January 3, 2020 § 12 Comments

Here is a crazy link to a crazy story in the somewhat crazy New York Times. It’s about depression. Everyone’s depressed. 17,000,000 Americans had at least one major depressive episode, 40,000,000 suffer from an anxiety disorder, and these overwhelming numbers only reflect what people report.

These aren’t simply Nervous Nellies chewing their fingernails, either. The suicide rate jumped 33% between 1999 and 2017. People are so sad they are killing themselves.

From there the article goes off the rails, laying all of this sadness at the feet of

… bitter social antagonisms, the country is racked by mass shootings, the mind-bending perils of the internet, revelations of widespread sexual predation, the worsening effects of climate change, virulent competition, the specter of antibiotic-resistant bacteria, grinding student debt and crises in housing, health care and higher education. The frightening environment helps cause depression, depression causes catastrophic thinking, and catastrophic thinking makes the environment seem even more terrifying than it is.

NYT, Jan. 2, 2020

Sounds pretty horrible, and the author uses these things combined with all the sadness they cause to explain why we’ve elected Trump.


In fact we, as in we Americans, live in the best time in our history, ever, period, no exceptions, none, nada. The economy? Soaring. Wars? All voluntary–no drafting; you want to go kill, go kill. You want to stay home, you stay home. Healthcare? No matter how badly off you are, there is some healthcare somewhere for you, even if it’s walking into the ER. Compare that to the USA in 1930.

The list goes on. Education is there if you want it. Yes, it’s expensive, but in places like California you can community-college your way into UCLA. Easy if you’re poor? No. But guess what? Life here was never easy for the poor, but it’s easier now than it used to be.

Equality for women? They outnumber men in college now. Racial discrimination? Still everywhere, but less virulent, less violent, and lots of people are able to succeed within a racist social structure, c.f. Barack Obama.

Crime? It’s down unless you’re in a tiny pool of ground zero urban areas; otherwise, do you remember NYC in the 70’s?

My point isn’t that we live in paradise, it’s that no matter how bad things are, they are a hell of a lot better than they were when I was a kid, and better still from my dad and granddad’s age, with the exception of the destruction of earth’s environment. However, the current victims of that aren’t the average American. Yet.

So what explains the sadness?

My non-scientific answer is one word: Obesity. Americans are huge and getting huger. In a few years over half the population will be morbidly obese. I don’t mean chubby, or fat, or overweight. I mean so fucking fat that it’s going to kill them.

And you know what? Fat makes you sad. Real fucking sad. Try being happy when you’re so fat you can’t walk up the stairs, walk down the aisle, cross a parking lot, get to the all-you-can-gorge buffet without being, literally, out of breath.

Trying being upbeat when you look horrible, from your ankles to your cheeks and everything in between. Try enjoying life when you can’t run, jump, stroll, cycle, climb, sit down, get up, or lay in the grass without a winch handy.

Try overcoming your problems at work when simply walking to the bathroom makes you sweat, when you are hostage to air conditioning or heating, when you have to buy clothes big as a family tent, when nothing fits, when all the models look like space aliens compared to you, when no amount of plus sizes are big enough, and when you have to worry about whether or not your ass is going to fit into the conference chair, and if it does, whether it will break.

This is reality for millions and millions of Americans, and it’s gonna get a lot worse very, very soon.

Obesity makes you sad, but so does being overweight. Our bodies don’t work right or look right when we’re fat. They are evolved to be skinny and to cope with starvation. They aren’t designed to cope with McDonalds.

And what about the sad people who aren’t obese? What’s the source of their misery? I don’t know, but here’s a clue: People are more unhappy the less active they are and the more alone they are. You can be alone in a lot of ways, often when surrounded by people. Work, even family can be alienating. The only places where loneliness has a chance of being beaten back are in positive social surroundings like church, or groups of like-minded people getting together to enjoy a common interest.

Here’s the thing: You can pick apart the reasons for being sad, but it’s hard to argue with the solution, which is to ride your bike.

The correlation between vigorous exercise and everything good is proven beyond any shadow of a doubt. Riding a bike is an effective medicine for depression in millions of people. Why? Because our bodies were made to move, not to sit and worry. The stress that comes from psychosocial stress is uniformly bad for you, but the stress that comes from muscular contractions is almost exclusively good. This means that sitting in your office chair fearing for your job ruins you, whereas sitting on your bike saddle, pounding your brains out as you fear getting shelled (think Kevin Stalk), is GREAT for you.

