Cellidh

I hung up my man-bag the other day... decided that if I was going to carry luggage I might as well do it right. So I got Ceilidh out and wiped her down, aired the tires, mounted my casual panniers with all my accoutrement and hit the road.
Who is Ceilidh? My 30-something Scottish love. Look back in the archives and find the day I inherited the two Wester Ross'; Ceilidh is 035, the black touring rig. Built in the late '70s, silver brazed, lugged, Reynolds 531 tubing, basically all original with Suntour Montech derailleurs, Suntour BarCon shifters, Campagnolo brakes and levers, Campagnolo Record hubs with old Mavic rims, Sugino AT triple crank, Campy headset... don't know the brand of dropouts or fork crown, but I'm looking.
Anyway, she is a joy to ride. The Buick geometry means she's stable as can be, and flows well in traffic. Twitchy is not in her vocabulary.
Now that I'm spending more time with her, the question of aesthetics arises. Her baked enamel finish has a number of chips, and steel does what steel does naturally, so I realize I must either repaint her completely, or do some major sand, polish, and touch-up. Touch up would be less expensive, and I wouldn't be without for any real length of time (not like I don't have something else to ride). But it wouldn't stop all the existing rust, and would continue to look slightly shabby.
If I do get her repainted, what colors? At present she's black, with very pale blue lug edges and cutouts. I was thinking a forest green with gold accents, brown leather and duck on the accessories, and bits of brass as needed (like the Crane bell on there now). The original decal designs are available as a graphics file online, so I could have them printed in a matching gold...
Indigo with silver accents would be another possibility, but the green, gold, brown just feels so bloody posh.
Ponder, ponder.

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.

VP

So, if you're a bike geek you've probably seen the various glamour shots of Victoria Pendleton. If not, here's a taste...




yeah, so? a little leg?
Actually, a lot of leg; she's a multiple World Champion in track cycling, and the reigning Women's Sprint Goddess (yeah, that's an official title). She has one chance for a gold in Beijing this year, and though it may seem a bit unpatriotic of me, I hope she gets it.

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...