Losing My Religion

OK, so let's talk about the bad stuff now.

While I was on vacation, trying to vacate, some quarter-witted vivisection survivor drove onto the sidewalk in Queens and hit five schoolkids:




Because (and say it with me now) he mistook the gas for the brake.

One of the kids has since died--and they're trying to spin it as a coincidence.

Around the same time, or the day before, or whatever it was, some doofus on a Specialized hit acting person Nicole Kidman on a Manhattan sidewalk while trying to take her picture:

(You know, when they said she was "creamed" it wasn't what I was hoping.)

Unless you're not a New Yorker, or you're totally naive and clueless (which I suppose is pretty much the same thing), you know what happened next.  The starfucker on the bike was duly ticketed (cycling on the sidewalk is a misdemeanor in New York City), and last I heard poor Ms. Kidman (who suffered the indignity of having to touch the sidewalk with parts of her body that are above her ankles, but was otherwise unharmed) was considering pressing charges herself.  The driver who ran down the kids, on the other hand, has not been charged with anything at all--because driving a car on the sidewalk in New York City is not a crime unless you mail a certified letter to the local police precinct two weeks beforehand and inform them that on such-and-such a date you intend to drive onto the sidewalk and run over a bunch of people.  Otherwise, it's just an "oopsie," like jostling someone's Kindle on the F train.

This isn't to say nothing is being done about drivers running over pedestrians on the sidewalk, because the principal of the victims' school did, in a remarkable flourish of sheer tastelessness, warn kids not to wear headphones:

Which, general stupidity of the warning aside, none of the victims was doing at the time:

(Poor driver mistakes gas for brake also headphones no criminality suspected have a nice day.)

So there you go.

In all likelihood, our next mayor will be this ex-Sandinista Bill de Blasio guy, and one of his campaign pledges has been this whole "vision zero" traffic safety thing.  Sounds lovely.  I'll believe it when I see it.  But what can I do now?  I'm done with this goody-goody gratuitously-following-traffic-laws-on-my-bike-we-have-bike-share-now-everything's-great-so-I'm-going-to-be-a-model-cyclist approach.  Screw that, I'm going back into common-sense survival mode.  I'm also not one for guerrilla activism, partially because I'm a coward, but mostly because it happens way after my bedtime:

I try not to be south of 242nd Street after sundown.

Up until now, I've at least been able to take solace in my religious faith, which is worship of the Almighty Lobster On High, blessed be S/He:

But you know what?  My god has been failing me.  First of all, cyclists keep getting killed willy-nilly by people who shouldn't be driving.  Secondly, road bikes are getting disc brakes.  Thirdly, my helper monkey, Vito, died tragically in a freak parachuting accident while injecting a potent mixure of heroin and Molly directly into his scranus during freefall.

What the crap kinda "god" allows all that?

So I'm going "full apostate."  I reject you, Lobster God.  I boil you, eat you, and excrete you.  I mock you, and I don't fear your wrath.  May you be picked apart by a thousand hungry seagulls as you hang upside down from your crucifix of shame.  Same goes for all you other religions and prophets too.  You know who you are.  You can keep your beards and your flowing robes and your stupid diets and your primitive beliefs.  Because I'm going with Satan, the guy who gets things done:

He's my last hope.  I can't think of anywhere else to turn.  Anyway, for centuries people have been turning to Satan with fantastic results.  For example:

Machiavelli

(Niccolò Machiavelli, inventor of the macchiato coffee.)

Frederick Douglass

(Frederick Douglass, inventor of Frederick Douglass Boulevard)

George Lucas

(George Lucas, inventor of not having a chin.)

These are just a few of the success stories who just happened to be avowed worshippers of Satan, and now you can count me in too.  In fact, I just sold my soul yesterday afternoon at around 3:30-ish, and already I'm feeling stronger and more confident ,with just the faintest hint of unquenchable bloodlust I'm currently satisfying with wholesome and readily-available puppy blood.  And the best part is I only draw more power when someone commits an ungodly Satanic act.  Whenever two gay people get married or touch genitals I get stronger.  Whenever a congressman reads aloud from the Book of Obamacare (it's the Satanic New Testament, don't you know) I get stronger.  Your "epic" Sabbath wankfests are the wind beneath my leathery batwings.  I am the glint in Justin Bieber's eye when his roadie starts packing the bong.  I am the morbid stench in a fixie rider's jeans.  I am the mold and scum and residual baby puke that accumulates in the tub of a bakfiets.  I'm a marshmallow marinaded in human blood and roasted to perfection on a Varanasi burning ghat.  Join me, join me, join me.  Kill, kill, KILL!!!

