The Indignity of Commuting by Bicycle: The Dignity of Attending a Press Conference

If you're in New York City, you may have noticed a bunch of black SUVs with police escorts around the Sheraton Hotel on 53rd and 7th this morning. This was due to the Clinton Global Initiative, at which a group of dignitaries and world leaders (and Bono) gathered to, as far as I can tell, solve the problems of the world.

Ordinarily I wouldn't be concerned with a gathering like this since it doesn't really fall under my purview, which is cycling and making fun of it. But it just so happens that this was the place where Lance Armstrong (the Bono of cycling) would be announcing the details of his return to professional cycling. So I figured I might as well attend.

I weaved through thicker-than-usual traffic, arrived at the Sheraton and fastened the Ironic Orange Julius Bike to a nearby pole as securely as possible.



Affixing my press credentials to my pants (fortunately I was wearing pants) I ran the secret service gauntlet, the metal-detection gauntlet, and the temptingly sticky pastry platter gauntlet.


I then entered a plush, carpeted room which I was warned would soon be filled to capacity. I took a seat at the front (in case Lance did any magic tricks, I was hoping he'd pick me as a volunteer) and passed the time watching the Clinton Global Initiative proceedings on the video screens at the front of the room.

Bono talked a lot about starving children, which made me feel really guilty about not eating anything from the pastry platters. (I made a mental note to eat a danish for the impoverished peoples of the world on my way out.)



By the time Al Gore started speaking, I felt acutely aware of my growing need to relieve myself. However, I was reluctant to leave my seat in the increasingly crowded room lest it be taken. I'd like to believe there's a "siblinghood of journalists" and that they'd save my chair, but firstly, I'm not a journalist, and secondly, this was a shifty-looking bunch. Nonetheless, I put my bag on my seat and hit the head. If you're wondering what the urinals at the Sheraton look like, here they are:


I returned to my seat, which was fortunately still mine, and alternated between staring at the video screens and staring at my feet. (Despite the fact a cyclist was about to speak, I was the only person in the room with clipless-compatible shoes.)


At this point the room was full, and anything with a lens was trained at the podium in anticipation of Armstrong's entrance.

Armstrong was introduced by Doug Ulman, the President of LiveStrong, who is the guy in the yellow tie. Doug is flanked by John Seffrin, the CEO of the American Cancer Society on his left, and by Taylor "Mini" Phinney on his right. On the far left is Dr. Don Catlin. Lance Armstrong is the guy at the podium gesticulating meaningfully.

Armstrong's comments were very straightforward, and I'm sure you'll be reading them on various other blogs, websites, and periodicals in the coming days. Basically, he said that Leadville reminded him how much he enjoys spending hours at a time on a bike, and that he's returning to the sport to implement his global cancer awareness strategy. His number one goal, he emphasized, is the message. He also said that he'll ride for Astana (which was a tremendous disappointment to me, as I was hoping Mellow Johnny's was about to become the world's wealthiest shop team) and that the races he'll definitely be doing at this point are the Tour Down Under, the Tour de France, and of course, the Leadville 100. (Which, as far as I know, will make him the first-ever cyclist to use the Tour as a training race for Leadville.) He also called 18-year old Taylor Phinney the "future of American cycling," though he failed to comment on his more-than-passing resemblance to Andy Samberg from SNL. (Here's what Phinney looked like as Armstrong anointed him):

Speaking of people who look like people, that Dr. Catlin guy who looks like Carl Reiner on the left is the guy who will be testing Armstrong constantly for performance-enhancing drugs. Word is that absolutely nothing gets past this guy, and that he can't be bought. (I'd have to say this appears to be the case, as he wouldn't sign the photo of Carl Reiner I always carry with me in my wallet, even after I offered him ten bucks.) Armstrong said this will be the most intense testing program ever ("suck on that, Vaughters," he failed to add), and that he will "do whatever [Catlin] asks me." (I observed this to be true immediately after the press conference, when Catlin sent Armstrong to a nearby deli for a corned beef sandwich.)

By the way, if you're wondering who's paying Catlin, it's Astana. Meanwhile, Armstrong is riding for free. I find it interesting that cycling has reached a point where the world's most famous cyclist must ride gratis while a doctor whose sole job is to look for drugs is receiving what I would guess is a pretty substantial salary.

Essentially, though, Armstrong summarized, his return to professional cycling is centered around: 1) spreading the LiveStrong message; 2) developing the sport (through a U23 team which Phinney will lead and which Axel Merckx will direct); and, 3) being the anti-dopingest and most tested rider in the known universe.

