So What Year Are We On? And Is There A Prime?

Well, the holidays are over.  The Christmas trees have been hurled from the window for mulching.  The Hanukkah Menorahs have been sprayed with fire extinguishers.  (You gotta make sure that shit is out!)  The Kwanzaa whatevers have been whatevered.  And the aluminum Festivus poles have been welded into Jamises, or Jamii.  ("Buy It If: You want a race-ready bike but don't want to pay carbon prices," says Bicycling magazine, if you've actually managed to read the whole review without falling asleep.)  Also, hopefully by now you're finished puking your guts out after New Year's Eve.

With that, we can finally turn our attention to 2013, which I'm sorry to say is already shaping up to be the Worst Year Ever.

First of all, there's this fiscal cliff deal.  Here's a fiscal cliff:

("Dude, that fiscal cliff would be totally rideable on a 650b!"--Some mountain bike dork)

This deal really F-U-C-K-double-hockey-sticks me, since the payroll tax is still going up:

As you can see, the article includes a calculator that tells you how much more you're going to pay this year, and I was aghast to learn that I'll be paying an additional $2,274:

You may be surprised to learn I have an annual pretax income of $1 million, but keep in mind the rest of my money goes directly to my shell corporation in the Cayman Islands (it's called Wildcat Rock Machine's In-Your-Face-IRS Enterprises, Inc.), and therefore it doesn't count.

Anyway, just to show you how unfair this is, consider some loser who makes ten times less money than me:

("100K?!?  Loser!"--Some douchebag who just bought a condo in Williamsburg)

See that?  I have to pay $274 more than them!  That's just F-U-C-K-double-hockey-sticked up!  Do you have any idea how much I could stimulate the economy with almost three hundred extra bucks?  I was going to buy 30 spheres of Glace Luxury Ice for my morning cocktails!  Oh well, enjoy your recession.    At this point I may just pull a Gerard Depardieu and split for Belgium:

Monseiur Depardieu Depar-don't wanna pay more taxes--but at least he's wearing a helment.

Also, I'm sorry to report that my New Year's Day ride did not portend a successful 2013, and indeed it was downright ominous.  Obviously, cycling tradition dictates that you're supposed to take a New Year's Day ride, and obviously also your New Year's Day ride is a metaphor for the way plan to approach the coming year.  For example, some people get up early and ride their guts out with a bunch of other Freds, which represents wasted effort and the delusion that somehow things are going to turn out differently in 2013.  Meanwhile, other people--like me, for instance--slowly pick their way along straight paths by themselves because they're cautious, they fear change, they have no friends, and they realize that life is nothing but an inexorable creep towards some meaningless vanishing point:

(Whatever.)

Things were going well until about an hour in, at which point I suddenly exploded in an attack of hives.   I was so itchy I tried to capture a squirrel and put it under my jersey, which is what's commonly called an "Appalachian Backscratcher."  Unfortunately I was unsuccessful and had to go home, where I did the same thing with the cat.  (That's commonly called the "Single Person's Backscratcher."  Of course, I'm not single, but that's only because I don't do stuff like make my better half touch my hives.  How's that for relationship advice?)

Then, this morning, when I was vacuuming the pine needles from my Christmas Tree off the floor, the retractable cord on the vacuum returned to the canister with such speed that I was nearly killed by the whiplash of the plug.  Thank goodness I was wearing my vacuuming helment, and if only New York State didn't have such draconian gun laws I would have been able to shoot the vacuum in self-defense for good measure.  Still, I was so frightened that I simply left the rest of the needles on the floor, and I just tell the children that they're Santa's toenail clippings.

2013 should be a great year.

Speaking of riding bikes, you know how when you ride one of those bikes with the curved handlebars like they have in the Tour de France how you're not supposed to wear underpants but instead you're supposed to wear these stretchy tights like David Lee Roth in the "Jump" video?  Well, somebody representing the stretchy tight company Castelli sent me a whole entire Fred suit and you'll never believe what it says in the crotch:

I'm pretty sure I mentioned this chamois some time ago and I was delighted to discover that it's real.  "Viscous Comfort Zone" sounds like a euphemism for any number of salacious things, and I'm reasonably sure it's also what Mario Cipollini named his waterbed.  As if that wasn't enough, look what else it says above the "Castelli:"

I won't tell you on which body part Mario Cipollini sports a "Continuous Variable Thickness" tattoo, but I will tell you that it only says "Coss"--until he gets close to the "Viscous Comfort Zone."

