We Could Have A Problem Here...

So, you may have gathered from this blog that I enjoy riding my bicycle.  So much so that whenever I am getting ready to leave the house Kiki guesses either "Dada Bike?" or "Dada Work?" with pretty much even odds.  


But I always figured my biking was, as far as obsessive compulsions go, not too bad.  I mean, I get some exercise, get out in the fresh air, and relieve stress, seemed like a win win, but well, recently something happened that is making me rethink how harmless it all is.  


First let me provide a little background for those of you who don't ride.  Now, you probably know that most cyclists wear padded shorts when they ride, to protect their nether regions.  But you may not have known that some of us who get really into it discover that the shorts aren't that great, and turn to bibs.  Bibs are, well, they're a lot like a wrestling singlet, but, if possible, even creepier.  Let me illustrate:


A wrestling singlet:

Which for some reason I keep mistyping as "sniglet".  Just seems better to me I guess.  Anyway, for comparison, here are cycling bibs:

They're like a skimpier sniglet.  With a padded ass.  And yes, you have to strike such awesome poses when you wear them.  Oh, and for the women (and perverts), don't think you're left out:

Something about that photo just totally creeps me out.  Anyway, back to our problem.  See, Kiki grabbed a pair of my wife's underwear out of the clean laundry and pulled them on.  Harmless enough, and maybe even a good sign that our potty training efforts are gaining traction.  

But then she proceeded to pull the waistband up over her shoulders, like suspenders, and run around saying "Kiki bike!  Kiki bike!".  Needless to say my wife was concerned.  Needless to say I've never been prouder of my little girl.  

Seriousness

Last night I was riding on the bike trail, enjoying my evening, when I came around a corner to see a man on the ground.  From what I could gather as I slowed down, he had hit a speed bump in the road and just toppled over off his bike.  


As I came up to him I saw that he did not appear to be bleeding or injured but I did slow to ask if he was okay.  He did not answer, preferring to grumble to himself and slam his water bottle to the ground.  About then another cyclist came along and passed the fallen rider, leaving about 5 feet of clearance and slowing considerably.  


This, apparently, was the most absurd behavior to our fallen comrade (let's call him "Bert").  Bert proceeded to yell at the passing rider (who we'll dub "Nicodemus") "Nice fucking job, don't fucking slow for a fucking injured person, just fucking ride on asshole!"  


Now, I was a bit confused, for I had, at this point, stopped to offer exactly that assistance Bert seemed so desperate for, but he had ignored me to this point.  Maybe he didn't want my help, but it did seem somewhat rude.  When the understandably befuddled Nicodemus stopped to see what, exactly, all the fuss was about Bert continued to berate him "Fucking asshole fucking riding right by you fucking fucker" (Bert wasn't exactly showing the breadth of his vocabulary).  


To this, Nicodemus succinctly and appropriately responded, in an admirably calm tone, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"  


At this point, I figured these two had it all handled and I rode on my merry way, listening to their continued exchange as I rode on.  However, on the rest of my ride I was puzzled as to why Bert was so disproportionately angry.  I mean, when I'm injured I don't usually react with blind and misplaced rage.  Usually.  And frankly, he didn't appear injured at all.  That's when I realized, he may have not cut or broken anything physical, but he shattered his fragile ego.  


See, when you're a cyclist your sense of self becomes tragically distorted.  Suddenly you think you're cool and hip because you shave your legs, you have multi-colored matching lycra outfits, and your arms are as slender as a 12 year old girl's.  This delusion can become quite strong, until it all comes crashing down around you when you fall off your bike, especially when done at slow speed.  Suddenly, as you lay on the ground, you realize with stunning clarity how you actually appear to the rest of the (non-cycling) world:

No wonder Bert was so upset.  

Unconventional Training

Yesterday on the bike path I saw perhaps the strangest rider yet. Yes, stranger than the 60 year old woman riding in a string bikini and sandals. More bizarre than the rider wearing his bibs over his jersey. Stranger even than the man who wears oven mitts to ride in the winter. No, this was a man, fairly ordinary in appearance, riding a nondescript bike, but saying over and over while he rode... Well, suffice it to say it rhymes with bigger and starts with an n. Yeah. As I see it, there are three possible explanations for this unusual behavior;


1) He is batshit crazy.


