Yesterday morning, I was heading south on Lowell and turning left onto 91st when a woman heading east on 91st Terrace went straight through the intersection towards 91st St after I was already well into my turn. She, in effect, wanted to share precious intersection space with me. I saw it happening, easily adjusted my course and we pulled into the eastbound lane side by side with me in the middle and her next to the curb. She sped ahead with a look of shock (reproach? distaste?) on her face and I moved to the right behind her. I tried to catch her at Foster – you know, for a friendly reminder about paying attention – but the light turned before I got there and she was gone. Oh well.

This morning, I was much closer to home at an intersection within an apartment complex. I was heading east on Kings Cove Dr, and the driver heading north on Brittany St and turning west into me. When I say “into me” that’s exactly what I mean. In spite of my rather crazy bright light (ok, only 140 lumens) and bright fluorescent windbreaker, the driver clearly didn’t see me and just pulled out. I saw it coming though, and easily engaged pulled into the oncoming lane with a rather loud, throaty and heart-felt “WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING!!” I’m sure they only heard “WAt wer yr gn…” I looked back and they were stopped (in the middle of the road). I can only hope they had to stop b/c their own inattentiveness lanced adrenalized terror through their chest. That might be too naïve though.

Rather than continue the focus on the well covered topic of driver inattention, I want to turn the focus away from what others are doing, and point out two things:

1. I made it safely through both scenarios because I was paying attention, was planning ahead and was riding defensively. I can’t help whether drivers are paying attention, or if they’re reading, writing, putting on makeup, eating, using their mobile phone to text or talk, or any of the 10,000 other things people do instead of drive, but I can help whether I’m paying attention, and at the end of the day, that’s what’s going to keep me rubber side down.
2. These back-to-back near incidents inspired me to do something I’ve needed to do for some time. In the first case, it’s entirely possible that, because of my bike’s position relative to the woman driving and the position of the lighting on my bike (front and rear only), she just didn’t see me. Additionally, it was that low visibility dusk/dawn period. I’ll give her that. So, I’ve ordered a helmet light I can flash in people’s eyes, and two rear lights I’ll attach to my fork pointing to the sides. I used to have that setup, but I let it slide through exchanging this bike for that, that light for this, etc., you know how it goes. I’m also looking into some highly-reflective tape for my pannier and frame (nod to CommuterDude for the tips on electrical tape and placement).
   

So, there you have it. I’ve had two near-encounters with inattentive drivers in as many days, after zero encounters in years. I’m sure it’s a statistical anomaly, rather than an indication of things to come, but just to be sure, I’m ramping up my visibility.

Just do me a favor will you, don’t tell my wife about this. She worries enough as it is. :)

I recently read a post by Dave wherein he basically says he’s going to drive the speed limit and if you don’t like it, then that’s just tough.

I read another post by rainycamp over at Bike Noob wherein he marvels at the general looniness of drivers.

I’m right there on board with Dave. I drive the speed limit, give (or even take) a couple mph. Sometimes, when I’m passing I even drive the speed limit in the passing lane (note it’s called the “passing lane” and not the “speeding lane”). Yes. I’m that guy. *gasp* The horror! The aggravation obvious in the wild gesticulations, disgusted shaking of heads and clearly mouthed epithets of those behind me wishing to push the limits of officer tolerance do nothing to sway me. Believe me, you’ll get where you’re going, and not only will you do it with less risk of catastrophe, but you’re likely shaving more seconds off the end of your life from the stress of raging at me, than you’re losing due to my abhorrent adherence to the speed limit. So calm down, relax, and enjoy your extra life.

I also understand where rainycamp is coming from. There have been precious few trips I’ve made in my car where I didn’t witness someone doing something either remarkably stupid, or utterly ineffectual and inefficient.

We’ve all seen drivers peel away at stop lights only to have to stop at the next one a block or two away. What a sad waste of gas and increased wear & tear.

We’ve all seen drivers jockey for position with sudden and rapid repeated lane changes, only to find themselves stopped at the same light as we are, having gained all of a single car length advantage.

We’ve all seen drivers swerve across three lanes of 65+mph traffic to make the exit they weren’t paying attention to.

We’ve all seen drivers reading while they drive. Or putting on make-up. Or eating with both hands. Or texting. Or fully turned around to smack a kid up in the backseat.

We’ve all seen the driver pass us at +20mph on the highway, only to end up alongside us after an exit ramp, or the stop light when we reach town, or better yet, on the side of the road being ticketed for speeding, thus losing all their speed advantage, and some of their money to boot.