By the way, if you're wondering if the "Viscous Comfort Zone" with it's "Continuous Variable Thickness" is comfortable, the answer is "Yes," especially in comparison to my Fred suit, which consisted of full-body long underwear with a throw pillow duct-taped into the crotch.  (That's called an "Appalachian Skinsuit.")

Meanwhile, in other marketing news, I'd like to introduce a segment I call "Wildcat Rock Machine's Bicycle Industry Trend Predictions For The Year 2013," and here's the theme music for that segment which I produced at incredible expense:

At $75,000 that video wasn't cheap, but hopefully it's tax-deductible.

Anyway, "Wildcat Rock Machine's Bicycle Industry Trend Predictions For the Year 2013" is all about predicting bicycle marketing trends for the year 2013, even though everyone already knows what those trends are going to be because they went to Interbike.  I, however, did not go to Interbike, nor do I pay any attention to it, so everything that happens this year is going to be News To Me.  Plus, the real pulse of the cycling industry beats on Kickstarter.  Last year, you may have noticed the big trend on Kickstarter was to build a better bike light.  Well, this year I predict it's going to be all about horns:

The inventor of the Orp Smart Horn alerted me to his fundraising efforts, and my favorite part of the video was where he said, "I think when they get Orp in their hands they're going to be really excited."  Perhaps, but will they be as excited if they get Orp in their hair?  Because that's something that can happen at the end of a date with Mario Cipollini.

Nevertheless, despite various claims that the horn is the key to rider safety, I remain unconvinced--though I do think that some sort of Bluetooth device that allowed you to connect with a driver's smartphone might work.  Ambiguous sounds probably won't keep that driver from drifting into your lane, but an "On your right, cocksucker!" emanating from their iPhone might just do the trick.  

No matter what, as a cyclist you'll never command as much attention as a driver's smartphone, so speaking through them is our only hope.

Titles Are The Pie Plate Of Literature

(Good deal on some crabon, via a reader.)

If you need me at any point today, you'll be able to find me on the sofa watching this recently-Tweeted-at-me video, over and over and over again:



Is there a more satisfying sight than wave after wave of triathletes falling down like an invading army trying unsuccessfully to storm the walls of Castle Fredliness?  I would argue that there is not.  I'll also acknowledge that I probably couldn't make it up the hill either, but that's why I'm sitting here laughing at them instead of wearing armwarmers with a sleeveless vest and trying to ascend a 31% grade on a bike with aerobars.

Yes, life is good here on the sofa.  Shuck it all, life is good in general, I'm not going to lie.  Every morning I take a stroll down to the seaside where I greet the local fishmongers and the merchants returning from the East with exotic trinkets and fragrances.  Then I walk back home through the winding cobblestoned streets, put on my trinkets and douse myself in myrrh, and eat thirty-seven oysters for breakfast.  After that I plant myself on the couch and watch videos of triathletes falling down, until those bivalves start working their aperient magic and I adjourn to the restroom where I read and reread copies of my own books until I am voided.  (My books make a great holiday gift, by the way, though not the copies I keep in the restroom.)

Speaking of exotic trinkets from the East, it's hard to imagine I'll ever get tired of the falling-down triathletes, but if the unthinkable happens and I actually do I'll then turn to this equally beguiling promotional video for Tiso electronic shifting that was forwarded to me by Klaus of Cycling Inquisition:



I was sold on this stuff as soon as I heard that first smokin' guitar lick, but if that's not enough for you consider it has twelve speeds:

Those tridorks totally would have scaled that hill with an extra cog.

Not only that, but you can also shift remotely:

It's not hard to imagine the many uses for such a feature.  For example, most aspiring Freds hire coaches now because they can't figure out how to ride their bicycles on their own, so for an extra fee they can pay their coaches to select their gears for them too.  Also, when you're riding the home trainer you can have your butler or manservant shift for you while you read the Wall Street Journal.

