Out of the Loop: Basking in Victory, Basting in Oil

Until a couple of weeks ago I was traveling extensively in order to promote my second book, "Smilla's Sense of Snow."  If you've ever had to travel for work, you know how stressful it can be.  I, on the other hand, have no idea how stressful it can be, because I don't have a real job.  Instead, traveling for a non-job means I've officially lost my grasp on the few remaining tethers that anchored me to the semblance of a respectable existence, and I now float aimlessly through life like a distracted zeppelin.  Grooming, for example, is but a memory, and I now look and smell like a forgotten garment you might come across at the bottom of a long-neglected laundry hamper.  (Perhaps because that's where I've been finding my own outfits lately.  My philosophy is that if you can't remember the last time you wore it then it's technically clean.)  Concepts like "time" and "appointments" are now just meaningless constructs.  And I've also like totally lost track of the sport of professional bicycle cycling.

I certainly have no regrets when it comes to abandoning lame stuff like "haircuts" and "being on time," but I do lament the fact I haven't been following pro bi-keen.  In particular, I seem to have completely missed a hum-doozy of an Italian Giro, which I'm the last to learn was won by Rider Hejedal Ryder Heyjadahl Winonadal Ryder this guy:

Words can't adequately express how elated I am that this, the greatest of all the Italian Giro Tours, was won by an American cyclist from the United States of America.  That's why, in lieu of words, I prefer to convey my swollen sense of national pride by means of this video, which features a dead drug addict singing some song about a star-fangled bandana:



In retrospect, that sweatsuit was a desperate cry for help.  (As, arguably, are all sweatsuits.)

Anyway, this is a great moment in sporting history, and to find another American from the United States of American Giro of Italy winner you have to go all the way back to 1930 and Luigi Marchisio:

("Howdy, partner.")

A good ole boy from the Texas bayou, this Amish Shaker Mennonite parlayed a hardscrabble life as an Orchard Street kosher pushcart vendor during the waning days of the Wild West into a career as one of the finest professional cyclists the state of Philadelphia has ever produced.

Yes, they just don't make 'em like Luigi Marchisio anymore.  After him, they broke the mold--or, more accurately, they sold it to a factory in Taiwan and now use it to stamp out $10,000 clumps of plastic called "S-Works."

Meanwhile, in other Giro news that I missed but everybody else already knows about, a guy clad only in his underpants wound up with his very own Farnese Vini team bike:



The above video was forwarded to me by a reader, and from what I can see he was helping out with a wheel change:

After which the team car just drove off and left Underpants with the bike.

By the way, I shouldn't have to remind you what kind of bikes Farnese Vini ride:

(Cipollini showing his "O" face.)

It's a cosmic inevitability that if you wander around Italy wearing only your underpants, sooner or later you're going to end up alone with a Cipolli.

Speaking of Cipollini bikes, this is not just some sort of rubber-stamp branding exercise like so many other bike companies created by former pros.   No, Cipollini is so "hands-on" that most of his employees have already filed restraining orders, and his bikes use proprietary technology developed by "The Layin' King" himself.  For example, it's long been known that Mario Cipollini's profoundly oily complexion was a key factor in his speed, and that's why each Cipollini bike is lovingly hand-basted straight from the factory:

(After this come the breadcrumbs.)

I'm also assuming Cipollini himself came up with the corporate slogan:

("The Champion, The Power, His Tool")

Which he obviously "borrowed" from this:

Though it's certainly better than the second choice, which was "What's Italian, slathered in oil, and won't be there in the morning?"  And while we're on the subject of rhetorical questions, what's the complete opposite of a Mario Cipollini?



This is true for many reasons, not least of which being that David Byrne doesn't own a car, whereas Mario Cipollini not only owns a car but also does unspeakable things to passengers in its back seat.  Byrne is also highly unlikely to start his own crabon bicyle company, for, as he tells the New York Times, he much prefers the communal smugness of bike share:

As well as the "exhilaration" of in-line skating:

There’s an exhilaration you get from self-propelled transportation — skateboarding, in-line skating and walking as well as biking;

Incidentally, here's David Byrne Rollerblading:

 

This is a familiar sight on the West Side Greenway--or it would be if most people who encounter it aren't so horrified that they then leap into the Hudson River to their deaths.

Also, Byrne explains that New York's bike share program will be accessible to people of all races and income levels--but only by accident:

New York’s program will have some advantages over the Paris and London programs. New York’s high-rise housing projects are scattered throughout the city, so neither they nor their inhabitants will be excluded from the covered bike-share program area. The ugly tendency to segregate by race and class will be, in a small way, mitigated here. By bikes!

Really, this is a major issue here in New York.  Sure, we do our very best to only provide cycling amenities to the forces of gentrification, but the problem is that they're never all that far from the other people they recently displaced.

By far though my favorite part of this piece was the feeling of smug satisfaction I experienced when David Byrne actually used a term I created:

I rode down the protected bike lane on Ninth Avenue; it’s definitely a lot more relaxing to ride in these than it is to negotiate naked New York streets, though you do have to watch out for salmon-cyclists who ride against the flow of traffic.

Yep, that's right, I coined the expression "negotiate naked."

Speaking of being naked, do you feel that way if certain parts of your bicycle don't match certain other parts, or if they match other parts but not the right other parts?  Well, if you answered "Of course not" then you'll be as baffled by this item in the latest "Bicycling" as I was:

I was still trying to work out whether or not the above was satire when I read this at the bottom of the very same page and decided that it was:

"Two layers of bar tape at the end of each drop creates a tactile signal that alerts you when your hands are getting close to the end of the bar."