Witnessing those, and other completely pointless acts of idiocy never fails to completely baffle me. I know it shouldn’t. I know I should be cynical and jaded enough that such things no longer surprise me, but I can’t help it. I’m constantly amazed at what seems to be such criminally willful stupidity and a complete lack of situational and consequential awareness.

Furthermore, riding a bike makes obvious through my own physical efforts the physics of movement, momentum and speed, and the cost of acceleration. I carry those lessons over to my driving, and have, as a consequence, made conscious and concerted efforts to eliminate idiocy from my own driving. I’m sure there are a few things (more than a few, likely) that I still do that I’ll eventually correct… my education isn’t finished, but it’s on its way.

Some of the things I do in an attempt to create a safe, effective and efficient trip for myself (because all I can control is my own actions) include, but are not exclusive to:

• Plan well ahead to minimize lane changes, thus reducing the risk of collision.
• Use my turn signal. Yes. I really do. In fact, I take it one step further and use my turn signal to alert other drivers of my intention. That’s right. I use it to tell other drivers what I want to do, not what I am doing. Note the difference there. It’s subtle, I know, but it’s critical. I like to think people appreciate it, but I doubt it.
• If I miss my turn, I don’t scream across three lanes to make it at the last possible second… I skip it, take the next turn, and back track. No big deal. I lose a few minutes, but I don’t present an undue threat, compound the already significant risks involved, or increase natural stress level inherent to the speeds at which we travel (no one gets road ragey with me when I make relaxed, gradual and advertised lane changes).
• Set the cruise control at the speed limit to eliminate the risk of a ticket, and to remove the additional distraction of having to worry about my speed. Yes, I do this everywhere and at all times save inclement weather.
  • I’ve not found any documentation to say it increases wear on modern transmissions and engines at lower speeds as it used to.
  • I maintain my foot in position in case of the need to suddenly brake (which I’m more able to observe, given that I’m not worried about my speed).
  • I refuse to be intimidated by tailgating. If someone chooses to tailgate me, that’s their choice. I won’t speed for them, nor will I change lanes out of their way any faster or slower than were they not tailgating. This includes periods of time during which I’m passing other drivers in the passing lane. Folk are free to tailgate, but it’s not on me if there’s a collision and I’m behaving in an otherwise safe and law-abiding manner. Besides, I’m due for a new car anyway. I won’t make special arrangements for tailgaters one way or the other. Tailgating me increases the risk of collision without introducing a corresponding benefit. Were that more people opted not to capitulate to highway intimidation tactics (aka, bullying).
  • Driving the speed limit everywhere may give rise to the opinion that I’m an “Old Fogey”, or even an “A$$hole.” That’s fine. It’s just an opinion, and that particular one is meaningless to me.
• Generally speaking, I’ve made attempts to start thinking of myself as part of a system, rather than an individual. Sure, I, like everyone else, have my own agenda and destination, but until I reach it, I’m just one small, relatively insignificant part of a much larger and incomprehensibly complex whole.

The other day I came up behind a minivan with a few odds and ends on the back that amused me. First, near the top was an obviously home printed sign taped to the inside of the rear window that read “What is the speed limit?”. Below that, and above the license plate was another sign that read “I’m retired.” Below the license plate was another that read “Go around me.” Finally, attached to the hitch was a hand held palm out and all fingers extended as if to say “Hold” or “Back off.”

It amused me. I laughed. And I followed at the speed limit at a safe distance.

Here’s why:

I’ve not ridden more than 40 miles in a single ride since the Triple Bypass last July. Pssst. Here’s a little secret about that ride… Even though that ride is 120 miles, it’s really only 60, because for the other 60, all you do is hold on for dear life while you, screaming like a school girl, pass cars at 45-50mph going downhill.

I’m about 15lbs fatter than I was then. Not merely heavier. No. It’s all fat. No muscle here. I have, for better or worse, reclaimed a liking for chicken patties and frozen pizza. Also, I’m married now, which apparently necessarily means I’m fat and happy. It’s amazing how suddenly the former arrived after the latter.

As I wasn’t very strong then, I can’t be very strong now. That means I’m pretty weak. Please see my previous post, 100 Whatnots, for details. As of this writing, I’m halfway through Week One.

I’ll take my camera with me on Sunday to document my suffering. Did I mention early registration starts at 7, and that it’s 45 minutes away?

Feel free to laugh at me in the comments. You will be judged on your originality, cleverness and sophistication.

To set the scene, as I was riding home yesterday, around the corner of 91st and Lamar, I was part of a long line of traffic caught behind a school bus that had stopped to let off some kiddos.

The woman in the car in front of me was reading what looked like business documents. The papers were propped up on her steering wheel, and she was reading them the entire time I was behind her. Granted, it was very slow moving traffic, and it was stop-and-go while we approached the stop sign, but she was reading while she was driving.