Most impressive of all though is that the Tiso wireless shifting system has been battle-tested by this guy:

If it's so cold he needs a balaclava then I'm not sure why he isn't wearing gloves, but maybe it's to showcase the heated brake levers.

In any case, while Tiso may not have invented electronic shifting then they've certainly perfected it.  As for the bicycle itself, it's difficult to verify who first came up with the concept, but according to one man with a great deal of Italian pride and a YouTube account it certainly wasn't those sneaky Koreans:

This guy's not letting those Koreans get away with anything.  By the way, here's the article he's talking about, which appears to be a primitive attempt at humor:

Sure, it's a little dry now, but I can assure you that shit was fucking hilarious in 1904.

By the way, while wading through the New York Times archives I also discovered that the first-ever New York City bicycle crackdown took place in 1893:

Only then the excuses were a lot more creative:

Miss Douar is the first woman arrested under the ordinance governing bicycle riding in the streets, recently passed by the Board of Aldermen.  When arrested she claimed that her lamp was burning when she left home, and that it must have been extinguished by a gust of wind.  She was taken to the Thirtieth Street Station and given in charge of the matron.

I too blame the mighty god Zephyrus when I get pulled over for riding without a lantern on my steampunk recumbent:

By the way, when you're riding a steampunk recumbent you should always wear a pith helment:

And obviously an astonishing steampunk monocle:

But while recumbents may be timelessly dorky, if you had asked me whether cyclocross was still the bikey sport all the cool people were doing, I'd have said yes--until this morning, which is when I saw this cringeworthy display which I'd strongly suggest you don't watch:


This should cause all those new cyclocross converts to defect in droves--and when I say "defect" I mean they're going to stop saying the're totally going to do a 'cross race one day once their custom bikes are finished.

SRAM really could learn a thing or two from the marketing department over at Tiso.

Holiday Shopping: Don't Spondee It All In One Place

Do you ever wake up so freaking happy you want to steal a streetsweeper and go joyriding on the Long Island Expressway?  If you do, does that mean you should cut down on coffee?  And let's just say you've already cut out coffee and replaced it with vodka but you're still deliriously, irrepressibly, and even violently happy every morning?  Should you go see a doctor, or should you just "run with it" because it means your life is finally working out?

Just asking for a friend whose name is me.  Also, what exit for Roosevelt Field Mall?  I have some holiday shopping to do and figured I'd knock it out while I've still got some time left on this giant Zipcar:

Speaking of cleaning up, it looks like they're going to take away Lance Armstrong's Olympic bronze, or they're not, or what's the difference anyway?

Lately I've been fed up with professional cycling, but I'm beginning to realize that the problem lies with me, because I've been viewing it as a sport and not as what it really is, which is essentially long periods of clerical work interspersed by pointless bursts of bike riding.  They might as well just get rid of the bikes at this point and turn the whole thing over to the lawyers and acronymous organizations.  Hopefully by next year the Tour de France will just be a bunch of people sitting around a conference table for three weeks--at least that way it's less likely someone will fall into a barbed wire fence:

(The suits "hammer it out" during the Queen Stage of the 2013 Tour de France.)

And with any luck, justice will be served and Armstrong will lose that medal, because he's a disgrace to the clean athletes with whom he shared that podium:

Then they can give the bronze to the fourth place finisher, Abraham Olano:

(ONCE's team slogan was actually "We are drugs.")

Abraham Olano was the "courtesy vehicle" Spain gave its cycling fans after Miguel Indurain broke down.

Also, it's worth noting that I recently received an email containing this documentary trailer:


The Last Kilometer / L'Ultimo Chilometro / movie trailer from Stuffilm on Vimeo.

And apparently an olympic doping scandal is now something you want to have on your palmarès, right up there with your Classics victories:

So there you go.

In any event, if you're wondering how Armstrong is dealing with all this ignominy, it looks like he's doing what any bike dork would do, which is drowning his sorrows in crabon and titanium:

Sure he's lost seven Tourses de Frances and millions of dollars in sponsorships, but after years of having to ride Treks he can finally buy a Moots and become the gigantic Fred he's always wanted to be.  I'm sure those Exquisite Welds™ make it all seem worth it.

