tempted to scrawl the words "Honky Lips" on it to complete the illusion:

Though arguably having a great big cable lock through the rails of your Brooks saddle is tantamount to the words "Honky Lips."

But the Griswold Effect is most pronounced on the Manhattan Bridge, where the Cat 6 racers drop me like Christie Brinkley speeding away from the Wagon Queen Family Truckster in her Ferrari:

However, this last time, it was different. On the way into town, there was a considerable headwind on the bridge, and thanks to the parachute effect of my XtraCycle PeaPod child seat it was enough to bring me to a virtual standstill. However, on the return trip to Brooklyn it had the opposite effect and acted as a sail, and I climbed the span as effortlessly as as Fabian Cancellara on a bike equipped with a Gruber Assist. Carried over the bridge on the wings of smugness, I was, for a flew fleeting moments, the fastest and dorkiest Cat 6 racer in all of New York City.

One day, I will modify the PeaPod by installing hinges, springs, and a ripcord. In "stealth mode," the seat back will lie flush against the Big Dummy's cargo deck. Then, when I'm climbing the span of the Manhattan Bridge with a tailwind and am locked in mortal combat with some beshanted fixie doofus, I will give him "the look," pull the cord, and the seat back will suddenly spring into the vertical "sail mode" position, catching the wind and carrying me to victory.

Speaking of gaining a competitive advantage from your equipment, it sounds like the 2013 SRAM Red component group (or "groupeau" if you want to get all Euro about it) is going to be the Reddest, SRAMmiest, groupiest road bicycle cycling racing group the world has ever seen:

Just get a load of some of these features:

First and foremost is a new DoubleTap lever body shape, which will supposedly sprout a more pronounced knob up front to provide a more secure handhold...

This sounds like it was lifted straight from an article about Herman Cain. "I absolutely reject these claims of sexual harassment," said the GOP hopeful. "She simply looked a bit unsteady as she bent over the Xerox machine, and so as I approached her I sprouted a more pronounced knob up front to provide her with a more secure handhold."

But that's not all, and SRAM are also completely revolutionizing the front deraler derailleaur thing that moves the chain:

Based on this description and what we expect to be marked improvements in the accompanying chainrings, we anticipate far faster front shifts – a known weakness with the current Red group – along with quieter operation and possibly the complete elimination of trim.

In other words, for 2013, "trim" is "out," and big knobs are "in."

Of course, it's going to cost you a lot of money to get your hands on those knobs, but if you're patient maybe this trim-free technology will "trickle down" to your level:

Hopefully, SRAM's outstanding track record of trickling down technologies to lower price points will continue, too, but Zellmann was noncommittal on the topic so buyers may have to wait a year to see if that happens.

Actually, I have it on good authority that all of this technology will only trickle up. Given the success of "halo bikes," manufacturers are increasingly learning to focus on the 1% instead of the 99%. That's why the 2014 model year will see an even more expensive version of SRAM Red branded as "SRAM Fred." While completely identical to Red, it will be wildly more expensive--and don't worry, it will be completely trim-free, though it will certainly cause your fellow Freds to sprout pronounced knobs in their Assos when you roll up to the café with it.

Lastly, speaking of riders who abstain from trim, yesterday I mentioned how the Pope once got a gold Colnago, and one reader shared the following story:

Anonymous said...

Hey, I remember when John-Paul II came to Hull in Quebec in 1984, the local frame builders Cycle Bertrand gave him a bike too.

And of course it was gold plated!

I remember, I was so envious of the pope. Lucky bastard.

NOVEMBER 30, 2011 5:51 PM

As well as this picture:

"Throw it on the pile with the others," the Pope appears to be saying as he digs inside his hear for holy relics. Perhaps one day all these bikes will be liberated, at which point they will surely appear on eBay, and the new must-have hipster accessory will be a gilded "vintage" road ride with spurious papal pedigree. After that, it's only a matter of time before they start prattling on incessantly about their rides on an Internet forum called "Papal Bull." And then we'll start seeing the articles:

"It's a communion thing, you feel totally tithed to the bike."

I already miss the days when having a Pope bike meant something...