Moreover, bicycling often has a social component that counteracts loneliness. Sure, lots of cyclists are d-bags. But lots of them aren’t, and there’s probably a group out there that’s right for you.

Bicycling and vigorous exercise help you control weight, lower blood pressure, decrease stress levels, improve cognitive functioning, and let your body/mind say “Fuck off” to nagging worries and daily anxieties. It doesn’t banish them completely, but it holds them at bay and can keep your mind balanced.

Bicycling may not make you happy, especially when you have to confront paying for the new carbon rig. But it’s pretty huge start.

Ride yer fuggin’ bike, and help others ride theirs.


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Dead cyclists

December 1, 2019 § 106 Comments

If you want to read a meaningless puff piece about cycling fatalities, check out this stinker by Peter Flax. It’s no surprise that it’s published in Bicycling Magazine, a publication that exists only to Sell More Shit.

What is a surprise is that Peter wrote it. He’s normally a great writer but lately his work has a pretty ugly corporate aftertaste to it, and this is perhaps the worst piece he’s ever written. Basically, he falls into lock-step with motordom, arguing that the solution to cycling fatalities is more bike lanes.

Which is crazy because the article he writes says exactly the opposite. It’s as if someone walks you through the principles of arithmetic and then announces at the end, “See? 2 +2 = 5.”

To sum up, the article claims that more cyclists are dying because of larger cars, more smartphone use, more people driving more miles, more cyclists, and Zero Vision (a/k/a A Bike Lane in Every Pot) has stalled. I’ll get to the ridiculous conclusion that we need more bike infrastructure, but first a word about the cause, singular, that Peter and like-minded advocates refuse to analyze: Cyclists get hit because motorists don’t see them.

That’s right, folks. If larger cars and more miles and more cell phone use were the cause of collisions, then we’d be seeing more car-on-car fatalities as well, or at least a parallel uptick in collisions. We see the opposite. Cyclist deaths have increased 37%, whereas auto fatalities are up about 14% over a 5-year period, less than half that of cycling deaths. While cycling deaths rise, traffic fatalities as a whole have leveled off; there was actually a 1% decrease between 2017 and 2018.

To repeat: Cyclists get hit for the most part because motorists do not see them. It’s that simple.

And it’s a horrible analysis for the purposes of Zero Vision advocates, because these people are convinced that the solution to not being seen is to create segregated bike lanes and the like, even as they admit that such programs are stalled, or that they are long-term, or that implementation will more less always be blocked by angry motorists … like Flax’s co-residents in Manhattan Beach, whose rage at losing a lane of traffic on Vista Del Mar resulted in de-striping a Zero Vision bike lane.

Any logic or fact that points to something simpler, faster, and less expensive than a billion-dollar pork barrel infrastructure project gets ignored because Zero Vision advocates aren’t really interested in fixing the problem so much as they’re interested in the political process of allocating and spending the public pork. The best example? This incredibly damning paragraph in Flax’s article:

So while the NTSB analysis focused primarily on encouraging or mandating greater helmet use, as well as things cyclists, road designers, and carmakers should do so riders are more conspicuous to motorists, those factors don’t really explain why a serious, sustained uptick of deaths began in 2011. It’s not like helmet use had a major decline, or cities ripped out quality protected bike lanes, or high-viz apparel or auto headlights got worse. These factors, especially related to road design, might have an impact on fatalities going forward, but they don’t explain why more cyclists have been dying in the past decade.

Let’s break this down. First, Flax lists the flawed NTSB analysis about how to decrease cycling fatalities. He rightly notes that encouraging or mandating greater helmet use doesn’t explain increased deaths. If more people are riding and wearing helmets, why are more people still dying?

But he lumps “things cyclists, road designers, and carmakers should do so riders are more conspicuous to motorists” together with helmets as if more steps to encourage cyclist visibility to prevent fatalities is the same as wearing more helmets to mitigate the effects of getting hit. They are emphatically not the same. Helmets, to the extent that they do anything, protect you after you’ve been hit. Wearing more helmets won’t decrease collisions, and the cause of cyclist fatalities is the collision. As advocates have long noted, putting the blame on the cyclist, “You didn’t have a helmet so you deserved to die after that soccer mom hit you while texting,” is the epitome of victim blaming and abdication of responsibility for making the streets safer for bikes.