2) He is absurdly racist and, as a public service, has chosen to constantly warn others about it, much like a large truck beeping as it backs up to warn passersby.


3) He is engaged in a new and highly unusual training regime consisting of riding around offending everyone until people chase you and then being forced to escape them. 


 I know, at first blush this seems very unlikely, but remember that cyclists will do most anything to gain a competitive edge. Starve yourself to P.O.W.-esque appearance? Sure! Take every known drug, suplement, and hormone in the off chance it makes you faster? Why not! Remove your blood, store it for weeks, and then reinject it into your system? But of course! Suddenly the risk of racially motivated violent retaliation doesn't seem too daunting. I mean, what better way to simulate the excitement and terror of race day than riding for your life away from an angry mob? Sure, you risk bodily injury and alienate all around you, but you might get 1.126% faster. Well worth it.


I just hope this doesn't catch on, the other people on the bike path are annoying enough already. 

My name is Tulibo, and I'm an addict

I was at the bike shop the other day.  Surprise, surprise.  I break bikes like it's my job.  Oh, I should look into if anyone's hiring for that position.  Anyway, I was chatting with one of the salesmen while waiting for my latest broken bit to be fixed.  He was telling me that he hasn't been able to ride much lately (just 40 or 50 miles a week) because he's working at the bike shop, his girlfriend had her tonsils out, and things just get busy.  As I left I realized that I have a full time job, a wife, a 16 month old child, and I still bike 100-130 miles a week.  Granted, that's down from my average mileage PK (pre-Kiki) but only by 30 or 40 miles.  That's when I realized that either I'm a heartless bastard, a terrible husband, and a neglectful father OR I have a cycling addiction.  You can guess which explanation I'm going with.  I figure step one is identifying the problem.  Step two is, what, doing something about it?  I'll get around to that eventually.  I figure I should just take this one step at a time.  Man, these steps are exhausting, I think I need to go for a bike ride.  You know, just to clear my head.  What?  I have a disease, cut me some slack.  

One Thing At A Time

Once it became widely known to friends and coworkers that I was into cycling (usually when I showed up in full spandex to an event, also the turning point where many friends and coworkers became ex-friends, former coworkers, and the plaintiff named in the sexual harassment suit) I often found myself invited to participate in sporting events.  


Ah, but not the bike races you may assume.  No, nothing that simple, rather it's usually a triathlon.  Why do people assume, just because I can ride a bicycle, that I can also run and swim?  I guess they see me walking (sometimes in spandex, for which I apologize) from which they extrapolate that I can also speed it up into a run.  Fair enough.  But swimming?  The most interaction I have with water, outside the bathroom, is riding my bike in the rain.  And usually when I try that I crash. I view swimming as a way to keep from drowning, for which it is great.  But a way to get from point A to point B?  No fucking way.  I'll take the ferry, thank you very much.  


So the activities themselves are annoying enough, but then there are the distances.  Let's take the most common "beginner" triathlon, the sprint distance.  You start off with a .5 mile swim.  So right off the bat I drown, nice start.  After resuscitation there's a 12.4 mile bike ride.  Really?  That's literally how far I rode last January when it was 10 degrees and snowing.  It's a joke distance, barely worth putting on a helmet for.  So, after getting warmed up on the bike you get to jump off and run 5k, which is not dauntingly long but just kind of, well, boring, like all running really. 


But I hear you out there, with your shaved bodies and poor bike handling skills, you "true" triathletes mocking me to take a real challenge and do a longer triathlon, maybe even an iron man.  Yeah, 2.4 miles in the water, 112 miles on the bike, and a 26.2 mile run.  Do I even need to delineate why this is idiotic?  You know what, I really don't think I do.  Let's just move on.  


Here's my biggest problem.  It isn't that triathlons exist or that people participate in them.  Hell, most people I meet think I'm insane for enjoying cycling like I do, far be it for me to judge any else's sporting choices.  Hey, if you want to combine football, chess, and hopscotch into some unholy amalgam please, be my guest, but don't invite me to join in just because of my love of hopscotch (it should totally be an olympic sport).  I mean, if I tell you I like apples do you send me a bag of potatoes?  If I tell you I play hockey do you invite me to join your handball league?  So quit inviting me to do your triathlons.  Well, unless you want to do a relay team and all I have to do is ride the bike leg.  I wouldn't mind passing some triathletes with their goofy helmets and $4,000 wheels.  