Cropped Out: Delusions of Fredness

As I mentioned yesterday, on Saturday I attended the New Amsterdam Bike Show. In addition to contending with treacherous stairways and ogling stylized Dutch-style bikes in a variety of colorways, I also got my daintily manicured hands on a copy of the June issue of "Bicycling." "Bicycling" is a magazine about bicycle cycling, and a magazine is sort of like a blog or a website, only it's printed on paper and you have to pay for it.

Ordinarily, I have to go to the dentist to read "Bicycling," and even then the issue is usually eight months out of date. (You can date an issue of "Bicycling" by finding the most expensive bicycle in it, measuring the "beefiness" of the bottom bracket in millimeters, and then dividing that figure by the number of rear cogs. In fact, sometimes this is the only way to tell the issues apart.) However, this time someone from "Bicycling" actually gave--gave--it to me, and not only was it "hot off the presses" (that's magazine publishing lingo for "new"), but I didn't even have to have my teeth drilled to get it.

This is because the June issue of "Bicycling" is the debut of the magazine's official redesign, and they want the bicycle cycling world to know it. Here's what the cover looks like:

Nice font, right? And not only have "Bicycling" redesigned the magazine, but they've also made it interactive. As you may have noticed, it says "flip open" in the upper right corner ("flipping" is the paper equivalent of "clicking"), and when you follow the instructions you see this:

That's right, it's two more Freds, making a total of four (4) Freds! That's a Total Fred Increase (TFI) of 100%.

Clearly "Bicycling" means business with this redesign.

But redesigning a magazine isn't just about increasing the cover's Fred Load-Bearing Capacity (FLBC). It also extends to the words and pictures on what publishing professionals call the "inside" of the magazine, and "Bicycling" have "dropped" an "edit" to show you what they've done. Basically, what I think they're trying to say is that the magazine is now less "Vanity Fair" for Freds, and more "Rouleur" for Freds.

In all seriousness, I do think "Bicycling" have done an excellent job with the redesign, and with each successive bathroom visit I'm enjoying the June issue more and more. However, this wasn't the reason I was excited to see it. No, I've been eagerly anticipating this issue because it's the one in which they announce the "Editors' Choice" winners, and since I was one of the testers I really wanted to see some Fred-tastic pictures of myself in crabon-testing action. (In case you care, which I'm sure you don't, my favorite bike in any category was the "Giant Defy Advanced 1," despite the fact that it's name is a full sentence long, and probably because it had 25mm tires whereas most of the other bikes had 23s.)

Now, as you know, as an anonymous blogger whose identity is a closely-guarded secret, I take great pains to obfuscate any and all of my personal details. However, even I have my vanities, and when "Bicycling" told me that on one of the test rides we'd be photographed I resolved immediately to be "ready for my close-up," as Norma Desmond said in "Sunset Boulevard." This was because, as an awful bike racer, I knew that appearing in the world's largest cycling magazine by circulation could very well be my last-ever chance to experience anything even remotely resembling competitive glory.

Or, to put it another way, I wanted some "face time" in Fred-dom's periodical of record.

But there was one problem: "Bicycling" told me that on photo day I had to wear non-team kit. However, I didn't have any non-team kit, since all my cycling clothing is from my stint with Mapei when I played a vital role in their 1996 Paris-Roubaix podium sweep:

I actually crashed out of the race before it even started when I collided with a frites cart on the way to the sign-in, but I still like to think that they couldn't have done it without me.

Anyway, the problem remained that I had no non-team cycling clothes. Generously, "Bicycling" offered to lend me an outfit from their closet, but I cringed at the thought of what Primal monstrosities might lurk in there, and there was no way I was going to be immortalized in dentist offices all over Canada's dickey in a "Tribal Fire" jersey.

Therefore, it became clear what I had to do. Say what you will about their overblown marketing copy, and their studiously "epic" videos, and their even more "epic" pricetags, but if you want to look good on a road bike you're not going to fail with the Rapha. Actually, that's not true. You can fail pretty spectacularly with the Rapha:

(His wardrobe is so "epic" it's making him queasy.)