Sorry, that's the old bloodlust acting up.  I'm going to have to grab another puppy from the fridge.

Anyway, we'll see how it works out, but in the meantime whenever a driver pisses me off I simply speak a hateful incantation too powerful to reproduce here and pray to my Dark Lord™ for his or her painful, flesh-rotting demise.

Oh, speaking of New York City, apparently Satan has made Yehuda Moon come to life and banished him to the Williamsburg Bridge, where he must repair the bikes of young, inept gentrifiers for all eternity:

See what I'm saying?

Anyway, here's the story:

Wobbling over the Williamsburg Bridge on a misaligned bike wheel earlier today, I ran into Michael — a bike mechanic who set up his DIY shop in the middle of the bridge where the bike lane crosses the pedestrian path. I haven’t had the time or the funds to stop by a bike shop since getting hit by a car several weeks ago, so I thought, why not?

You know, back in the 1950s when I was growing up, if our wheels got fucked up and we couldn't afford to bring them to a bike shop we figured out how to do it ourselves.  It really wasn't too hard, either, because we had the Internet and we had this guy Sheldon Brown who described how to do everything you could possibly ever need to do to a bike in painstaking detail.  (Yes, in the 1950s.  It's true.  Look it up.)  Nowadays though I guess you just ride around all wobbly like a schmuck until some bridge troll with a giant beard takes mercy on you, or else you launch a Kickstarter to design an iPhone app that trues your wheels with lasers.

I mean seriously, get a load of this meeting of the

mindshair:

I dare you to look at that and tell me God's not dead. 

Hail Satan.

And in more evidence that Satan is alive and well and working overtime in New York City, we actually have a full-time Rapha store now:

("Evil!!!")

Not only that, but it's in (what used to be) the Meatpacking District, which was once the place to score yourself a transsexual hooker.

Or so I've heard.

Oh, who am I kidding, I've been frequenting transsexual hookers since the 1950s when I used to work in the meatpacking district.

Lastly, the big news from Interbike was that Greg LeMond has a new line of bicycles:

This Time with his name on it that is made of crabon and has two wheels is sure to chance the face of bicycle cycling forever.  But of course the big question is: "Will there be a dedicated gravel bike?"

Well, what do you think?

The bikes themselves are, LeMond said, just the start. “I’m really excited to be back in the bike industry,” he said, adding that he has “a number of new projects next year,” including more road, cyclocross, and possibly gravel-road models.

Hail Satan.

Bicycles And The Riding Of Them

Death!

Mayhem!

Injustice!

Interbike!

All of these awful things happened while I was away, but I don't want to talk about them.

Actually, ostriches don't really do that, so perhaps this is a better visual metaphor:

Or maybe an ostrich with its head up someone's ass would be the perfect marriage of the two, but I don't have the time or the graphic imaging skills, or the means and animal husbanding abilities to set up the actual shot.

The point is, I don't want to talk about bad stuff.  I want to talk about bicycling and the cycling of bicycling cycles for recreational purposes in pleasant surroundings, which is what I did while I was away:

This is not to say I took a bicycle cycling vacation per se.  Rather, I took a family trip that happened to offer the opportunity to do some top-notch bicycle cycling while I was there.  In fact, I'm not sure I'd even want to take a dedicated bicycle cycling vacation.  Firstly, I don't need to spend every waking moment marinating in my own chamois and talking about nothing but bikes with a bunch of other like-minded and similarly frumunda-addled idiots.  A few hours at a time is more than enough.  Secondly, I like stuff to be easy.  I don't want to schlep a bunch of crap in panniers and sleep in strange beds or, even worse, in a tent like some Bedouin.  (No offense to the Bedouin, it's just that I'm emphatically not one.)

No, when I travel with a bike I like places where it's hard to get lost, and where in the unlikely event that I do still manage to get lost I can just pick a direction at random and be sure that within a half hour I'm going to run into either a bike shop or a café or a Montessori school or a Buddhist retreat or possibly an establishment that is all four of those things combined.

By now you've probably figured out where I was, but if you haven't I'm still not going to tell you.  All I'll say is that I was (at least technically) in the United States, in a coastal state, reassuringly close to an actual city, and at the foot of a highly gentrified mountain whose name I won't reveal but which I'll heretofore refer to as "Mount Tampon."

(At no point did I do this, because that's not how I vacation.)