Snotsy

When I am riding my bike and the temperature drops below 60 degrees, an interesting thing happens.  Well, interesting to me, hazardous and disgusting to those behind me.  See, my mucous production goes into overdrive.  In other words, I become a snot factory.  Oh, and phlegm, don't forget the phlegm, oh so much phlegm.  

In an effort to uncover the cause of this, well, 'skill', I did some digging into the family history and I think I may have figured it out.  Oddly enough, it turns out my great-great Aunt Susie-Lou was a hagfish.  

Auntie.  Unfortunately, I got her nose.

Also known as a slime eel, the hagfish can produce 5 gallons of slime in minutes.  Yep, sounds about right.  Now, the hagfish's slime is thought to be a defense mechanism or protective film, either of which don't seem to explain my problem... unless it is protecting me from anyone chasing me, or protecting my entire face, and leg, and arm, and bike, and the guy behind me from wind and possibly sunburn.  

It occurred to me that maybe this was my body's way of expelling heat and waste, much like a dog pants rather than sweats.  However, the problem with this hypothesis is that I also sweat like a, well, here's my great Uncle Herbert:

Be quiet, he's sleeping

If only I could find a way to turn this into a marketable skill.  Know anyone looking for industrial quantities of snot?

Weight Weenies

Ah, cyclists.  Among our other issues (shaved legs, saddle sores, spandex), many of us suffer from the delusion that the only possible thing standing between us and Tour de France glory is the extra 3 grams we're carrying around, unnecessarily, on our bicycle.  We go to extreme, and often absurd lengths to shave grams.  Well, not extreme or absurd, just extremely and absurdly expensive.  


You see, most cyclists won't go to extreme or even ordinary efforts to eliminate the extra 3 (or 30,000) grams they're carrying around on their ass.  If you go into most any bike shop, but especially one in an expensive suburb, you'll see a steady procession of average looking guys looking to spend almost any amount to save a bit of weight on their bike.  Because excess weight makes you slower.  And, by my reckoning, every gram of weight slows you down by at least 11.3 mph, so going from an 18.5 pound average bike to a sub-seven pound featherweight will make you 140 mph faster.  Yep, it's science (though not necessarily sound mathematical reasoning).  


Just to illustrate for any non-believers out there, the friendly people at Speedplay make a wide variety of road pedals, all of which have the same performance (you know, they hold your foot), varying only in physical materials and thus weight.  Their baseline pedal weighs 305 grams and costs $115.  Their top of the line pedal weighs 218.5 grams and costs $630.  That's negative 86.5 grams for $515, or $2,703 a (negative) pound!  Just for reference, negative pedal weight costs more than actual weight of marijuana, and is significantly less enjoyable.  


So why are we all so dumb?  Two words.


Lance Armstrong.


Yep, I pin this one squarely on ol' Lancey.  See, before Lance came along, the guys winning professional bike races looked like this:

'Sup

Yeah, the kind of guy who had no problem eating and even carrying a tray of pastries during a race, because it looks fucking cool.  Alright, to be fair, maybe a tray of dessert is not the most badass example, but this definitely is:

Smoking and endurance sports?  Nothing cooler.


My point is, cycling used to be cool, until Lance and his team of nerds sucked the fun out of it and made it all about results and winning.  I want to go back to the good old days, when it didn't matter if you failed to win because you were carrying some extra weight, as long as you were enjoying yourself.  Really, which of these situations would you rather find yourself in?

Get Thee Behind Me

Now, I've been called many things by strangers while out on my bike: Jerk, Asshole, Jerkhole, Assjerk... you get the idea.  I've also been the recipient of lots of constructive criticism, such as "Get off the Fucking Road" and "Slow Down Asshole."  All of these bon mots I take to heart, and try to use to better myself.  You know, by not being such a jerkhole... as least not all the time.

But last week, while riding rather slowly by an older ponytailed man, he looked directly at me, smiled, waved, and said, quite clearly:

"Bye Satan."

Then, just in case I thought I head misheard him, he repeated, "Bye Satan."

Yeah, I don't know what to make of it either.  I mean, am I Satan?  That would be kind of awesome.