No, the things that cyclists can do to be more conspicuous to motorists is the absolute core of savvy cycling because it’s the one thing we absolutely know: Except in the most extreme cases, drivers do not intentionally hit cyclists. They hit them because cyclists are inconspicuous.

The corollary to this is key. Whereas more helmets won’t prevent collisions, more conspicuousness will. And bike lanes do not foster conspicuousness, they shunt riders off to the edge, where poor design and narrow roads force riders into the door zone or onto the far edge of the bike lane, next to the giant SUV mirrors and bumpers of passing traffic. Bike lanes are especially hazardous when they are random tack-ons, as they are here in LA, where you have a nice, wide green stripe that cars generally respect … until the stripe goes away for no reason at all.

The only thing that will keep you off mom’s windshield is being seen. And the only ways to reliably be seen by every car are to 1) park your ass in the travel lane when it makes sense to do so, and 2) illuminate yourself like an emergency vehicle rushing to a train wreck. I’ve found that even when splitting lanes or playing gutter bunny, huge lights alert cars and they take pains not to hit me.

Flax’s conclusion that we need more bike lanes is as horrific as it is nonsensical. He concludes that the death of a rider in NYC has a silver lining because it has caused a push in major bike lane/infrastructure construction, even though fatalities continue to increase as bike lanes continue to be built. “Hi, ma’am, sorry your son got run over by that dump truck. Here is a bike lane for you along with that one he was in when he got hit. Enjoy.”

This idiocy is on me-too parade in places like Encinitas, where North County planners, in response to more dead cyclists, have approved construction of a short “protected” bike lane (materializes out of nowhere, ends randomly) that will protect cars, but not the riders who are forced to dodge moms, dads, kids, surfers, walkers, strollers, and other traffic funneled into the Zero Vision solution.

Why won’t people simply admit that the best way to prevent getting hit is to be seen, and spread the word? Unless you’re willing to build a national network of protected bike lanes, at some point every rider is going to see that dreadful “Bike Lane Ends” sign and know that she is back in traffic, to say nothing of riders who pedal outside the inner city limits of LA and NYC, which is virtually all of them.

Riders do a great job of teaching others to do things like wear helmets. Public shaming, private admonition, and a whole host of other peer-pressure tools are instantly brought to bear that result in near-uniformity in cycling behavior when it comes to helmets. Similarly riders do a great job of teaching others lane control and conspicuousness when they understand it.

When I began teaching lane control on PCH several years back, the leader of my riding club publicly scorned the effort as dangerous and crazy. This very guy now leads every weekend ride down PCH … in the lane, and everyone in the club now knows that you’re safer when you’re seen. This behavior has converted hundreds, if not thousands of riders on PCH to take the lane when it makes sense to do so. And it hasn’t cost a penny of public money or required a single drop of green paint.

Cyclists don’t need infrastructure that’s never going to be built to keep them alive. They are perfectly capable of understanding concepts and passing them on, especially when survival is at stake.

But ridiculous articles brushing aside cyclist conspicuousness in favor of hiding cyclists from the traffic flow actively work to endanger more people, all under cover of a publication supposedly dedicated to cyclists written by a guy who ferfuxake actually commutes by bike.

The sad answer is that it’s easier to blame SUVs and cell phones sipping coffee at your keyboard than it is to take a Cycling Savvy class, move two feet over, and dump $500 into a legitimate bike lighting rig.

Oh, and don’t forget to wear your helmet. That’ll keep them from running you over, for sure.


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Good news!!

November 23, 2019 § 6 Comments

About two years ago I stopped reading the news.

Before that I was a news junkie, I mean a trash junkie. I would have to read the news first thing when I got up and then check it during the day.

One day I read an old article in the Guardian that explained how awful news is and how bad it is for you to read it. The takeaway was that not reading the news will make you happier.

I read this in the early days of the current presidency, which in and of itself was an unending source of unhappiness. Sure enough, when I stopped paying attention, I felt better.