Anyway, so, like, remember when I mentioned the holidays?  Well it's the holidays:

Whoops, wrong holiday!  I meant the Judeo-Christian Consumer Pillage-A-Thon:



I could watch that all day.  Actually, someone really needs to make a holiday-themed adventure movie about Black Friday.  Santa would drive a tank and kill everyone on the "naughty" list, and his Semitic doppelganger would burn enemy shoppers alive with his flame-throwing Menorah of Death.

Needless to say, if you haven't started your holiday shopping yet you need to GET OUT THERE NOW OR EVERYTHING'S GOING TO BE GONE!  And tops on my list for stuff to get for my cycling buddies that don't exist is a pair of Chari & Co. Genghis Khan Winter Gloves:

Yes, for only $95 you too can ride around looking like you're giving Bugs Bunny a prostate exam.  Best of all, these gloves are vegan.  That doesn't mean that they aren't made out of real animals, it just means that the rabbits subsisted on vegan diets before they were humanely (and anally) electrocuted

Or, if you prefer, you can always give the gift of charity by making a donation in somebody's name.  So what's the hot new cause this year?  AIDS?  No, Bono cured that years ago.  Sandy relief?  Nah, I'm sure they fixed everything by now.  Rabbit rescue?  Nonsense, if the bunnies didn't want to be gloves they wouldn't be so warm and adorable.

No, this year the true holiday season philanthropist will make a donation in your name to a worthy Kickstarter campaign.  Here's one that's surely worthwhile:



Sure, anybody can make Rivendell-esque bikes, but it takes a true entrepreneur to make Rivendell-esque bikes and also come up with a name for the company that isn't Rivendell.  See, that's where the $70,000 dollars comes in:

Help them help you buy a bike that is available already from any number of existing manufacturers--though this one's made in Portland:

Which, to be honest, is no longer a selling point for me.  Frankly, I think it's time to boycott Portland, completely out of spite.  Instead, let's all buy stuff from Cleveland for awhile.  Granted, I have no idea if people in Cleveland actually make anything, or if they do whether it's even any good, but either way let's inflate their artisanal economy until it becomes a self-parody and someone makes a show called "Clevelandia," at which point we can abandon them too and pick some other city, or else go back to Portland if they've regained a sufficient degree of humility, which is pretty doubtful.

Speaking of gratuitous bike brands, no bike company is more gratuitous than Budnitz, and if you're thinking of Budnitzing that special someone this holiday season then you should bypass the regular Budnitz in favor of a special limited edition "collabo" Budnitz (or "collabnitz") as forwarded to me by a reader:

Clearly seconds, if not actual minutes, went in to the "curation" of this very special bicycle:

In addition to the meticulous handmade frame and custom titanium components of all Budnitz bikes (which normally start at around $2,600), this limited edition model sports an Uncrate matte orange paint job and is geared-up with a waterproof  Turtleshell bluetooth boombox by Outdoor Technology, a custom 6-pack carrier hand-sewn in Colorado by Topo Designs (which just so happens to perfectly match our Topo x Uncrate Backpack), Brooks all-black grips and seat, and a titanium Budnitz Beer Wrench.

Boombox?  Six-pack carrier?  In other words, it's a designer version of the department store bike your neighborhood wino rides.  Hopefully they left in the trademark creaking from which the Budnitz derives all its character.

Or, if you're just in the market for a stocking stuffer, why not get your all your friends some clipless pedals?

See?  They're way more efficient.

Life Is A Highway. I Want To Ride It All Night Long. (That's Also A Song I Heard.)

Life is what you make it.  That's why today I've decided that I'm an intergalactic rock star.  I have tentacles for arms and planets for eyes, and I perform a single concert consisting entirely of Kiss covers for the entire universe once every fifty million years.  Sure, you may not have heard of me, but that's only because you live on Earth, and Earth is the biggest and most out-of-it loser planet in existence.