But don't you think someone closer to me may have clued me into that previously?  Or that I may have noticed that I had some special skills like, for example, being immortal and having godlike powers?  And also, I don't think I would sweat as much, which would be nice.

But then again, maybe this beponytailed (hey, it works for spectacles) gentleman just has an incredible power of insight and sees what all others have missed.

But wait, maybe I'm not Satan (hurray!), but Satan was with me on my ride.  Kind of like that "one set of footsteps in the sand" parable, but bike centered.  Oh, and evil.  Yes, maybe Satan was simply acting as my personal cycling coach and, having done his training for this evening, was taking off.  So, this stranger was just being polite and bidding him adieu.

Great, now that Satan is training me, I'm sure I'm going to have to buy a powermeter.  Damn.

A long, proud tradition of cheating

July is coming, and you know what that means? Fireworks?  No.  Barbeque?  Hell no!  Le tour de France!  Oh, for those who don't sprechen el français, THE Tour OF France.  Yes, I know, most of you do expect a bit of a language lesson in my posts.  Yes, this Saturday the Tour kicks off again, this time in the Netherlands, I believe.  There or maybe Detroit.  I can't keep it straight.  


Anyway, once again the press is filled with news about the latest cheating rumor in the professional peloton.  No, not blood doping, or even it's lesser known (and less effective) alternative, saliva doping.  Not testosterone creams, lotions, suppositories or mints.  Not even HGH.  Nope, the latest approach for the cheating cyclist is to put a drill motor in your bike that pedals it for you.  I am not kidding.  This is what people are claiming.  Seriously.  


Cue the whining, complaining and arguing in the cycling blogosphere, but are we really surprised?  Cyclists will cheat, especially in the tour.  The work is so demanding and the rewards are too enticing.  The penalties just won't suffice.  Short of automatic amputation of both legs at the knee upon suspicion of doping.  Now that would make things interesting.  


Personally, I'm just impressed at the level of sophistication that dopers have achieved.  High tech motors and batteries more powerful for their size than anything a major automobile or laptop manufacturer has been able to produce?  Nice work.  To give perspective on how far they've come, let me introduce you to Hippolyte Aucouturier:

Two time winner or Paris-Roubaix, winner of five stages of the Tour (back when they were really hard, you know, 300 miles or so, on single speed bikes, with wooden wheels, and no support).  But, what Hippolyte (H-dog to his friends) is perhaps best remembered for, besides looking like a villain from a silent movie, was his part in the 1904 Tour.  


In a year plagued by cheating, Hippo took the cake by cheating in a most brazen, creative, and unusual manner.  Sure, some of his competitors simply rode to the train station and hopped a ride for 50 or 60 miles of the stage, and others had gangs attack their competitors, but such pedestrian cheating was well beneath ol' Hippoly.  No, he simply had a cork mouthpiece he clenched in his teeth.  Which was connected to a wire.  Which was connected to a car.  Yep, he was pulled up a mountain by his teeth.  The amazing thing is, that was less painful than riding up it using, you know, your legs.  


So, yes, maybe at some point, someone will use a mechanical motor to cheat in a bike race.  But so what?  It's just the next logical step in a long, proud tradition.  And at least you don't risk having your front teeth ripped out by a 1903 Model A.  

Slings and Sharrows

In the face of an ever increasing incidence of cars deciding to show their love for bicycles by smashing into them, my fine city has jumped into action.  Putting aside the typical issues of a large bureaucracy attempting a difficult solution to a complicated problem, they've implemented a corrective course of action.  They're painting sharrows.  About 50 of them.  On one stretch of road.  For those of you who don't regularly read cyclist activist blogs, a sharrow is this:

Yep, it's a "clever" name for what is more technically (and accurately, you know, in english) known as a "share the road arrow," or to most drivers, "crap on the road."  So I guess it was "Sharrow" or "Croad."

Look, I'm not against these, they don't do much harm besides mucking up the nice aesthetics of pure blacktop.  Hell, if the city wants to paint a continuous strip of advice on the road saying:

"Don't run over people.  If you're drunk, please don't drive.  If you're an asshole, consider just doing us all a favor and removing yourself to somewhere you'll blend in.  Like New Jersey"

I'm fine with that.  I don't know if it's the best use of tax monies, but according to our government it does provide an incredible boost to the economy.  Because, as Adam Smith postulated, the basis for all economic growth rests on the financial success of roadwork painting crews.  But I digress (yes, I know this entire post, and really the whole blog is a digression, smart guy).

