August 5, 2015 § 37 Comments
One thing I realized pedaling on heavy bikes across Germany is that nothing beats flat pedals, so I put them on my $75,000 racing bike and they go super awesome with my new Ceramic Speed bearings from FastForward. The pedals are made of plastic, which is pre-carbon, and they are 100% pre-carbon, made completely of pre-carbon.
You probably think I’m joking, but ask Toronto and Hollywood and Ronan’s hockey coach, who all saw me out running errands on Monday afternoon, all fredded out with my walking shorts and regular shoes and flat pedals and backpack, which was filled with two onions, a bag of celery, a bag of carrots, and a whole chicken because I was making chicken soup for dinner.
But I’m not joking, and if you want to turn your $75,000 full-carbon race machine into something that is:
- Easy to ride.
… then we are talking about a $10 upgrade, unless you want to get really fancy and buy high-performance flat pedals for $20 bucks or so. High-performance onion/celery/carrot/chicken carrying is the next big thing.
I’m really not joking.
How many times have you thought, “Fuck, I’d like to hop on my bike and get a quart of milk and some condoms,” but then you’ve immediately thought, “Fuck, I have to wear cleats, and then carry flip-flops, and then switch back and forth from cleats to flip-flops at the milk store and again at the condom store, ahh, fuck it,” and then you got in your car and spent $2.79 in gas and ruined part of the Amazon to drive down to the corner when you could have saved Mother Earth and been part of the solution not the problem all because of those sorry clip-in pedals.
Nope, I’m dead serious, clip-in pedals suck and they always have. What they are, is an improvement over the old toe straps where you had to coast, wobbling, while bending over to fiddle with a leather strap as you struggled to steer around a pothole and brake in time not to shoot out into the intersection and wet yourself or break your humerus in three places. Clip-ins were a big improvement over that shit.
Also, clip-ins made you faster, not because of some stupid circular pedaling mumbo-jumbo or pulling up on the back stroke, but because they chained you to the beast and allowed you to transfer more force to the pedal while allowing you to hold onto the bike in a vise-grip fear of death, further increasing the power transfer.
Otherwise, clip-in pedals suck huge donkey pustules because they discourage you from using your bike to, you know, do useful shit like riding to the bike shop to buy more bike stuff to make your bike even more useful for running errands like riding to the bike shop.
For example, once you get flat pedals you can buy a pair of these pants on one of your trips to the bike shop to get more bike stuff to enhance the usefulness of riding your bike, and yes, I’ve already ordered a pair and am saving up for the mountaineering thingy key chain and the fancy brickwork.
Clip-ins are also hell and ruination for new riders. We’ve all been there. Some friend/S-O/sucker gets interested in bikes, or more likely, gets guilted into it by you, saves up $75,000, and asks you for help at the LBS in getting set up. You go to the bike shop together, in a car of course. “Gotta have Campy 19-speed, full carbon.”
“Gotta have a Giant full carbon aero frame made of 100% carbon.”
“Gotta get tricked out in a StageOne carbon summer kit with bibs, fall kit with windbreaker and vest, and winter kit with long-sleeve insulated jersey and matching leg warmers.”
“Can’t walk out of here without three cases of artisanal electrolyte replacement drink mix.”
“And you need these shoes. They are full carbon.”
“Why do I need the shoes? I already have shoes.”
“To fit onto your pedals. They are full carbon, too.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The pedals are like ski bindings. They lock your foot to the pedal.”
“So I’m locked onto the bike?”
“What happens when I need to get out of the pedals?”
“You twist hard.”
“What happens if I can’t do it fast enough? You know, like at a stop sign?”
“You crash. But you’ll learn quicker that way.”
“So I have to crash my $75,000 bike in order to ride it?”
“Pretty much. Until you learn how to use the pedals.”
“How long does that take?”
“Depends. Some people get the hang of it in a few weeks, others take longer.”
“How much longer?”
“Oh, some people never get it down.”