Then came the questions, fastly and furiously. Here's what journalists look like while they formulate questions:

And here's the mess they leave behind them when Lance Armstrong finishes answering their questions, leaves amidst the sound of camera shutters (I didn't even know cameras still had shutters) and they depart en masse:



I've not written much (or really anything) about Lance Armstrong's comeback up until now, mostly because so many other people are too and I don't like to do what everybody else is doing. However, as I've often said, cycling is rife with irony. And one of the most ironic things about cycling is that cyclists hate winners. (Even I have said that "winning is for dopers sandbaggers," though that's only because I never win.) I suppose this is why Armstrong's comeback has been met with so much skepticism in the cycling world. I mean, everybody knows he cheated, right?

Well, as I said, I don't like to do what everybody else is doing. I would, however, like to thank the cycling press for getting me into this press conference. Of course, as much as I'd like to, I can't, because they didn't.

I suppose that's because I don't like to do what everybody else is doing.

Evolving or Devolving? From Comebacks to CamelBaks

(Image by Greg)

Few things are as rewarding as helping to embroider an idea onto the cultural fabric. As such, I was very pleased to receive from a reader a piece of art incorporating the beloved "All You Haters Suck My Balls" rim.

In these troubled times, we need an inspirational slogan to rally around, and I feel that "All You Haters Suck My Balls" may very well be that slogan. Yesterday, a number of commenters even suggested emblazoning it on merchandise, and indeed the artist who sent me this image also suggested that I register the URL. However, I refuse to do either. Firstly, the slogan doesn't belong to me. I like to think it belongs to all of us, though technically it belongs to the person who first expressed it on his lime-green rim with twenty-three vinyl stick-on letters. (I can't help imagining that, as he applied the second "L" in "balls," he shivered slightly with the dawning awareness he was doing something great.)

Secondly, our culture is far too commodified as it is. As soon as anybody expresses any interest in anything, someone else comes along and tries to package it and sell it. Worse yet, all too often we are willing to buy, as though an idea isn't legitimate until we've paid money for it. And that's simply not true. The AYHSMB sentiment is priceless, and as soon as you affix a price to it you cheapen it, no matter what that price may be. And I refuse to participate in the cheapening of "All You Haters Suck My Balls." Instead, I choose to meditate on it. If you find yourself with a free moment today, close your eyes and imagine actor Morgan Freeman's voice intoning the mantra "All You Haters Suck My Balls." I think you'll find it surprisingly transformative.

Unfortunately though, it may be naive of me to think we can share a slogan when we can barely share the bike path. I came upon this distressing accident report yesterday on Craigslist:

Bicycle on Bicycle on Runner Collision, West Side HWY - 35 (Midtown West)
Reply to: pers-[deleted]
Date: 2008-09-22, 4:11AM EDT

Me, riding North on West Side bike path, white helmet, black jersey.

Other cyclist, red jersey or helmet, big guy going South in North-bound lane. Dude, are you OK? You nailed me! I turned around after a sec and I think you were gone. I realize that it was crowded, but if you are going to pass people by straying into the oncoming bike traffic, you better be able to pull it off. Also, you didn't stop to see if I was OK. I hit a runner jogging next to me!

Runner, jogging next to me. You were a mean super bitch! I just got hit head on by another rider! What the fuck is YOUR problem? Yes I bumped into you while trying not to do a faceplant on the pavement. You acted like I raped your baby. I apologized and asked if you were OK. You gave dirty looks and huffed and put your precious earbuds back in. Homework: be nice to a random stranger tomorrow.

While this was posted in "Missed Connections," it would appear that they connected quite effectively. Indeed, this sounds like a textbook example of bike path clustercoitus. While ostensibly a car-free haven for bicyclists, in reality the bike path presents a whole new set of dangers which, in its own way, is even worse than what you encounter on the streets. For example, when you're in city traffic, the bike salmon coming straight at you is often at least some grizzled messenger with a steely gaze and sharp bike handling skills with the wherewithal to avoid you. On the other hand, on the bike path, it's usually some saucer-eyed novice who's in that dangerous stage of road bike ownership when you want to start playing with speed but you haven't quite mastered things like which which lever shifts the bike and which one stops it.

Similarly, on the streets, the most common non-bicycle you're forced to interact with is cars. They can be frustrating--deadly in fact--but at least their turning radius is limited and they don't tend to abruptly about-face right into you like runners do. The car-vs-bike thing may get all the press, but anybody who's been forced to share the road with a runner knows that's where the real acrimony lies. And the fact that runners are constantly turning around in front of you as though they forgot something important they had to do at home is compounded by the fact that they're also always wearing headphones--mostly because running is the most boring thing you can do on two feet besides standing still.