My real problem is the insipid name.  Sharrow.  It sounds like a weapon a Care Bear would use.  To fight, well, what the hell do Care Bears fight?  Selfish children?  I mean, it kind of sounds right, until you drop out the adjective: "Care Bears fight children....with sharrows".  Hmmm, maybe they fight something less controversial.  Like cancer? 

It sounds better, sure, "Care bears fight cancer", but frankly, looking at one of them, I want something a little more badass fighting cancer.  Like Voltron.  I mean, the bear is asleep.  Asleep!  Cancer's not sleeping, oh no!  No, in my world, Care Bears fight nasal congestion.  With sharrows.  And our roads are covered in Croads.  And all is well... oh, and Voltron is going to kick the living shit out of cancer.

Bike Path, enter at your own risk.

Ah, the bike path, a safe haven for all the idiots and crazies in Columbus, judging from my experience.  


First, the idiots, and oh boy are there a lot of them.  The guy walking his dog from across the path, having the leash as a barely visible trip wire across the path.  The woman who decided the middle of the bike path was a GREAT place to do pushups.  The family of 30 who wanted to walk side by side down the middle of the path.  The many runners, joggers, and walkers who SUDDENLY turn around, apparently remembering that they left the oven on and need to return home, oh, too bad they just got smashed by a cyclist.  Oh, and of course, the assholes who ride their bikes way too fast on the path.  Can't leave myself out.  


Then there's the other contingent, the batshit crazy folk.  Not as numerous, but, like most things in life, more enjoyable because of their rarity.   The guy with the huge grey beard who rollerblades in a dress shirt and sweatpants. The woman with full cycling kit, a beautiful old steel bike, and half length leather dress gloves.  The 60 year old woman who rides almost every day in a pink string bikini top and sandals.  The guy who wears oven mitts (held together with duct tape) for cold weather riding. 


But today I sighted that rarest of breeds, the perfect blending of psychotically odd and pathologically stupid.  Two guys.  On the basketball court.  Playing basketball.  While riding unicycles.  


I can die happy now.

The DoItAll Mk. 2 - Now with adaptor to loosen the spark plugs on a 1966 Ford Galaxy Wagon

Maybe you missed the news, but someone (Ibera) FINALLY came out with a cycling mini tool (you're a mini tool!) that combines a 5mm hex, phillips screwdriver, and bike stand.

Now, you may ask:
"Why do I need a stand when I've always just leaned my bike against a tree to work on it on the road?"

"But what if you're riding up Mt. Ventoux, famously deforested by the French to build their navy, what then smart guy?"

Not one to be easily cowed, you may reply:
"But if my mini tool is supporting the bike how can I use it to fix or adjust anything?"

"Well, what if you only need to, uh, adjust your, uh, taillight?"

Yeah, that's it.  And yet you don't stop (why are you being such a dick, by the way?), you come back with:
"Judging from the picture you just lean your bike against this, it doesn't actually hold the bike.  Anything can be used for that, say, my shoe, or a rock (neither of which I call a "bike stand"), so I don't need this."

Fine, jerk, you win this time.
But I digress.  Why does every product designer insist on grafting on another function to an item to try to sell more?  (Oh, maybe to sell more, since that's kind of their job.  Hey, I think I got this one figured out!).  Dammit, I'm tired of it.  Now, don't get me wrong, I'm one of the worst suckers for a multitasker, I am a disciple of Alton Brown after all, but they better work well.  I don't need a tool that does lots of things poorly.  I learned this lesson early in life with my first Swiss Army knife.  I loved it and carried it everywhere, since it was a weapon, after all.  But then I came to realize I didn't have a huge need for a dull knife, or a toothpick that you are just supposed to reuse (ick), pathetic tweezers, the worst scissors on earth, or a nail file ever, really.  So I just started carrying a knife.  And it worked much better at cutting things, imagine that.  Plus I didn't rip off my fingernails trying to open it every time.  But if someone comes out with a combination wheel building station and minipump I'm ordering two, but only if it is made out or carbon fiber.