“And all the while they’re crashing because they can’t take their foot off the pedal?”
“Something like that.”
“Well fuck that.”
And then the friend/S-O/sucker walks out of the bike shop with all the purchases still on the counter and takes up hot bikram crossfit golf.
Even worse are the thousands who buy the bike and pedals, fall over a few times, and never ride again. And remind me what the purpose of the pedals was for these BEGINNER BIKERS? So they can ride faster? Faster than what, a mailbox? I recall my old girlfriend from college who hated bicycles and couldn’t really ride one, so I badgered her into getting a $275 Nishiki with toe clips and straps. On her maiden voyage down the block she tumped over, feet strapped into the clips, whammed her head, got a concussion and had a short seizure. Welcome to cycling and the excitement of being tied to your bike! She never rode again, of course.
See you on the road. Hope you like my knickers.
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August 4, 2015 § 10 Comments
Before we get started with the recap of Sunday’s Brentwood Grand Prix Bicycle Race and Bicycle Falling Off Contest, let’s observe a moment of silence as we take in the awesome magnificence of this truly incredible photo and its stupendously impressive subject:
(Photo credit: Phil Beckman, pbcreativephoto.com)
This is, in fact, the apotheosis of life imitating art: The subject, who appears to be either winning something or on the verge of doing so, is in fact un-handily placed about 55 riders back. The fierce look of determination that suggests an indomitable will to win is actually a gasp of dismay at being momentarily forced to take a pull on Lap Two. The aggressive posturing so suggestive of a podium in fact adumbrates a very-close-to-DFL finish.
And how could it be otherwise? This race honors the memory of Raymond Fouquet, a man who only wanted people to enjoy cycling, and it honors him by throwing vicious, bloodthirsty psychopaths into a treacherous, winding, undulating, windswept course that tears everyone to shreds.
The only race that I had any chance of winning was the one to the starting line, and even there I got 29th place. Immediately to my left were the usual gang of assassins and pretend-friends, but one stood out. Like a hemophiliac Hapsburg passing on self-destructive genes to hopelessly inbred family members, the awful chromosomes of Labor Power again reared their head in the shallow and twisted gene pool of the 50+ Leaky Prostate Masters Race.
No matter the jersey, no matter the sponsor, the terrible hereditary vices of SoCal cycling’s most nefarious team would rise from the sepulchre once again as Genghis Hahn brought to the table no knife and fork but rather a chainsaw and a belt of hand grenades. His prospects looked grim midway through the race when he washed out his front wheel in the 180-degree turn, skidded across the pavement like a badly thrown newspaper, and unraveled several yards of hip and thigh skin over the asphalt.
It looked like this, only worse, except perhaps for the gentleman with splayed legs who is now officially a woman:
(Photo credit: Chad Moston)
While those who still had delusions of victory smiled a happy smile at Genghis’s early and violent demise, and others wildly leaped over his head, crashed into his spine, or skidded on his face, Genghis had only one thought, and it was the same thought he’d had when the race began: “I will crush all you motherfuckers and make you as miserable as if you’d had to eat fifty yards of your own shit.”
Genghis limped over to the wound care and bike replacement tent, got a new bike and a new leg, jumped back into the fray, made the split when the race finally came apart, covered the last-gasp attacks and wrenched victory from the snarling, snapping, frothing, ebola-spewing jaws of defeat as blood oozed from his ass and the wretched howls of the vanquished filled the air.
When interviewed after the race and asked to say a few words about his sponsor and to perhaps thank the promoters for putting on a fantastic event, Genghis spat blood, laced with shards of tooth and herpes onto the fawning crowd below and said, “Labor.”
And he meant it.
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August 1, 2015 § 32 Comments
Pedaling my way across Germany was a kind of hell because I’m an alcoholic, not a recovering one but an active, big chain ring, I’D LIKE A FUCKING DRINK RIGHT NOW AND HURRY THE FUCK UP alcoholic. That was a problem because Germany was filled with beer and everyone was drinking and 99% of the drinkers were drinking responsibly and all I wanted was JUST ONE LITTLE DRINK I PROMISE I’LL BE GOOD.