Speaking of life, I've made some mistakes during mine, but I've also made some awesomely sagacious decisions.  One of these was getting this badass photo-realistic tattoo backpiece:

Though it probably wasn't such a good idea to sell all my Apple stock about five years ago and invest everything I had in Cannondale:

But at least I never moved into a Brooklyn hipster death trap like this place:

Remember when everybody in New York was cashing in on the fixie craze by doing the Loctite conversion on old crappy ten speeds and then selling the resulting death traps on Craigslist?  Well, lofts are the fixies of real estate, and landlords do pretty much the same thing with buildings:

That September, an inspector determined that workers had plastered over fire sprinkler heads and ordered the building vacated. Residents came home from work to find the building padlocked; they lost their security deposits.

Yet after only a few months, construction restarted. This summer, the building began filling once again, advertised on Craigslist under varying names, like “the Sweater Factory Lofts” or “the Rustic House,” for $2,800 to $3,800 a month.

Sure, it's completely unfit for residential use, but that's what makes it so "exciting:"

Then there is Mr. Fiegel, who has reluctantly stayed because his roommates find the area exciting and the relatively low rent — $3,500 for four — almost as appealing.

“They are just amazed, because we have the loft space,” he said. “They love it here.”

I think they should try rebranding the building as the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory.

Speaking of the fixie craze, evidently it's still happening in certain parts of the world, as evidenced by this video that I learned about first from Klaus of Cycling Inquisition:




Yes, "tarck" is "barck:"

Or maybe it never went anywhere in the first place.  Either way, as with that music video from last month, I continue to be amazed that a city as cosmopolitan as London could be so embarrassingly behind the times as far as cycling fashion is concerned.  I mean look at them, skidding all over the place like a bunch of MASHy Macaputzes:

I did learn one thing from this guy though:

(You mean your LBS doesn't have a creative director?)

Which is this:

"East London seems to have been a bit of, uh, like, the birthplace of fixed gear and single speed bikes, if you like."

Wow.  That's like saying Brooklyn is the birthplace of Charles Dickens.  Then again, I suppose one appealing aspect of the fixed gear scene is that the history is as easily customizable as the bikes themselves.  I also suppose his obvious talent for fiction is why he's the creative director.

Another thing I liked about the video is that they found the one bike lane in all of London:

If my own experience riding in London is any guide then that bike lane extends for a grand total of seven feet before it leads cyclists straight into a strategically-placed "keep left" sign.

Wait, so what year is this again?

Well, I see a top tube pad (!) and bars set up to take core samples of the rider's quads, so it must be 2005.

Anyway, back to the story of the clothes, which is the real point of the video:

"They brought the revised samples over to London and we all got to try them on and actually ride them then."

Here's who I'm going to assume is the corporate suit (or "sweater") from H&M, because making assumptions is easier and more entertaining than real life:

("The Man" waiting eagerly for feedback.)

Here are the pants:

("The Pants" waiting eagerly for scranus.)

And here's a member of the hand-picked fixie focus group explaining exactly what he wants out of a cycling garment:

("There needs to be adequate crotchal room for testicular pendulation when I'm laying down a fat elephant trunk skid like they did circa 2007.")

And here's another member putting in his two cents, or pence, or whatever they opine with over there:

("The jacket closure should use buttons instead of a zipper to prevent beard entanglement.")

Most importantly, the clothes are "sustainable:"

"Already from the start when doing this collection we also thought it was really really important to make it as sustainable as possible."

That's why there's absolutely no sperm whale vulva used anywhere in this collection--with the exception of the crotch of the pants, since nothing stands up to saddle wear better than whale vulva.  Still, it's far more sustainable than Rapha, who use whale vulva in everything they make, and whose shoes are made of late-term panda abortions:

Anyway, these clothes are all about functionality, and I particularly liked this detail:

It's called the "rubbish pocket:"

Basically, the idea is that pedestrians can discard their refuse in it while you're trackstanding in the middle of the crosswalk.  (That's where the "sustainability" comes in.)  However, pedestrians should only put regular refuse in the rubbish pocket.  Recyclables should instead be stuffed down the rider's pants.

Yes, clearly mainstream retailers are beginning to cater to young bike-riding urbanites, but oddly they only seem interested in making these clothes for men.  (Or at least emotionally stunted man-boys.)  Women, on the other hand, are ignored, which is why they must turn to Kickstarter:



Says the designer:

"I've been riding my bike around Seattle for the last five years.  For me, it's the most amazing way to experience the city."