If you're the sort of rider who needs a "color code" and who depends on "tactile signals" to keep you from grabbing thin air instead of your handlebars, then you may want to give up cycling and explore the "exhilaration" of in-line skating instead.  Or, you could just get your bike "professionally assembled," like this one which was forwarded to me by a reader:

Giordano Libero Men's Road Bike - $400 (Potomac, Rockville, Bethesda, NIH)
Date: 2012-05-27, 9:56PM EDT
Reply to: [deleted]


100% Positive. No scratches. Brand New, professionally assembled 25-inch Men's Road Bike.
Test ride for 15 miles. Gear shifts smoothly.
Unfortunately, I'm moving back to California, so I must sell this recently bought bike soon.
Welling to negotiate a better price.

Scoff if you will, but it does adhere to the "color code" chart, which means it passes muster as far as "Bicycling" is concerned.

Of course, if this bicycle is too flashy for you, you could also get a more classic ride, like this one which was forwarded to me by another reader and is "made from parts:"

If your bike is made from anything, it should definitely be parts.

Saving Your Hide: Gran Fondos and Grand Illusions

News!  People love it!  You want some?  I have some!  Why am I writing in breathless prose?  Well, I have just received a scorchingly urgent, pressingly pressing press release, released to the press by the Gran Fondo New York, which is a Gran Fondo that will happen in New York. I'm so excited I'm talking in circles!  So what's the news contained therein?  Well, they're administering drug tests to the participants:

New York City, April 18, 2012


For Immediate Release


On April 12, 2012, Gran Fondo New York conducted out of competition doping controls among riders training for May 20, 2012 Gran Fondo New York. The United States Anti-Doping Association (USADA) handled the controls.


Gran Fondo New York’s CEO Uli Fluhme stated “At Gran Fondo New York we are committed to a drug free sport.  For this year's event we allocated $10,000 towards the fight against doping. Anyone testing positive for a substance on the list of banned substances by World Anti Doping Association (WADA) will be banned for life from Gran Fondo New York. Plus, anyone who has ever been banned by a federation will not be allowed to compete. We are not afraid to take drastic measures to keep the competition at Gran Fondo New York clean.”


My understanding of gran fondo racing is that you're supposed to dope, and that it's kind of like professional wrestling.  Isn't that why Raimondas Rumsas became a gran fondo specialist?

(Raimondas Rumsas: The Lithuanian Fred-Crusher)

You may recall Rumsas as the rider who placed third in the 2002 Tour de France and then let his wife go to jail when they found a trunkful of his drugs in her car.  Incidentally, the rider who came in sixth in the above gran fondo was none other than Mario Cipollini, presumably as preparation for his alleged 2012 professional comeback:


1; Raimondas Rumsas (Gfdd ALTOPACK Promotech); 03:12:37 
2, Bruno Sanetti (Pol Cral Fire Department Genoa Punto Sport); 03:13:25 
3, Massimiliano Lelli (Max Lelli Asd); 03:13:25 
4, Juri Gorini (Genetik Asd Cycling Team) 03:14:20 
5, Jamie Burrow (Pol Cral Fire Department Genoa Punto Sport); 03:14:20 
6, Mario Cipollini (); 03:14:21 
7, Vladislav Borisov (Team Guru Planet X); 03:16:01 
8, Mark Morris (Team Olimpia Bolis); 03:18:01 
9, Marco Masetti (Asd Serravalle); 03:18:02 
10; Emanuel Ristori (Team Guru Planet X); 03:18:04 

I don't know if there was drug testing at this particular event, but for Cipollini's sake I hope there was no STD testing for the top ten finishers, otherwise he might be relegated, injected with penicillin, and ceremoniously stripped of his coating of body oil.

In any case, it's sad, sad day when what is, in essence, a gigantic Fred ride has to introduce drug testing, but the fact is that the organizers have to protect the integrity of their prize money.  Sure, on a certain level the Gran Fondo New York instituting drug testing is a bit like Robert Mackey deciding to slip on the World Champion jersey before throwing a hairy leg over his Cervelo, but at the same time I also have no doubt that at least a few riders are in fact doping for this thing.  Still, the good news for doping Freds is that if you want to compete while doping in New York you're still welcome to take part in any of our local race series, where there is never testing and where people have been doping to dominate the parks for years. You too can enjoy your slice of the Prospect/Central/Floyd Bennett prize money pie--that is, unless you're dumb enough to make the podium at a "real" bike race somewhere, and your toxic pee-pee pings the naughty meter.

But just like power meters and crabon wheels and coaching and all the other stuff that trickles down from the pros to the amateurs, I'm sure drug testing will eventually be the must-have accessory for any Fred ride.  It's only a matter of time before you'll need to submit a biological passport to participate in the Five Boro Bike Tour, or before someone from Strava comes to your house to collect a blood sample:


Just imagine the shame you'll feel when the "achievement" you received for racing up a hill all by yourself is stripped or followed by an asterisk.

Speaking of Prospect Park, yesterday I was in it and I came upon an unpleasant scene.  A cyclist was lying on the pavement, surrounded by the usual assortment of good samaritans and gawkers, and he looked to be injured.  I didn't stop to help, since between all the people already present and the Parks Department truck that had just arrived on the scene, I'd have only been in the way.  (I also didn't take any photos, because that would have been in bad taste even for me.)  However, I did gather that the rider had been pushed by teenagers who had then run away.  All of this is to warn my fellow cyclists, particularly those who pass through Prospect Park, that you can now add marauding teenagers to the "epic" list of dangers for which you should always be prepared.