She was reading. While she was driving.

Nothing is so important that it couldn’t wait until she got to where she was going. I don’t care what it was. Nope. Not even that. It could have waited.

Remember the school bus? There were children all around. They were running this way and that on either side of the street. How many of you haven’t seen a child run out into the street without warning? They don’t do it often, but every now and again… and this idiot woman was reading while she was driving. With children around.

I know she wasn’t paying attention to the road because twice she jerk-stopped the car in surprise because the car in front of her had stopped. She didn’t notice the illuminated brake lights because… well… she was reading. While she was driving.

I really wish I’d gotten her license plate, or called her in for reckless driving, or at least tapped on her window and suggested she pay attention to what she was doing – the driving part of what she was doing, not the reading part. Had she actually hit someone, I guarantee I would have felt guilty for not doing so. Not as guilty as she would have felt, but guilty nonetheless.

At the stop sign, she went straight and I turned right. I watched her drive away, shaking my head, hoping she didn’t have far to go and praying that she didn’t kill anyone on her way.

Feel free to quote me the next time someone complains about cyclists behaving recklessly, inattentively, or unpredictably. It’s not a bicycle problem. It’s not a car problem. It’s a people problem.

Huh. Immediately suspicious, I decided to dig in and see what I could find out. My first step, having opened the movies to see what they were (nothing worth watching, and no… no pr0n), I sat down at the laptop and brought up netflix.com. I’m not a member… well… I’m not a knowing member, so I had no idea what my username would be, much less my password. Normally, you can have instructions sent to the e’mail address on file, but I was confident that in my case, my own e’mail address wouldn’t be on file. However, they have a method of logging in if you don’t remember, or have access to the e’mail address you signed up with. It asks for the first name, last name and card number used to sign up with. Using my real first and last name, I started going through my credit cards to see which one had fallen into the wrong hands. I didn’t have far to go… I got a hit on the first try.

I started digging into the account, and while the name and address were mine, the phone number and e’mail address were not. I called the number, on the off chance that I’d find the person responsible, but instead reached a nice couple who (if they can be trusted) don’t have a Netflix account either. We talked for a while, and they’ll be monitoring their credit closely. I then called the credit card company and had the card canceled and a new one reissued. Finally, I called Netflix themselves and appraised them of the situation. They canceled the account and forwarded it to their fraud department, telling me someone would contact me in the next 1 to 3 days. Some scissors to the card and I’m all done.

I can’t help but wonder what kind of completely incompetent idiot steals credit card information to purchase goods online, only to have the goods sent to the rightful owner of the card! The mind, it boggles. It really worked out for me, b/c the proof of fraud was hand delivered to my mailbox, so I’m not complaining… but it begs a few questions… How did they get the card information? When did they get it? Could it be a diversion? Were they drawing my attention away from the real fraud? Or were they truly, just that stupid? There were no charges to any of my cards that I can’t account for, so if they’d planned other acts of theft, they hadn’t gotten to them yet. Still, I’ll be watching very closely.

This morning, I returned the movies I’d been sent in their very handy self addressed no-postage-necessary envelopes. Though it wasn’t necessarily the ideal of first experiences, my experience with Netflix was actually very very good. I might even consider signing up for an account.

In a final bit of humor, I did some searches for quotes about incompetence for the title, and one of the sites had a pop up ad for… you guessed it… Netflix!

A judge found Marvin Oberly guilty last week of driving on the wrong side of a two-way highway and passing a vehicle on the wrong side. Douglas Kenney died of [the tragic and needless] injuries he suffered in the accident on Nov. 9, 2007 [due to Oberly’s utterly irresponsible and reckless actions].

Oberly is scheduled to be sentenced on Jan. 30. He faces [a paltry] 30 days in jail for each of the counts and up to a year suspension [rather than the far more just complete and permanent revocation] of his drivers license. [It is left as an exercise for the reader to rationalize how 60 days in jail and a year's suspension balances out the irresponsibility and recklessness that resulted in Kenney's death.]

Prosecutors argued that Oberly drove up behind Kenney in his pickup and collided with the bicycle Kenney, who was riding his bicycle in a manner consistent with safety and law.

Oberly testified provided the lame and weak excuse during his trial that glare from the sun prevented him from seeing Kenney[, which would have been inconsequential had be been driving on the correct side of the road and not passed another vehicle on the shoulder].

Original here.

I took The Squanto to the vet yesterday, and found out that he’s 20lbs. On a 16lbs dog frame, that’s a lot of extra weight. It’ll dramatically increase his chances of having all manner of internal organ problems, including his heart and lungs, increase his risk of cancer, and very likely give him premature joint issues, such as arthritis, and could be the cause of his coughing as the extra weight compresses his trachea.