At first I was offended at the implication that Seattle can be experienced amazingly, but then I remembered that in rainy Seattle "amazing" is just a euphemism for "wet," because Seattleites have no concept of "amazing."  ("What an amazing day."  "That ride was totally amazing."  "The seat of my pants is totally amazing now."  And so forth.)

But yes, clearly women need cycling clothing too, because this project has far exceeded its fundraising goal:

Which means it shouldn't be too long before H&M totally rip her off.

Meanwhile, in the world of attempting to ride bikes fastly, a reader has sent me the following email:

crabon crash porn from the sandpit at NC cyclocross state championships 12-1-2012 

We may have lost the war, but we still like to play in the sand. Yankees go home-

Jack

Hey, I don't see any broken crabon, and it's not crabon crash porn unless the crabon breaks.  At best, this is like one of those Cinemax After Dark movies.  Plus, you don't have to tell me to go home, since I'm always careful to avoid the South because I don't want to get run over by a monster truck.  (Why you need a passport to visit another state like Canada yet you can travel freely between the US and a foreign country like the South is beyond me.)  Of course, Miami doesn't count because it's part of New York, and speaking of Miami some famous basketball players recently participated in Critical Mass:



I don't follow basketball so I tuned out everything until 1:13, at which point he said, "Critical mass, I love it."

Maybe next year we'll see him at the SSCXWC.

Junglee Love. It's Driving Me Mad. It's Making Me Crazy. (That's from a song they play on the radio, I didn't come up with it.)

Life is hard here in the urban jungle.  (Pronounced "junglee" like Werner Herzog says it.)  First, I wake up to the din of the cityscape.  Then I drink some puréed bacon and scarf a fistful of coffee grounds.  Needless to say, after that I need to visit the restroom, and a short hour and a half later I head out the front door.  Within minutes I'm on this:

Which turns into this:

Which leads me to this:

From toilet to trailhead, I'd say about 90% of the ride is on car-free paths.  Then, once I hit the trailhead, it's generally only four or five more minutes until I become one with the landscape by landing hard upon it:

I took this photo immediately after I finished cursing, and if you're wondering what caused the crash, I was undone by a laughably tiny obstacle followed by a series of overcorrections which culminated in my falling over like an idiot:

Once I found my woodland legs though it was a lovely morning of cavorting on the mist-enshrouded hillside:

But that's only because I left the bike where it was, removed all my clothes, and frolicked about on foot like a hirsute wood nymph until I was shot with a tranquilizer dart by animal control.

Also helpful was my newly-enhanced wider cockpit:

The new handlebars didn't hurt either.

Speaking of bicycles, people have them, and some of those bike owners like to do the cyclocross on them, and some of those people have the kinds of cyclocross bikes that have no derailleurs and only one gear ratio, and those people generally like their exploits to be photographed and filmed extensively, even more so than the rest of us, and that's why they had the SSCXSSWCCXWC in Los Angeles this past weekend.  I couldn't be bothered to look up the photographs, so here's a Pippi Longstocking costume, which is exactly the same thing:

For the most part, single-speed cyclocross racing is people riding around in skirts and really high socks. That's all you need to know.

In any case, apparently next year's SSCXWCSSCXCXCZ is going to be in Philadelphia next year, which is tremendously goaueiiensnzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.............

I literally actually literally totally fell asleep on my keyboard as I was typing that, though in fairness to Philadelphia this is the most exciting thing that's happened to them since the Continental Congress--not to mention the fact that the outfits will be almost exactly the same:

Not only do singlespeed cyclocross racers and founding fathers share an affinity for high socks and wigs, but both groups are also 100% white.