In other Fred news, a reader who was present at my LA BRA last weekend was kind enough to alert me to the "Freddie Pedaling Shorts."  These have everything you could possibly want in a pair of cycling shorts, because not only are they leather, but they also cost €850:

Plus, they've got a "seamless crotch to facilitate movement:"

--meticulously created in Japan
--made from fine japanese calf leather
--traditional five-pocket design
--seamless crotch to facilitate movement

This is great news if you've got an "extensive crotch" and you're prone to spontaneous erections.

Best of all, if you buy now, you'll also get a professional-sized tube of antifungal ointment, complete with a handy applicator:

Believe me, you're going to need it.

And it should also go without saying that the Freddie Pedaling Shorts will look great with your perforated yak leather Fred flippers:

("It's actually like having your foot in a bovid's rectum!")

And that you should tie the whole look together with this smart leather racing vest:

The best part is, if you have a creaky bottom bracket, the sound will be completely drowned out by the creaking of your wardrobe.

Speaking of leather, once uton a pime I mentioned a film called "First Winter," which was about hilpsters in the wilderness and was being funded via Kickstarter:


Presumably much of the funding was for beard grooming, since facial hair like that doesn't detangle or delouse itself, and Hollywood-caliber beard fluffers don't come cheap.  Here is the trailer to refresh your mammary:



Anyway, since then, "First Winter" has received what people in the film industry call "buzz," and a reader tells me it has even garnered some controversy as the filmmakers killed a deer (or, more accurately, two deer) without a permit:

Here's how the director explained it:

"We are idiots. We didn't know how to do this [hunting] stuff," said director Ben Dickson, whose film is scheduled to premiere at the prestigious festival on Thursday April 19.

Interestingly, the hilpster approach to hunting seems to be exaclty the same as the hilpster approach to cycling, which is to unleash a potent combination of cluelessness and entitlement upon it.  Also, while most people who visit the country can barely avoid hitting deer with their cars, the hilpster filmmakers couldn't find even one for several days:

The kill was part of a 23-day film shoot for Dickson's feature about naive Brooklyn hipsters learning to survive in the wild after an apocalyptic event. It took them several days to find a deer, he said, and they had started to think they would have to revise the script to drop the scene.

That's like having trouble finding a Hacky Sack at a jam band concert.

In any case, I'm not necessarily troubled by the loss of a couple of deer, though even a citified wussbag like me knows there are rules about shooting them, and the sheer haplessness of the affair is somewhat stomach-turning:

Actor Paul Manza, a 34-year-old Brooklyn yoga instructor who plays "Paul" the yoga instructor in the film and had no prior acting or hunting experience, pulled the trigger. It was unclear who owned the rifle or whether it was registered.


The bullet pierced one deer and passed into a second one behind it, killing the first deer and wounding the second one, Manza and Dickson said. The crew chased the second deer into the woods and shot it again to put it out of its suffering, Manza said.

But you can rest assured that the director had the requisite moment of hilpster catharsis:


"It was actually pretty horrible," said Manza. "I was forced to see what life was really made of, the weight and the value of things."

Wow, was it really pretty intense to, like, shoot something to death?  Who'd have thought?  You might think that 34 years old is fairly late in life to come to this realization, but in Brooklyn hilpster terms he's positively precocious.  And in the end it was worth it, because the beardwork in the film is positively magnificent:

It's a sure bet to win the Palme d'Uh:

Winning the Lottery: Fredical Mass

In yesterday's post, I mentioned Prospect Park's Barrels of Shame. Naively, it was my impression that the Department of Transportation was relying entirely on these barrels to solve the problem of speeding cyclists. How wrong I was. In fact, I was riding through Prospect Park last night on my safety bicycle when I discovered that the DOT has now unleashed Phase II of the Barrels of Shame scheme for undoing cyclists, this one being the Giant Free-Standing Sign in the Middle of the Road:

(Giant Free-Standing Sign in the Middle of the Road lurking in the park at night like a lonely man cruising for anonymous sex.)

As you can see, the concept behind the Giant Free-Standing Sign in the Middle of the Road is simple: should a cyclist position himself wrongly in relation to the Barrels of Shame and approach them at an excessive rate of speed, he or she will collide with the Giant Free-Standing Sign in the Middle of the Road. Thus incapacitated, he or she will no longer pose a threat to the good people of Brooklyn--at least until the bones knit.

Keeping cyclists injured and off their bikes is American Urban Planning 101.

Nevertheless, the fun-filled act of bicycle-cycling remains a popular pastime for the people of New York and elsewhere, which is why the TD Bank Five Boro Bike Tour is very possibly the World's Biggest Fred Ride, attracting upwards of 30,000 people to the city each spring, some of whom carry their pets on their top tube:

The ingenious saddle atop which the dog was sitting was upholstered in a comfy-looking carpet-like material that perfectly matched the dog's coat, and I'm not lying when I say the ornery dog snarled like a two-stroke engine and did his very best to chew off the fingers of anybody who dared lean in for a closer look at the proprietary technology.