Bibs

Ah, cycling bibs, one of the best litmus tests of how far your cycling addiction has progressed.  You start off just wearing normal 'gym' clothes, because, hey, WTF, I don't need no stinkin' new clothes, ya jamoke (for purposes of this discussion you are a Jersey guido).  Then, once your ass becomes a wasteland of soreness you either
A) scale back cycling, since it's for queers anyway or
B) buy some cycling shorts, most likely the cheapest pair available from Performance or Nashbar.
These suffice for about, oh, 32 minutes until you realize they are made from a combination of steel wool and hay, held together with staples and a chamois made, apparently, from old Juicyfruit scraped from the bottom of the factory breakroom table.  So you decide to upgrade, once again, and you figure, what the hell, I already look like a freak, my family is embarassed to be seen with me in public, why not go all in and wear a 1930's bathing suit as well.  So you buy some bibs.  Maybe you've learned your lesson (or at least your taint did) and you buy a pair of Pearl Izumi's from your LBS.  And for many this is the pinnacle of their cycling trouser evolution.  But some of us go farther yet, exploring the upper regions of the cost spectrum, shelling out hundreds of dollars, our spleen and a child to be named later for a pair of Assos, which according to their reviews in Bicycling will make you faster, skinnier, more attractive and, for some unknown reason, able to paint amazing watercolors of tulips.  Eventually, with lots of pain, suffering, monetary outlay, and a bit of luck you find a pair of bibs that is comfortable, moderately affordable, and doesn't make you look like a total freak.  Alright, they all make you look like a total freak.

Tony Kornheiser & the right to be a moron

Ah, Tony Kornheiser. You schmuck. Oh, in case you didn't hear, an excerpt from his radio show recently about cyclists: "The last time I looked, the road was made for automobiles. It's as if we are going to be dominated, as if this were Beijing, by hundreds of thousands of bicyclists." and "The road is for cars! I don't drive my car on the sidewalk!". He went on to suggest people should hit cyclists with their cars. Oh, but don't kill them, just "tap" them. Thanks for looking out for us Tony, you're a hell of a guy. Now, lots of cyclists, including Lance himself, are all atwitter about Tony's apparent attempt at comedy, or social commentary, or, I dunno, irony? But here's the thing, the same freedoms that give Tony the right to say these things give me the right to point out that Tony is a puny, bitter, jocksniffer who has made a living criticizing those who can actually play the games he can only write about. Suddenly, it's not so weird that he would have an irrational anger at people out on "his" roads (Hey Tony, if they are your roads, will you get your ass up to Ohio and do something about the potholes? Thanks!) who are engaged in an actual physical activity themselves. Maybe he would feel better about us cyclists if we just stood on the side of the road and criticized the driving ability of the drivers who passed. That is more in line with Tony's abilities, after all. But no, I should be the bigger man, I should aspire to a loftier ideal rather than sinking to Tony's level, I should set a good example for Kiki of how to deal with ignorance and stupidity, because it is sadly rife in our world. So, Tony, you are entitled to your thoughts on cyclists. You're even entitled to voice them to the world at large. And ESPN should only suspend or admonish you if they believe you have failed in your job, not because of public pressure. But I do hope that sometime in the future Tony comes to realize that cyclists are just people out trying to enjoy their life, they're not out there to annoy Tony, despite what he thinks. We don't really care about him at all, we'd just prefer not to be hit by him, that's all. But maybe someday in the future Tony or someone close to him will discover cycling and the joys it can bring, and he will realize this and feel bad about his comments. Or maybe, while Tony is on his morning walk in the neighborhood, his 482 pound neighbor, Mike, who bought a mountain bike to try to work off some weight, and who has been riding on the sidewalk because of the harassment and irrational anger he encountered trying to ride on the road, will lose control, and crash into Tony, firmly planting about 3 feet of aluminum tubing up Tony's Kornheiser, as it were. But no, I shouldn't wish ill on another human. But I may send Mike some new mountain bike shoes, just to encourage him to get out riding more often.

