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.

Hard Times: Valuating the Cultural Currency of Cycling

So the economy is apparently imploding, or exploding, or some other kind of ploding. (I don't know, I'm not an economist.) The used bicycle market is also in turmoil. There are no Bianchi Pistas currently on the market in NYC, and people are doubtless holding on to them to see where all this is going. So while it's impossible to say where the PistaDex stands at this moment, one trader is willing to pay $400. That's pretty low, but the bottom certainly hasn't fallen out yet, and I for one refuse to panic.

Indeed, it is extremely important to remain optimistic in these trying times. Sure, we may start to see Pista prices fall across the board. And yes, we may no longer be able to count on our track bikes actually increasing in value as we own them. But we can always hope that if things do get ugly the government will step in. Perhaps they can offer generous tax deductions to Pista owners for "improvements" such as Aerospokes, Phil Wood bottom brackets, and Chris King headsets. And perhaps they can also offer mileage disincentives, so that these riders are discouraged from riding their Pistas and as such keep them in the "like new, barely ridden" state so cherished by buyers.

Moreover, I maintain that while the PistaDex may dip in the coming weeks overall the cultural currency of cycling will remain strong. In fact, now is a better time than ever to diversify your cycling investments into other areas. Sure, you might want to avoid things like alleycat manifest holders right now, but there are extremely positive indicators in other sectors of the cyclonomy. For example, it hardly warrants mentioning that Lance Armstrong is coming back for another stab at the Dauphiné Libéré, and that's going to result in massive spikes in sales of Dura Ace-equipped Madones, black half-shorts, helmet mirrors, and threadless stem risers. Also, let's not forget that while cycling is expensive to regular people it's actually a bargain for wealthy people, so you can expect more and more of them to pick it up as their fortunes dip slightly and they put more expensive hobbies like dirigible racing on hold. And where you have wealthy people, you have triathlons:

Here we see the guy from "Boys on the Side" getting ready for some tri training in the tailgate of his SUV. Now I realize the caption says he's training for a decathlon, but I'm going to assume that's a mistake since I don't think decathlons have cycling in them. Also, while it may look like McConaughey is removing his mandal in order to put on a cycling shoe, it's actually the other way around, as everybody knows he loves training in thongs (he sports them both on his feet and under his cycling shorts) and only wears his cycling shoes while driving.

Sure, I know I've said some harsh things about triathletes in the past. (Like how they can't handle their bikes, or shift their bikes, or really do much of anything with their bikes except clumbsily nagivate them to the place where they have to go to change their shoes like a bunch of bikini-clad Mr. Rogerses.) But again, in times like these we have to stick together. I'm not going to look at triathlons as a few miles of spazztic cycling sandwiched between the twin evils of swimming and running. Instead, I'm going to look at them as a stealthy method of delivery by which cycling can sneak itself into the cultural bloodstream like a water-borne illness. And maybe if more celebrities get the bug it will also trickle down to the people who mindlessly emulate them.

Sure, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Who the hell is emulating Matthew McConaughey?" Well, if that's not enough celebrity for you, what about Jennifer Lopez?

That's right, Jennifer Lopez is putting the proverbial hammer down for charity. This makes me happy. It even looks like she was able to get her feet into the pedals quicker than her competitors. And perhaps most touching, she had the consideration to wear a loose-fitting garment so as not to drive any nearby Hasidim mad with animal lust.

But it's not all about triathlons, so don't go pitching your Pista quite yet. Fixed-gears still have enough cultural cachet to figure into a Japanese iPhone commercial, as forwarded by a reader:

Sure, I realize many of you live in the United States, but if you do this indicates that there is still an international market for your Pista, which coupled with the weak dollar may very well work to your advantage should you need to liquidate your supply.

And if nothing else, this also underscores the importance of staying up on the trends. It's absolutely crucial to know who wants what and where they are at any given moment if you want to sell your bike at top dollar. And staying up on bike trends is about more than just looking at cycling. It's also important to look at the trends that cross over into cycling. And one of those trends, as we saw recently, is knuckle tattoos.