That may be why Lance Armstrong is consigning his running shoes to the back of his closet and getting back on the bike. And while the world waits for him to announce his plans, all eyes turn to Viatcheslav Ekimov--who, it turns out, has no comeback plans whatsoever:

I'm not sure why VeloNews felt that Ekimov's non-return to the peloton was newsworthy. Certainly nobody actually thought he might actually be coming back in the first place. I mean, that guy's old. In fact, if you check his Wikipedia page you'll see he actually won a stage of the Tour of Pangea. I suppose next they'll track down Lance Armstrong's eighth grade social studies teacher and find out if she's considering putting the knitting needles down and returning to the chalkboard. I heard that after a lengthy discussion with her cats they all decided it was the right thing to do.

Of course, the real breaking news is out on the streets. A reader has forwarded me this vexing picture of a bicycle which appears to be in the process of evolving (or devolving) into a fixed-gear:

This is a fascinating find, and is in many ways the equivalent of spotting a yeti or a sasquatch--it's a bridge between two related species. Yet it also bears hallmarks of the platypus, in that it also has traits of completely unrelated species. Take a closer look at this diagram:


The 700c rear wheel and the lack of a brake indicate that this bicycle is on its way to fixed-gear country. This would appear to be reinfored by the fact that it's an older Klein, and as such is equipped with rear-entry horizontal dropouts, which is not nearly as sordid as it sounds and makes it ripe for fixed-gear conversion. The flop-and-chop bars also speak of a fixed future. However, one loses the fixed-gear scent when one comes to the levers. Certainly nobody would invest in costly STI levers if they were thinking of going fixed. Yet if this is the case, why no rear brake? I mean, sure, you probably couldn't get the brake pads to line up with the 700c rim, but in that case why not go back to the original 26" setup? Perhaps this bike is not evolving, and is in fact an evolutionary dead end--kind of like the Neanderthals. Alas, we may never know.

Personally, though, if this bike is on its way to becoming a fixed-gear I would stop and reverse the transformation if I were the owner. That Klein is a vintage mountain bike, and vintage mountain bikes are all the rage. Indeed, an old Breezer recently cracked the $10K barrier on eBay (without even meeting the reserve!):

If you're reading this outside of the United States, US$10,000 is almost €200. So we're talking a lot of money.

But how to hydrate yourself on your new/old mountain bike? Sure, bottles are period-correct, but they're so unwieldy. Why not be a rolling anachronism with the CamelBak RaceBak?

A reader recently brought this to my attention, and while I have absolutely no problem with hydration systems in principle, in practice they frighten me. In this case, it's partially the copy: "You've got a hydration hose just inches from your face, there are no dodgy moments...," it says. Well, I'd argue if you've got a hose just inches from your face then things have gotten quite dodgy indeed. Plus, I have an irrational fear of carrying fluids on my body. Not only because I feel like a giant blister, but also because I fear it hastens evolution and that really scares me. Even though there's no scientific basis for this fear, I still think that if people continue to wear hydration systems we'll ultimately be born with them. Aero gear scares me for the same reason--it's only a matter of time before somebody somewhere is born with a completely hairless, pointy, faired head.

Don't get me wrong--I'm not a techno-phobe. I'm perfectly fine with the fact that the Internet is becoming our collective memory and consciousness, even if that collective consciousness does contain a disproportionate number of YouTube videos. I guess I'm just fine with the mind changing but not the body. I think that (for the most part) we've got a nice balance of hair and smoothness, and of teeth and no teeth. I just don't want us getting all Pillsbury Doughboy-ish.

Then again, CamelBak may be wisely banking on a Dune-like future. The RaceBak is eerily similar conceptually to the "stillsuit" Kyle McLoughlin wore in the movie, in that both are basically suits filled with water:




Except at least the CamelBak thing doesn't involve drinking your own pee. That could be why Sting opted for the winged codpiece instead:

In any case, I find hydration systems scary no matter which way you look at them. Check this out, from CamelBak's own site:

Like the Klein above, I can't decide of hydration systems are evolution or devolution. All I know is, I'm scared.

Keep Dreaming: From Fantasy to Reality

If you work a traditional Monday-to-Friday work week, you know that Monday can be difficult. Even though I don't have a soul, I think that most people do. I also think that the soul is kind of an amorphous blob but that during the work week many people are forced to cram that blob into the Jell-o mold of structure and pretense, which is why it feels so good to pop out of it for a couple of days. Of course, conversely, it hurts that much more when you have to stuff it back in on Monday. This is especially true for cyclists, who after a couple of days of epic two-wheeled conquests must return to the mold, their legs sore, their appetites raging, and their pride back in check. (Obviously this doesn't hold true for people like messengers, who ride all week long. Or for the unemployed. Then again, what's the difference between the two, really?)