Nevertheless, I was desperate, so just before departing for Austin I allowed my inner fop his head and obtained a complete Rapha ensemble: socks, shorts, jerseys, armwarmers, the whole schmear. And when photo day arrived, I removed each item from its special Rapha puch and put it on with the nervous excitement of a prom-bound teenager donning his first rental tuxedo. Then, I practiced my "epic" expressions in the bathroom mirror. (Hint: After much experimentation, I finally figured out the best way to attain a Rapha-esque wince is to let your mouth hang slightly open, think about your favorite food, and then concentrate on letting the saliva pool in the bottom half of your mouth without spilling it.) I have to say, the clothing was really nice. Like, surprisingly nice. Finally, it was time to mount my Focus Locus Hocus Pocus or whatever crabon bike I was "testing" that day and roll out with the "Bicycling" crew.

I should add that we were photographed constantly by this guy:

Whether it was eating our morning Cocoa Puffs, inflating our tires, stabbing at our "smarting phones," or even actually riding the bikes, nothing escaped his omniscient lens.

So as the road unfurled itself in front of me and I savored the perfect fit of my jersey and the taintal caress of my arguably overpriced but undeniably comfortable chamois, I just assumed it was a certainty that somewhere in "Bicycling" would appear a glossy photograph of me in full Fredly flight. Instead, imagine my surprise when the only picture of me was this:

Actually, I'm not even sure it's me, but there is the white Rapha arm band which signifies my membership in their "Army of Douche," and my head's also more or less level, which means I'm probably still focussing on not spilling my drool pool.

Of course, I am as Fredly as anybody, and the fact that I'm disappointed over this photo when it's right next to an entire page of my own writing perfectly underscores the Fred psychology--which, to fall back on a cliché, is to fail to see the forest for the trees. Why enjoy the ride when you can fuss over your power meter? Why enjoy amateur bike racing when you can pay a coach to help you take it more seriously? Why be satisfied with ten speeds when you can have eleven? And so forth.

Also, at one point, a urinal auto-flushed so hard as I stepped to it that it overflowed and someone else's urine sloshed all over my Rapha socks:

Now that's "epic."

Still, I'd rather be doused in urine while wearing Rapha then humiliate myself while wearing in a polar bear costume:

I'm not sure if this "protest" does a greater disservice to cyclists or to the polar bears themselves, but either way it's one of the most horrifically cringe-inducing things I've ever seen. If these people really want to pretend to be polar bears while making a point they should go find a rapidly-melting iceberg and film their last days on it Timothy Treadwell-style. As it is, if you're wondering why the NYPD is picking on us so much recently, this is probably part of the reason.

Lastly, I have just received an exciting press release about the "Sanitov CB:"

The Sanitov CB (cargo bicycle), is the product of a cultural meeting between traditional Chinese bicycle design and the functionalistic, Danish design approach. The Bicycle is of a traditional Chinese cargo-bicycle infused with the latest technological Know-how and Scandinavian minimalism.

The Sanitov CB is sophisticated built from the best materials we can find. The Design includes, matching full leather handles and saddle, high quality stainless steel and aluminum frames and rack, a world innovative GPS Tracker-system and a battery-driven engine. The built-in battery-driven engine facilitates the function when going over long distances or when transporting heavy goods; a supplement ensuring the convenience and usability of the bicycle in all situations.

Wow, sounds impressive--except it turns out it's not a bicycle at all. Actually, it's a trike with a cart on it:

I wonder how many polar bears you can "portage" with it.

Beyond Category: Shock the Monkeys

As I mentioned yesterday, after reading a rave review of the Bianchi Super-Oltre Über-Record Road Bicycle Cycling Machine, I decided I had to have one. Well, I'm pleased to announce I've already taken delivery of my new "steede." Made of special high-modulous or huge-mongulous or whatever-you-call-it-ulous crabon fribé, it is the best cycling bicycle that has ever been made on this or any other planet ever. Here is a picture of it in my living room:

Here's a picture of it in front of the cafe where all the roadies hang out:

And here's a picture of it on top of the hardest climb I've ever done, propped up against a sign that says: "ELEV. 296 FT."