Well, it would appear that knuckle tattoos are the fixed-gear bicycles of the body art world, in that they've been around a long time and they used to be pretty bold things to have, but suddenly everybody wants one, and when they finally get them they look pretty funny. The very same reader who alterted me to the "Nobr Akes" tattoo has also turned me on to knuckletattoos.com, which is sort of the fixedgeargallery of knuckle tattoos and is my new favorite website. Here are some highlights:

There is no way you'll ever regret having internet slang tattooed on your knuckles. Imagine these hands gently caressing the visage of a lover.



It took me a really long time to figure this one out. I thought it said "Slag Calm," which didn't make sense. Then I thought maybe it was a typo and should have said "Slag Clam," which could refer to the female reproductive organ of a promiscuous woman. Finally, though, I actually read the caption, and learned it said "Stay Calm," and that did indeed relax me.


Ah yes, the under-the-finger reverse knuckle tattoo. It's the left-hand drive crank setup of the knuckle tattoo world.

I thought these were the hands of a dieter and it said "Live Lite," but it actually says "Live Life."

So taken was I with all of these fine knuckle tattoos, and so much did I want to become part of this new fashion phenomenon, that I racked my brain in order to come up with my own eight-letter sentiment. I considered and dismissed such possibilities as "Trek Bike," "Pack Fill," and "Twob Rake." Finally, though, it hit me. The perfect eight-knuckle chuckle was hidden right under my nose:



Of course, I wanted to see how it would look first, so I tested it out on a sepia-toned model. Notice the "NY" and the "C" on the thumbs. Not only is it a sin to waste digits, but it's also important to differentiate myself from all the other Bike Snobs out there. I'm thinking I may go for it. Those hands would look badass wrapped around a pair of Ourys.

Comfy Chairs: Riding and Reading

Bike lanes are a contentious issue in the earnest and dorky world of bicycle advocacy. Some people feel that safe and protected bike lanes are the key to getting more people cycling. Others feel bike lanes are dangerous places to ride, and simply lull riders into a false sense of security when they should instead be asserting their right to the road. Still others feel that bike lanes are an insidious conspiracy of the oil and auto industries, and that they're really just "fly strips for cyclists" designed to lure them to a place where they can be easily doored, stuffed in trunks, and driven to labor camps where they are then forced to melt down their own bicycles and use the metal build replacement doors for cars.

Personally, I like bike lanes. Not because I think they work especially well, but because I think they're symbols of respect. I like that someone has to go out there and paint little pictures of bicycles all over the city for me. So when people park in the bike lane (or stroll in the bike lane, or ride skateboards in the bike lane, or allow their Cocker Spaniels to relieve themselves in the bike lane) I don't get angry because they're inconveniencing me. I'm more than capable of riding among the cars, and often do. No, I get angry in the same way Archie Bunker used to get angry when Meathead would sit in his special chair. I deal with enough crap as a cyclist, and the least the DOT can do is give me my special chair and make municipal employees fluff the pillows for me every so often by freshening the paint and filling the potholes. And when someone's in my special chair I get really annoyed. Sure, I could go sit somewhere else, but I don't want to! Get the hell out of my chair, Meathead!

Of course, as you may have seen on Gothamist or in the New York Post, some people don't want us to have a nice comfy chair, especially when we lounge in that chair in our metaphorical underpants. Indeed, it seems as though the Hasids of Williamsburg are upset about the fact that scantily-clad female cyclists are pedaling up and down the bike lanes that pass through their neighborhood, consequently driving these pious, scholarly gentlemen mad with lust and distracting them from the Talmud. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Where are these bike lanes exactly, and will the Hasidic community also object if I bring my own comfy chair, place it on the sidewalk, and sip mint juleps as I watch this skin show on wheels?"

Well, firstly, it's important to keep in mind that if you're not a member of an ultra-Orthodox religious group you're probably not going to find the display quite as provocative as the Hasids apparently do. (If you're Amish though your head might explode.) Secondly, while it's tempting to say that it's ridiculous for the Hasids to expect the rest of the world to conform to their beliefs and sensibilities, it is important to understand their predicament. For years, they have only had to deal with normal urban sexual temptations, like salacious advertisements, street-walking prostitues, and scantily-clad women dancing seductively in wet t-shirts to salsa music next to open fire hydrants on sultry, hot summer days. Now all of a sudden they've got to deal with the relatively new phenomenon of "hipster" Williamsburg as well, including its concomitant pale-skinned, tattooed, undernourished cyclists on their fixed-gears and old crappy 10 speeds.

