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...

Lash

Part of me wants to flay the skin off the "cyclists" that only acknowledge their own, moreso the ones in cars, driving to their trail, or starting point.
Today, I rolled down the hill, in search of music, and malted adult beverages. The Cowgirl was celebrating 15 years with a dozen local bands, and I had a ticket to Cowboy Junkies at the Lensic. Memories of the Really Posh Guys almost crushed me, but that's another story.
As I rolled down said hill, a car with a couple bikes came up. I waved. I was ignored.
Perhaps because they were transporting mountain bikes, and I was riding La Gazza Ladra, perhaps they didn't notice me in the hundred yard visibility. Perhaps they were self-absorbed pricks who felt adding $3,000 of wind resistance to their car was cool.
It really doesn't matter after all... whatever rant I built on the way to town was washed away by the days events.
And perhaps that is the lesson. To me, to the pricks, to the people who make music for us.

And I signed a marriage certificate Saturday. No, it wasn't mine.
And I can't remember how many days it's been since I had a cigarette. More than five months...

Oh for the love of...

Sorry, kids, I've been sick all week. I missed the champagne gala, the project went on hold, and now that I can focus on some cycling in the real world, all I can say is someone please shoot Pat 'effing' McQuaid.

Phil (the fuzzy one)

I would just like to say that Phil, or more to the point, the tuxedoed rodephiles that fondle his junk every year and claim to know his wisdom, can kiss my fuzzy, pale butt. I am in the middle of breaking this year's ice (physical, metaphorical, and metaphysical), and do not need the buzz-kill of "six more weeks" of Winter. I'm well aware that the Vernal Equinox is nearly seven weeks away; that does not mean I want to dwell on the weather sucking any more than it already has. As far as I am concerned, it is going to be a perfectly ridiculous February, with March acting as the hare named for it.
In other words, kids, I'm going to have fun, ride places not meant for two-wheels to tread (both on- and off-road), and shortly, oh-so-shortly, begin to build La Gazza Ladra. Yes, the last of the parts trickle in, being picked and snatched as if by the namesake itself. So much is done, so much left to do...

Now, as to the rodent mentioned previously, I personally prefer the explanation rendered in the legend of Cailleach. It is said that this is the day she gathers firewood for the rest of Winter. If it's a bright and sunny day ("shadow"), then she'll collect a great pile of wood, ensuring she'll need it. If it's a gloomy day ("no shadow"), she'll only gather a bit, and the weather will follow accordingly.

great, but what does this have to do with bikes, dude?

Nothing. But I'm sick of feeling trapped by the weather, and I wanted to rant about it. I have the technology. Noodling on a wheel, learning to beat a drum in the same cadence as my head against the wall, and attempting to grow fungus with an IQ higher than the average convenience store worker are all minor distractions that are losing their luster. If I don't inflict some eye-opening reminders upon unsuspecting, mentally dead Hummer drivers soon, I'm going to "shoot six holes in my freezer."

And for anyone keeping track; 38 days.

Statistic

Yet another cyclist, yet another friend, has been shrugged off the road by an unseeing, uncaring pseudo-human driving a tribute to American Excess and "farm-equipment" tax breaks; four tons of custom Silverado with an acre of custom bent tubing for a bumper. I suppose it's needed to protect that truck from the hazards on the ranches so prevalent in Cambridge, Mass. Like messengers, wrenches, and welders.
My friend is okay, hence the "shrugged". A little sore and a lot pissed off, but physically undamaged. The behemoth slid out of the depths, catching her rear wheel with the afore-mentioned bumper, driving her to the sidewalk in its wake like so much flotsam. And continued on its way, completely oblivious to anything but its own course.
There are many of these malevolent beasts on the road today. The present power structure encouraged the consumers, then whispered even larger platforms to the manufacturers, creating a self-replicating cycle. Trucks in this country have become our Borg; resistance is futile you will be assimilated.
So tonight I toast my friend with an ESB, a touch of kine, and a steaming Shepherd's Pi.

Studies

As much as I am sick of the cold, I am even more sick of feeling down. I've tried to get myself jazzed about damn near anything, but like a damp log in the fireplace, I burn for a moment and then fizzle with a tell-tale wisp of smoke. This has given me a great deal of time for introspection, as well as some studying. Certain lines of research constantly attract me, and I occasionally find myself ensconced in a veritable fortress of books. Most of the things I search for would be deemed esoteric at best, and rarely have to do with cycling.
Unless you want to compare the concept of "three" so prevalent in religion, the concept of a "wheel" that occurs in many of the same religions, and more, and the expression of the front wheel, crank, rear wheel trinity of motion on a bicycle. Deus in machina.
The Center will also continue its Fellowship on Subversive Studies; Seventies Subculture Excavations. Space is extremely limited, so get those essays in now.

On an obliquely related note, I'm going to light a fire, roll up in an acre of f-ink fur, and watch Mists of Avalon.

22 days nic-free

Girl After My Own Heart...

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.