I've attended the Five Boro Bike Tour a number of times in vaguely-defined help-giving capacity, but I've only actually ridden in it once. I don't recall the exact year, but it was sometime in the 1990s, and Kestrels and mountain bikes that never saw dirt were extremely popular, which meant that everyone was on either one or the other. Upon finishing the ride I vowed never to participate in it again--not because it wasn't a lovely ride, but because tens of thousands of others also felt the same way which made much of it feel like waiting to go through security at JFK. In fact, someone even tried to make me submit to a full body scan at one of the rest stops, though in retrospect the paper badge that said "OFICIAL VOLANTEER" in crayon could have been a sign he wasn't a legitimate part of the tour organization.

In any case, I must not have been the only one to nearly fall victim to the old "OFICIAL VOLANTEER" ploy, because as of this year the World's Largest Fred Ride will be awarding the coveded Pinnies of Fredness on a lottery basis:

This means that, like a cyclocross race, "call-ups" will be all-important if you want to get the BQE holeshot and win this completely non-competitive event:

To avoid a bottleneck like last year’s on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Mr. Podziba said, Bike New York will space out riders across three starting times.

Also, they're swapping Shore Parkway for the Gowanus, which is like when they sneak a 105 bottom bracket into your "full Dura-Ace" bike:

The route is also being changed, with riders taking the Gowanus Expressway instead of the Shore Parkway toward Staten Island.

However, to make up for it, you get a new rest stop (beware "OFICIAL VOLANTEERs" bearing latex) as well as entertainment:

He said Bike New York was adding a rest stop at Brooklyn Bridge Park with restrooms, food, water and entertainment.

No word yet on what that entertainment will be, but I'm hoping for either artistic cyclist extraordinaire Serge Huercio:

Or else those two synchronized swimmers I mentioned yesterday:

Well, they did say "water and entertainment."

Speaking of entertainment, there's a moment in all of our young lives when we seek out unsanctioned, non-parentally-vetted entertainment for the first time. Very often, this entertainment is music. Nowadays, these crazy kids with their Sony Sports Walkmen and their digital food processors can just "down load" music from the "Inter Net," but when I was a child we had to actually go to the store and buy a record bigger than our face.

I remember very clearly the first time I went to a record store all by myself and bought an album of my own choosing with my own money, and this was it was:

I don't even know why I wanted it. Somewhere or somehow I had heard about it, and I had to have it. When I came home, I didn't want anybody to look at it or ask me about it. It was mine. I didn't really know what the pentagram was--an evil Star of David perhaps?--but it was exciting. I also didn't know what a "Mötley Crüe" was, but I figured they must be pretty scary if they had the audacity to shout at the devil, and this was reaffirmed by the band photos on the inside of the album:

Yes, this was actually scary to me at the time, though now they just look like some guys who couldn't decide if they should dress like football players or porn queens and therefore decided to split the difference.

Anyway, I loved my Mötley Crüe album. It was weird and it described sex acts I wouldn't learn about for like ten more years, and every time I played it I felt like I was committing an act of rebellion. Eventually though, something happened: I discovered punk and hardcore music. What had once seemed rebellious was now just embarrassing. These Hollywood assholes were the enemy! Suddenly, I was ashamed of my Mötley Crüe album, and so one day I took it outside and shot it full of holes with a BB gun.

I found myself thinking about this recently in the context of Lance Armstrong after having read that Outside article everyone's talking about:

I tend not to mention Lance Armstrong much, only because doing so tends to ignite tedious helment debate-esque "flame wars," and to elicit crackpot theories like this:

3. Could Dopers Be Forming 'Strategies' Ties With Blogs? : The oldest trick in the book is to manipulate human perception about the truth through mass media propaganda. I laid out a plausible theory here that this sort of clandestine alliance might be happening between Armstrong and his blogging friends, among them which includes Fat Cyclist (Elden Nelson) and BSNYC (____ _____). These two cycling blogs, who command a wealth of American readers, have revealed quite ostentatiously that they are friends of L.A. Their blogs, like Rick Reilly's unpopular ESPN columns, could potentially become a tool to brainwash people. At the other end, a single link from Armstrong on his Twitter account could divert millions of people to read the blogs.

I must have missed the "ostentatious friend announcement," though I'm oddly flattered by the notion that my blog could possibly "manipulate human perception about the truth through mass media propaganda."

You didn't just see that.

Anyway, I started thinking about all of this because at the moment the cycling world's relationship with Lance Armstrong is exactly like mine was with that Mötley Crüe record, and right now everybody wants to make a big show out of shooting him full of holes. Just look at the image "Outside" used, in which they spared his penis, but not by much:

Of course, when I really think about it, the real reason I hated the Mötley Crüe record was because it was evidence that I had once been "uncool," and what better way to prove that I was hardcore than destroying that evidence? Similarly, that's why magazines like Outside are now so desperate to show their disdain for someone who was once their favorite cyclist--it's a contrived attempt by a mainstream publication to cultivate a hardcore image.

However, besides the headline and the penile near-misses, the actual article contains non-bombshells such as this:

During an investigation that played out over several months—involving dozens of interviews and careful examination of Livestrong’s public financial records—I found no evidence that Armstrong has done anything illegal in his role as the face of the organization.

And this:

On the program side, I learned that Livestrong provides an innovative and expanding suite of direct services to help cancer survivors negotiate our Kafkaesque health care system.

And this:

The foundation gave out a total of $20 million in research grants between 1998 and 2005, the year it began phasing out its support of hard science. A note on the foundation’s website informs visitors that, as of 2010, it no longer even accepts research proposals.