I’d like to keep him around for a while, and given Schipperke’s lifetimes, that could be another 8 years or so. That means he has to lose that weight

I’ve been aware of this for some time, and to maintain his weight at the healthy 15-17lbs, I’ve had him on a pretty strict diet of 1/2 cup dry dog food, given to him twice daily. In spite of that, he’s still been gaining. There is only one possible reason: The neighbors. I knew the neighbors fed him treats every now and again, but didn’t think it was more than that. Last night I found a full package, with plastic packing included, of those orange crackers with peanut butter. The plastic package. Can we say “choking hazard”?! Also, I recall the ex GF saying she found a partially eaten hoagie sandwich on the ground next to the fence sometime last summer.

So I called the female half of the neighbors last night. We’ll call her Barb, b/c she’s a spitting image of Barbara Bush. That’s not her name, but it fits. I was very friendly, but firm. I told her the vet scolded me for Squanto’s weight, and asked her to do me and him a favor and stop feeding him treats. She responded to that simple, logical, and completely reasonable request by asking what she’s supposed to do when he sits at the fence barking all the time. I allowed as to how if she stopped feeding him, he’d eventually stop barking. She didn’t believe that was true, and went on to (get this!) claim that he’d starve to death if she didn’t feed him crackers over the fence! WHAT?! I told her I feed him twice a day, to which she responded that she didn’t care what I said, that there’s no way I fed him, and it’s obvious that I don’t love my dog. “Ok Barb, this conversation is over. Goodbye.” “Yeah. Ok. Goodbye.” she said at the same time, and we hung up.

Seriously. He’ll starve if she doesn’t feed him unhealthy people food, some of it with the wrapper still present?! I have never been accused of neglect before. I was caught between being amused, dumbfounded, and furious.

Now I’m concerned that she’ll call Animal Control on me b/c she’s convinced I’m neglecting him. Because of that concern, I’ve been advised to call A.C. first and ask if they have any advice, or if I have any recourse aside from just talking with them and watching very carefully every time I let The Squanto out. At least, that way, if she does call, it’ll be on record that I called first.

If she’s allowed to accuse me of negligence b/c she believes that I’m not feeding him, and that his barking constitutes real hunger, rather than him simply learning that if he barks at the fence, he gets a treat, then I think I’m allowed to accuse her of abuse by feeding him unhealthy foods, sometimes with choking hazard wrappers still present, due to the health problems down the line it can cause.

At this point, my plan is to talk to her husband, and explain my concerns regarding the unhealthy food she’s feeding him (to say nothing of the wrappers she’s leaving behind). Depending on how that goes, I’ll either ask him to help keep his wife away from my dog, or advise him that I’m calling Animal Control for their input. I hate to have to go that route, but if there’s no reasoning with them, I will. If I have to choose between being their friend, and ensuring that The Squanto lives for many more healthy years, it’s no choice at all.

Any ideas, anyone?

Reporting Unruly Football Fans via Text Message

Fans still are urged to complain to an usher or call a security hotline in the stadium to report unruly behavior. But text-messaging lines — typically advertised on stadium scoreboards and on signs where fans gather — are aimed at allowing tipsters to surreptitiously alert security personnel via cellphone without getting involved with rowdies or missing part of a game.

As of this week, 29 of the NFL’s 32 teams had installed a text-message line or telephone hotline. Three clubs have neither: the New Orleans Saints, St. Louis Rams and Tennessee Titans. Ahlerich says he will “strongly urge” all clubs to have text lines in place for the 2009 season. A text line will be available at the Super Bowl for the first time when this season’s championship game is played at Tampa’s Raymond James Stadium on Feb. 1.

“If there’s someone around you that’s just really ruining your day, now you don’t have to sit there in silence,” says Jeffrey Miller, the NFL’s director of strategic security. “You can do this. It’s very easy. It’s quick. And you get an immediate response.”

• Granted: It can be difficult to impossible to reason with unruly, and sometimes drunk sports fans.
• Granted: It can be dangerous to try to reason with unruly, and sometimes drunk sports fans.
• Granted: Security personnel have the power and authority to protect us from both each other and ourselves. Ideally. They’re only human, and have lapses in judgment just as the rest of us do.

All the same, this use of technology seems to be an excuse to not even try to handle things ourselves. It grants permission to tuck tail and hide behind mommy and daddy’s legs while they handle our problems for us. It makes it too easy to defer responsibility for our own feelings and actions, and hand it over to someone else, rather than buck up and stand up for ourselves… or at least try to.