In the spirit of kicking off a weekend of fantasy, this past Friday was PARK(ing) Day. Basically, what this meant was a bunch of people in different cities took over parking spaces and turned them into little temporary parks. (Or, more accurately, just did weird stuff in them.) The idea as I understand it was to help people imagine all the other things you can do on the side of the road besides just leaving cars there, and how much better the world would be if the streets were lined with freaks instead of Hondas.

Frankly, I don't have much of a problem with parking cars in parking spaces (so long as drivers enter them carefully and don't heedlessly fling their doors open into traffic), so I wasn't especially moved by PARK(ing) Day. As far as I'm concerned it's the people who park in the middle of the street that are the real problem. If every driver parked in an actual parking space that would be a tremendous improvement in itself. Unfortunately, in New York City that's not the case, and there is absolutely no place here that a person will not leave a car. It's actually quite common to see someone stop an Escalade in the middle of the street and leave it running with the door open while he runs into a bodega. (In New York, this is an expression of self-importance--it's the motor vehicle equivalent of sitting with your legs wide open and taking up two subway seats.)

Still, though, I suppose I can kind of see the appeal. After all, every day in New York is Bike Lane Appropriation Day. Among the activities taking place in New York City bike lanes this morning were moving into (or perhaps, given the economy, out of) expensive Brooklyn brownstones:


and riding stupid mopeds. (I thought I was being attacked by a lawn edger when this contraption overtook me.)

And as far as stopping your car wherever you want, there was this guy from Jersey, who sat camped out on the divider between Sands Street and the BQE entrance ramp near the Manhattan Bridge while he got directions on his cellphone:

So I'd like to get behind PARK(ing) Day, if only to force people to drink the same swill of liquid annoyance and inconvenience they make us chug every day. Unfortunately, having now viewed the Streetsfilm of PARK(ing) day in New York City, I can find very little around which to rally. In fact, if I'd encountered one of the appropriated parking spaces shown in the film I'd probably have been horrified and made every attempt to get as far away from it as possible. Here are some examples:

Here we have a greenhouse or a nursery or an arboretum or something. I realize a lot of people get tremendously excited around plants for some reason, but in this case I mostly just see a leafy obstruction. It's bad enough I have to worry about getting "doored" all the time; this installation opens up the possibility of getting "planted" as well.

These people took over a parking space up by Columbia University to have a "fancy party." If there's one thing New York has way, way too much of it's overpriced "brunch" spots serving eggs Benedict to hung-over wealthy people. It's also bad enough that many of these establishments don't have the decency to keep their clientele inside and out of sight, and instead set up tables for them to dine on the sidewalk. So the thought of "brunch" actually spilling over past the curb and into the street is almost too sickening to bear. Then again, it is kind of nice to see them in the gutter. Still, though, I'd much rather have streets lined with cars than with rich people dining decadently. At least stray cats can sleep under cars.

Unlike normal entertainers who are actually sought out, street entertainers do stupid things nobody wants to watch, and as such they must perform in crowded public places so people who don't particularly want to be entertained are forced to look at them anyway. And when it comes to people who make you watch what they're doing, jugglers rank just a tiny bit above mimes and flashers. Creating spaces in which jugglers are free to congregate and fling things up into the air publicly instead of in their homes where they belong can only lead to an explosion of mimes, flashers, hacky-sackers, human statues, naked cowboys, and people who drum on buckets that will facilitate New York City's transformation from a cultural capital into a giant liberal arts college campus.

I don't understand tea. I know people say tea is relaxing, or soothing, or healing, but that's not true in my experience. To me, it's just hot water that tastes vaguely like something else. Of course, I realize it's possible this is because I don't have a soul to soothe, but nonetheless I suspect the power of tea is something people believe in just because other people believe it too. Drinking tea is kind of like when you buy a hallucinogen, aren't sure if it's real or not, and sit around waving your hand in front of your face waiting for something to happen. (I think I saw a trail!) If I drink something I like it to have an immediate and irrefutable effect, like liquor does. I suppose there are certain laxative teas that might have an immediate effect, but that's something else entirely. In any case, I wasn't "moved" by the tea party. (Laxative teas notwithstanding.)

As ridiculous as some of the other parking spaces were, at least they didn't involve motor vehicles. I'm not sure what the point of this one is--it just looks like a car wash. Then again, you have to feel compassionate towards the people of Queens, who have been so molested by cars over the years that it's probably impossible for them to conceptualize anything that doesn't involve them somehow. They can't not think about cars. It's sort of like how the theme of death inevitably appears in the films of Ingmar Bergman.

Ah, yes, public meditation. How spiritual. This is perfect in Williamsburg, where you aren't doing something if the rest of the neighborhood can't see you doing it too.

Finally, something I can get behind! This parking space even had an internet connection. That's me waving on the right.