Obviously, the first thing you notice about this cycling bike is that it boasts cutting-edge technology and innovation. Just take a look at this branding:

See, what Bianchi have done here is completely re-engineer the head tube badge and transfer it to the underside of the downtube. This enlarged badge results in branding that is up to 250% more laterally obvious and over 300% more vertically apparent, as measured by the German magazine "Marke Hure." ("Marke Hure" has the most accurate testing methods in the cycling industry, and they test logo effectiveness on highly-calibrated monkeys with disposable income--the closest thing to actual roadies occurring in nature.) While this downtube-mounted oversized headtube badge may not increase actual performance, it will give you a much-needed morale boost as you are passed on sub-300 foot climbs by riders on less expensive bicycles.

But the innovations aren't just skin deep--they even go as far as the copy on the Bianchi website:

A result achieved thanks to the carbon frame fabricated through the innovative X-Tex technology, that increases rigidity while limiting the weight. To push your limit far beyond.

If you're wondering what "X-Tex" is, I consulted a popular search engine and can report to you that it's apparently "Great for use in oil / water separators, stormwater and wastewater filtration systems and water 'polishing' applications." Naturally, these superior filtration qualities also make it ideal for building bicycles. Plus, the highly-calibrated monkeys with disposable income at "Marke Hure" say that "X-Tex" is over 300% more delicious than "Tex-Mex."

At this point you're probably thinking: "Holy crap, did the engineering geniuses at Bianchi come up with all of this themselves?" Of course not. Like all ridiculously expensive bicycle cycles, this was a "collabo:"

In collaboration with specialized companies, Bianchi simulated a structural analysis on carbon products aimed at obtaining, during the design phase, the elements necessary for the correct development of its products.

In other words, it probably came out of the same Taiwanese factory as every other crabon bicycle--though I'm sure the downtube-mounted oversized headtube badge was all Bianchi.

None of this is to say there's anything wrong with Taiwanese bicycles, it's just that $11,000 seems a bit much for some quasi-Italian flair regardless of how "super" the Record is. With that kind of scratch, you could pay eccentric steel-sniffer Dario Pegoretti to make you a frame and experience what it's like to be shouted at and belittled by a true artisan. Of course, buying a custom bike comes with its own set of problems, not least of which is finding appropriately artisanal baubles to bolt onto your artisanal frame, but fortunately one reader tells me you can get a $150 bottle cage that is like a "Samurai sword:"

Yes, it's exactly like a Samurai sword except it's way smaller, isn't sharp, and holds bottles for Freds instead of killing people. I suppose anything hand-crafted in Japan has to be likened to a Samurai sword in the same way that anything made in Italy has to reference "passion," but since this is essentially just a utensil I'd argue it's less like a Samurai sword and more like an overpriced chopstick.

Meanwhile, also further to yesterday's post, a commenter asked:

Anonymous said...

care to comment on the absurdity of limiting bikes to 10mph on the Golden Gate bridge for "safety"?

And then linked to the following article:

(Safety-minded Fred has left the reflectors on his Litespeed.)

If you're unfamiliar with the Golden Gate Bridge, it is a bridge that links the city of San Francisco and the profoundly smug county of Marin, and it also happens to remind me of a Samurai sword, albeit a really big one that spans a large body of water. Anyway, I heard about this proposal during my leave of absence last week, and I would agree that a 10mph speed limit is absurd. However, having ridden over the Golden Gate Bridge a number of times, I would also say that it's like someone took all the most annoying elements of the Brooklyn, Manhattan, Williamsburg, and George Washington Bridges and forced them onto a single path. Freds, tourists, wobbly triathletes... You haven't experienced fear until you've been approached head-on by an oblivious tourist on a rental bike, weaving as he simultaneously smokes a cigarette and attempts to take a photograph of one of the towers, while you brace yourself for a collision that could send you hurtling into the icy waters below. Apparently, though, the owner of the rental bike company resents this indictment of his customers:

Jeff Sears, owner of Blazing Saddles, a bike rental company whose advertising urges visitors to "Bike the Bridge," said it's wrong to demonize a class of bike riders or imply that they shouldn't be allowed access to the span.