It was very unpleasant and so every time my knees started to buckle and my hands started to shake and my mouth got dry I would resolve to have a beer but first I’d have a coffee. Then I’d sit down and have the coffee and would resolve that before I had the beer I’d have something to eat and after that for sure I was going to wash my throat with a fresh tasty German beer.
Then I’d finish the food or the cake (usually cake) and tell myself that the beer would have to wait until I was done biking for the day or walking for the day or daying for the day. And somehow through this process I was getting to bed every night sober in the paradise of beer.
Each day, though, was as mentally exhausting as the Flog Ride, straining as I was to bust loose.
Then I got a note from a pal who has been going through some alcohol difficulties of his own. He said that he was really looking forward to the end of September so that he could reward himself with a drink. At first I thought he was kidding but he wasn’t.
“I’ve reprogrammed my brain,” he said. “I’ve taught it that there’s a place in my life for alcohol but I have to use it in moderation.” This shook me to the core. We were five days into our ride when I got the message, I was beat, and every kilometer we we seemed to be pedaling past a beer garden filled with happy people and very tasty-looking beer.
“Have I been doing this wrong?” I wondered. “Shouldn’t I just be reprogramming my brain and using alcohol to my benefit instead of my detriment? Why am I putting myself through all this trial and denial?” It was worse than the Nancy Reagan Sex Abstinence Program (which I’d never tried but had been scarred by even learning about) and I felt like a fool and resolved to really truly actually have a moderate beer that evening, and possibly two moderate ones. But not three. Okay, three moderates ones, but not four,
The closer it got to beer time, though, the more worried I got. Hadn’t I been down this road before and didn’t it always end in a headache and too many numbers to the left of the decimal point on my credit card bill? My brain didn’t feel reprogrammed anyway, it felt like the brain of a raging drunk who’d been denied his life fluid for too damned long and couldn’t wait to get smashed.
The more I thought about it the clearer it became: My friend and I are different. He has a programming problem whereas I’m an unreconstructed drunk. This was terribly depressing because I knew the statistics: Only 5% of alcoholics succeed with abstinence or AA-type abstinence programs.
That makes sense because when you have a bad drinking problem and you quit, for it to work it has to be forever. I’m an impatient person on the best of days; forever isn’t a time frame on my planning calendar.
I got off my bike and leaned it against a tree as my son and I sat on the grass and shared an apple, tired and many miles from our day’s destination, which itself was only a waypoint on a long journey. I considered the metaphor.
Then I catalogued the good things that had happened since I got on the misery treadmill of moment-by-moment sobriety.
- I’d won a bike race.
- I’d started doing the dishes.
- I’d lost 20 pounds.
- I was in the middle of an amazing trip with my son.
- I had saved several thousand dollars and invested them in 100% carbon products made of full carbon.
- I’d decreased my social media presence by 99%.
- I’d begun flossing.
Instead of life spinning wildly out of control, thanks to the sobriety-misery treadmill it was merely on the verge of spinning wildly out of control. If you don’t think there’s a difference in quality of life between those two states, you’re wrong.
My son and I finished the apple and contemplated, briefly, the long and tiring road ahead. “We’d better get going,” my son said.
“Yes,” I answered, throwing my leg over the top tube. “We’d better.”
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July 30, 2015 § 28 Comments
My friend Derek wrote the other day, concerned. “Dude,” he said, “I get the whole Germany trip father-son bonding thing but there are concerns being voiced within the community that Cycling in the South Bay has become way too Eurocentric.”
“What community? The community of crazies?” I emailed back.
“No, man, your three readers.”
“What do you propose?”
“I will write a guest blog to kind of bring things back to this side of the Atlantic.”
“You will? Awesome!”
