Thursday, August 28, 2008
Then it's off to the coast Sunday morning to do some skim boarding.
So, I guess I'm relaxing in my own way...
Saturday, May 17, 2008
May 21, 2008.
For those in the South Sound:
Hell...who am I kidding? The south Puget Sound rarely sees 90 degrees...period.
My brother and his wife drove down from up north and we hopped the ferry to ride Vashon. As the most experienced of the group, I should have taken it upon myself to carry a map of the island so I could ensure a good ride. But I'm lazy and I have a habit of getting lost on my bike. My unfortunate family members were just along for the ride.
We chose the less evil of the two climbs coming off the ferry dock. My mind went into the usual autopilot of trying to keep a comfortable cadence. I had attempted to swap out a smaller chainring the night before, but my 40T was the wrong bolt pattern. But, it was free so I can't really bitch. Up...up...and up I went...until my Phonak cap was filled with sweat.
Pull over. Remove cap. Oh yeah, there's other people behind me. Suffering up the climb. Newbies and family. One in the same. They're not THAT far behind. They'll live. Must push on...
As my lost family members crested their first big climb, I assured them that the worst was over.
Boy was I wrong....
We rode on, taking in the scenery and sweating in the rare Pac NW heat. The three of us were making good time. I thought "ride into town, get lunch, relax, ride back."
Again....I should've brought a map.
After stopping at a crossroad, we decided to go right.
Oh cool...look at the scenery...oh neat...oh shit...we're on another island...WTF??
It's cool. There's an entire group of a dozen or so riders behind us. They'll give us directions if we ask.
"Hey Mister, can you tell us how to get into town?"
Oh...you have no clue where you're going either.
Oh hey, there's a fire station. Let's get directions.
Go back the way we came?
Ride, ride, ride, ride...take a right here. Left at the stop sign. Wall of a climb. No momentum. Fixed gear. Walk. No problem. Short hill.
Longish hill. Keep walking. Crest hill.
Ride, ride, ride.
Town coming into view.
Eat BLT. Relax.
Back on the bike. Fueled up ready to rip. Let's go!
Hey, we've been here before! Cool. Sweet views.
Too hot...want to die....
We eventually made it back to the ferry dock with. I think the famdamn had successfully completed the hardest ride they had ever done. I had another (hard) 30 miles under my fixed belt, and the Brooks is starting to take shape.
Next time, I'll bring a map so I don't have to look like a bitch as my sister in law out climbs me even though she has 27 times as many gears...plus I'm fat.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Daffodil Classic marked my first over 50 mile ride on the fixed gear. While my top speed, and consequently my average speed, suffered, the climbs were easier than anticipated. I admittedly had to walk a few short sections but no entire climbs. It was certainly a different experience...especially when everybody whizzed past me on the descents. But as far as I'm aware, I was the only person who rode the course on a fixed or even a single speed--so I don't feel too bad.
I have never fielded so many questions on a ride before. Everyone kept asking me how the hills were treating me. The hills were fine so long as I was going UP them. It was the DOWN that hurt! I think I developed carpel tunnel from squeezing the front brake. Yet some cheered me on and others just thought I was nuts.
Somewhere along my return from Eatonville, I missed a course marking and rode all the way into Graham on the wrong road. Oops. My girlfriend, a Graham native, quickly corrected my path via cellphone and I was off again. I was only a few miles off....
All in all, I have to say that I enjoyed the first long distance fixed ride. I was in horrible pain the next day however. Heh heh!
Would I do it again?
Will I do it again?
See you at the next charity ride.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
"Fixes kill hipsters."
Which may be true. I haven't read any studies on hipster death recently. But, even if it does, what the fuck do I care? I like Motorhead not Modest Mouse. The guys on the pink fixies in the tight girls' jeans don't have anything in common with me. My fixed gear isn't just for coffee shop runs to get some caramel blow me latte.
In my opinion, kill the hipsters. Hell, if we don't do it, they'll just commit suicide while listening to emo music anyway.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Aerobars have been my nemesis the last few days. It seems with spring on the cusp, all the yuppies are donning their tights, balaclavas, full fingered gloves, and obnoxious "safety yellow" windbreakers in an attempt to "brave" the 55 degree weather in an early season training ride. Full carbon Italian race bikes, steel touring bikes, aluminum hybrids purchased at REI all donning those fucking cheesy aerobars. Cadence, calories and Campy have been the subjects of chatter amongst the ranks of the yuppie charity riders and wannabe racers with more money than skill.
