Happy New Year!
We're all going to die.
How do I know this? Well, it's not because I subscribe to that Mayan Calendar nonsense. According to the Mesoamerican Long Count calendar the world is going to end in December 2012, but I refuse to believe in any calendar that doesn't even include Arbor Day:
In this calendar, which I found while recovering from a blow to the taint (more on that later), the End of Days is clearly marked, and is slated for this coming Friday:
Any residual doubt is allayed by the fact that they also correctly predicted the exact date of the "Ragin' Cajuns" reality TV show premiere on the Discovery Channel. Here's how Discovery describes the show:
Fire and brimstone are no match for neon green tiger print.
I'm already cringing pending the announcement of the finalists since I'm sure at least one of them will be "helment"-themed, and I refuse to acknowledge any winning caption unless it is this one:
You can't see them, but I fucking swear there were cows down there:
See, even I'm smart enough to know to bear left.
We're all going to die.
How do I know this? Well, it's not because I subscribe to that Mayan Calendar nonsense. According to the Mesoamerican Long Count calendar the world is going to end in December 2012, but I refuse to believe in any calendar that doesn't even include Arbor Day:
(Where the fuck is Arbor Day!?!)
Sure, they got Lincoln's Birthday right, but how am I supposed to entrust my doomsday predictions to a culture who couldn't even foresee the advent of America's preeminent tree-themed holiday? This is the sort of gross oversight that casts doubt over their entire chronology.
No, the reason I know we're all going to die is because while vacationing last week in an undisclosed location I uncovered another primitive calendar that is clearly more accurate. Firstly, it was made by the ancient Egyptians, who were to calendars what the Swiss are to watches, or what the Canadians are to maple syrup. Secondly, it has cute puppies on it, and any calendar with cute puppies on it is eminently trustworthy:
In this calendar, which I found while recovering from a blow to the taint (more on that later), the End of Days is clearly marked, and is slated for this coming Friday:
Any residual doubt is allayed by the fact that they also correctly predicted the exact date of the "Ragin' Cajuns" reality TV show premiere on the Discovery Channel. Here's how Discovery describes the show:Discovery Channel’s brand new series RAGIN’ CAJUNS premiering on Tuesday, January 17th at 10pm ET/PT, takes a trip down the Mississippi deep into the Louisiana Bayou for the start of their 3-month long white shrimp season. It may sound like fun in the sun, but life in the bayou ain’t no day at the beach.
How could the Ancient Egyptians have even know there would be a Discovery Channel, much less a shrimping industry? The answer is that they couldn't--unless they were possessed of an uncanny ability to look into the future, which clearly they were. Either that, or the aliens who built the pyramids for them simply told them when the world was going to end (and when "Ragin' Cajuns" was going to premiere, though due to the post-Apocalyptic time slot this could very well be the most poorly-timed premiere in television history). In any case, live every moment like it's your last, because come Friday it's all over. However, you do have one last shot at redemption, because if you act now and give generously to the Lobster God that I worship then The Mighty Genderless Crustacean may see fit to spare you. Just send your soon-to-be worthless (or, if you're on the Euro, already worthless) life savings to this Paypal address, and I'll send you a fully-faired recumbent inside of which you can survive the End of Days:
Fire and brimstone are no match for neon green tiger print.Speaking of mortality, The New Yorker recently included the following cartoon in its "caption contest:"
I'm already cringing pending the announcement of the finalists since I'm sure at least one of them will be "helment"-themed, and I refuse to acknowledge any winning caption unless it is this one:
Either way, it's good to see that the New Yorker is finally adding dead cyclists to its exalted canon of cartoon characters that sort of almost make you laugh but ultimately don't, right alongside cavemen, executives in boardrooms, and talking dogs.
Anyway, earlier I mentioned my vacation, and while I generally prefer not to molest people with the mundane details of my comings and goings, I'm going to do so anyway because this blog is ostensibly about bikes and I operated bicycles on my vacation in a manner that was enjoyable to me.