So he did and I emailed him right away. “Dude,” I said, “this doesn’t have anything to do with cycling.”
“What about my editorial standards?”
“I’d never noticed any.”
“Look, you can just add a few things here and there to make it more cycling-ish. No one will ever notice.”
“Okay,” I said. So here it is:
A drive-by guest blog from Derek Brauch
The Donald Trump campaign is fascinating. It’s the final fusion of the reality TV world with, well, reality. Donald Trump, the hard-nosed businessman who plays a hard-nosed businessman named Donald Trump on a reality show has brought the reality TV show Donald Trump character to a real presidential race. And of course he’s killing it. The Donald Trump reality TV show character does not have “Oops” moments a la Rick Perry because Trump doesn’t have pre-rehearsed inoffensive, bland, non-controversial talking points, which are the ones politicians believe the least and hence find so easy to dramatically forget under pressure. Trump’s analysis of Froome’s Tour victory was bold and unapologetic when he said that “all cyclists should be lured out onto freeways and killed like Cecil the Lion.”
The success of having a fake character run for a real political office got me thinking: Can Trump extend this formula to his cabinet selections? Of course he can. And I think that his cabinet would look like this:
Department of the Interior – Kim Kardashian
This young up-and-comer carved out her niche and made a tremendous amount of money with her wildly successful TV reality show. She will also make a great bikini model for the new ten dollar bill, and is rumored to be seeing Chris Froome behind Kanye’s back.
Attorney General – Judge Judy
An obvious choice, Judge Judy, like Trump’s reality-imitating-reality TV persona, is a real judge who plays a judge on a TV show. Also like Trump, there is no room for gray in her reality. On the offing is a perfect black and white world, with none of the tiresome thinking that is intrinsic to uncertainty, negotiation, and compromise. Judge Judy would also make sure Chris Froome was thoroughly tested.
Surgeon General – Dr. Drew Pinsky
Completely selling out your real patients and their real addictions heedless of the predictably disastrous consequences, and all for public entertainment and personal enrichment doesn’t get your psychiatric license pulled, it gets you promoted to top doctor. Doc Pinsky could also do a public psychoanalysis of Oleg Tinkov.
Secretary of Treasury – Theresa Guidice
A simple pardon will free up this choice, along with dropping the False Claims Act case against Lance.
This one is too sensitive a selection to be revealed yet but let’s just say Honey Boo-Boo, leave your phone on.
July 29, 2015 § 10 Comments
The best part about buying our bikes in Germany was not having to pack or ship them or pay excess baggage of $250 per bike, and the worst part was going to be trying to sell them before we left. Before doing a please-come-rob-and-beat-me-up ad on Craigslist I stopped by a used bike shop filled with rusted out POS specials and which had a sign saying “We buy bikes.”Our two Radon ZR Team MTB’s were the newest thing that had been in the shop since the owner put on a new sweater back in ’95.
Mehmet, the owner, eyed them suspiciously. “Where you steal them? I’m not telling, our secret.”
“They aren’t stolen. We bought them in Bonn two weeks ago and rode to Berlin.”
“Yeah sure, of course,” Mehmet said, dismissing the presumed three consecutive lies. “And now you must sell quick, yes?”
“So you can show receipt?”
“Actually, you see … ” I had thrown them away with the manuals in Koblenz.
Mehmet waited patiently for my explanation, nodding sympathetically. “Yeah so I can give you 75€.”
“I paid 400€ and they’re barely two weeks old.”
“75€ each,” he added, effectively halving his earlier offer.
“Thanks,” I said. “Let me check around before I take that.”
“Next time I see you, 50€,” he smiled and waved.
I went to the grocery store and got some wet wipes. It’s amazing how dirty two bikes can get in two weeks. An hour later they were clean, photographed, and posted in a “Like New!” scammer’s special on Craigslist.