Here's why I like Mount Tampon:

--It's nice-looking
--It has lots of fire roads and you can buy a cartoonishly simple map of them at the local bike shop
--These fire roads are well-marked and virtually idiot-proof
--With just a cyclocross-style bicycle you can have a mixed-terrain adventure with lots of climbing and beautiful vistas and still be back by lunch
--The scariest thing you will encounter on Mount Tampon is an attorney for a technology company doing yoga at sunrise in translucent Lululemon pants
--Your smartphone works almost everywhere on Mount Tampon and G--gle has been all over it too so you can easily triple-check your location against your cartoonishly simple map and the frequent trail markings
--If somehow you manage to lose your cartoonishly simple map and your smartphone you can just ask one of the many, many rich people crawling all over the mountain at all times for directions, and while I never had to actually do that I'm sure eventually I'd have been able to cut through the haze of their smugness and extract actual helpful information from them.

So yeah, go ahead and launch your Kickstarter for your epic and consciousness-raising unicycle trip from Vancouver, BC to Machu Picchu, but this is how I roll: staying in a fancy town and humping Mount Tampon.  Basically, in the morning, I'd roll out among all the considerately-driven luxury motor vehicles and then head onto the fire roads, which looked like this:

And had views like this:

And then more steady climbing:

And more views:

And then I'd get closer to the top and start feeling good about myself:

Until I realized I was surrounded by middle-aged people in sweatpants who did this every morning before work:

Then I'd get to the top of the Tampon:

And finally I'd head back down again, past all the people climbing it on full-suspension mountain bikes who scowled at me with carefully-cultivated race faces when I waved to them.  (I don't give a shit about waving, but I do it when I'm visiting other places so the kinds of people who ride full-suspension bikes on fire roads know I mean well and that I don't plan to steal the trunk rack off their BMWs when I get to the bottom.)

This is not to say I didn't get "ambitious."  As much as I was enjoying the fire roads I knew I'd be remiss if I didn't do the big "Fred climb," and so one morning I went up Mount Tampon:

And then down the other side, where it was kind of bumpy, yet somehow I managed to survive, even with primitive inner tubes and without dick breaks or a gravel-specific bicycle:

Then eventually things got smoother:

And eventually I had a thrilling brush with raw, untamed nature in the form of this "newt crossing:"

Where, awesomely, one kid drew a newt that totally looked like a dong:

Give that kid an "A" for effort and an "X" for drawing a dong.

Incredibly, I survived the newt crossing (though I did have to stomp six or seven of the slimy little fuckers) and then made landfall, said goodbye to the dirt, and slipped into "Fred mode:"

I was now officially a roadie, and instead of getting scowled at by people on full-suspension mountain bikes I was getting scowled at by people straddling expensive crabon bicycles and swaddled in full Rapha.

The road took me up:

And then down:

And then it went up for like a really long time until I got to this intersection:

And then I was out of the trees but still going up, up, up:

(That's what they call a "ribbon of road" in cliché school.)

Where, in addition to the grades I had to cope with this spectacularly shitty view:

And then I stopped taking pictures because I had to focus on making the bike keep going, but eventually I made it to the top and then went back down the fire road and had a sandwich.

As I ate, I asked myself the inevitable question:

"I just climbed a beautiful mountain twice, once on dirt and once on pavement, in about the time it takes me to do the stupid shitty run to Piermont.  So why do I live in New York City again?"

But then, as always, I remembered the answer:

(He don't got a car.)

How could I leave all this bike culture?!?

Anyway, after enjoying myself both on the bike and off, it was time to go, and I cried as I packed up the old trusty bicycle cycling bicycle cycle:

I should point out that I didn't even bother unpacking the bike after returning from Australia, opening the case only to slip in a pair of cyclocross tires for the trip to Mount Tampon.  Now I'm back in New York City and the bike has survived all of this, requiring only the most minor adjustments.  (Sure, it's scratched to hell, but if your bike isn't scratched you're not using it right.)  At this point the bike has undertaken something like 20 or 30 flights and visited at least four countries (five if you count Portland as a separate country) and I have yet to pay an airline bicycle fee.  I'm sure I've thoroughly "jinxed" myself with all of this, but if you went ahead and bought yourself something stupid like that matching crabon cyclocross "pit bike" or that electronic shifting "upgrade" instead of getting yourself a dependable and versatile travel bike then I feel sorry for you and laugh at you, unless of course you never travel by air, in which case I hereby redact everything I just said.

And with that, I leave you with your sorrows or joys or indifference as the case may be, and I look forward to returning to my routine and my mediocre New York City-area bicycle rides.

I love you,


--Wildcat Rock Machine

PS:

This Just In: I'm Off AGAIN What Kind Of Lousy Blog Is This!?!

See this date?

Sorry, let me try that again.

See this date?

Goddamn it!  Piece of crap Apple computer.  Yeah, I got your "keynote" right here.  [Indicates "KuKu Pentouse."]