I can also get behind the "Green the Ghetto" concept, though my own green-themed parking spot in Park Slope didn't go over so well. Of course, that might be because I put a different spin on "green." No sooner had I finished setting up my space than my bong was confiscated, my inflatable lounge chair was deflated, and my cable TV hookup was disconnected. (Emboldened by visions of a car-free future I had taken the liberty of splicing into someone's line.) I was right in the middle of "Family Guy" too! Man, those Park Slope mommies can be sooo touchy.

Thank goodness for that free wi-fi over at the Park n' Write, where I spent the rest of the day watching YouTube videos, being green, and partying like it was a Wednesday.

BSNYC Friday Fun Quiz!

Firstly, I have news of great importance for any haters out there.  Please note that you have been granted a temporary reprieve from ball-sucking, as the beloved "All You Haters Suck My Balls" wheel has officially been unlaced:

While the haters may be relieved, the rest of you are surely as distressed as this wheel is de-stressed.  I've been a great fan of this wheel ever since I first laid eyes on it, and it pains me deeply to see the heart quite literally cut out of this once-great rolling statement.  However, I've been assured the owner has future plans for the AYHSMB rim, and I am comforted to know that it will one day roll again.  So we can all breathe easy--though if you're a hater, your days of unobsructed breathing are surely numbered.

And with that said, it is my sadistic pleasure to beset you with a quiz.  As always, read the question, think carefully, and click on your answer.  If you're right, you'll see the item.  If you're wrong, you'll see definitive proof of the presta valve's superiority.

Good luck, and as always thanks for reading.

--BSNYC/RTMS

1) Who said, "I'd rather die pretty than survive with helmet hair"?

--Blake Lively

--BSNYC

--Katie Kilby

--Michael Chiklis

2) The Metal Inquisition blog appreciated the "Metal Rage" alleycat.

--True

--False

3) The above record can be categorized as:

--Grindcore

--Death Metal

--Alterna-sludge with a twist of klezmer

--White

4) Which of the following is not a real piece of advice from an article about knuckle tattoos?

--"If you've got unusually hairy knuckles you might want to think of alternative placement since hair can make knuck tattoos tough to read."

--"It's going to become one of the main features you'll be identified with in society, so make sure you're cool with that."

--"Lettering should always be thought about long and hard, and since lettering is a common knuck tattoo, the display will be front and center and you should make sure the word(s) will last in meaning and significance."

--"You can make a great knuckle tattoo idea look amazing with the right font or lettering choice."

5) Knuckle tattoos are the ultimate when it comes to expressing yourself indelibly on your digits.

--True

--False

6) Which of the following is not an actual bike-buying tip from the Washington Post?

--"The cyclocross is for people who want speed and efficiency but also like to beat up their bikes. These bikes also tend to have racks attached to them for carrying things like a briefcase or a laptop."

--"An ultra-light carbon fiber road bike may be expensive, but it can shave minutes off your daily commute."

--"If you're buying a bike to ride with a group of friends, pick the same type of bike they have."

--"A fixed-gear bike also requires less cash but you have to stop the bike with your feet rather than using a hand brake."

7) BSNYC was recently quoted in which unlikely publication?

--Accent on Cheese

--Quill and Quire

--The Wall Street Journal

--CNBC European Business

8) According to Steve Jobs, what is "the equivalent of a bicycle for our minds"?

--the condor

--the iPhone

--the computer

--the Newton

***Special Bike Security Bonus Question***

What's going on here?

--Someone's using the new Kryptonite keyless lock system

--Someone correctly believes that he and he alone understands the mysterious workings of the quick-release

--The bike belongs to an Amish person, and the Amish are not allowed to use padlocks

--Unless that frame is filled with killer bees, someone's about to lose a bike

Slick and Attired: Wearing Whatever You Want

Yesterday, after viewing the Smart race video, a number of commenters seemed bothered by the fact that I was not only helmetless but that I had also failed to put on my bib shorts completely. Please note that this was simply a calculated and cunning psychological ploy. By showing up at the start line looking as though I could hardly even be bothered to finish getting dressed, I conveyed to my opponent the confidence-destroying impression that my victory was simply a given and that the race was merely a formality. Had I taken the opposite approach and shown up riding a road bike, wearing a full kit and a helmet, and with my legs glistening with embrocation, I would have been beaten before the word "go."

Also, my helmet was at the dry cleaner's.

Of course I realize my choice of attire was even more dangerous than the sum of its parts (or lack of parts), in that I was on a cyclocross bike, and had I attempted a dismount and remount I ran a very real risk of getting my bibs caught on the saddle and crashing head-first onto the pavement. But it was simply a risk I had to take. I was desperate for a win. And without the watchful eyes of USA Cycling or any other governing body upon me, I was free to pursue victory by any means necessary. Had I been offered performance-enhancing drugs prior to the event I would not have hesitated to use them. (As it happened, only recreational drugs were available, and they didn't help.) And in my defense, I think I did at least have a blinky-light on the seatpost which I used for the ride home that night. (It wasn't a "hipster cyst," but it might have been a distant cousin, the "nerd canker.")