Of course, if the founding fathers were around today they could have adopted the Declaration of Independence by PDF, which would have saved them a trip to Philadelphia altogether.  Yes, email is a miraculous miracle, which is why I read mine occasionally, and when I do I am delighted to find messages like this:

Hi Bike Snob,
Nice rants
I'd like to know what do you think about these wooden hats... eeeerrr... helmets

http://www.indiegogo.com/CoyleHelmets

Stefan A

Hello, Stefan, thank you for writing.  Firstly of all, it's spelled "helments."  Secondly, I think I've actually mentioned these wooden helments before, but frankly I can't be bothered to check because honestly who even reads this crap anyway?  So here's the video for the first time or again as the case may be:



So what do I think?  Here's what I think.  I think I'd rather wear a salad bowl on my head.  Not only do they come in wood, but if you get the nesting variety you can dial in the perfect fit:

Whereas with the wooden helment you need to go to work on it with a power sander before you can ride around looking like George of the Junglee:

(Actually, I don't think George of the Jungle wore a helment, so presumably this is for Fred of the Jungle.)

According to the guy who wants your money so he can whittle these for you, the big selling point is that they're more environmentally friendly than styrofoam helments.  Well, you know what's even more environmentally friendly?  Wearing nothing on your head at all!  How much could you possibly love the environment if you need to cut down a tree before you're willing to get on a bike?  As the saying goes, there's no such thing as a complimentary breakfast.  Here's how it works: If you want personal safety at all costs, fuck the environment and drive a tank while wearing flame-retardant body armor.  If you want to tread as lightly on the Earth as possible, ride a home-grown bamboo bike naked.  And none of this bamboo-with-crabon-fork-and-components crap, either.  That's like calling yourself a vegetarian because you put avocado slices on your bacon cheeseburger.  No, I mean the full-on Gilligan shit:

In fact, at that point you could go with a car or a bike, it really doesn't matter:

By the way, if you're unfamiliar with "Gilligan's Island" because you're under 100 years old, it was a thinly-veiled Marxist allegory masquerading as a fatuous TV show.  Also, adolescent boys everywhere were stunned and confused (and in some cases aroused) by the episode in which it was revealed that sexpot Ginger was actually a man.

But the biggest problem with the wooden helment, even more so than the quasi-environmental aspect, is the way it looks:

I like to think I'm above superficial matters like appearance.  At the same time though we are animals who live in a society, and it's foolish to deny that appearance is an important part of human interaction.  So, while it may be acceptable to wear bits of the forest on your head in a "state" like Oregon, the simple fact is that you can't go around in a real city like New York with a hollowed-out stump on your head that looks like a chipmunk is going to pop out of one of the vents at any moment.  Well, I mean you can, but it's going to adversely affect your life.  People won't hire you.  They won't rent you an apartment.  It's even dangerous, because while you may think you're safer if you fall of your bike, you never know when someone's going to mistake you for a human game of Whac-A-Mole and hit you over the head with a mallet.

Worst of all, something like this has the potential to set the cause of cycling as transportation back at least 20 years.  It's hard enough for people to wade through the morass of bicycle marketing, so once they've actually gotten a bike you can't then tell them, "Oh, one more thing, you have to wear this wooden turtle shell on your head so you won't die."  That's going to be a deal breaker, and their next stop is going to be the Hyundai dealership.

Lastly, on the subject of helments and clothing, Giro makes them, and they're also going to be making some new cycling clothes that look pretty much like regular clothes, and they're so excited that when they were in New York last week they added me to their list of people to talk to about the clothes in person.  So we went to a fancy restaurant in Manhattan, where they can't throw me out because my brother's pretty much in charge of the whole place and if he tried it I'd tell on him:

Once seated and furnished with designer alcohols, we played a serious game of "male model poker:"

The clothes actually looks really nice, but you can't truly judge a cycling garment until it's spent at least six hours on your scranus (if it's pants) or your nipples (if it's a shirt).  I'm still not sure why they wanted to tell me about these clothes though, since I'm currently working my way through team clothing I over-ordered back in the late 1990s and have a good 1,500 more forest falls to go before I need to re-stock.

Also at that very same restaurant on that very same day I had lunch with some other blogger and his wife.  (Yes, I camped out in a fancy restaurant all day talking about clothes and blogging like a metrosexual Cliff Clavin.)  This blogger says he's fat but is actually pro cyclist skinny, probably because, unlike me, he does not drink at lunch.  He's also doing good stuff for good causes, so help him.

Once finished with my meetings, I plopped my salad bowl back on my head and went home smelling like vinaigrette.