Shouldn’t calling security be a last resort? This seems to make it too easy.

I welcome any and all views on this. In fact, I eagerly await them.

I have a bag of peanuts.

I have a handful of peanuts.

I swing hand with peanuts up towards face to place peanuts in mouth.

Peanuts hit microphone.

I have a lap full of peanuts.

And here it is, then.

That thought is patience.

More than a healthier body (and the unabashed admiration of womenfolk all across the lands), more than all those things I mentioned above, cycling has given me patience.

I tool about in my car, making my way steadily and surely to my destination, watching in bemused awe as drivers around me scream about (literally and figuratively both), forcibly changing lanes at the last minute, riding bumpers in unabashed displays of apparent superiority, verily burning valuable rubber off at stop signs and stop lights in a desperate attempt to get to the next stop sign or stop light that much sooner, and generally behaving like a group of angry baboons… all in the name of shaving valuable seconds off their commutes.

I used to be one of them. I used to scream at others who behaved in ways not to my liking. I used to drive as aggressively as defensively. I used to speed everywhere I went. I used to strain the engine and the brakes both starting and stopping. I used to be one of them. But I’ve spent a lot of time on the roads in a saddle this year. I’ve learned first hand the energy it takes to go uphill, to start from a stop and to increase to a higher speed. I’ve gained a sense of what my car must be experiencing when I demand of it the same. I’ve learned how it feels to be truly vulnerable on the roads, though my vulnerability has not (as of yet, thankfully) been tested. I no longer consider myself one of them.

I’ve also gained what I believe is a relatively rare sense of time as it relates to distance and traversing said distance.

And this is my point.

It takes a lot longer to get from point A to B on a bike than a car (assuming a distance of any significance and without a maze of stop lights). I’m used to taking that extra time, so now as I’ve found myself behind a wheel more than on a saddle lately, I’m far more patient being behind the wheel, knowing that I’ll get there if I relax, take my time, pay attention, and avoid daredevil behavior. I know what it’s like to take a long time to get home. Driving a car home takes no time at all.

A side benefit, in addition to the lower blood pressure and overall better demeanor is that the learned patience cycling has taught me gives me a better chance of getting where I’m going safely. Not bad as far as side benefits go.

One of the guys, perhaps in his late 40′s or early 50′s and seemingly “in charge”, goes on about the 1, 5 and 9 being money balls… trying to talk the talk, throwing lingo around like it’s rice at a wedding. Red flag #2. I have a tough time convincing him that I don’t gamble, but am certainly willing to share the table for a while. “What’s the 9 mean, then?” he asks. “It means you win?” I respond. “Uh… you get to break the next rack…” Red flag #3. I’m really starting to wonder at this point about the fellow as this line of conversation goes on for about a minute. Finally, we agree to just play. He racks.

In a manner of speaking.

It’s loose. He can’t control the rack and bumps the balls all over when he tries to lift it. Never mind that the head ball is 3 inches from the spot. I gently allow as to how it should be straight, tight, and on the spot. It takes him (seriously) about a minute to finally get the rack reasonably tight, and figure out how to rack. I’m caught between tapping my toes in frustration and laughing out loud at his clumsy ineptitude. And this guy wanted to gamble?

I give some thought to the idea that maybe he’s playing with me. Maybe he’s coming across as a bumbling idiot in the hopes of luring me into some money games, at which time he’ll wipe the floor with me. I don’t spend much time on that line of thinking.

I cleaned the table with him. Over and over again. He never lets on that he actually knows what he’s doing. He’s a loud talker who puts more energy into making fun of those shots I missed than congratulating me on those I make. I’m not easily sharked by such things, and since I neither know the guy, nor want to, it’s of no consequence to me. He tires of racking (but not before I’ve tired of watching his tragic attempts) and wanders aimlessly off to hit on some underage girls. Pure class, that one. I proceed to clean the table with his mumbling friend who, all sweat and B.O. and clearly unaware of personal space and boundaries, was also entirely too “familiar.” It was a little creepy.

Pet Peeve: People who stand next to the table while I’m shooting. Find a seat, slick. Sit down, get out of the way, and let me shoot.

As it started taking them longer and longer to rack the balls after I beat the crap out of them, I started racking them myself and just shooting it out like they weren’t there. Eventually they quietly left. Well, sweaty guy did whine a little bit, but I responded with an unsympathetic “This table costs money and you guys were wasting mine.” Mr. Class was nowhere to be seen, so I allowed myself to simply be grateful for his absence. My increasing misery at their presence was obvious enough that the waitress commented on it after they left.

