America (Canada's placemat) is a wonderful but confusing place, and one of the more complex aspects of life here is our relationship with the bicycle. This relationship can be summarized thusly: "We hate it." For example, when Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood declared that the government would give bicycles increased consideration in transportation planning, the announcement was received with an enthusiastic "You're on drugs." Even in Park Slope, Brooklyn, where people with six-figure incomes volunteer at the food coop so they can have ready access to organic vegetables, the new bike lane on Prospect Park West has met with vehemently turtlenecked opposition:
("There's a bike lane in Park Slope and now my grandson wants a fixie!")
Americans are equally dismissive of the sport of professional cycling, though admittedly this is a bit more understandable. Basically, pro cycling has evolved into a game of waiting for blood test results, and at this point you'd probably get more sporting enjoyment out of hanging around your local Quest Diagnostics lab and gambling on what kind of diseases people have. This is not to say that it can't be exciting at times; for example, Alberto Contador's tainted meat explanation was not only entertaining, but it has also caused shockwaves of indignity throughout the Spanish cattle industry. Even Contador's own butchers deny his claims--though they do stand by him anyway since the guy buys a lotta steak:
Frankly, I'm not so sure Spanish meat is all that clean. In fact, when I enlarged the image above I noticed this:
That would explain everything.
Meanwhile, the World Anti-Doping Authority wants the UCI to start testing riders in the middle of the night so they can nab riders who may be taking drugs with a short detection window. Naturally, many riders are against this, though Mark "The Man Missile" Cavendish doesn't have any problem with it:
Cavendish further went on to explain that if any "sexy" testers wanted to slip into bed with him in the middle of the night and "find out what I'm really on" that they were more than welcome. He also provided his HTC mobile number, his travel agenda for the next six months, and a self-taken photograph of himself wearing a green jersey and nothing else. Another rider who says he has no problem with late night doping control is Riccardo "The Cobra" Riccò:
However, he may have misunderstood the question somewhat.
Frankly, I'm not so sure Spanish meat is all that clean. In fact, when I enlarged the image above I noticed this:
That would explain everything.Meanwhile, the World Anti-Doping Authority wants the UCI to start testing riders in the middle of the night so they can nab riders who may be taking drugs with a short detection window. Naturally, many riders are against this, though Mark "The Man Missile" Cavendish doesn't have any problem with it:
Cavendish further went on to explain that if any "sexy" testers wanted to slip into bed with him in the middle of the night and "find out what I'm really on" that they were more than welcome. He also provided his HTC mobile number, his travel agenda for the next six months, and a self-taken photograph of himself wearing a green jersey and nothing else. Another rider who says he has no problem with late night doping control is Riccardo "The Cobra" Riccò:
However, he may have misunderstood the question somewhat.In any case, given the strong anti-bicycle current, it's only a matter of time before the current bike bubble we're experiencing deflates like a clincher with a pinch flat, those new bike lanes are rescinded, and the few remaining cyclists are left to "rim it" in the gutter whilst being "buzzed" by SUVs. I'm already making my post-bike bubble provisions, and plan to liquidate my entire "stable" of bicycles so that I can move on to the Next Big Thing--which I probably don't have to remind you is artisanal axes. On Monday I mentioned the launch of "Base Camp X," an urban tool vendor for urban tools, and after browsing their offerings I'm pretty sure this is the way I'm going to go:
In particular, I've got my eye on the "Leviathan" (this also happens to be what Mark Cavendish named his "man missile"), which costs $525:
While this might strike you as expensive, keep in mind that it's totally in keeping with the normal rate of price "douche-flation" over the past ten years. Plus, more importantly, it comes with a colored handle that you can match to either your outfit or the décor of your artisanal cabin. The "Leviathan" is going to look great in my Williamsburg loft leaned up against the decorative woodpile next to my non-functioning vintage potbelly stove--though I will probably heft it occasionally and admire the way my poorly-developed forearm muscles almost bulge beneath my designer sleeve tattoos, and the way the light from my energy-saving bulbs glints off its utterly pristine head. (Coincidentally, "pristine head" also happens to be Mark Cavendish's idea of "night time doping controls.")Speaking of being "overblown" (which Mark Cavendish insists is not possible), a reader recently forwarded me this compelling piece from the Rapha website:
While I was disappointed that a story on a clothing website titled "A Tale of Two Cycling Cities" did not start with the line "It was the best of pants, it was the worst of pants," I did marvel at the following passage:
A similar liberty with dress codes applies, also. In London, we are tribal and class-conscious: what we wear when we ride around town is a statement, either deliberate or by default, about who we are and where we're pegged in the social hierarchy. I get dressed to ride in London, my appearance on the bike as important as my appearance when I get off it as my destination. I eschew lycra and obvious bike gear, especially anything that smacks of dayglo functionality. Equally, I avoid baggy, flapping clothing; I aim for a trim, tailored look. Even though I ride a fixed, I am careful to avoid the solecism of seeming to pass myself off as a messenger. At the same time, I dress "up" a little, wearing a tie, say, in order to distinguish myself fogeyishly from the self-fashion-consciousness of the Old Street stylists.(Riding a bike in low-slung jeans - how is that even possible?) But I look forward to when it gets cold enough to start wearing my prototype Classic Softshell Jacket, with its now slightly dicky zip and worn-through thumbloops. It's a look that, I hope, says I'm a serious cyclist, but not so serious that I'm trying too hard. And there's always a message about class encapsulated in all that: I'm identifying as metropolitan middle-class, but of the knowing, dissenting, ironic subset thereof, and - god forbid - nothing like a not-know-any-better bourgeois.
While I was disappointed that a story on a clothing website titled "A Tale of Two Cycling Cities" did not start with the line "It was the best of pants, it was the worst of pants," I did marvel at the following passage:A similar liberty with dress codes applies, also. In London, we are tribal and class-conscious: what we wear when we ride around town is a statement, either deliberate or by default, about who we are and where we're pegged in the social hierarchy. I get dressed to ride in London, my appearance on the bike as important as my appearance when I get off it as my destination. I eschew lycra and obvious bike gear, especially anything that smacks of dayglo functionality. Equally, I avoid baggy, flapping clothing; I aim for a trim, tailored look. Even though I ride a fixed, I am careful to avoid the solecism of seeming to pass myself off as a messenger. At the same time, I dress "up" a little, wearing a tie, say, in order to distinguish myself fogeyishly from the self-fashion-consciousness of the Old Street stylists.(Riding a bike in low-slung jeans - how is that even possible?) But I look forward to when it gets cold enough to start wearing my prototype Classic Softshell Jacket, with its now slightly dicky zip and worn-through thumbloops. It's a look that, I hope, says I'm a serious cyclist, but not so serious that I'm trying too hard. And there's always a message about class encapsulated in all that: I'm identifying as metropolitan middle-class, but of the knowing, dissenting, ironic subset thereof, and - god forbid - nothing like a not-know-any-better bourgeois.
Given the amount of thought he puts into his wardrobe I'm amazed he can ever leave the house before noon. I guess some people put on their pants one leg at a time, while others put them on in a state of contemplation and as a bold expression of one's perceived place in the social hierarchy. While I fall into the former category in that my criteria for donning pants involves little more than a sniff test followed by a cursory inspection for crotchal holes that might inadvertently cause me to reveal my "pants yabbies," this rider clearly resides in the latter and thus attains levels of "pants curation" to which few of us can even aspire.
Also, he said "dicky zip."
Speaking of avoiding "the solecism of seeming to pass myself off as a messenger," if you too want to avoid this solecism you should be sure not to try to pass yourself off as Craig Etheridge, who is the World Champion Bike Messenger of the World, the rightful wearer of the CMWC Red Beard of Glory, and now the subject of a local news piece that was forwarded to me by a reader:
As you can see, Etheridge is being hailed as a hero in his hometown of Seattle, and I was pleased to see that whenever he leaves a building after completing a delivery he is mobbed by sexy young groupies:
(The woman on the left is naked underneath that coat.)
Rumor has it that Etheridge enjoys "night time doping controls" with a different "tester" every night.
Anyway, I wonder if, now that "the Americana backwoods revival" has supplanted "messenger chic," we will have to seek out people like logrolling champions to emulate instead. I also wonder if we'll have to forsake our Rapha in favor of an equally pretentious maker of bespoke woodsman's garments. Most importantly, I wonder if I'll have to get rid of my "fixie"-themed art collection (as forwarded by this reader):
Hopefully, given the animal content, it will be deemed appropriately rustic.