This is sort of like shooting at your Mötley Crüe album because you want to impress your hardcore friends but complementing Mick Mars on his outstanding guitar work as you're doing it. I guess I was supposed to be outraged when I read the article, but instead I mostly just thought about Charles Barkley, another retired athlete, and his $10 million gambling losses.

Looking back, I still think my Mötley Crüe album was ridiculous, but I now think my relationship with it was even more ridiculous. First I loved that record, then I hated it. There was never an in between. Now, though, I realize why this was, and for that reason I'm more embarrassed now about having destroyed the record than I am about having owned it.

It's kind of lame to be embarrassed about having liked something, or about still liking something. It's also lame to feel like you have to make a big empty show of how much you don't like it now--especially when you're doing it mostly because everybody else suddenly is. And that's the mainstream media's specialty. They're like the kid who wouldn't talk to you in high school and then reinvents himself in college and wants to show you his new tattoo.

Just relax, mainstream magazines, and roll you pant cuff back down over your tribal ankle tattoo. It's OK that you liked Mötley Crüe.

The Awesomest Generation: The Gnosis Myth

Back in the 1990s (the decade that Kurt Andersen says is indistinguishable from the 1980s or the 2000s, even though it was the only decade during which it was socially acceptable to wear baggy shorts with combat boots and to have a soul patch), there was a situation comedy called "Seinfeld." This show came to define 1990s television in much the same way baggy shorts, combat boots, and soul patches came to define the 1990s "alternative" look. Anyway, in one episode, Jerry offers to deliver Newman's mail for him, and the following exchange ensues:

JERRY: (Bravely) Well, what if I deliver it?
NEWMAN: You?! (Laughs hysterically) You can't deliver mail!
JERRY: Well, why not?
NEWMAN: (Thinks for a moment) I guess you're right. It's just walking around putting it into boxes...

While on the surface this just appears to be typical Seinfeldian repartee, it actually expresses a fundamental truth about life, which is that despite our best attempts to obfuscate it, it's actually boneheadedly simple. Really, life is just walking around putting stuff into boxes. Eighty percent of success really is just showing up, as Soon-Yi Previn/Farrow's husband/father once quipped. Tend your garden, as French writer Cabaret Voltaire once advised. That's it. There's no big secret. Before enlightenment you carry water and sweep the floor. After enlightenment you carry water and sweep the floor. And so forth.

Cycling is really no different, and as much as we like to think it's some rarefied pursuit that transcends everyday life that's really not the case--even when it comes to competitive cycling, which, for all the power meters and coaches and electronic equipment and "weird style diktats," really just comes down to this:

The problem, though, is that it's really hard to market the notion that cycling (or indeed life) is as simple as walking around and putting stuff into boxes. Like Newman, we all need to believe we possess some arcane knowledge or rarefied skill or "gnosis" attainable only by a tiny portion of the human population. If we're selling something, our job is to tempt people with this ineffable "gnosis" by burying it under phrases like "laterally stiff and vertically compliant" or by implying that this year's $2,000 component group lost those three crucial grams that were keeping last year's $2,000 component group from bringing you all the way to having a complete and total Zen-tastic bike-gasm all over your laterally stiff and vertically compliant crabon frame. Or, if we're buying, we need to believe that we're nearly there, and by spending just a little more money we can finally enjoy sweet, explosive release. It's what makes retail prices like these possible:

(Holy crap.)

Yes, marketing is a subtle art. Give consumers too little and they get blueballs and go elsewhere. Give them too much and they climax too soon and start thinking clearly again. The truly gifted marketer can keep you right there in the middle, sometimes for years at a time, sucking the cash from your wallet like a stripper with a Miele.

This illusory "gnosis" concept doesn't just apply to selling stuff, either. It also applies to marketing the idea of ourselves, or our own lifestyles. We all need to believe we're the Navy SEALs in the Girl Scouts of Life, when in reality most of us are the Old Navy fleece pullover in the Wardrobe of Mediocrity. Cyclists--American cyclists in particular--are especially adept at deluding themselves in this manner. Consider this excerpt from a comment in support of daredevil cycling videographer Lucas Brunelle:

Almost every fatality and bad cycling accident in NYC is caused by an inattentive driver and an inexperienced cyclist. The driver is usually at fault but a rider like Lucas would never get hit by an inattentive driver. In my opinion the videos make it look a lot more dangerous than it really is. This is nearly impossible to understand unless you are able to ride at the same level which very few people are able too (or want to). A skilled urban rider's interference with traffic and pedestrians is extremely limited. If you are crossing the street Lucas will pass by you like a gust of wind. You won't even notice his presence until he's passed you and already a block away.

A gust of wind? Seriously? Sure, it's easy to delude yourself into thinking you're insubstantial and spirit-like when you don't stick around to interact with the people you're pissing off. Plus, when was the last time you saw a gust of wind make a documentary about itself? Then again, the "wind" analogy isn't totally off, since blowing through a busy intersection at full speed is a lot like laying a huge fart and then leaving the room.

More stunning though is the notion that "a rider like Lucas would never get hit by an inattentive driver," and that injury and death is somehow the exclusive domain of the hapless "noob." On the self-delusion hierarchy, thinking you're immortal lies on the very top. It's the greatest human folly. This has been true throughout history, from the Egyptian pharaohs and their lavish tombs, to the search for the Fountain of Youth, to people who think they are vampires. (Vampirism is often the next stop after Star Wars roleplaying.)