Fortunately, I think I can act as an intermediary between these two communities. While I think the Hasids are certainly wrong to oppose bike lanes, I also think it's important for "hipster" Williamsburg to finally begin respecting its neighbors. So I call upon you, "hipsterim" (for lack of a better word) to incorporate some Hasidic wisdom into your own culture, meet with the local Rabbis, and create "Hipster Eruvin." Essentially, this will involve roping off certain sections of the neighborhood in which it will be permissible for you to cycle around in your depraved, lustful, and sensual hoodies, black jeans, and studded belts so that the men of the community might finally bring the raging fires in their loins under control.

(And before anyone out there starts making assumptions about my heritage, just remember you don't have to be Jewish to have read "The Yiddish Policemen's Union.")

In the meantime, as we all know, a good way to cover up a little skin is with a hanky, and as you might remember a certain clothing company sent me a rather expensive one not too long ago. To be honest, before I posted it, I didn't realize how expensive it actually was. Nor, to be even more honest, did I actually think people might actually want it. I sort of felt like Jerry Seinfeld in the "Puffy Shirt" episode. "These? They're making these?!?" But amazingly, people do want it, because the guy at trackosaurusrex is "totally feeling it:"


It's not too often you find yourself having something someone else wants. Now I know how those girls in the Wythe Street bike lane feel--except in this case it's just a blogger lusting after my scarf, and not a Hasidic man lusting after my body. In any case, trackosaurusrex, drop me a line. I may be able to make your dreams come true. I'm thinking I'll give it the "Pista treatment" and let it go for $5 less than full retail. And apart from putting it on once for the photo (and also making a highly recalcitrant dog wear it for a second) it hasn't even been worn. Trust me.

Speaking of free stuff, since the whole hanky thing it's come to my attention that some people think companies actually send me things. Nothing could be further from the truth. If anything, it's the opposite--companies seem to want to keep their products away from me for fear that I might incinerate them with my gaze or something. Sure, someone recently offered to send me some kind of unguent to evaluate, but I declined. (I have a strict and, to my mind, quite sensible policy of not testing mysterious creams.) So when the people at VeloPress actually offered to send me a book for free and assured me it was not made out of cream I gladly accepted:

If this were a bike part or a piece of clothing or something I probably wouldn't mention it outside of the context of ridicule, but this is a book written by a former pro racer about his time racing in Europe. Writing is hard, and racing is hard, and both can be thankless. So I have no problem thanking Joe Parkin for writing a sordid, funny, and engrossing book which I thoroughly enjoyed, nor with recommending it to anyone who wants to read a book about the underbelly of pro bike racing in the 80s. In the book, Parkin compares racing in Belgium to punk rock, and it's an apt comparison to this book as well--and I mean that in the best possible way, and not in the "Good Charlotte" way.

Just make sure if you do read it you do so in an actual comfy chair and not in the bike lane.

Ride safe this weekend,


--BSNYC/RTMS

The Indignity of Commuting by Bicycle: Death

Yesterday, on my morning commute, I made one of my usual turns and encountered a police officer as well as a strip of yellow tape. The street was closed to traffic. As many New York City cyclists know, this can be a confusing moment. Although you're legally supposed to follow the same rules as any other vehicle operator, in practice sometimes you can do whatever you want and sometimes you can't. You inhabit a strange middle ground. You can run a thousand reds in front of a thousand police cars, then one day you'll suddenly get a ticket. Similarly, when a street is closed, sometimes they'll expect you to take a different route, and sometimes they'll let you slip right on through. I slipped right on through.

At the next corner I discovered the reason for the street closure. There was a road bike lying on the pavement right behind an empty school bus and just next to a nail polish red pool of blood. If the blood had been wine it would have been enough to get you pretty drunk. I'm not one to linger at accident scenes, and I'm definitely not one to take pictures of them, but I did ask a nearby officer what had happened. "Accident," he replied without looking at me. In my experience that's how police usually respond when someone's died. I cringed a little and went on my way.