Several buyers emailed, all wanting copies of the receipt. I was asking 200€ apiece. I had to admit, it did sound sketchy that, buying new with intent to quickly resell, I had tossed the receipts, but I managed to get a screen shot of my Visa statement and emailed the relevant transaction to the inquiring murderers.
“You take 175€?” asked Gregor from Potsdam.
“200€ each, firm. They are pristine.” And they were, except for the scratches, dents, dings, malfunctioning brakes and shifters and drivetrain, slow leak in the front and worn-through spot on the rear tire.
“Ok. When can see? Today? Now?”
Gregor showed up with his friend Tobias, who was 6′ 6″. I am not kidding.
“Test ride ok?”
I saw that they could simply hop on and ride off. “Sure,” I said.
They disappeared around the corner. Five minutes later I shrugged, pissed that I’d passed up Mehmet’s offer but glad that Tobias hadn’t punched my face.
A pregnant woman walked up. “Have you seen my husband?”
“I don’t know your husband. I don’t think.”
She furrowed her brow. “He was coming to buy a bike.”
At that moment Gregor and Tobias whizzed around the corner, smiling like kids. “These are fantastic!” He pulled out 400€ and stuffed them into my hand. “Thank you! Can we buy you a beer?” They were the kindest people.
“I don’t drink,” I said, bringing back all of their earlier suspicions about my trustworthiness.
“That’s okay,” said Kristina, “we will buy you a nice water.”
We walked over to Burger Amt, where Tobias ate enough for twelve people. They insisted that I eat, and we got to talking about East Germany, where they were from. At first I was puzzled by their polite and respectful attitude until I realized that I was old enough to be their dad.
“You should come to Potsdam, it is so beautiful,” said Gregor, so I told them that I would. Then I realized that I couldn’t, as I I no longer had a bike.
July 28, 2015 § 18 Comments
“So I can meet my new friend!”
“What new friend?”
“A new friend I met in a chat room.”
“What is this friend’s name?”
“That’s nice. And how old is Mr. Tanaka?”
“I dunno. Twenty or fifty or something. But he is a very nice man.”
So we sat down with her and explained that the Internet is filled with axe-murderers and even though Mr. Tanaka probably seemed like a very nice man the chances were good that he was a bloodthirsty killer and therefore not only would she not be meeting him that summer but henceforth she would follow The Rule: Thou shalt never make physical contact with a virtual friend.
On my way to Berlin I received an invitation from a stranger via my blog to meet up and go for a bike ride once we got there. He seemed like a very nice man and I had completely forgotten about Mr. Tanaka, so a few days later I emailed him.
“Hey, Ben, I’m in town and if the offer’s still good let’s go ride. Signed, Seth.”
He immediately emailed back. “Who is this?”
“The blogger dude you invited for a ride, but no worries.”
“Oh, it’s the world-famous Mr. Wankmeister. I was thrown by the name and the law office address in your email. I had no idea you were a lawyer, I thought you were unemployed. Yeah, let’s ride, mate.”
We squared away the details, then this came: “Is it okay if one of my mates joins us?”
“Sure. The more the merrier.”
“He just got here from France where he’s been doing a bit of riding and I told him about you and he checked out your blog and thought he’d have a go. He’s a super nice guy, great rider too, absolutely doesn’t feel pain.”
Suddenly the “merrier” prediction didn’t seem so apt.
“Okay, but you guys might be riding by yourself as I’m on a mountain bike with flat pedals and am very old and slow.”
“No worries,” he replied, to which I replied, silently, “Worries.”
I got lost en route to the meeting place and was mightily disappointed to find they had waited.
As I’d feared, they had the grim look of Internet axe-murderers, and the label on Ben’s cap that said “SUICIDAL” failed to instill confidence. “I’m Ben, this is Tristan, but we just call him ‘Assassin.'”
“Shocking,” I said. I had broken The Rule and was getting ready to pay. Dearly.