Of course, if it were actually true that "skilled urban cyclists" were immune from harm then there would be no need for a Bicycle Messenger Emergency Fund, yet someone saw fit to create one. This is because there's usually a sizable gap between reality and the "gnosis myth," which is articulated perfectly in the above comment:

This is nearly impossible to understand unless you are able to ride at the same level which very few people are able too (or want to).

"Impossible to understand," really? This may be true of particle physics, but it's simply not true of riding a bike in a city. I do agree with the Brunelle apologists about one thing, which is that riding a bike in an urban environment--even at high speeds--is simply not all that remarkable. The subjects of Brunelle's videos don't really have skills beyond those of the typical Dutch commuter--or the typical American commuter for that matter. They're just more vain and are thus willing to take more risks in the service of theatrics.

But it won't do to acknowledge the fact that the new bike commuter on the freshly-purchased Public will possess most of these essential "nearly impossible to understand" skills in a matter of weeks, or that the only "gnosis" involved in cycling is the decision to ride a bike in the first place. (Yes, in America you are still "crossing the Rubicon" when you decide to ride a bike, so in that respect you are somewhat remarkable.) This is because cyclists all need to be better than each other. Further to yesterday's post someone on Twitter alerted me to an article in the New York Times about "hipsters," and it contained the following quote:

Taste is not stable and peaceful, but a means of strategy and competition. Those superior in wealth use it to pretend they are superior in spirit. Groups closer in social class who yet draw their status from different sources use taste and its attainments to disdain one another and get a leg up. These conflicts for social dominance through culture are exactly what drive the dynamics within communities whose members are regarded as hipsters.

Just as social classes claim true knowledge of "taste," cycling subcultures claim true possession of "skills" even though they're mostly just doing the same thing in different clothes. Who has better bike-handling skills, the urban cyclist or the amateur racer? Does it really matter? They're all dorks! It's like arguing about who would win in a fight: Batman, or Darth Vader. (Uh, Darth Vader. Duh...) And no matter what you wear, or how unimaginably awesome your skills are, the distinctions become meaningless when someone whacks you in the face with a brick:

...or a golf ball for that matter.

In any case, it's easy to fall into the myth of your own awesomeness, so I find it helpful to remind myself once and awhile that we all suck at riding bikes, and that the one of us who sucks the least wins* the Tour de France. It's really not much more complicated than that. This doesn't preclude our spending a bunch of money on a crabon "halo bike" or an artisanal custom dreamcycle, just so long as we keep in mind that focusing entirely on the bike is like picking a university based on how comfortable the chairs in the lecture hall are. Some companies have done a remarkable job of marketing the equivalent of taking a correspondence course while sitting in an ergonomic chaise lounge.

*(Pending the results of the bloodwork.)

Ultimately, we're all just walking around putting stuff in boxes, though some of us do suck at this more than others:


Bike crash on Brooklyn bridge by 10:30 - m4w - 20 (Brooklyn bridge)
Date: 2011-12-13, 2:55PM EST
Reply to:

I crash when I was on my bike, you were taking photos and just walked in to the path bike i warned you but because of all the traffic noise you did not hear me; and it was late I push my rear brake but you was closely and when I pushed both brakes the front one trow me off of the bike and I I hit you . I'm so sorry about your camera but I'm glad you are ok, you asked me if I was ok you were really nice to me and the people who helped us. I just got some scratches on my legs and my helmet got broken wish I release when I got home.
Email me if you read this I wanna help you get another camera because yours got broken

That never would have happened if he didn't have any brakes.

Decorative Balls: All You Haters Stuff My Stocking

(Hot Carl on a plate, via the Twitter)

Further to yesterday's post, the controversy now known as Liège-Bastogne-Liège-Gate-Bastogne-Gate continues to make headlines in the cycling media. Indeed, this is just the sort off-season news bike racing websites need so they have stuff to print in between breathless speculation about which manufacturer is going to "drop" a component group with yet another superfluous cog. Now, the emails between Alexander Vinokourov and Alexandr Kolobnev have been published, and they contain all sorts of salacious details, including frank discussions about human castration:

Vinokourov reassured the Russian that “You have done everything properly, do not worry”, after Kolobnev expressed concerns that "my balls may be cut off" if it came out that he was receiving payment.

That may sound like a figure of speech, but in Russia it's actually common practice to castrate athletes. (Also, in Russia, car drive you.) This is why he's actually protecting his "Kolobnevs" in his team photo:

(Does this look like a man who knows he's about to have his "pants yabbies" cut off or what?)

Besides his pre-emasculation grimace, I was also intrigued by Kolobnev's rider profile:

Characteristics

Date of Birth: 04/05/1981

Born in: Vyksa (Russia)

Professional since: 2002

Height: 174 cm

Weight: 64 Kg

Nickname:

Last Season Team: Katusha

Rider Type: classics specialist

Civil Status: married

Hobbies: interior designing, playing electric guitar

Car Brand: Infinity

Favorite Actress: none

Favorite Song: Red Hot Chili Peppers, “Californication”

The Cycling Champion You Supported in your Childhood: Yuri Barinov

The Best Race Ever: 3rd stage “Paris – Nice” 2007

Contemporary Sport Idol: none

Favorite Soccer Team: none

Cycling Secret Wish: none

Superstitions: not talking about that

Notice that Kolobnev left the "nickname" portion of his rider questionnaire blank, as though he knew it would soon become "Ken Doll" or "The Gelding." Also, note his response to the "superstitions" section. Like any superstitious person, he knows that talking about something can make it happen--which is why after emailing Vino about getting castrated he's now actually about to get castrated. Given that, it's too bad he put "none" for his "Cycling Secret Wish," and I bet he really wishes he put "Not to have my balls cut off" instead.