Of course, I'm not surprised people were upset about the helmet. (Though I am surprised people thought I was wearing a messenger bag. Look at that thing--it's tiny and it's got a zipper! Unless your job is to deliver VHS tapes one at a time that would be a pretty awful messenger bag.) We live in a time when having a brake on your bike is seen as a matter of personal preference, but not wearing a helmet is considered suicidal and an affront to human decency. Which is not to say that you shouldn't wear a helmet. Obviously it's aways better to wear one than not to wear one, and you really can't go wrong putting one on. But I will say that in some sense a helmet is kind of like a yarmulke (or, if you prefer, a kippah) in that it tells the world you are a member of the Congregation of Safety. And just because you don't wear one all the time doesn't mean you don't believe in safety and should be scorned. Some of us simply choose to worship in our own way when and where we choose, as godless and wrong as it may be. (Sure, the fact that I'm not afraid to ride in traffic without a helmet yet I'm genuinely scared of going through those metal revolving doors in subway stations might mean my perception of danger is a bit skewed, but seriously--you could break a finger in one of those things!)

Moving on, once again I have been fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of free printed matter:

In this case, that matter came in the form of The Ride Journal, and it came all the way from England--a place where "Z"s are "S"es, "parts" are "bits," and Robbie Williams is still famous. It also features a truly impressive array of contributors, as you can see from the table of contents:

I honestly enjoyed this, and I'm grateful to the editors for sending it to me. In the world of bike-related content, there's "bike porn," and then there's "bike erotica." "Bike erotica" is produced by the sorts of people who look at boxes full of greasy bike parts, grow wistful, and start photographing them, and it's consumed by the sorts of people who are similarly moved by such photographs. This is definitely "bike erotica."

This journal is nicely ecumenical in its approach to cycling, but one theme that came up and made me think was that of looking good on the bike. Not looking good in the sense of looking like a Euro-pro, but rather looking good in the sense of being able to wear street clothes comfortably while riding. In particular, in "Velocouture," Patrick Barber points out that up until now in the US cycling style has been driven by sport rather than practicality, since riding here is traditionally seen as a recreational pastime and not as a means of transportation. "In a way," he writes, "thinking about cycling in street clothes requires that you shift your thinking about why you are on your bike. Instead of being in workout mode, you are in going-somewhere-but-want-to-look-good mode: to work, on a date, to the coffee shop." Ultimately, his point is that by being a normal well-dressed person on a bike instead of a peloton refugee in lycra you inspire other people to do the same and to integrate riding into their everyday lives.

I absolutely agree. But I also maintain it's not as simple as that. Sure, you don't need to dress like you're about to start a stage race just to throw a leg over a bike and ride to your friend's house. But you also shouldn't have to feel like you need to dress in "street clothes" if you'd rather ride in cycling-specific attire. Similarly, while some people may be embarrassed to ride their bikes without dressing properly, just as many people are embarrassed to ride their bikes in cycling clothes. Certainly we've all seen the new road bike owner who's got a pair of superfluous baggy shorts on over his cycling shorts because he hasn't yet come to terms with wearing lycra in public. In many ways, cycling is about losing things, and one of the most important things to lose is modesty.

In fact, as a proponent of starting our own Nation of Cyclists, I'm prepared to go so far as to say that it's not we who must shift our thinking--it's "society" that must change! Take the workplace, for example. Hey, if you're doing your job, why should you have to do things like wear pants? If you want to walk into the office directly from a training ride and marinade yourself in your chamois for a little while as you get up to speed instead of changing into your "business casual" attire you should be allowed to do that, however misguided that might be. If you want to wear your "safety kippah" all day long as you stand in front of the copier in order to show your deep commitment to safe cycling you should feel free to do so without discrimination. And if you want to wear your Speed Vest as you navigate a warren of cubicles so your colleagues can see you distributing memos at a brisk 3mph then nobody should be able to tell you to take it off.

Would you demand that the Jew shave his beard, or the Muslim shave his beard, or the the Sikh, uh, shave his beard? Certainly not! Why, then, must the cyclist be divorced from his or her sacred vestements?

I dream of a world in which the lawyer may clomp around the courtroom in SPD-SL-compatible shoes, the dentist may perform root canals while wearing a Serotta jersey, and the investment banker need never remove his Assos. (Actually, I guess these days the investment banker has all day to pedal around in his Assos.) I long for a day when muddy-faced mountain bikers can report to work while wearing Primal jerseys and CamelBaks. And I staunchly support the fixter's right to wear a hoodie at all times, even during those rare occasions when he bathes.

