Time for a little routine maintenance here at The Cycle.
First, you'll notice that old friends Scott of Landscape Cycling and Todd of The 6-Miler have fallen off the rolls. Don't worry, fellas, you still get the love around here, and I'm watching you via bookmark, but I'll wait to re-roll you (which is much better than Rick-rolling you) until you're making more frequent interweb noise. I'm sure you're just saving up for something good, unlike yours truly who just vomits out whatever's in his brain the moment it crosses a synapse.
To make up for this tragic loss, I've gone with a themed double-whammy I call Grumpy Old Framebuilders. First up, there's WCAMO: Who Cares About My Opinion, a playful and (I think/hope) good-natured take on Richard Sachs and his ever-present acronym ATMO (According To My Opinion) by Bruce Gordon of the appropriately-named Bruce Gordon Cycles. This blog stuff is fairly new for Bruce, and he uses it both for musing and commercial purposes, but he was surly (the adjective) long before Surly the Marketing-Created Nonsense Brand ever existed, so he's always an entertaining read. (Disclaimer: I ride one of Bruce's bikes, but I paid for it. No bought-off shills at The Cycle, although -- as always -- I can be purchased if anyone's interested.)
Next up is The Overopinionated Framebuilder by Paul Sadoff of Rock Lobster Cycles (he's calling it "Can't We Just Get Along?" instead, but I really prefer the original and more descriptive title in the URL, so that's what I'm going with). I'll admit that Paul and Rock Lobster were just a tiny regional blip on my radar screen for a long time. I'd heard of the bikes and seen some dazzling show-candy on the internets, but I hadn't really paid attention until recently. I've been reading up on Paul's philosophy and checking out some of his builds in the last few weeks, and he's starting to creep up on my List of Custom Builders Who Might Someday Make My Dream Bike If I Ever Hit The Lottery. Everybody has one of those, right?
What I like about both of these builders is that although they've been around since dirt was new, they've both been willing to make juicy steak out of some of the sacred cows of the old torchbearers. Bruce and Paul can both crank out a gorgeous traditional lugged frame that would make Grant Petersen of Rivendell Bicycle Works wet his woolens... yet neither has stopped there. Bruce's bread-and-butter is the welded Rock 'n' Road touring bike -- which (According To My Opinion, copyright Richard Sachs) has been the gold standard of loaded touring bikes for decades. Not enough? Well, have you seen his titanium townie bike? His carbon fiber handlebars? Paul, on the other hand, can do a gorgeous stack-o-dimes weld on an aluminum cyclocross race machine that makes me want to cheat on my beloved frame material, steel.
So, take a break from my blather, enjoy some chatter from a couple legendary flamethrowers, and -- for my U.S. readers -- have a great 4th.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Happy Feet, I've Got Those Happy Feet
My new wide shoes (first mentioned in last Sunday's post) arrived a couple days ago (speedy shipping there, Performance... nicely done), but tonight was my first real ride in them: 39 quasi-fast miles on an absolutely gorgeous night.
Quickie first-impression review? Oh, I like 'em a LOT. Imagine if you'd been wearing pants two sizes too small for your entire life because you thought that was just how they were supposed to fit... and then you got a pair in the right size. That's how my paddle feet feel right now... like a skinny-jeaned fixie-pushing hipster experiencing the vastness of baggy pants for the first time. I didn't have to futz with the straps or clip out and walk around to alleviate hot-foot at all. Amazing.
More to come (including, I'm sure, much prattle about my ambivalence towards the mail order Bike Marts like Performance), but the early verdict is two big toes up!
Quickie first-impression review? Oh, I like 'em a LOT. Imagine if you'd been wearing pants two sizes too small for your entire life because you thought that was just how they were supposed to fit... and then you got a pair in the right size. That's how my paddle feet feel right now... like a skinny-jeaned fixie-pushing hipster experiencing the vastness of baggy pants for the first time. I didn't have to futz with the straps or clip out and walk around to alleviate hot-foot at all. Amazing.
More to come (including, I'm sure, much prattle about my ambivalence towards the mail order Bike Marts like Performance), but the early verdict is two big toes up!
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Sacrificial Lambs
What is it with people who ride nice bikes to work yet have no clue how to lock them up?