Loss of Etiquette

Frame preparation is a lost art. So many bikes come straight out of a box, partially assembled, and the shop lubes, checks , and tightens, and *bam* it's a bike. Even though many, probably most, shops do custom builds; a bare frame and a selection of parts, very few have the tools once deemed necessary to properly assemble a bicycle. I am referring to the "facers and chasers", those precision t-handled monstrosities that (hopefully) live in a suitcase of sorts. If you're fortunate, the suitcase is wood and has 'Campagnolo' burned into it. If you are somewhat fortunate, like me, they say 'Park' and you got the box elsewhere.
One tool served the purpose of chasing the bottom bracket threads; making sure they were clean, and cut well. Another cut the faces of the bottom bracket shell to a smooth parallel, and another performed that same function on the head tube.
Some would argue that this is an unnecessary step, that it exposes raw metal; never a good thing, especially on steel. The bare metal is easily solved by a couple coats of lacquer. Unnecessary? Not if you want your headset and bottom bracket to work as designed. In both cases you have two sets of bearings working in tandem at opposite ends of a piece of tubing. Any variation from parallel puts strain on two points in the system, creating drag and wearing those areas unevenly. This equates to more work, less efficiency, and the need to replace parts more often. Systems such as Grease Guard© are designed to last many years longer that sealed systems, yet a slight, uneven pressure can wear down a bearing cup very quickly, destroying the system.
I admit that I am fortunate to have access to these tools. It's why I build my own toys. But shops have access to these tools, also, and while they are expensive initially, the added degree of mastery to your final product will more than justify the expense.

Mas Wrenching

DB and I continued our "burnout" discussion today. In many ways, he's a salesman. But I mean that in a good way. He's also an accomplished wrench, a tour guide, a store owner. And this is part of what has kept it fresh for him. He's changed locations, changed demographics, changed the way he does business. He wouldn't go back to our "old life" to save his soul. He found an equation that works; that answers the question.
We were also discussing a project I have going; my "sports car" bike. As I described my plans he laughed. "You are Projects, bro," he said. "that's your niche. The project man. No out-of the-box for you."
He's right, I adore custom builds. They are the reason I became a wrench in the first place. When someone looks at factory specs for hours and realizes they want to build from the ground up, select every piece of the bike from all the available parts, that's my cue. I want to help them. Function or fashion, techno or retro, call me. Let's stare at catalogs, debate calculations, compare sizes, ponder colors. The two-week build, the two-month build. The epitome.
I sound like fucking Martha Stewart...

To Wrench Or Not To Wrench

The transformation is becoming too complete; I am actually missing being a wrench. Indeed, I'm considering asking a friend who owns a shop if he needs another wrench. Not full-time, mind you, I'm not that far gone yet, and I love what I do now. Maybe one day a week, maybe only a half-day. Something.
We had this discussion about burnout today; the combined effects of both working and riding in the same life. It knocked me out of the "industry", taking my ride with it. It's happening to another friend of ours as we speak. I'll bet some doughnuts we aren't the only ones.
It wasn't so much about everyone in the biz, it was more about the service side of the picture. If you're a salesman first, the survival rate is considerably higher. Retail sales is only enhanced by a love of the product. A true salesman can sell... anything, whereas a wrench is a singularly-minded creature in many respects.
Many people work on their own bikes, a fair number get paid for it at some point in their lives, and a few make a career of it. The more you do it, the more you enjoy it, and the first one's usually free. Then somewhere down the road you apply to be paid to do it; a "pro" under certain legal headings. From there, the trail usually forks several ways...
You wrench for a while, and you're done.
You wrench for a while, and always keep it sharp as a fall-back.
You wrench.
It's that last group that seems to have the highest rate of burnout. Constantly attempting to save the dignity of well-made bikes, as well as trying to bring big-box zombies back to life. You begin by trying to save the world, keep them all running. Then you learn the difference. Certain brands evoke an instant response, good or bad. That's normal, it's a survival instinct. Sometimes it stops there, sometimes it grows into prejudice. You begin to judge your customers by the condition of their ride. Judge, jury, and executioner.
The last stage is contempt. That's the killer; the end of your career path, because once you get there you hold the machine in as much contempt as the populace. And you walk away. Some never return, but I, for one, am glad I came back. I have rediscovered two of the simplest pleasures in my life; riding for no other reason than to ride, and tweaking my steed to my own, personal specs.
Maybe I just miss the dirty fingerprints etched into my callouses. They are finally beginning to fade after three-and-a-half years.

Traffic Rant

There are days when I wonder if every driver is drunk. And then there are days when I know they are. But that is "Santa"; realize it before you hit the streets, or pay dearly. If the other cars are invisible, be damn sure you are, too. And therein lies the heart of the problem.
People do everything in their cars except drive. Phone, computer, DVD, GPS, BJ, eat, makeup, nails, toenails, red light... "Bicycle? What bicycle?" And then it's our fault because we were "invisible." Forget the fact that you have the equivalent of 60 watts of halogen power on your bike, more reflective tape than a firefighter, and a divider between your lane and theirs; you were invisible. And it's your fault.
This town needs to wake up and enforce it's own regulations. The average driver thinks bike lanes are skinny turn lanes designed to piss them off. Or an escape route when the speed humps threaten their ground effects. A lane without enforcement is free game. As are the people in the lane.