As I bummed around "downtown" Puyallup, searching for traffic to play in, I spied a pair of said aerobar using yuppies. So I quietly took chase. I watched as the pair of men weaved all over the road in a debate on where to stop as the traffic light turned red. Apparently, they had a split descision because one guy stuck to the left side of the lane as the other wobbled his aerobar equipped ride between a car and the curb. Dr. Aerobar slowed and was attempting a shaky trackstand as I pulled up behind him. I think Dr. Aerobar's eyes were fixed on the aerobar itself because he kept creeping forward as if he were chasing the thing.
When the light turned green, I let Dr. Aerobar and his pal pull me for a block or so. After I realized that 15 MPH was the terminal speed for an aerobar, I turned up the Metallica (the Cliff Burton years) on the iPod, dropped the hammer on the full fendered and mudflapped fixie and let the guys know I was coming up on the left.
That was the last I saw of Dr. Aerobar...
Maybe I'll see them at a charity ride this season. Who knows?
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
In any case, I try to get out and ride from my front door as much as possible. This involves a handful of luck and a lot of faith in a god I don't normally believe in in order to complete the sprint from my apartment complex and across the railroad tracks to where the road widens.
Last week, I took my 925 out for a shakedown run after I had changed out my track cog for a more commuter friendly gear ratio. All was normal for the first mile or so of the ride until some guy in a Jeep Liberty drifted into oncoming traffic and POW! He plowed right into an oncoming semi truck.
Now, I've been riding for a lot of years and I've seen a lot of car accidents (I may have caused a few, who knows?), but I've never been privy to anything quite this bad while on the bike. So, I thought I'd be a good Samaritan and offer to stick around until the cops came to take statements since all the drivers who had witnessed the wreck were more concerned with getting home and watching "My Big Redneck Wedding" than if the driver of the Jeep was OK. The driver of the semi truck informed me that he had called 911 and I said that I'd stick around to make a statement.
Ironically enough, the accident happened in front of, what else, a semi truck shop. One of the chubby mechanics came waddling out, waving a fat index finger in my direction.
"Was he swerving to miss YOU?" Fat Mechanic asked while poking a fat finger my way.
"No asshole, but nice observation," I shot back.
"What did you call me?"
"An asshole," I re-stated.
"Why'd you do that?"
I curtailed my response to head shake because I thought Fat Boy was going to break into tears. I guess nobody had ever called him an asshole before. But in reality, the guy was an asshole. I'm sorry that I had to be the guy to shatter his dream of being a nice fucking guy. I hope he cried himself to sleep that night.
It took the Fife Police Dept. nearly an hour to show up to the accident scene. I guess it must have been 2 for 1 chicken fried steak hour at the Poodle Dog. The cops asked the Fat Mechanics Group if they had seen the accident, they said "no" but they figured that the Jeep must have swerved to miss the guy on the bike. I raised a single finger salute in their direction to ensure that they were aware that I was their Number 1 fan.
At first the cops walked by me four or five times. Because as we all know, the guy on the bike couldn't possibly know anything. Finally, one of the cops asked me if I had seen what happened.
I replied that I really didn't enjoy looking at wrecked Jeeps while freezing my ass off, so yes, I had seen the whole thing.
"Was the driver of the Jeep swerving to avoid you?" was the first question out of the cop's mouth.
I explained that the Jeep had over taken me about a quarter mile previously and that I had no idea what made him drift over. The cop looked skeptical. It HAD to be the cyclist's fault right?
Officer Copper asked me for an ID. He was shocked when I produced a driver's license from my wallet. I don't know what he was expecting--forklift certification I guess.
I've been told by three different police officers in three different cities in this state that bikes shouldn't be on the road. We belong on the sidewalk. I'm hoping that means that the local police department will be responsible for the damages if I mow down some innocent old lady out walking her hairless miniature dog because I was riding on the sidewalk.
Maybe instead of concerning themselves with those pesky bikes on the road, the cops should be out protecting and serving rather than harassing and pissing off.
So, I guess I'd like to say to the Tacoma, Bellingham and Fife Police Departments: I had nothing to do with the head on on 70th Ave and Levee Road and I salute you....with one finger.