Lots better.

Since I had never consumed teevee news, I became instantly insulated from the news effect, which is what I call the highs and crying jags that come from being emotionally manipulated. I found out that whatever happened to the stock market was going to happen. That the globe would continue to heat. That bad actors would continue their badness, and no matter how much I read about it or didn’t read about it, all those things would continue.

Most importantly, simply listening to people talk was enough to get the basics of what was “going on.” And what was “going on” is what’s always “going on.”

I started focusing on real events in my life and on people I actually know and hang out with, both of them. For me, news became “What had I and my family/friends done?” rather than “What high crimes and misdemeanors did the president commit today?”

This extended most importantly to cycling news. I used to actually pay attention to the results of a UCI 3.1 race in Belgium. I wanted to know who the next stage winner of Tour of Qinghai Lake was going to be. Vanderpoel’s latest cyclocross win? Had to know.

But that was all news, so I stopped reading it.

Actually, what I stopped read were advertisements. Online content now is designed so that you can’t get more than two or three paragraphs, sometimes lines, without having to read or consciously skip over an ad. It’s the ultimate brain cage. I compare it to the books I read, where you go page after page after page, hundreds of them, AND NEVER SEE AN AD.

See? Old technology isn’t all bad.

Despite all this, like a wino and his bottle, the background hum of impeachment has gotten so loud that I decided to read an article yesterday, if article is what you call modern Internet newsvertising. This was in the New York Times.

All I can say is that my generation and the ones preceding have left everything in tatters. There is no law, no order, no logic, no decency on the national stage. It’s not the president’s fault. He’s simply the most extreme exponent of a national creed that doesn’t want to study, think, discuss, compromise, and love strangers.

But the good news? I promised good news, so here it is: If you quit driving in order to become a full-time bike commuter in LA, you don’t have to give up your uninsured/underinsured motorist coverage, even if you no longer own a car.

Details to come!


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Night moves

November 14, 2019 § 5 Comments

Of all the reasons to ride a bike everywhere in Southern California, the best reason is the weather. Here it is, mid-November, and all you need is a light sweater, even at night. If you live at the top of a tall hill, as I do, even that might feel too warm.

Last night I rode to Santa Monica, across the street from Helen’s Cycles, to attend a Velo Club La Grange board meeting. It’s a 50-mile round trip, and I was there as a guest to present an award to Joe Duerr, the guy responsible for bringing the LG Grand Prix to the Porsche test track here in Carson.

Leaving Santa Monica at 7:30, things were hopping. But you simply don’t have trouble with cars when you are riding with nine high-beam bike lights. That’s two Diablos on the handlebars, four ApaceVision blinkers strapped to the seat stays, a Cygolite 150 on the seat post, and two more clipped to my rear jeans pockets.

Cars may think you’re in the way and they may think you slow them down, but when you are lit up they avoid you.

Coming home it was really quiet, especially on the bike path. We got passed by a couple of e-bikes. One guy said, “Great lights!” as he sped past. We caught him at a stop light.

“I used to commute on one of those,” he said, pointing to my bicycle. “But I got this for picking up groceries and stuff.”

I looked hard but didn’t see any groceries or any stuff. He sped off again.

In Manhattan Beach we were hungry for ice cream. When you ride your bike everywhere you don’t think twice about stopping for a giant double scoop of ice cream in a waffle cone. We sat outside with some German tourists, who were talking about tipping and how strange it was.

They were drunk-ish and began talking about smoking. “Do you think it’s okay to smoke?” one guy said in German.

“Probably not,” a lady said. “They don’t smoke outside here.”

“I don’t see any signs,” he protested. “And the street is empty except for those two.” The group glanced over at us, weird bicycle people, and I pretended not to understand.

Finally the guy took out his cigarettes, lit up, and started offering cigarettes to everyone else. The lady took one, then said to me in English, “Is smoking allowed here?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but it’s really nasty to breathe in your smoke.”

“That wasn’t the question,” she snapped.

“Well, it’s your fucking answer.”

Everyone paused in mid-puff, awkwardly. They were in business attire. Then they got up and started moving away. The lady looked at me, then at the group, and said in German “I suppose they are sensitive.” Everyone guffawed.