At this point you may be wondering, "What the hell does a bike blogger have to take a vacation from anyway?," and all I'll say to that is if you've never spent 19 minutes a day between naps typing scranus jokes while wearing yesterday's underpants then you'll never understand just how truly difficult a full-time blogging career can be. Also, it goes without saying that "full-time blogger" is a synonym for "utter douchebag," and as an utter douchebag I needed plenty of time to enjoy my two (2) custom-made bicycles
See, until I became a custom-made bicycle owner I thought that cycling was something that one could enjoy even on a stock bicycle. How wrong I was! As it turns out, you don't really understand cycling until someone (preferably with a booth at NAHBS) makes you a bicycle frame completely by hand. Granted, this does lead to some confusion, since to all outward appearances I and other custom bicycle owners still completely suck at riding bikes. However, what you need to understand is that when you easily pass me on a moderate incline or see me writhing on the side of a trail cradling my "pants yabbies" and howling in agony, what I'm actually doing is savoring a higher plane of cycling enjoyment the likes of which you couldn't possibly imagine.
In fact, I'm savoring it so intensely that I need to stop every few miles and rest:
When you look at this bike, it's amazing to think that somebody actually made it for me, since taking the time to make me a bike is like cooking a five-course meal for the dog.
When you look at this bike, it's amazing to think that somebody actually made it for me, since taking the time to make me a bike is like cooking a five-course meal for the dog.As for where I went on my vacation, I wanted to go someplace where I could ride on pavement as well as on dirt. Also, I wanted to see cows occasionally, but I get nervous in most places that have cows because I'm deathly afraid of "rural folk." Plus, when I'm traveling with my family I like to be near a natural boundary of some kind--preferably an ocean--because it greatly reduces the possibility that we'll be sacked by visigoths. So I found a place that had both ocean and the occasional cow, as well as the sorts of gentle gradients over which even I can struggle:
You can't see them, but I fucking swear there were cows down there:
(The natural camouflage of the domesticated Bovinae allows them to blend seamlessly into the landscape.)
When I wasn't making "epic" Rapha faces on my custom road bike while looking out for cow sightings and struggling up gradients roughly the percentage of the fat content of skim milk, I was in the wilderness on my mountain bicycle putting pennies on the train tracks:
I suck at riding mountain bikes just as badly as I do at riding road bikes, but the manner in which this sucking manifests itself is completely different on both. On a road bike I suck for the simple reason that I'm extremely slow. On a mountain bike I suck because the forest confuses and disorients me, I get hopelessly lost in about nine minutes, and finally wind up sobbing in a comfy patch of something that inevitably turns out to be poison ivy.
I suck at riding mountain bikes just as badly as I do at riding road bikes, but the manner in which this sucking manifests itself is completely different on both. On a road bike I suck for the simple reason that I'm extremely slow. On a mountain bike I suck because the forest confuses and disorients me, I get hopelessly lost in about nine minutes, and finally wind up sobbing in a comfy patch of something that inevitably turns out to be poison ivy.This is another reason I appreciate being near large bodies of water, since they make it nearly impossible for an idiot like me to get lost. Usually in a place like this I'd have a snot bubble the size of a cue ball coming out of my nose as I pedaled frantically in search of anything remotely familiar and shouted at all the trees for looking exactly alike:
Though in this case I needn't have worried, since the trails were clearly marked:
But even if they hadn't been marked it wouldn't have mattered, since no matter which direction I chose I'd eventually wind up someplace like this:
Though in this case I needn't have worried, since the trails were clearly marked:
But even if they hadn't been marked it wouldn't have mattered, since no matter which direction I chose I'd eventually wind up someplace like this:
See, even I'm smart enough to know to bear left.The seaside location also offered various pleasing backdrops, from this:
To this:
To this:
And while not what one might call "technical," there was plenty to pose a challenge so a rider as sucky as I am. For example, sometimes the trees would be close together, and I'd clip one end of my epic-ly wide cockpit:
In fact, it was while attempting to pass through this very gap at high speed (well, high speed for me anyway) that I clipped the tree, veered off course, and sustained the aforementioned taintal injury. My only consolation is that, judging from the marks on the trees, I'm not the first person to have done this. Also, the pile of skeletons clutching their "pants yabbies" would further support this theory, though I suppose they may also have been victims of the Blair Witch.