Okay, see this date?

Probably not, but it's Monday, September 23rd, 2013.  This date is important because, after this post, I'm not posting again until then.  Why?  Because I can't.  Why can't I?  Because none of your business.  Isn't it a ripoff that I'm taking off after just having taken off to go to Australia?  No, the blog's free, you schnorrer, so how can that be a ripoff?  Anyway, according to the blogging thingy I use this is my 1,504th post, and at something like a thousand words a post that's over a million and a half words already (or closer to half a million if you don't count the word "scranus" or its derivatives) so you have plenty of free bullshit to read in my absence.

So yeah, I'll see you again on the 23rd.

In the meantime, yesterday we had a primary erection in New York City, and the big winner was mayoral candidate Bill de Blasio--who, as it happens, was pretty much the only candidate who was unequivocally pro-bike lane and anti-people-getting-run-over.  (Even though at first he really wasn't.)  I guess that's a good thing, though I guess we'll find out if he's really able or inclined to do anything about it if he ultimately gets elected, which we don't know if he will, since there may still be a "runoff" before the general erection, and erection runoff can be extremely unpredictable.   

And the big loser, of course, was Anthony "I'm Going To Have a Bunch of Ribbon-Cuttings Tearing Out Your Fucking Bike Lanes" Weiner, who concluded his campaign by giving everyone the finger:

That guy is going to snap very soon and in a big way, and to be honest it really scares me.

Anyway, for now it's just more of the same as far as bikes are concerned:

The driver rolled down his window and called her a, “Stupid bitch!” My friend, who was understandably angry, responded by smearing some of her blood on his windshield. The driver then stormed of out his car and punched her in the face. Not once, but twice.

His license plate number was GRC1130, and it was handed over to the police.

But that was more than a week ago, and the NYPD still hasn’t done anything. And that’s the reason why I’m posting this…

Disgusting.  Whatever happened to decency?  When I run over a cyclist and he or she smears blood on my windshield in protest I just give it a spritz with the wipers and get on with my life.  

Maybe the driver was out of washer fluid.

Fortunately, we've got plenty of whimsical David Byrne bike racks to ease the pain:

Between Byrne's nonsensical phrases and KAWS's ditzy shapes and colors, visiting Brooklyn is increasingly like entering the bedroom of a five year-old:

(No sleep 'til Brooklyn bedtime!)

I guess that would explain those new signs:

Speaking of Brooklyn, in its ongoing quest to emulate Portland in all things it played host to a handmade bike show recently.  Here's Gizmodo's coverage, which provides compelling insight into how stupid most people are about bikes:

Mark

Wow, this is a perfect example of why my gizmodo reading time has declined steadily over the past year. My apologies to "Nick Stango", but your knowledge of bicycles and what makes them special or unique is non-existent. I am so sick and tired of single speed bicycle owners claiming that they know something about the sport, it's equipment, etc. Your comments on "GEARED" bicycles reveal that you are not a cyclist, and never will be even if you slept on your "fixie", period. Your comments on the frame with the ISP are also mis-informed and the design of the seatmast in question is a bad one. I'll be frank here: your bike is most likely a piece of crap. Most fixies are. Here is a picture of a real bike (mine):

Note the German-A fork, Extralite crank, stem and brake levers. This MTB weighs well under 20lbs. Also, my apologies to the craftsmen of the show being reported on, it's not their fault Gizmodo sent a non-subject matter expert to cover your show.

Yesterday 8:40am

Hilarious.  I daresay Mark would make the most irritating riding partner in the world--more so even than this guy (via Stevil Kinevil of All Hail The Black Market) who actually needs to pay people to ride with him:

Portland Road Racer looking for ride guide - $20 (honey run & table mtn)

I am a Cat 3 roadie from Portland, and I will be passing through Chico this coming weekend. On Saturday, I would like to connect the honey run and table mountain rides, and would like some company in the form of someone who is fit and knows this route WELL, and can ride a steady, 180-200w pace for 80ish miles. I will throw $20 bucks your way and buy you a beer at the end.

There's nothing sadder than an amateur bike racer scrounging around on Craigslist for his wattage fix like a crackhead checking the cushions for loose change.  He also provides a picture of his bike so you know it's cool enough to 69 with yours outside the café:

Anyway, if you live in the area, are able to tolerate both Cat 3s and people from Portland (yikes), and you want to make $20 the Fredly way be sure to drop him a line.

And with that, I'm disappearing until Monday, September 23rd.  Thank you for reading, ride safe, and may the six-fingered lobster eternally bless you.  Amen.

XOXO,

--Wildcat Rock Machine