I looked back at her. “Leck mich doch,” I said, which means “Kiss my ass.”

Her jaw dropped. “What did you say?” she said in English.

I answered in German. “You heard me.”

Confused and embarrassed, the group hurried off, and we had the smoke-free street to ourselves.


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Cipollini, 52, dies from helmet-related illness

November 13, 2019 § 7 Comments

The cycling world was stunned to learn that superstar, doper, fashion criminal, tax dodge, race quitter, and flamboyant wife-beater Mario Cipollini, 52, died from an acute bicycle helmet-related illness yesterday in his hometown of Lucca, Italy.

We caught up with Super Mario after the interment to talk about his early demise.

Cycling in the South Bay: Dead at 52? Incredible. What happened?

Mario Cipollini: It is a rather uninteresting story. Can we talk about my 42 Giro wins? Binda only had 41.

CitSB: Sure. But first let’s talk about your death. How’d it happen?

MC: The doctors say it was helmet-related.

CitSB: How so?

MC: Before I turned pro I never raced with a helmet, and of course as a professional most of my career I raced without one until it became mandatory.

CitSB: I don’t get it.

MC: It’s cumulative. Sudden Helmetless-Induced Trauma hits you when you least expect it.

CitSB: Shit.

MC: Exactly. You never know when SHIT is going to hit the fan. In my case, I continued to not wear my helmet after I retired despite the advice of all the group ride participants and gran fondo riders. Not to mention hobby bicyclists who would pass me on the street and shout, “Where’s your helmet?”

CitSB: What did the doctors say?

MC: They said that SHIT is dangerous and that I could die without my helmet at any moment.

CitSB: Can you explain how SHIT works?

MC: The doctors don’t understand the mechanism exactly. They say it has to do with how helmets protect your brain from excessive wind flow outside of your skull. Once the helmet is removed for long periods of time, the molecules in the skin surrounding your skull degrade due to the wind, and then the skull itself degrades, imperceptibly, until finally the wind blows away your brain cells until there is nothing left but dust. And a little bit of cocaine residue, if that was your thing.

CitSB. Shit.

MC: For years the doctors thought that you could protect against SHIT, even if you didn’t have a helmet, with a large mane of rich, thick, luxurious, flowing hair.

CitSB: Which you have.

MC: Had.

CitSB: Right.

MC: But apparently over time even long, beautiful locks cannot protect against SHIT.

CitSB: That’s terrifying.

MC: So you can imagine how frightening it is for the average MAMIL, who doesn’t have much hair to begin with.

CitSB: Comb-overs?

MC: Those are the deadliest. The doctors say that a comb-over, or worse, a little round patch in back like St. Francisco Xavier give a false sense of security. Such people must wear helmets all the time or they will be in deep SHIT.

CitSB: Any regrets?

MC: None, except for that time I rode for Rock Racing. What a humiliating end to a magnificent career.

CitSB: Yes, that was rather shameful.

MC: But SHIT happens.

CitSB: Indeed.


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Mario Cipollini, Stage IV, Sudden Helmetless-Induced Trauma

You got this

November 12, 2019 § 17 Comments

I have wanted a drink since I quit drinking, November-the-something, five years ago. Five long years.

Back in August I was walking down the street in Vienna and I started shaking. My stomach was bare and I wanted a drink.

One of my friends had said to me when I embarked on this particular journey, “You can’t white-knuckle it. Eventually you’re going to break.” He knew what he was talking about; he’d been in AA for more than twenty years.

Ever since going on the wagon, my favorite part of the grocery store has been the beer aisle. I’ll walk down it and gaze longingly, lovingly, lustily, greedily, at the pretty cans and bottles of beer. I’ll read their labels, examine how they’re set in the cooler, I’ll even read their prices.

Most of all, I’ll imagine how they taste, and when I slip into that brief moment, I’m transported.

It all ends when I get to the end of the aisle, though, because I know. Down that aisle lies pleasure and joy and relief, but it is also seeded with death. I escaped it once, I remind myself. Not going to be so lucky next time.

But it was next time, that warm evening in Vienna. No one was ever going to know, and I wanted a beer so badly that like I said, I was shaking.

“Fuck it,” I growled, brimming with defiance. “I’m going to have a beer. JUST ONE.”