While I thought about the blood for the rest of my commute, I didn't try to find out what had happened, and as the day wore on I forgot about it. In fact I didn't think about it again until this morning as I rode through Prospect Park, and happened upon this scene right around the spot where I had my transcendent ride among the geese:

You have to feel a little sorry for monks, because they can't do anything normal without it seeming either spiritually significant or ironic to a bystander. He was probably just calling the dry cleaner to see if his spare robes were ready, but to me the sight of a monk on a cellphone seemed simultaneously profound and funny, as if he were on a hotline to enlightenment. As I contemplated this, I suddenly remembered the blood from yesterday. Not the bike, not the bus, just the blood. Morbidly, I wondered if any of it was still there.

Approaching the corner, I saw some people pondering a lamp post, and as I got closer I saw the cheap deli flowers, so I knew someone had in fact died yesterday:

I asked the people if they knew how the accident had happened. They were mostly useless and doled out an ignorant pudding of speculation and opinion, but it seemed like the cyclist had made a right turn at the intersection, maybe at high speed, and hit the bus. Before I left I took a photo of the sign by the flowers, to which someone had added a pointless message in black ballpoint pen which read "Imagine no cars":

I wasn't sure what that had to do with anything. It seemed to me the problem here was not with cars but with bicycles and school buses, two things I think most of us agree are useful and necessary, despite the fact that they may have come together disastrously in this particular instance. Personally, I feel the only thing more depressing than a makeshift roadside memorial is a pointless and simplistic faux-John Lennon sentiment riding piggyback on a makeshift roadside memorial. It's sort of like going down to Ground Zero and spraypainting "Airplanes Suck." Speaking of spraypainting, I'm sure someone's preparing a ghost bike as I type this. As I've said before, if I were to make a premature exit via bicycle I would never want a ghost bike. (Though I must admit the idea of a Scattante Empire State Single Speed ghost bike is oddly appealing to me.)

In any case, for the second morning in a row I found myself contemplating blood and death during my commute. I also thought about the middle ground cyclists occupy as I mentioned earlier, and how it extends well beyond law enforcement. As a human being you're never really all that far from death no matter what you're doing, but when you're on a bicycle you're especially close. When I'm on a bike I think of death as a membrane so thin you can't see it because when all is going well you're looking at it from the invisibly narrow side, not the all-encompassingly wide side. But when things go awry, and a series of decisions and coincidences sends you directly towards it, it's all you can see. And the death membrane has extraordinary wicking properties, so sometimes all you need to do is touch it in order to wind up on the other side of it in a puff of vapor like an evaporating bead of sweat.

We all behave a little differently in this precarious middle ground, too. Some of us ride cautiously, and some of us ride recklessly. Some of us obey all the rules but without that extra level of comprehension that allows you to make a decision when the rules no longer apply, and some of us disobey the rules but have the intuition and experience to successfully slip through unharmed. And some of us just ride blithely along, waving our hands in the air as we ride our wobbly bikes over bumpy expansion joints on the Manhattan Bridge, avoiding tragedy simply by dumb luck like Mr. Magoo wandering through a construction site:

As I rode behind that last rider this morning, I realized it's this sort of disregard that can be most infuriating. For those of us who respect death because we know on some level that we ride with it every day, it can be frustrating to watch people who don't seem to know it rides right beside them. Perhaps that's even why some of us favor a certain austerity when it comes to our bikes and our attire. Sure, it's important not to take cycling and life too seriously, but at the same time tragedy is all the more tragic when the victim looks ridiculous. (Walking into a room full of dead bodies is one thing; walking into a room full of dead bodies in clown suits is something else entirely.) Yet perhaps most infuriating of all is that one can take every precaution one can and still meet with disaster, yet the salmon chatting on the phone with a shopping bag full of $300 jeans hanging off the handlebars will live to ride another day and smoke yet another pack of American Spirits.

Then again, whether you fear death, respect it, or ignore it, it's always there. One second you're riding along with the flow:

And the next thing you know traffic, circumstances, and fate align themselves in such a way that there's nothing between you and the great tacky tinsel-festooned afterlife except an invisible soul-wicking membrane:

I don't know the story behind yesterday's accident, and to be perfectly honest I haven't been compelled to find out. I'm just going to do my best to keep on this side of the membrane for a little while longer. I hate street fairs.