I'm not going to reveal where I work or offer photographic evidence that might tip off a dishonest reader (not like I have any of those, of course), but my bike rack is on the ground floor of a parking garage that's visible and accessible to anyone who walks by on the sidewalk. Despite that, today's count included a couple fairly new Trek roadies (maybe worth $1k each?) "secured" by those flimsy four-number combination cables that are about as strong as dry-rotted twine. I think the Twine-Lok was only running through one wheel on one (not even the frame!), so it wouldn't have taken a very astute thief to walk off one wheel short of a new bike. I think the other Trek had an unsecured wheel, so maybe he could have done some mix-and-match to get something rideable.
The real winner, though, was a fairly new Giant roadie (probably another $1k ride) that featured the same Twine-Lok coiled around the stem. That's right: The bike was locked to NOTHING. Sure, this is Iowa, and there's a security camera somewhere around the rack (watched at all times by our eagle-eyed security staff, no doubt), but c'mon! Are you that dense, or are you running the world's most obvious insurance scam?
Even assuming you run that little cable through both wheels and the frame, it wouldn't take a particularly dedicated thief to leave you bikeless. I'm the furthest thing from a bike thief, but even I have more than one otherwise-innocent tool in my garage that would get through that cable like a Ginsu knife through a sausage link. And those four-digit combo locks? In my experience, most people leave the sticker with the combination still stuck on the thing (do these people leave their house key hanging in the door when they go on vacation too?), and even if you don't, those locks have a "tell" so easy that it doesn't take much to open one (guess how we used to entertain ourselves in the bike shop over the winter?)
Okay, so I'm being a little harsh. Those little locks do have their place. They're light, easy to pack, and they will serve as a temporary deterrent in a low-crime area (yes, like Iowa) if you're just running into a store. I keep one coiled up (with its combination sticker removed, thank you) in my saddlebag for just such a purpose. But if you're leaving a commuter bike sit outside for eight hours a day, pack the heavy artillery and learn how to use it.
Except for you guys with the Treks and the Giant, of course. After all, you're making my bike look like a pretty hard target by comparison. Hey, natural selection applies everywhere, even in the bike rack.
I'm not going to reveal where I work or offer photographic evidence that might tip off a dishonest reader (not like I have any of those, of course), but my bike rack is on the ground floor of a parking garage that's visible and accessible to anyone who walks by on the sidewalk. Despite that, today's count included a couple fairly new Trek roadies (maybe worth $1k each?) "secured" by those flimsy four-number combination cables that are about as strong as dry-rotted twine. I think the Twine-Lok was only running through one wheel on one (not even the frame!), so it wouldn't have taken a very astute thief to walk off one wheel short of a new bike. I think the other Trek had an unsecured wheel, so maybe he could have done some mix-and-match to get something rideable.
The real winner, though, was a fairly new Giant roadie (probably another $1k ride) that featured the same Twine-Lok coiled around the stem. That's right: The bike was locked to NOTHING. Sure, this is Iowa, and there's a security camera somewhere around the rack (watched at all times by our eagle-eyed security staff, no doubt), but c'mon! Are you that dense, or are you running the world's most obvious insurance scam?
Even assuming you run that little cable through both wheels and the frame, it wouldn't take a particularly dedicated thief to leave you bikeless. I'm the furthest thing from a bike thief, but even I have more than one otherwise-innocent tool in my garage that would get through that cable like a Ginsu knife through a sausage link. And those four-digit combo locks? In my experience, most people leave the sticker with the combination still stuck on the thing (do these people leave their house key hanging in the door when they go on vacation too?), and even if you don't, those locks have a "tell" so easy that it doesn't take much to open one (guess how we used to entertain ourselves in the bike shop over the winter?)
Okay, so I'm being a little harsh. Those little locks do have their place. They're light, easy to pack, and they will serve as a temporary deterrent in a low-crime area (yes, like Iowa) if you're just running into a store. I keep one coiled up (with its combination sticker removed, thank you) in my saddlebag for just such a purpose. But if you're leaving a commuter bike sit outside for eight hours a day, pack the heavy artillery and learn how to use it.
Except for you guys with the Treks and the Giant, of course. After all, you're making my bike look like a pretty hard target by comparison. Hey, natural selection applies everywhere, even in the bike rack.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Take Me Out To The Ball Game, Smithers
It's not often that I get to see how the other half lives. Sure, the life of a World-Famous Author of a Bicycle Blog Enjoyed By Dozens can be glamorous, but it certainly hasn't propelled me into the stratospheric upper reaches of society... yet.