My whole attitude changed. It was no big deal. I could handle this. It had been almost five years. It was just a bottle of beer. I’d have one and be done. Really, Seth. No big deal.

No big deal? Then why was I so frenziedly happy? I trawled the sausage section and picked out the perfect spicy salami; Austria is nothing if not sausage heaven. Then I grabbed a block of pure Austrian butter and a loaf of thick rye bread to slather it on. My mouth watered.

Finally I got to the beer aisle. Compared to California, it was an impoverished place, with only a couple of craft beers, neither of which looked too crafty. But I studied each bottle and can, trying to figure out which one would have the best combination of high alcohol content and good taste. I settled on the red and brown bottle, a Stiegl.

I bought it and took it home, set it on the desk, unwrapped the bread and butter and salami, and then almost tore my hand off trying to get the bottle open.

The beer gurgled and foamed as it reached the brim of the cup, filling the room with the world’s best smell. I savored it, and then I dove in, headfirst, with all my clothes on. It was everything I thought it was going to be, only more, and better. Every cell in my body screamed “Welcome, old friend!” as the cold beer drained down my throat into my stomach.

I set the empty plastic cup down, giddy, then refilled it.

In between mouthfuls, I slowly worked on that bottle of beer, until about ten minutes in the buzz came. It hit like a soft ripple and built into a strengthening wave. I could feel the circuits switching off, things that hurt didn’t hurt anymore, the blood stanched, the wounds healed.

“How I have missed you,” I thought as the numbness spread.

But then a strange thing happened as I sat there, mildly drunk. I took another sip and it just tasted sour. Sour, rotten water in a cup that someone had pissed in first and topped off with bile.

“That’s odd,” I thought, and cut another thick slice of bread. I ate the whole slab and looked at the bottle, which was still one-third full. I raised the cup again to my lips and it was even more sour. I felt like I wanted to puke.

I pushed my chair back and looked out the window. The pleasant numbness wasn’t pleasant anymore. “I want my mind back,” I mused. “Such as it is.”

I finished the dinner but not the beer. I watched, disinterestedly, as the remnants of the bottle swirled down the sink in the bathroom. The next day I was fine, and sooth to say, a little proud of myself. Sometimes it’s not enough to quit. You also have to know.

I don’t walk down the beer aisle anymore.


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Carmaggeddon Day #44: Path to destruction

November 8, 2019 § 10 Comments

I tried to figure out how much I’ve been riding since I quit driving back on August 17. Closest I could figure was, “A bunch.”

But how bunchy?

Before going to bed I whipped out my analog Stravver and wrote down the most recent rides I could remember. I’m sure I’ve left several off, but the total is about 620 miles in the last 15 days, or a touch over 300 miles/week. It also leaves off my epic commute to Rancho Cucamonga and a slew of other rides before that.

That is nothing if you are Napoleon Moore, who rides 100 miles+ per day, or if you’re Shirtless Keith, who logs over 18,000 miles a year.

But if you are me, it is a lot of miles and it means you are tired and dragging around bags under your eyes that look like you’ve lost a bad fistfight. I suspect it’s because I’m slow, old, weak, riding a heavy bike with fat tires and lugging a Kryponite + cable, but it’s probably also got to do with the fact that in addition to all that bike riding there is a pile of work that goes along with it. Another thing about commuting in LA: You hit lots of lights and so there is a bunch of starting.

Today I only have about 30 miles on the menu, but I’ve got 150+ coming up over the weekend. I don’t hate my bike yet, but I look at her differently.

Here are some #fakestats:

  1. Daily calories burned: 3,000-5,000
  2. Daily hours on bike: 2-6.
  3. Daily calories consumed: As many as I can get in my mouth.
  4. Tires replaced: 1.
  5. Flats: 0.
  6. Mechanicals: 1/2, when my rear derailleur got badly out of whack and Boozy P. had to fix ‘er up.
  7. Number of times hit in shin by rock: 1.
  8. Late appointments: 0.
  9. Miserable commutes: 0.
  10. Cups of ice cream at Union Station: 6
  11. Bicycle falling off incidents: 0.
  12. Pants waist: 30.
  13. Weight: Nothing fits.
  14. Riding lights: 9.
  15. Regrets: 0.


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