"It's not fair to label one group as needing to meet some sort of safety standard of bicycle knowledge to be able to bike across the bridge."

What? How is that not fair? Sure, they shouldn't ban tourists on rental bikes, but I think it's perfectly fine to "demonize" them. Saying it's not fair that they should ride safely is like saying, "It's not fair to need some sort of special knowledge to prepare and serve the potentially deadly Fugu fish." Perhaps Jeff Sears should also open up a bunch of amateur Fugu stands along the span, staffed by idiots with Samurai swords. If the tourists don't kill you, the snack foods will.

But of course the real victims here are riders of tallbikes and unicycles--which, as Cyclelicious reports, could be banned altogether:

Besides the 5 MPH and 10 MPH speed limits, Alta recommends a ban on tallbikes and unicycles because they might tip over the bridge safety railings and fall into the Golden Gate...

That would be a crushing blow to the many thousands of people in Mill Valley who commute into San Francisco every day by unicycle and tallbike. Personally, I think we can reach a compromise, which would go something like this: You're allowed to ride a unicycle or similar circus contraption over the Golden Gate Bridge, just as long as you refrain from juggling while on the span.

But if there's one thing we need less than more tourists on rental bikes, it's more fixed-gear videos--though I do make an exception for filmmakers who push the boundaries of the artform, as in this short film that was forwarded to me by a reader:

FIXED from Tim Whitney on Vimeo.

As you can see, it's sort of a "conceptual meta-edit," and it stars a guy with a pompadour:


Who is being pursued by hipsters with nunchucks:


One of whom has a set of knuckle tattoos which may or may not say "Walk Hard:"

Decidely more traditional and pedestrian is this entry, which I saw on the Trackosaurusrex blog:

Official FIXATION Trailer from Alex Trudeau Viriato on Vimeo.

It touches all the bases, including the crucial explanation of why riding a fixed-gear is a metaphysical experience:

"The bike is aaalways moving. Like, you are the bicycle when you're on a track bike. You're part of it. Your legs are what defines what's happening with the bicycle."

If the bike is aaalways moving, how does he explain the incessant trackstanding? And maybe he's the bicycle when he's on a track bike, but some of us manage to ride our bicycles while simultaneously retaining some sense of individuality and autonomous thought.

There's also the person who answers his own rhetorical question:

Q: "What's it like to be fixed gear, clipped in, riding through traffic in LA?"

A: "I gotta say it's a complete rush."

I will admit that he had me rethinking at least one "fixie" stereotype. Previously I had thought all urban fixed-gear riders were studiously scruffy Bard graduates, but this one looks like he should be playing football for Princeton circa 1932.

Yes, of all the fixed-gear videos I've seen, none of them captures that perfect combination of self-importance and mallification quite like the ones from Los Angeles do. You might remember the film "To Live & Ride in L.A.," and I'm pleased to report that the makers have actually sent me an honest-to-Lobness "press release:"

To Live & Ride in L.A. has been widely received as the freshest movie on fixed-gear culture since Rowe's Fast Friday. Shot entirely on the streets of L.A. To Live & Ride in L.A. has been called an "authentic look into the what, where, and now of aggressive urban biking" by URB Magazine. The film was chosen as official selections at both the 2010 Hawaii International Film Festival and the 2010 Los Angeles Bicycle Film Festival and has toured the world on a screening circuit that included stops in Melbourne, Shanghai, Taipei, Las Vegas, Honolulu, Perth and Adelaide, Australia.

Frankly, I'm not impressed by anything that claims to be the "freshest movie on fixed-gear culture" since the last supposedly "fresh" movie on "fixed-gear culture." That's like saying "Ernest Goes to Jail" was the freshest inept-hillbilly-goes-someplace movie since "Ernest Goes to Camp." Still, that's not stopping them from releasing "exclusive content" like this:

In this particular video, the rider does a footplant and gets like four inches of air:

Now that's what I call "fresh."