They were both from Tasmania, and if you think Australians are friendly, wait until you meet a Tasmanian. By the time we’d finished introductions they had offered to buy me dinner, treat me to some new beers, help me sell my bikes before leaving Berlin, take me to the airport, let me borrow their girlfriends, and give me a place to stay if I’m ever in Tasmania.
Then we started riding and they tore my legs off.
I spent the first hour doing sprint starts at each traffic signal as Ben bolted away. I spent the second hour clinging to Tristan’s wheel on the forested rollers around Wannsee. My age, heavy bike, wide tires, and flat pedals only encouraged them to twist the knife, even as I remarked on my recent AARP membership.
We finally stopped for coffee, then remounted and did it all over again. They were a bit disappointed that they hadn’t been able to dislodge their dad–they were both 23–but they had a solution.
“Let’s ride again Tuesday. I’m a bit tired today from my 250-km workout yesterday,” said Tristan.
On Tuesday I got up at 4:30, ate black bread with butter, had a cup of instant, and crossed the city for our 6:00 start. I got to Ben’s but no one was waiting out front. I checked my phone to see a message from Tristan sent late the night before explaining how he suddenly couldn’t make it.
I was relieved and it crossed my mind that, after our previous ride, perhaps he was, too.
I spent the morning doing a perfectly slow tour of the city’s monuments, uncrowded, beautiful, peaceful, serene.
July 27, 2015 § 19 Comments
The most awesome thing that has happened to me on this trip happened yesterday. There I was, sitting at a streetside cafe in my smelly socks and dirty cap, when a dude came up and asked me where the East Train Station was. In German.My heart began pounding I was so excited, but I covered up my enthusiasm with a look of vague annoyance and, using the fewest words possible in order to hide my origins, thumbed down the road and said, “That way.” Then to rub in the fact that I was a local, I added “East.”
He was grateful and thanked me, as he’d been lugging a giant box for what looked liked several thousand miles. I later found out that I’d sent him in the completely wrong direction and that he hadn’t been asking about the station, but no matter: I had passed the “looks Euro” test with flying colors and could now retire undefeated.
If you’re planning a trip to Europe here is a quick guide on how to look Euro so people will speak to you in a language you don’t understand and you can answer them in thickly accented, broken, unintelligible English to make them think you are Slovenian. The key is to NOT look like an American tourist, which is impossible.
- Carry a cigarette. Better, smoke one. Best, smoke one while exercising.
- Carry an open bottle of beer. Better, carry one in each hand. Best, wear baggy pants with giant cargo pockets and put three bottles in each one.
- Wear an American logo, but an obscure one. “Nike” and “Raiders” are out, “West Appaloosa BrewCo” in tiny cursive type on a faded olive background, in.
- Bring your small children and chain smoke around them. Better, make sure they smoke, too. Best, share your beers with the tots while you all smoke together.
- Order a cup of coffee, drink it over a two-hour period, then sit there staring at the empty cup for another four. Reading or phone checking is forbidden, vacant staring is mandatory. Better, make it six hours. Best, fall asleep.
- Study your money for days before departure and NEVER fumble with coins or bills trying to decipher the denominations. Better to indifferently drop a 50€ note that the vendor can’t change while buying a 50-cent drink than to try and figure out if the coins in your pocket are the right ones.
- Never try to pay with a credit card, especially where they are accepted.
- Stink a little. Better, stink a lot. Best, smell like a garbage dump while wearing immaculate designer clothing.
- Ride a bike everywhere, even when it’s 100 feet away. Better, ride a rusted out POS with a warped rear rim, a flat tire, and a 40-kg security chain wrapped around the basket. Best, steal a fancy racing bike with racing pedals and use it for errands wearing flip-flops. Better, bare feet. Best, push it.
- Lug around a stack of dirty newspapers bound with a string whose headline reads, “Revolution Now!” and ask cafe patrons to buy a copy for 10 cents or 50€. Better, sit on the stack with a beer and a cigarette and curse passers-by. Best, beg.