Anyway, while the decreased testosterone production could spell the end of Kolobnev's on-the-bike career, the silver lining in this scrotum of misfortune is that Kolobnev will have plenty of time to focus on his two favorite hobbies: interior design, and playing guitar. In fact, as an androgynous guitar hero with a flair for interior design he's got all the makings of a modern-day Russian David Bowie. Or, if that doesn't work out, he could always start a high-end cycling clothing company called Castrati:

(Castrati: Performance roadwear for men with Ken doll genitals.)

So comfortable it's like wearing nothing at all.

Speaking of emasculation, a reader informs me that bag maker Timbuk2 is now offering a messenger-style diaper bag called the "Stork Messenger" for the rapidly aging "urban cyclist" demographic:

While publicly I laugh at this while my "bike culture" friends and I compare our knuckle tattoos and drink cheap canned beer in the local fake dive bar, as the father of 17 children I also secretly covet those "Velcro silencers" and the integrated changing pad:

Scoff if you will, but the simple fact is that aging is inevitable, and every Nü-Fred eventually becomes an Öld-Fred. Therefore, it's only a matter of time before all these bag makers start competing for the Öld-Fred dollar. Then, they'll start sponsoring aging "hipster" alleycats with diaper-changing stations instead of checkpoints, and someone will start a Single Speed Child-Portaging World Championship, and finally it will all "jump the shark" when some pro cyclist wins it but refuses to surrender his baby for the mandatory tattooing:

("My daddy won the SSBPWC and all I got was this stupid tattoo.")

As for me, I'm holding out for a hand-fabricated artisanal changing table that's compatible with the snapdeck on my Big Dummy, though I'm guessing someone in Portland is already at work on something like that.

But while the "Stork Messenger" may be the ideal holiday gift for the person in your life who is unwilling to come to terms with his changing lifestyle and clings tenaciously to the illusion that he's "hip," what do you get for that special douchey someone who's part of the "Eeew, babies, gross!" demographic? Well, you could always get them a $68 bottle of maple syrup from the douchewallas at Best Made Company:

First came the $300 bedazzled axes, and then the $38 short and crappy extension cords, but with the $68 bottle of maple syrup the Best Made Company have truly out-douched themselves. Really, to find a more offensive maple syrup you have to go all the way back to the peak racist years of "vintage" Aunt Jemima. And if you're wondering who actually buys this stuff, here's your answer:

Who is the Best Made customer?

Our products are used by men and women who hail from all corners of the globe: the US, Canada, Australia, the UK, France, Germany, Sweden, Korea, Japan, Flin Flon Manitoba and beyond; they live in remote areas and densely populated cities; they are woodsmen and art collectors, lawyers and doctors, designers and craftsmen, leaders of large corporations and owners of small workshops; our customers depend on Best Made as a trusted source of equipment and advice, as many have been coming back to us throughout the years. Read customer profiles.

In other words, they're "asshole survivalists." Here's how Wikipedia defines traditional "survivalism:"

Survivalism is a movement of individuals or groups (called survivalists or sometimes preppers) who are actively preparing for future possible disruptions in local, regional, national, or international social or political order. Survivalists often prepare for this anticipated disruption by having emergency medical training, stockpiling food and water, preparing for self-defense and self-sufficiency, and/or building structures that will help them survive or "disappear" (e.g., a survival retreat or underground shelter).

And here's how I define "asshole survivalism:"

Asshole survivalism is a movement of like-minded people (called asshole survivalists or sometimes just assholes) who like to appear rugged and woodsy but are in fact uniquely unprepared for any kind of emergency situation whatsoever. Survivalists often fail to prepare themselves for real life by having extensive filmmaking training, stockpiling vintage razors and old paper maps of places that no longer exist, having fellow assholes over for bourbon tastings and lavish barbecues, and/or living in structures that will help them appear unique or "different" (e.g., a tiny house or a $1.5m loft).

If you're wondering why your neighborhood no longer has a corner grocery but has four coffee houses and an artisanal condiment shop, it's not because it's been gentrified; rather, it's because it's become an "asshole survivalist enclave"--the modern-day equivalent of a medieval walled city, built to protect the inhabitants from the forces of reality.

In any case, if you're dreaming of a douche Christmas, you're no doubt hanging your douchebags by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Douchiness soon will be there. And if you're looking for some delightful little douchebag stuffers, why not visit Partners & Spade, which I just learned about on the Best Made site. Here, you can purchase things like $450 boxes full of random crap:

$175 photographs of guns:


Or just a $125 jar of household trash:

All of which makes that $6,500 Gucci Pista look like a bargain:



Just be sure to accessorize appropriately:



Nice healment.

P(l)aying to Win: Bright-Eyed and Bushy-Browed

From time to time, I receive intriguing proposals by electronic mail. Nigerian business opportunities, discounts from retailers I've never heard of, invitations from people in Portland to go have coitus with myself... Most of the time I end up passing (except on the coitus, naturally), but recently I received a particularly compelling email that displayed considerable initiative from a gentleman offering to "put together a high-quality article written specifically for the site."

Anything I send over would be written with the site's readership in mind - as long as you're happy with the resulting material, you'd be welcome to publish it as you see fit and the content will be owned by you entirely (in that I won't send it to anyone else, either before or after publication).