That painful chapter of my life over, I got in a small “Rack Attack” demo competition with some other guys. I ended up with a less-than-stellar 39 out of 50, but there was a moment. During my second rack I was on shot 9 with 2 balls left and I have a choice. I can make one ball and I get 9 points. Or I can make both balls in one shot and not only get 10 points, but also crazy pool cred and the shouts and worship of all those around watching.

Care to guess which shot I attempted? I won’t make you. I had the shape and saw the pattern, so I rocketed the first ball into a corner pocket, sending the cue ball screaming around the table three rails and perfectly into the second ball, sending it, in turn flying into the same corner pocket. Oh yes. There was shouting. There was praise. There were high-fives and looks of wonder and envy. It was glorious.

I’m not a fan of the name of the game… it seems a little melodramatic to me, but I do like how it lends itself to (designed for?) stats keeping and finding a true average that can’t honestly be determined against opponents of various skill levels.

Bike today? Magic 8-ball says: Maybe.

About 2 miles in at 99th and Metcalf, I was stopped at the light. When it changed, I did as I normally do, which is to say I stood up on the pedals and cranked to get going. Unfortunately, this time, I cranked, and the pedal just flew around accompanied by the horrendous sound of gears grinding. Not just any gears grinding, but angry gears grinding, and with serious attitude.

Aside from the embarrassment of having just suffered the equivalent of either falling down in public, or getting hit on the head with <insert random object here> (don’t tell me you don’t laugh at those things happening to other people… you know you do), I was immediately concerned that my chain had finally snapped. A quick look confirmed that this was not the case. *whew* But I noticed immediately that my rear derailleur wasn’t moving when I shifted. Huh. Looks like the cable snapped. That’s better than the chain by far, but it leaves me with three gears for the ride home, and the chain is wrapped around the highest gear on the freewheel.

Did I say three gears? Well… thing is, see, you don’t want to cross your chain like that. If you’re in the highest gear on the cranks, you don’t want to be in the lowest on the freewheel. Likewise, if you’re in the lowest gear on the cranks, you don’t want to be in the highest on the freewheel. It torques the chain unduly, causing excessive wear and tear, and possible kinking. I’ve known for a long time that the Fire Mountain was in dire need of an overhaul… every last component of the drive train is in serious need of replacement. They’re all original, after all, and I bought the bike in ’93. Everything is so worn, in fact, that if I can’t just replace the chain, or the cranks, or the freewheel… If I replace one, the rest won’t work with it. So the last thing I want to do now is something that will cause excessive wear and tear to any component. I just want to get home. Stuck in the highest gear on the freewheel as I am, that limits me to the top two gears on the crank.

I did try crossing the chain, but with the wear already worn on the freewheel and chain, there was a lot of slipping. I stuck it out for the rest of the ride in the top two gears. Though I dreaded not having the full run of my freewheel, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The worst part of the rest of the ride home, in fact, was waiting for 5 (yes… 5) minutes for traffic to clear at 75th and Lamar. I think I’ll be avoiding that intersection from here on out… I’ll find a lighted intersection to jump onto 75th, thank you very much. The car behind me didn’t honk or anything, either. I was rather surprised, but they could probably very easily see that I wasn’t any happier with the waiting than they were.

When I got home, I checked the cable, and it wasn’t snapped. Joy! It had just slipped out of a relatively loose anchor bolt. I pulled it back through, tightened the bolt up good and proper, and I was back up and running again. I still need to replace the drivetrain, but for now, at least, as my ride in this morning confirmed, I have all my gears back.

Oh, and Happy Halloween Month!!

On the other hand, those of us who choose alternate forms of transportation can benefit from checking the weather. In fact, if we don’t make it a normal part of our daily routine, then there’s a chance we’ll pay dearly for it. Or at least pay a little bit, anyway. Over the summer, I’ve fallen out of the habit of checking, since pretty much every day was warm enough not to have to worry about it. On those days it rained, it was pretty obvious from looking out the window and I adjusted accordingly. I was lucky in that there were very few days with dry morning rides and wet evening rides. However, I can’t rely on mornings being warm any more.

Take this morning, for example.

I donned my normal riding clothes… that is to say, those clothes that are normal for me on warm days, stepped into the garage and opened the door. I noted that it was a touch on the chilly side, but I didn’t sweat it too much. I figured I’d be chilly at the beginning, but warm into the ride the closer I got to work. That, strictly speaking, was true. I did warm into it, and went from outright cold, to uncomfortably cold. What felt chilly standing in my garage out of the wind, turned into downright cold once I got going.

But did I turn around immediately and get warmer clothes?

