View From the Streets

As I rode into the downtown/old town section of Santa Fe, more commonly referred to as the Plaza, I remembered the day; last Saturday of July. An icy shiver ran down back as I found myself being surrounded by the land whales, skateboard cars, and duelly trucks. San Francisco Street was a parking lot, and I used my mobility to reverse course and search for alternate routes. I swung around a back route, turned at the barricades, and went far enough nothing should have been there... wrong. Even Lincoln Avenue was barricaded, three-to-four deep on each side. It looked like Berlin in 1962! The only thing missing were the Soviet weapons; they use Israeli here.
I slid past one stormtrooper by rolling up the sidewalk before the wall, effectively confusing a seventh grade education. Two down...
The gates at the street weren' the problem, it was the sea of humanity flowing in both directions. Bad economy? The thousands upon thousands of souls I saw buying "art for art's sake" didn't seem to think so. Patiently, I awaited a Moses-like moment when all the random streams aligned just right and I could roll across the road. Leaving walls of barriers is quite simple; you roll through. No one even notices you, and if they do, your out before they can say, "Bicycles are not..."
Literally twenty minutes later than expected, I arrived at my destination. Had I been in a car, I would have had to park a mile or so away and walk in.

And in other news... no, I still haven't had a cigarette. One year, seven months tomorrow.

duck and cover

the soldiers of the nationalsocialisthomelandsecurity have discovered the cogs of subversion and the wheels have multiplied exponentially...
resistance is not futile, we will not be assimilated

passsed the 8-month mark

returning to the steam-tunnels...

5 does not equal 168

I've done some rides since I quit smoking, but I've done them solo, with no one to pace, to judge, to "set an example." Tonight I realized how painful keeping up can be. Everyone said, "no problem, there's a slow guy with us. We'll be rolling mellow."
Yeah, right, bite me. Mellow is a shop, not a style of riding. At least not where my lungs are concerned.
So I was off the back, pushing climbs that made me feel like I was sucking a cigarette as I went. But I kept going. It wasn't a long ride, it certainly wasn't anything major for the boys. Hell, it was the second ride of the day for some. But they reeled me in, waited at the junctions, and gave me the option of the return. I took the "one more climb because it's more fun going down" route, and enjoyed it to no end. Pain can be fun when it's shared. Even when it's shared with others who aren't feeling, but know, your pain
No, five months of non-smoking doesn't equal fourteen years of chemical addiction, but it helps. It's a start. And if I go out and try to follow my friends again, it will be another pedal-stroke in the right direction. And another layer of crap shredded from the inside of my lungs.

Spring Rain

The constant and continuous flow of intelligent prose is difficult for newspapers with one-hundred years experience, and far more overwhelming for a human with half that life, and a tenth of the journalistic experience. So yeah, it's been a while since I've updated.
When I rode every day, for every trip, I had tales. When I combined that with a full-time job in the 'industry' I had more tales. Now I'm a guy that's been off my bike for too long, with a real job, working one day a week at a shop. There will be tales, they'll just be further apart. Like last weekend when I had the keys to the shop...
But that's a different tale.

Lately, my life has been focused on the fact that I don't smoke cigarettes anymore. That has led to several epiphanies dealing with personal health. While these moments of auspicious glory are intense in their own right, they all help me come full-circle to the fact that my bike is the best thing that ever happened to me. A large part of my smoking history was 'on my bike'. I actually had a smoke at the top of climbs, during rest stops. It took me years to realize why my legs turned to stone after.
Now I have to relive some of those rides, do them (albeit weaker) without that chemical, shred the crap in my lungs. And enjoy some simple things; like a barbecue with fam this Saturday, a massage this Sunday, and a free Cowboy Junkies show next Sunday. At the Lensic, no less.
Now, if a certain little pvnp frame-builder would get her butt back home, life would improve exponentially.

As for future alley-cats; there is a map at Mellow Velo to stick pins into. The theory is "only in Santa Fe" and local weirdness is requested. Like an escalator that only goes up...

back in the... shop?