Just don't ever wear armwarmers with a sleeveless jersey. That's just wrong.

This Just In: BSNYC Wins a Race!

Firstly, since I'm no longer commenting in the comments section (for the time being anyway) I'd like to address by far the most contentious issue to arise from yesterday's post about the metal-themed roadkill debacle. And that issue is, of course, the fact that I mentioned the band Morbid Angel in the context of grindcore, which seemed to upset a number of people. Yes, obviously Morbid Angel is a death metal band, but they started out on Earache records and came to many people's awareness when they were included on the pivotal Grindcrusher compilation. This was a time when grindcore and death metal bands were adopting aspects of each-other's sounds, and it's an epoch in musical history which, sadly and embarrassingly, I'm all too familiar with. As such, grindcore is an important part of their success (it was, in a sense, their EPO) even if they're not a grindcore band, which, I think, was my point.

Anyway, enough of that crap. This blog is about cycling, and this post is about me. Recently, a car magazine called 0-60 challenged me to a bike-vs-car race. I immediately accepted (and by "immediately" I mean eventually) since this race would give me the opportunity to realize my two biggest dreams: redeeming myself after my loss in the Great NYC Commuter Race to Jamie Favaro; and dominating a Smart car:

Yes, that's right. I raced against a Smart from Greenpoint, Brooklyn to Madison Square Park in Manhattan and I won. Forgive me for gloating, but the last time I won anything on a bicycle the bike had 20-inch wheels. I even borrowed some guy's pit bike so I could experience the thrill of victory on a cyclocross bike, which of all the bicycles out there is the type on which I am least likely to ever win anything.

Sure, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Big deal. Bikes are always faster than cars in the city." Well, that's not always true. 0-60 attempted to sandbag me by starting the race right by the entrance to the Midtown Tunnel. Meanwhile, I had to take the Williamsburg Bridge, which added like a half a mile to my route. That might not sound like much, but it is when you're as slow as I am. And not only did I dominate (and by "dominate" I mean I won by a small margin) but the bike also humped the Smart car. Note the obscene crankal position:

I also got the RTMS visage onto the contributor page, sandwiched between a couple of car nerds:

But perhaps best of all, you too can experience what it's like to win a race against a tiny car, because there's a video. That's right--actual video, complete with inspirational soundtrack. So thanks to the guys at 0-60, and to the miracle of handlebar-mounted camera technology, you can see for yourself just how slow I am.

So enjoy the video, and check out the latest issue of 0-60 for the race report (though I'm guessing most of you have it anyway, since if you're reading this blog you're probably also in the market for an Aston Martin):

Anyway, many thanks to Brian Scotto and the guys at 0-60 for the fun opportunity. And if for some reason you're offended I contributed to a car magazine or something, I'll just say that when you suck as bad as I do you go wherever you have to in order to win. I was this close to contacting The Lion Roars to see if I could race against a Lionel train.

Urban Alienation: Cultural Carnage and Alleycats

We live in trying times. Hurricane Ike has pulverized Texas. Wall Street is in turmoil. And, most horrific of all, the New Kids On The Block are preparing for their reunion tour.

It's no wonder then that so many of us choose to bury our heads in the proverbial sand of cycling. I certainly do. It's far easier to live in a world where "tragic" means a really ugly fixed-gear conversion and "scandal" means your favorite rider has just tested positive for EPO. That's why when something enters the world of cycling that forces me to look beyond it and contemplate the larger issues I become especially angry. Like a child shut in his bedroom listening to music, I dread that moment when someone pounds on the door and tells me to turn it off and get to work.

The latest knock at the door came yesterday, in the form of an alleycat:

I'd seen this particular one advertised on the various bike blogs for quite awhile now. Apart from briefly sighing to lament the tiresome formula of pop culture appropriation to which all these alleycats seem to adhere (in this case it was the re-working of the Morbid Angel logo) I really didn't think anything of it. By the way, if you don't know what an alleycat is, it's something that used to be a messenger race, then became a race for people who copy messengers, and then became a race for people who copy people who copy messengers. And if you don't know who Morbid Angel are, they're a band. For every genre of music, there's a band that officially carves out the heart of that genre, discards it, and dances around in the carcass campily like Buffalo Bill from "Silence of the Lambs." Morbid Angel were that band for the subgenre of a subgenre called "grindcore," and they excised from it any social consciousness bands like Napalm Death may have had, slipped on the carcass of screaming and speed like a stage costume, and very successfully upped the ante of metal idiocy.