No. Of course not! That would have meant… well… turning around! Turning around means admitting defeat, and I was not going to admit defeat. No way. So, as the temperature hovered around a downright chilly 45°F or so, with my speed pushing the wind chill down into the 30′s (and even the 20′s if that chart is to be believed), I bravely pedaled on in my shorts, sleeveless workout jersey, and thin (but long fingered) gloves.

I saw two others out this morning. Both were bundled up as if facing an arctic morning. Quite the contrast to my free and easy summer gear. “Silly people… I bet they’re hot and sweaty in all that” I thought, shivering to myself.

Looking now at the weather, tomorrow morning appears to be much the same as today. Mid 40′s in the morning, mid 70′s in the afternoon. Maybe I’ll consider wearing something more appropriate tomorrow.

Are people irritable because of the economy, and the impending election? You know what? That’s not my fault. Don’t take it out on me.

Are people irritable b/c their kids aren’t around anymore having one off to college? You know what? That’s not my fault. It’s what you’ve been raising them for. Don’t take it out on me.

Did they not get that raise? Not my fault.

Did they get chewed out by their boss? Not my fault?

Did they lose money in some ill conceived investment? Not my fault. Don’t take it out on me.

Are people irritable b/c they’ve dried up, or can’t get it up? You know what? That’s not my fault. Don’t take it out on me.

I won’t go into specifics, on account of not wanting to spread any more ill cheer than I already am, but three people honking at me while within inches of me tends to put me a little bit on edge, and reduce my overall charitable attitude. I have to confess… it was an immediate, knee jerk reaction that was out there before I could stop myself… each time they honked at me (again, as they passed me with inches to spare) I threw a single finger salute their way. Hey, I’m not proud of it, but I never said I was an ambassador for the cycling community.

I have to confess, also, that I’ve been on the irritable side lately. Have been for about a week now. I’m not completely against the idea that maybe… just maybe, this is evident in my riding, but I still hold to the contention that I’ve been doing nothing different while I ride. I just figure if I’m irritable lately, perhaps others are as well.

So, is it just me, or have any of you, my fellow bike commuters, also noticed an increase in random unprovoked negativity on the road?

Cars always will vastly outnumber bikes, he reasons, so allotting more street space to cyclists could cause more traffic jams, more idling and more pollution. Mr. Anderson says the city has been blinded by political correctness. It’s an “attempt by the anti-car fanatics to screw up our traffic on behalf of the bicycle fantasy,” he wrote in his blog this month.

I am not able rightly to apprehend the kind of confusion of ideas that could provoke such a conclusion.

Then again, it’s the faster speeds that landed the wheel in the shop to begin with, so maybe it’s for the best.

I took the Kona out yesterday for an long ride home by way of the Indian Creek Trail and the Gary Haller Trail. I ended up with just shy of 33 miles, and that because I ended up missing the turn into Shawnee Mission Park, and doubled back to grab it.

It would have been a perfect time to have the camera with me. Lots of stuff to take pictures of.

Beneath a bridge, there was a little boy playing in a bucket by the water. Standing guard was his little Jack Russel Terrier. It was very Norman Rockwell. I wish I’d had a camera. Though, these days, I would have had to have him sign a release to post his picture.

Later, on the trail was a group of suburban white guys in gangsta gear. They actually flashed gang signs at me as I passed them. That would have made a great picture too… assuming I could play it off w/o gettin’ cap busted in my ass.

Aside from those two moments, riding the trail is just so much more enjoyable than riding the streets. It almost qualifies as “time to myself” since I’m not dealing with drivers and their various “idiosyncrasies.”

The thing about the Kona is that it’s a heavy bike. I was more tired after 33 miles on it, than I would have been after 50 miles on the Torelli. Maybe 60, even. By the time I got to Shawnee Mission Park, I was ready to be home. I’d gone through three water bottles, grateful for working fountains along the trail, and my legs were aching. So were a lot of areas, but those were due to the crash the day before, rather than the ride. I’m reminded why I started riding the Kona to begin with, or why I didn’t mind riding it, anyway… it’s a great training bike. Ride a while on that, and riding the Torelli will feel like I’m flying.

I don’t laugh out loud often when I’m riding. I sing some, but I don’t see much that makes me laugh. This morning I took the short route into work on account of still feeling yesterday’s trail ride, and as I hit 76th Terrace and Antioch, I heard the unmistakable sounds of Gangsta Rap (or whatever they’re calling it these days). It was, to me, an odd sound at this time of morning. As I neared Antioch via a little parking lot, I found the source… a middle aged white male was sitting in… get this… a *mini-van* with this (c)Rap blaring. A mini-van! I nearly fell off the bike from laughing. I’m lucky I wasn’t shot, or worse yet, had a child seat thrown at me!