Finally, a bit of time on a bike. Several bikes, actually.
I started out on my old, dependable, ti VooDoo, cruising the potholes and spots of dirt and cobble that litter Santa Fe. A breakfast burrito to go and a lazy loop around downtown to the shop, which it turns out was wonderfully busy, and it seems I have a new part-time job... Next thing I know, I have the "purple people-eater" in the stand; a Masi Gran Criterium with SRAM kit that's being fussy. SRAM? Road kit? How long have I been gone? Ah, brand new, I don't feel so old anymore. It's demons exorcised, or at least contained, I "tested it out." Interesting concept; there is only one shift paddle (no brake lever movement), and it only goes one way... it took a few tries, but it works. I'm not sure how long it would take to get over pushing through a click to get the click you want. But it was a gas to ride a light, fast road bike, pushing gears.
After several laps on that, I pulled La Gazza Ladra down. A reconsideration of lever placement, some grips to satisfy till my tape comes in, and a lap was in order. A lap that ended up being a continuing cycle of mellow spins and crazy attacks, a pit-stop back at the shop to tweak something, then the cycle began anew. Finally I put my clipless pedals on and took off on a longer route, pounding as hard as I dared, skating tourists and traffic, suddenly loving to climb. How is it climbing feels so damned good on a fixed-gear bike? So smooth, so nice, so perfect...
Back to the shop, and some tube changes, some quick-fixes, a hardcase box-job headed to Hawai'i for an Iron Woman, a bunch of rentals flowing in and out, a tour returning, pedal set-ups for a first-time clipless... after 3 years away, it was almost overwhelming. My mind was like a dusty hard drive, desperately seeking RAM, answers I knew I should have. But I think I liked it. I think I want to do it again next Saturday...
Finished out the day back on the VooDoo, bouncing off anything taller than the street, making the constant upward progress that is always the end of my rides.
It's good to be back. Thanks, David. Thanks, Mike. And Al, and Art, and even Brian.

A bow to Britain in the World's; 9 golds so far. Sweet Mother of Pearl.

94 days... I have almost forgotten that I smoked.

Project Death

It is interesting how a slight shift in one's life, or thought processes, can alter the course of your momentum. A few days ago I couldn't wait to continue hammering out the latest project, and even though the frame has arrived, I really don't care anymore. My motivation has been sucked dry. Parts lie in random locations, collecting dust. A wheel with little or no tension hangs in the stand, looking nearly as forlorn as it should.
Presently, I would rather curl up with a book than write one, rather watch a video than star in one, rather drink single-malt at the bike shop than actually build a bike.
It is curable; I know this. Time is the prescription, though a healthy dose of warmth wouldn't hurt.

And I'm still not smoking! Fifteen days!

Quitter Update

Nine days and holding, urges are almost non-existent. I am beginning to remember what certain things actually smelled like. And I love what cold air smells like, though I am already finished with serving Her Royal Majesty, Winter. The riding I have accomplished has been painful, and the desire to ride has been bitten at every turn. It is good fortune that my 'project' is evolving slowly; it would drive me nuts not to ride it, were it finished.
So instead, I ponder the year gone by, and a year to come, with the help of a fresh point-of-view, a new friend, a fresh set of lungs, a new ride, and far too many directions to take the Center's new Department of Projects. Subversive Projects, that is.

Quitter

The cessation of hostilities 'between governments' is not the same as if the sentence read 'between cultures,' or 'between tribes.' Nor does the cessation of chemical input equate physical dependence to psychological dependence.
Stepping away from a physical addiction is similar to a government cease-fire; easy to enforce, easy to follow. Until emotions get in the way. That's when the tribal, ritual, cultural dependence comes into play. Expressions like, "It's always been that way," "That's how we do it," "Gimmeafuckinsmokenow," become the mantra of the defenders of the faith. Ritual memories boil forth, tethering the want-and-desire to the psyche of the victim.
Once the rebels have access to these memories, the struggle becomes harder. The physical body, chemically clean, must suddenly suffer the manifestation of the tribe's pain. Physical discomfort coupled with the psychological attacks threaten the government stronghold, the capitol, the palace.

"What the hell does this have to do with bicycles?"
Not much, except that I quit smoking about four days ago, which will improve both my cycling, and my enjoyment of cycling. Not to mention the air around me, the way I interact with people, the number of years I get to ride my bikes...
...but which has also got me eating most everything I see, squirting herbal remedies reminiscent of the ass-end of an ashtray in the back of my throat, and chewing on a meerschaum cigarette holder in a pale mimicry of Hunter S. Thompson.
My next post will probably be a detailed description of the dead, black cells I cough up when I ride.