Tag Archives: Stupidity

Side Effects of Cycling to Work

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Though I be in Texas, far away from home and the bike that awaits me, new and unridden, with virgin saddle, as it were, my thoughts stray now and again, all the same, to the subject of cycling. I think on how nice it will be to once again sit astride the saddle, my arms outstretched holding brake levers and handlebars. I think on how nice it will be to see my waistline diminish once again, rather than continue it’s current trend of slow expansion. I think on how nice it will be to once again stride out the front doors with pride, knowing that I will be making it home on my own power, while at the same time clowning around like a fool for the cadre of lustful (though unfortunately married) women who have come to be a sort of 4:30pm Fan Club for yours truly (I take the ego boosts where I can get them). But lately, one thought presses forward as I spend minute after empty minute in the cabin of an automobile instead of the saddle of a bicycle… that thought is what I will share with you now.

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.

Teh Stupid and Rack Attacking

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Last night I was playing solo on a 9-foot table at the local pool hall. A couple guys come up and want to gamble. $1 a rack. Seriously? $1.00 a rack? Red flag #1. $1.00 is petty change, but I don’t gamble. It’s a principle thing. I have, on occasion, but very rarely, and only with people I know and trust to not break my jaw.

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.

Grinding Gears and Loose Cables

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I had an interesting ride home yesterday.

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!!

Checking the Weather Before You Leave

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When you drive to work, unless the weather is seriously severe, you can usually get away with not checking it. After all, you’ll have the benefit of being able to control the conditions within the confines of your car. If the temperature outside is cold… you can turn up the heat. If it’s hot out, you can blast cool air until you’ve cooled down. That is, unless your AC is busted, or the fans don’t work anymore. Even then, you’ll be out of the wind. Unless you’re missing a windshield, or your side windows are stuck down. But if your AC is busted, and the fans don’t work, the windshield is busted and the side windows are stuck down, what are you doing driving that piece of frell to begin with?!

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.

Wrong Side of the Bed

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Is it just me, or have more and more people gotten up on the wrong side of the bed lately? Last week and today, I’ve had more people honk at me, yell at me, drive within inches of me, or otherwise try to levy some measure of aggression against me while on my commute than in the previous 9 months combined. I really don’t get it. I’ve not been doing anything different. I ride the same line. I ride the same speed. I do nothing different, except perhaps to do it with more confidence, yet it’s a fact that the flak I receive for it is on a dramatic incline.

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?

Bike Commuting Causes Pollution

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Last night at pool league, a friend of mine brought in a copy of the Wall Street Journal. There was an article about a local San Francisco wanna-be politician, Rob Anderson who has effectively stalled the installation of bike lanes in San Francisco because…

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.

Life Without the Torelli

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While the Torelli is in the shop… or rather, while the wheel is in the shop getting straightened out, I’ve been on the Kona. It’s only been two days, but I’m already missing the tight handling and faster speeds.

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!

Chiming in on Rising Tension Between Cyclists and Motorists

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There have been many articles lately about the rising tension between motorists and cyclists. You can read about it in the New York Times, Reuters newswire, The Wall Street Journal, the Austin Cycling News, Newsweek, and a wide variety of other sources.

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.

On Being Elitist in the Chilly Morning Air

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While the debate rages on and moves to topics unrelated to road rage (as one would fully expect), and while Noah asks similar questions regarding attire, I consider my own morning.

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…

Private Sanctum in a Public Space

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In seeking possible causes and correlations relating to road rage, Psychologist William Szlemko and his colleagues at Colorado State University in Fort Collins made some interesting findings. They believe that more evidence of personalization, the more inclined the individual is to exhibit signs of territorial behavior… one method being to engage in road rage.

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.”