Frankly, I’ve just not seen it. I’ve been out nearly every day riding my route, peacefully and almost entirely without incident. In fact, I can count on one hand the times I’ve been “harassed”, and both times it was very easy to chalk it up to idiocy. The first was a (pardon my stereotypes here) three toothed, chew spittin’ redneck on a country road yelling “Dip Ass!“, and the second was a pair of know-it-all high school jocks in daddy’s pick up.

Aside from that, I’ve had numerous men and women offer admiration and encouragement. Two quite attractive young women even offered me a ride. Stupid me, I didn’t think to ask where we were going to ride to. ;) Just the other day, I got into a brief exchange with a fellow at an intersection who good-naturedly told me I was crazy, and then said how he wished he could do the same. I talked about how much better I felt and how much gas money I’d saved, and told him if he really wanted to, he’d find a way. He looked thoughtfully at me, nodded, wished me luck and safety and the light turned.

I have no idea what motorists are *thinking* when I pass by them, or they pass by me. I know there are many motorists who hate cyclists. A visit to the comments section on any cycling story in the news will tell you that. (I like how the Tuscon Bicycle Lawyer puts it here). I do know that if they’re thinking anything negative, they aren’t saying it out loud, and more than a few times, they’ve said very positive things to me.

Is there a rising tension between cyclists and motorists? I’ve certainly not seen it, and I very much doubt it. Does reporting on such a phenomena sell papers? You bet it does.

The air was definitely chilly at <60°F. It’s amazing how quickly we adapt, isn’t it? Three months ago, 60°F was a delight. This morning it was a touch chilly. I paused briefly to consider my own attire, and decided to forgo additional layers and weather the chill, knowing that this afternoon would be warmer. Within minutes of my ride, I was plenty warm, and glad of my choice.

I didn’t think about the article or the debate in the comments section on my ride in. I rarely think about such things. Most of my attention is on the road, obstacles, cars, and sheer enjoyment of my commute that I never, not once, felt in my car. Now and again, when I have something pressing on my mind, I’ll spend a larger portion of my ride inwardly turned. But that’s rare.

When I got to work and plugged in, however, the debate had continued and expanded since yesterday. It’s odd to me how an article about a man using an H2 as a lethal weapon, threatening the lives of two cyclists because he thought they threw a water bottle at his dainty fragile H2 Compensatory can so quickly tangent to a discussion about the elitism of cyclists with their tight emblem decorated clothing.

Meanwhile, Noah asks “Are cut-off jeans the difference between ‘guy on a bike’ and ‘cyclist?’”

Interesting timing. I’ll get to that.

As for myself, I wear relatively loose fitting wicking athletic jerseys I got for $10 at Target and far more expensive tight fitting cycling shorts, complete with chamois. I wear cycling socks with reflective bands around my ankles, and $200 MTB shoes on $10 pedals. I wear a Giro racing helmet and slightly wrap-around sunglasses. That’s my warm weather commute costume. I reckon I look pretty silly.

You know what? I couldn’t care less what it looks like. It works for me. Furthermore, I couldn’t care less what you wear. Find what works, and go with it. If it doesn’t work, change it. A commenter in the aforementioned debate considers it “elitist” to wear tight fitting specialized cycling gear, especially when said gear has team logos and whatnot on it. Bah. I consider that attitude short sighted, dismissive and prejudicial.

Back to Noah’s question… I don’t believe clothes draw the line between a “guy on a bike” and a “cyclist.” In fact, as far as I’m concerned, there is no line because there is no difference. If you’re just out with the family on a lazy afternoon ride through the park, or a “weight weenie” on a mission to maximize your aerobic/anaerobic/VO2 whatever… you’re a guy on a bike, and you’re a cyclist, and you should be proud and happy to be either and both. Just be who you are and let insecure, easily threatened folk spread vitriolic labels because that’s the closest they’ll get to knowing the joy we feel when we’re spinning hard in the saddle.

I don’t think for a second that Noah needs this sort of pep talk. I’m not directing it to him. I do know for a fact, however, that there are people out there that put the weird and far-too-tight clothing up there next to lack-of-safety as an obstacle to getting out on a bike. I’m talking to them… not that they’re the types to come across this tiny little corner of the intarwebs. Still, it doesn’t hurt to try.

In the end, no matter what, just ride on…

Szlemko suggests that this territoriality may encourage road rage because drivers are simultaneously in a private space (their car) and a public one (the road). “We think they are forgetting that the public road is not theirs, and are exhibiting territorial behaviour that normally would only be acceptable in personal space,” he says.

While this may not be the definitive study, it certainly rings true to me, and reminds me of this picture… “You own a car – NOT the road.”