To this:
To this:
And while not what one might call "technical," there was plenty to pose a challenge so a rider as sucky as I am. For example, sometimes the trees would be close together, and I'd clip one end of my epic-ly wide cockpit:
In fact, it was while attempting to pass through this very gap at high speed (well, high speed for me anyway) that I clipped the tree, veered off course, and sustained the aforementioned taintal injury. My only consolation is that, judging from the marks on the trees, I'm not the first person to have done this. Also, the pile of skeletons clutching their "pants yabbies" would further support this theory, though I suppose they may also have been victims of the Blair Witch.In the end, it was a lovely excursion in that I was able to reconnect with my inner suckiness, and I will attempt not to lose sight of it again for the remaining three days of 2012.
Nothing will make you more miserable than getting stuck in an endless cycle of “upgrading” your components. No matter what you’re using, some German weight-weenies will come out with something else that’s half the weight and twice the price. Furthermore, most people are riding too much bike anyway. If you’re riding Dura Ace, chances are you’d be perfectly fine with Ultegra. If you’re riding XT, you probably really only need LX. Like the new rider who thinks he has to push a 53x12 all the time, most of us are simply overgeared. So sell your carbon bars and replace them with aluminum ones. Ebay the Ksyriums and try some conventional wheels. By freeing yourself from the cycle you’ll worry a lot less and you’ll realize what you thought was an upgrade was actually the equivalent of diamond-encrusted gold fronts.
Certainly it would be ridiculous and wasteful to purposely damage your bike. However, letting it get scratched up a bit can be liberating. Nothing will limit your enjoyment of your bike more than fretting about its appearance and trying to preserve the fleeting thrill of purchase and acquisition for all eternity. Don't be like Cameron Frye's father in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." This is the impulse that drives people to swaddle their bicycles in top tube pads and bandanas and treat them like lap dogs and bubble boys. Bicycle maintenance should only be about two things—keeping the bike working, and not letting it get stolen. The rest is a waste of riding time.
You’ve probably heard people say that certain bikes have soul. None of them do. That lugged steel Colnago, that Cinelli track bike, and even that Fat Chance mountain bike are all as devoid of soul as an Avril Lavigne record. I don’t care if Ugo DeRosa himself built your frame while drinking Chianti from a wicker-wrapped bottle, listening to Pagliacci on a warbly phonograph, and discussing the finer points of olive oil with Marcello Mastriani. Bikes don’t have souls—they have decals.
Sure, keeping your bike clean is important and makes parts last longer, but when you’re threading a rag between your cogs after every ride you probably need to loosen up. Floss after eating, not after riding. If you’re a compulsive cleaner, lay off the Simple Green for a few weeks and give the dirt a little time to attach itself before you rinse it off. I want to run my finger under that top tube and feel sweat crust.
Sure, some people just don’t have the time or the mechanical aptitude to work on their own bikes, and there’s nothing wrong with going to a shop when you get in over your head. But a lot of people don’t work on their bikes simply because they’re afraid of messing them up. If this is you, next time you need to repair or replace something get in there and do it yourself. Go ahead, strip a few bolts, scratch a few components, and mess up a few adjustments--it’s not the end of the world. Not doing your own work because you’re afraid of your bike is like taking the cheater line instead of trying to hop the log. Plus, leaving all the work to a shop means they set things up the way they think they should be set up, not necessarily the way that’s best for you. You should learn your own preferences, not have them dictated to you. After all, you choose your own underwear in the morning, right?