By the way, this is the same rider who said "riding an aluminum track bike is more like doing tricks and producing a square feel or something like that and then the steel one would draw a circle."

Between his circles and Pegoretti's smells I'm starting to think these people must drinking LSD-tainted water from their Hattori Hanzo bottle cages.

Backwards and Forwards: Old Socks, New Hat

Further to yesterday's post, in which I mentioned that fixed-gear bicycles may be giving way to the moped, there is another vehicular trend which is far more troubling. Some time ago, in an online publication I can no longer recall, I read an article which claimed that the hipsters of Williamsburg were purchasing Cushmans at city auctions and repurposing them for personal use. Well, yesterday evening I once again found myself traveling the Great Hipster Silk Route and I'm dismayed to report that this indeed seems to be the case:

While I was unable to obtain a photograph of the driver, I did make a visual inspection of the cabin, and I can report with 99% certainty that the driver of the above conveyance was indeed a hipster. I would have tried to catch up with him again, except I got stopped at the "Facial Hair Checkpoint" on the Williamsburg/Greenpoint border. Unfortunately, the hairway of my visage was deemed to be insufficiently unironic. Not only that, but I didn't have an official Williamsburg resident identification card. (A Williamsburg resident identification card consists of either a California driver's license or else a student ID from a qualifying college or university such as UC Santa Cruz, Wesleyan, or NYU.) As such, it was only after I paid a toll and assured them that I was only passing through with no intention of stopping that they finally let me go.

Between Cushmans (otherwise known as "Hipster Smarts") and mopeds it may very well be that hipsters are rediscovering the joys of ironic fossil fuel consumption. Furthermore, the moped is an especially potent motorized "gateway drug" for them, since it allows them to keep using most of their fixie accessories, such as messenger bags, chain locks, and sneakers. Really, the only thing hipsters give up when they move to mopeds is the constant pedaling, which they never really seemed to be enjoying that much anyway.

Incidentally, a number of people pointed out yesterday that New York City seems to be late to the moped craze, which has apparently been in full swing in cities like San Francisco and Chicago for some time. However, this is less an indication that New York is behind the times than it is proof of just how seriously people take hipsterism here. It's standard practice among hipsters to hone their city living techniques and "personal brands" in other, smaller cities before moving here and taking part in "The Big Show." Yes, New York City in general and Brooklyn in particular is a vast field of hipster dreams, and a breakout season here can mean the difference between making a down payment on a condo and skulking back to Portland with your tiger tail between the legs of your form-fitting jeans.

Anyway, while the Cushman did have a hipster at the helm, it did not have vanity plates, unlike this trike I encountered yesterday on the Manhattan bridge:

As you can see, the vanity plate reads "Musher-1," which obviously means the rider pilots a dogsled. Moreover, she's obviously preparing for the Iditarod, since triking is a popular form of cross-training among competitive mushers. Eddy Merckx famously said, "The Tour de France is won in bed." (This explains why Lance Armstrong spent the years before his comeback to cycling hanging out with Ashley Olsen.) Similarly, it is also said that "The Ididarod is won on the trike." I only hope the hipsters don't take up dogsledding, since I'd hate to share the bike path with people wearing tight jeans and ironic fur hats being pulled around by pitbulls they found on Craigslist.

In any case, the Ironic Motorized Revolution appears to be yet another indicator that the fixed-gear heyday is over. And if you're still not convinced, consider this JCPenney commercial, forwarded to me by a reader. In it, you'll not only see a brakeless fixed-gear bicycle used as a prop, but you'll also see a model "portaging" it in such a manner as to get drivetrain grime all over his salmon-hued fleece:

Not only that, but if he's going to actually ride that thing (the bike, I mean) he better get some pant-cuff retention or it's going to get caught in his chain. The leg of his trousers is as unruly as his libido.

Meanwhile, in the world of streetwear, it's been a long time since fixed-gear fashion married into the world of hip hop fashion, and now they're having children. Consider this hybrid flat brim/cycling cap, forwarded to me by another reader:

Thanks to the shortened brim, fixed-gear fashionistas will no longer have to suffer the indignity of their hats flying off their heads on those rare occasions when they travel faster than 10mph. However, they must still suffer with the indignity of looking like people who watch drifting videos, drive their Pista Concepts to freestyle spots in customized Scions, and camp out for sneakers. (Camping out for sneakers is like making reservations at Burger King.)