At any rate, I didn't give much thought to the "Metal Rage" alleycat, until I was checking in with trackosaurusrex (home of the exclamation point!) and saw this:

Clearly this wasn't just another contrived alleycat with a cutesy theme. This was full-bore, white-knuckle, hunched-over-the-neck-of-the-guitar, hair-swinging, cock-rocking stupidity. Aghast, I followed the link to the report, and learned this:

At each checkpoint you had to do a task like sign the manifest in your own real blood, bring roadkill, shotgun a beer, get slapped by a groupie, be anointed with fake blood and let all but 30 psi out of your tire.

I also read this comment from a participant on one of the sponsor's sites:

Jack’s arm looked so fucking nasty. I watched it happen to. They gave us razor blades and said “cut yourself” and Jack pulled some fucking suicidal shit. His arm split open and he screamed…

I listened to Bathory and Dissectiont the whole night.

Now, as I mentioned, I was aghast. And the reason for my aghastation (sure, why not?) wasn't the theme, or the makeup, or the clothes. It wasn't even the idea of people cutting themselves open for what is essentially a big Easter Egg hunt. I mean, sure, all those things were pretty stupid, but that's not what was bugging me. It was the dead animals. I kept going back to the pictures of the dead animals.

I'm the first to admit that I'm a simpering wussbag when it comes to animals. I can't even watch a dog food commercial without getting emotional. And forget Animal Planet--all it takes is one story of a cat with cancer or something to bring me to my knees as I press my hands together and beg of the heavens, "Why? Dear God, why!?!" But still, I do have some perspective on it. I realize at least part of the reason for my extreme sensitivity in this area is because I'm so insensitive in others, and that I've sort of unevenly focussed all my compassion on the animal kingdom. I guess that's why I can shrug my shoulders at a person in distress, but if I see a pigeon with a limp or something I need to go have a drink. I also realize that I come from a place where the death of animals is not a part of my day-to-day life. Maybe if I'd grown up on a farm or something and chicken decapitations were as commonplace as mail delivery I'd see things a little differently.

Still, I think no matter where you are on the animal sensitivity spectrum, pictures like these should at least raise an eyebrow. I couldn't help wondering if at least some of the "roadkill" hadn't been alive before these people go their hands on it. (In fact, I have reason to believe this may indeed be the case.) And even if none of the "roadkill" had been killed by the participants, surely when a group of grown men are riding around New York City playing with bloody animals it is symptomatic of something in the "bike culture" that goes beyond simple stupidity. Here's another picture from the flickr page linked to on the trackosaurusrex site:

I've taken the liberty of annotating this particular photo in order to draw attention to the bloodied animal, the depraved expression, and the torso in dire need of a manssiere.

And here's a closer look at one of the photos from above:

I suppose if I heard about a bunch of 14-year-old kids in rural Kansas riding around doing something like this I might understand it. I've been to rural Kansas, and while it certainly has a certain beauty I could also imagine it breeding a certain restlessness and destructive boredom in an adolescent hungry for social and intellectual stimulation. However, it's much harder to understand something like this when the participants are a bunch of adults in one of the cultural capitals of the world, who have thousands of dollars of high-end bicycle equipment, and, at least in some cases, also have expensive educations and white-collar office jobs as well as access to all the socially and intellectually stimulating pursuits those assets afford them.

Could they not think of anything better to do with their bikes or themselves? Moreover, if any of these people actually have romantic partners, what kind of exchanges did they have with theirs the next morning?

"What did you do last night, honey?"

"A few of us stopped by an art gallery. Then we had dinner, talked for awhile, and saw a really great show. What did you do?"

"I pulled the wing off a dead pigeon, shotgunned a beer, and wrote my name in blood."

Then again, I guess I shouldn't be surprised when people choose the stupid route. If you want to race your bike, why should you enter an actual race? Those are hard, and sometimes require you to get up early. Why not do an alleycat instead? And if you want to have a visceral experience, why go hunting or fishing? That would require you to think, and to learn something, and to deal with the consequences of taking a life. Plus, you can't really do it while dressed as your favorite Norwegian black metal hero. Indeed, you can only sit in your office in front of you iMac for so long before you feel the desperate need to legitimize your brand-new knuckle tattoos by wrapping them around a bloody animal while dressed as the people who live the lives which you covet yet of which you are also afraid.

I hope I'm wrong in my suspicion that any animal, no matter how low on the food chain, might have been killed just for an alleycat. But even if I am wrong, I think a bunch of yuppies riding around playing with roadkill represents a new low. I'd love to see some comments from the participants, who can perhaps show me that I'm overreacting and can prove me wrong on all counts. I mean, I must be, right? After all King Kog, home of the vegan toe straps, was one of the sponsors.

Oh well, I'm glad all the frat boys are still managing to have fun after graduation.