Now this was intriguing. Just imagine what I could do if I were freed from the 14-17 minutes a day I spend laboring on this blog. I could take daily "epic" rides while swaddled in Rapha; I could work on my trackstand; I could finally build that urban chicken coop I've always dreamed of having and get written up in the New York Times for it--all while some schmuck does my work for me! Best of all, it wouldn't cost me a cent:

There is absolutely no charge for this and no strings attached; the only thing I would ask in return is that I'm able to include a link to a site within the article - nothing shady or unethical, just one of the professional businesses I freelance for.

After much deliberation, though, I decided I simply couldn't go through with it. Sure, I'd be living the lavish lifestyle of the 1%, and sure nobody would notice my absence, but if there's one thing I've learned over the years it's that a man without integrity is like a man without a top-of-the-line 11-speed electronic road bike component group: a total loser. So I passed, and you can rest assured that every word you read on this blog is still hand-picked and manually typed by me alone. You can also be sure that I would never, ever include gratuitous links strictly for marketing purposes.

With that out of the way, are you having trouble finding the right gift for that special man in your life this holiday season? Well, why not enroll him in the Underwear of the Month Club? With hundreds of styles from cutting-edge basics to performance fabrics, to body enhancing designs, the Andrew Christian Underwear of the Month club is a way to make sure your man never has to go back to boring underwear. Join the club and designer Andrew Christian will handpick a variety of briefs and boxers including fan favorites, brand new designs, and pre-release exclusives unavailable to the general public.

Speaking of shady business practices and online retail, eyebrowless professional bike racing person Alexander Vinokourov has been accused of purchasing his 2010 Liège-Bastogne-Liège victory:

Details are still hazy, but according to a Swiss magazine Vino surreptitiously purchased a membership in the Classics Victory of the Month Club. (The Classics Victory of the Month Club should not be confused with the Johan Museeuw Hair Club for Men.) For his part, Vino denies it (though he admits he did consult with Johan Museeuw on a pair of cosmetic eyebrows), and I'm inclined to believe him. Supposedly, he paid Alexandr Kolobnev €100,000 for the victory, and it's difficult to imagine Vino has that kind of money. Then again, it's possible he was flush with macaroni money after starring in a pasta commercial:

The above video was forwarded to me by Klaus of Cycling Inquisition, and could very well be that Vino is using a lucrative sideline as a pasta spokesperson to bankroll bribes to bolster his dwindling cycling career. Incidentally, it was while producing one of these commercials that Vinokourov lost his eyebrows, when a a burst of flame from the cooking range completely singed them off of his face. It was huge news in Kazakhstan at the time, akin to that time back in the 80s when Michael Jackson caught fire while filming a Pepsi ad. In the long run though the incident proved to be a boon to his career, since prior to it he looked like this:

("Old school" Vino with his erstwhile lush brows.)

It's amazing how just a little eyebrow hair can make you look like a completely different person.

Anyway, Vino is emphatic that the win was his, and his domestique Jens Floaterhoist is willing to back him up completely. If you're unfamiliar with Jens Floaterhoist, he once purchased a Dauphiné Libéré stage win from George Hincapie for $19 and half a bottle of Snapple, and he's also the inventor of the Floaterhoist horizontal bike storage hoist:

Yes, it's Floaterhoist, the flush-with-the-ceiling bike storage solution for the kinds of losers who can't afford a 22-bike clubhouse with a sauna:


Now, it's hard for me to comment on the design itself since I'm not an engineer, but I will say that the video contained some excellent disembodied hand porn:

And if you're worried about the safety of the design, you can rest assured that the inventor of the Floaterhoist says it's "OK:"

That's assuming both your ceiling height and bar width fall within the Floaterhoist's design parameters, and it's also assuming your bike doesn't come crashing down on top of you like a poorly-installed venetian blind, trapping you inside the frame of a 30lb low-end freeride bike. If this happens you're liable to languish that way for hours like a thief in the stockades, unless you're able to "MacGyver" some sort of grappling hook out of the front disc brake and retrieve the cellphone sitting frustratingly out of reach upon your coffee table.

In far more serious news, the New York Times have finally covered the sickening and infuriating Mathieu Lefevre story:

Or, if you prefer your disgusting cycling news in moron-ese, you can read this instead:


As I mentioned yesterday, periodicals love to undermine cycling-related articles by giving them stupid headlines, and I can't think of any better way of dehumanizing the victims than by calling them "hipsters"--though I'm sure "hipsters" everywhere will be pleased to know that the Daily News officially recognizes them as an ethnic group.

Speaking of undermining cycling, the Sierra Club (who brought you the propaganda video that makes commuting by car in San Francisco look better than commuting by bike) is now suggesting that you turn your bike into something far more useful, like a reindeer for your lawn:

(Forwarded by a reader.)

Sure, you could ride what they call "daily household garbage," but it's really far more useful as a holiday-themed decoration.

Also compelling was this comment about the supposed "joys of bicycling:"

Michael Sauber

Perhaps a more festive idea would be to DECORATE YOURSELF on your way to work by bike. At 5 degrees out this am, I couldn't wear my sunglasses because the balaclava shielding my nose and mouth from the cold would get steamed up from my breath. If I exposed my mouth and nose (with a red ball on my nose to keep it warm) I could wear my glasses. Of course I'd have to have antlers on my healmet so others wouldn't think I just had too much to drink. It would also provide some festive joy to the poor souls who miss out on the joys of bicycling and are commuting by car.

"Healmets" are the new "helment."