But as much as I hate to see the classic cycling cap integrated with the latest conformists' hat of choice, I stop short of attributing some kind of profound spiritual significance and meaning to cycling's wooly, tubular past. However, if I didn't, I would be slavering all over the latest issue of Rouleur, which the good people at Rapha were kind enough to send me:
This is not to say I don't appreciate Rouleur, because I certainly do; nor is it to say that the magazine is not well put together and pleasant to look at and read, because it certainly is. However, I also don't subscribe to the central tenets of Rouleur, which is that there's a fundamental romance in the rarefied aspects of cycling, and that old stuff is more "soulful" than new stuff. Actually, I don't think any "stuff" is soulful. Granted, I'm not the most romantic person, but I don't find elusive and complicated things seductive, and I especially don't believe that "the tubular tyre has an unquestionable romance" (as Guy Andrews claims in the second installment of his "epic" sew-up report). I certainly understand that tubular tires have their benefits, and I'm even interested in reading about how they're made. But as soon as the prose starts sounding like it was composed on laudanum I can no longer remain engaged. In this sense, the tubular tire is sort of the burrito of the cycling world, since people seem compelled to rhapsodize about both, even though essentially they're just stuff wrapped in a skin with varying degrees of quality.

However, as someone who does not believe in the "soulfulness" of stuff, I was honestly fascinated by this interview with two bicycle collectors, Kadir Guirey and Rohan Dubash:


Here they are sharing an inside joke about a Simplex derailleur pulley:

While I'm not especially interested in "vintage" stuff, I do find other people's bizarre obsessions compelling, so I was amazed by much of what they had to say. For example, here's Rohan on memorabilia:

One year this little boy went to the Kellogg's Tour in Newcastle. It was raining and Maurizio Fondriest had won the time trial. He was just sitting in the car, peeling his wet socks off, and he just dropped them on the floor. His dad was like, just run over to him, and he looked at the socks and Fondriest looked at him, all puzzled, and he said, "Can I have them?" And Fondriest went, "Yeah, take them." So they took them home, washed them and brought them into the shop for me.

Apparently this is supposed to be charming, but personally I find the idea of handling anybody's wet, dirty cycling socks disgusting. Kadir further explains this by saying that things like used water bottles and dirty socks are "tiny little snapshots." By that logic I wonder if there's someone out there holding on to Eddy Merckx's dirty chamois. To me it's just bacteria, pubes, and vintage "frumunda cheese," but to them I guess it's a "tiny little snapshot" of victory--albeit from a crotchal perspective.

Predictably, Rohan is also quite smitten by Campagnolo:

That's why I buy Campagnolo--because I can think of a person making it. I can't think of a person making a Shimano derailleur. I'm not saying they don't, but I can't envisage it.

Why is it so hard to imagine someone making a Shimano derailleur? Is it because that person is Japanese? They have crafstmanship in Japan, too. I guess it's because things made in Italy are somehow imbued with "passion" and are therefore "art." But a derailleur, regardless of where it's made or by whom, is not art--nor is the absence of a derailleur art, despite what the fixed-gear fetishists would have you believe.

And these guys don't just love stuff; they also love the stuff in which the stuff is packaged. Says Kadir:

I like empty boxes.

Well, I guess you could consider an empty box conceptual art.

Having said all that, I certainly do agree that there's beauty in cycling and in the sport of cycling. I also realize that my cynicism with regard to much of what the rest of the cycling world finds "romantic" is probably due to the fact that I ride a Scattante, and everybody knows cheap straight-gauge tubes do not properly conduct those mystical, spiritual vibes. Maybe a new cyclocross bike will remedy the situation. A reader recently sent me a photo of a rider "slaying" some 'cross on a Pedersen, and I'm thinking it might be the way to go:

Winning a cyclocross race on a bike like that would doubtless bring instant fame. I wonder if he'd let me have his shorts.