Advice

I hate it, hate it, when someone asks me what bike (or car, or mail order bride) they should buy. Not because I am annoyed by the question, but because no one wants to hear what I actually think. I could go on for days on the subject. Yes, I am a huge nerd, obviously. But no one wants to hear that. No one wants to discuss the benefits of a cyclocross bike versus a flat bar commuter for an urban rider. No one cares if a bike is better for crit racing versus centuries. No one wants to hear about $10,000 handbuilt magnesium carbon frames with a 94 year wait list that are lovingly crafted by a blind man in the mountains of West Virginia who decides the geometry based on your shoe size and birth sign (come to think of it, I don't really want to hear about those either). They just want to be told "buy a trek (or specialized or felt, or, sometimes, strangely, a scattante)". The same way people's eyes glaze over when I delve into the amazing utility and speed of an Audi RS6 Wagon. They want to be told to buy a 3 series, or an Accord. And yes, I could just buckle, attempt to hide my nerdiness (an almost insurmountable task) and give them a pat answer: "Buy a Felt Z series" But I just cannot bring myself to do it. I refuse to buy into the marketing that there is a great "do it all" bike or car. I want the right tool for the job, and everyone else should too. To settle on anything less is to give into complacency and mediocrity. On the other hand, to approach it with my mentality you end up with 6 bikes and 3 cars, but sometimes there is a price for having high standards. Now I need to go search for an cyclocross unicycle, I never know when I might need it. Oh, and the best mail order brides are from southeastern Latvia.

Skinsuits, really?

I know people must buy skinsuits since they sell them on websites and carry them in stores. But, really? Really? Okay, if you are a professional cyclist and a small, almost dwarf-like frenchman hands you a skinsuit, emblazoned with sponsors logos, to wear the morning before a time trial, and you are being PAID to ride in it, and PAID by the sponsors on the skinsuit, and GIVEN the skinsuit, then FINE, I have no problem with it. But if the answer to any of those conditions is negative, then you are a douche. What is the point? Aerodynamics? How much air is really impeded by the joint between your jersey and bibs? Do you shave your eyebrows? Do you pluck your eyelashes? Do you tape your mouth shut and only breathe through your nose? Do you tape your ears back against your head (they're just flapping out there in the wind!)? Okay, FINE, if you do all those things than you can wear a skinsuit as well, even without being a pro, and not be a douche. Not saying you're normal, you are a freakshow, but at least you are douche-less. Why did they stop at connecting the shorts and jersey? Why not have a fully integrated time trial skinsuit, molded one piece from shoes to helmet. And if the Radioshack team debuts this very item at the Tour this year I am suing. Nike, Lance, Trek, Johann, even Levi, you will be hearing from my lawyer. And by my lawyer I mean my daughter. Who just managed to spit up breastmilk while simultaneously shitting her pants. She's a rare talent this one.

Kiki's here

 I used to be a cyclist. Well, more accurately, I used to not be a cyclist. And I was fatter. Then I was a cyclist, and slightly less fat. Now I am a guy who periodically rides a bike, and who seems to be getting slowly fat again. The difference? Priorities. Used to be a mashup of work, cycling, and family (consisting of a nice and tidy pair of my wife & I), now I have a new big (small) one that trumps all others. My daughter. She's 6 weeks old. And awesome. But unable to ride in a bike trailer for another 11 months, so now instead of riding my bike in most of my "free" time I spend it sitting with a baby in my lap who is alternating between crying and sleeping, leaving me with lots of time to think about cycling. Stupid American Association of Pediatrics and their "rules" about "baby" "safety". Apparently her neck muscles are too weak to withstand the trauma of a crash. And yes, theoretically I could just not crash, but I do crash on my bike. A lot. To a degree that my coworkers wonder why I continue to ride, and acquaintances are, well, "uneager" to ride with me. Pussies. Anyway, my original plan of hooking my daughter up to one of those medieval leather weightlifting devices to strengthen her neck was nixed by her mother as being "insane", "ridiculous" and "the worst idea I ever had" (good thing I don't share most of my ideas with her. I have plenty of good ideas, problem is, most of them suck). So, in lieu of strapping my newborn daughter up to a jerry-rigged neck building contraction (something else the American Association of Pediatrics probably frown on, way to go jerks) I've opted to write about cycling, and all it's myriad joys (a well fitting pair of bib shorts), pains (realizing you have a certain amount of crotch numbness that is acceptable to you), and discoveries (saddle sores, WTF?)