Thankfully, I happen to be married to an unpaid graphic design intern, which -- in case you didn't know -- is quite the lucrative gravy train. For instance, just last week she was able to procure us a pair of these:
I can hear you saying, "Oh, c'mon... you expect us to believe that you had skybox seats to the non-stop thrill ride that is minor league baseball as played by a subsidiary of the ever-disappointing Chicago Cubs?" Yes, indeed, I did. Triple-A ball plus air conditioning, as our local Iowa Cubs did battle with the New Orleans Zephyrs at Sec Taylor Stadium. I know, the ticket says the game was played somewhere else, but a refusal to call this local landmark by its recently-purchased corporate moniker is the secret handshake into the "grumpy old locals" club.
I knew I'd made the big time when I settled into my seat (casting glances of mild disdain at the sweat-soaked riffraff far below in steerage) and a server immediately appeared to tend to my every whim. Not only that, she offered me the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to purchase this beautiful, collectible souvenir for the low, low price of only six dollars plus a small gratuity!
And when my souvenir arrived, it was full of an intriguing frothy, fermented liquid in a curious shade of yellow. When I summoned the sommelier, he informed me that I had been served the "light" offering from a grower in the Budweiser region, 2009 vintage. Delightful!
Lest you think the evening was all fun and games, there are serious responsibilities for the titans of society who inhabit the upper reaches of the stadium. Late in the top of the eighth inning, Iowa Cubs manager Bobby Dickerson called time and strode with purpose to the mound. His relief pitcher Justin Berg was having some control problems (no doubt brought on by the searing -- I'm told -- heat and humidity outside my Bubble of Affluence) and had given up a few runs. When Dickerson turned toward home plate and cast a glance skyward, I knew my moment had come. I rose to my feet, and -- like the great emperors before me -- raised my arm to deliver a "thumbs down" signal. Dickerson gave a grave nod, turned to Berg, and broke the bad news. Berg trudged off the field to what's called the "bullpen," where -- I assume -- he was trampled and eaten by a herd of angry bulls. All I know is that he didn't play the next day... how do you explain that?
Sure, the sour-grapes eaters out there are whining that watching baseball in a skybox is like sitting at home and watching it on TV. To those people, I say, does your TV look like this?
Or maybe this?
If so, the World Series party is at your house this year.
Thankfully, I happen to be married to an unpaid graphic design intern, which -- in case you didn't know -- is quite the lucrative gravy train. For instance, just last week she was able to procure us a pair of these:
I can hear you saying, "Oh, c'mon... you expect us to believe that you had skybox seats to the non-stop thrill ride that is minor league baseball as played by a subsidiary of the ever-disappointing Chicago Cubs?" Yes, indeed, I did. Triple-A ball plus air conditioning, as our local Iowa Cubs did battle with the New Orleans Zephyrs at Sec Taylor Stadium. I know, the ticket says the game was played somewhere else, but a refusal to call this local landmark by its recently-purchased corporate moniker is the secret handshake into the "grumpy old locals" club.
I knew I'd made the big time when I settled into my seat (casting glances of mild disdain at the sweat-soaked riffraff far below in steerage) and a server immediately appeared to tend to my every whim. Not only that, she offered me the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to purchase this beautiful, collectible souvenir for the low, low price of only six dollars plus a small gratuity!
And when my souvenir arrived, it was full of an intriguing frothy, fermented liquid in a curious shade of yellow. When I summoned the sommelier, he informed me that I had been served the "light" offering from a grower in the Budweiser region, 2009 vintage. Delightful!
Lest you think the evening was all fun and games, there are serious responsibilities for the titans of society who inhabit the upper reaches of the stadium. Late in the top of the eighth inning, Iowa Cubs manager Bobby Dickerson called time and strode with purpose to the mound. His relief pitcher Justin Berg was having some control problems (no doubt brought on by the searing -- I'm told -- heat and humidity outside my Bubble of Affluence) and had given up a few runs. When Dickerson turned toward home plate and cast a glance skyward, I knew my moment had come. I rose to my feet, and -- like the great emperors before me -- raised my arm to deliver a "thumbs down" signal. Dickerson gave a grave nod, turned to Berg, and broke the bad news. Berg trudged off the field to what's called the "bullpen," where -- I assume -- he was trampled and eaten by a herd of angry bulls. All I know is that he didn't play the next day... how do you explain that?
Sure, the sour-grapes eaters out there are whining that watching baseball in a skybox is like sitting at home and watching it on TV. To those people, I say, does your TV look like this?
Or maybe this?
If so, the World Series party is at your house this year.
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