Spent last weekend in Vegas for the wedding of my bro-in-law (congrats, guys, and welcome to the family, Lauren!) where my constant craving for caffeine actually led to a bona fide celebrity encounter.
I'm sitting outside a coffee joint in a mall (because doesn't everyone go on vacation to hang out in malls?) sipping my medication while my wife shops, when someone who looks familiar walks past me into the coffee place. Sure, she's kind of frumped-up in an intentional "please don't notice me" sort of way (jeans, sweatshirt, baseball hat), but I'm almost sure I've got a positive ID.
Of course, being incredibly weird about talking to people I don't know AND terrified of looking like a stalker fanboy, all I can do is scooch my chair around so I can see her come out of the coffee place and confirm that I did see who I thought I done saw.
Sure enough, my first impression was right: it's Jenna Fischer, star of TV's The Office. Can I come up with the name "Jenna Fischer" as I'm sitting there? Of course not. All I can think is, "uh, duh, um... PAM!" (which, thankfully, I do not express verbally) as I watch her re-disappear into the crowd. My wife wanted to know if she looked as cute in person as on TV, but a) I'm not dumb enough to answer a question like that from my wife, and b) it seems kind of creepy to discuss a complete stranger's cuteness level once you've actually encountered her as a real, coffee-drinking person rather than just an image beamed into your shiny-picture-box at home.
And now that I'm back home in flyover country, the magical interwebs confirm that Ms. Fischer was in fact in Vegas celebrating her birthday -- proving yet again that you CAN believe everything you read on the interwebs. It was real! And you were there, and you, and you...
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Why Do Certain Bikes Float Your Boat?
Ever since I posted my minor online obsession with the Kona Dew Drop, I've been wondering what it is about certain bikes that I find irresistible.
Here's my theory: Bikers get their buttons pushed by whatever style was IT when they first started riding seriously. I've heard that car people are the same way, lusting after the rides that they wanted when they got a license for the first time. So, for instance, if you started turning cranks with regularity in the 1970s, maybe the classic road machines of that era trip your trigger: squiggly lugs, lots of chrome, Nuovo Record kit, non-aero brake cables flapping in the breeze, etc. I can appreciate that look (and even have a squiggly-lugged Raleigh in the garage), but being a bit young to have experienced it firsthand, I don't go all irrational ga-ga for it.
See, I came of cycling age in the mid-80s, right when the mountain bike absolutely exploded. The bikes I wanted in those days looked more like something out of the Museum of Mountain Bike Art and Technology than something out of a sepia-toned photo of Eddy Merckx (I know, they had color photography in Eddy's day, but sepia just sounds right in this context.)
Give me the polished, toothpaste-welded triple triangle of a GT Zaskar. The funky front end and bizarrely cantilevered rear dropouts of a Cannondale Killer V. That undeniably Gary Fisher yellow-to-red fade paintjob. Or the eye-searing neon green/white/pink of a fat-tubed Klein with matching chubby aluminum fork blades. Or the yellow elastomer stacks of a Proflex. Or -- be still my beating heart -- the low-slung bad-assedness of an early-90s steel Stumpjumper (WHY didn't I buy one when I could've gotten it cheap on employee purchase?!?) Even the hideously ineffective Trek 9000 "stack of little chocolate donuts" rear suspension has a place in my heart, if only because it was new and exciting "in the day." Kit any of them out with an M900 XTR drivetrain (has there ever been a better or prettier parts kit? I think not) or some Suntour XC Pro, maybe a Rock Shox Judy up front, and I'll be reduced to a gelatinous puddle of irrational desire.
Of course, I don't mountain bike any more. Too many blown shoulders and broken bones. So I like the feel of a good, long-wheelbase road ride, that flywheel effect when a fat, slick road tire comes up to speed on good pavement -- something you just won't get from the dirt bikes of my youth. But my id still goes goofy over that 80s/90s mountain bike look. So, I wind up with these bizarre hybrids. No, scratch that. The term's been killed by the industry. Call them "remix bikes" -- the utilitarian, take-no-prisoners look of an old mountain bike paired up with the road feel of a good tourer. Upjutting stems. Thumbshifters. Fat (albeit smooth) rubber. Wide canti brakes. TIG welds -- yes, my iBOB bretheren, the heretic just said WELDS. Something like my Bruce Gordon tourer. Or, if you want off-the-shelf, maybe a Rawland Sogn. Or even a Kogswell PR, if you kit it up right. Slap on some 36-spoke wheels, and let's party like it's 1989!
Crap, I think this might be a midlife crisis! Ah well, there are worse ones...
Here's my theory: Bikers get their buttons pushed by whatever style was IT when they first started riding seriously. I've heard that car people are the same way, lusting after the rides that they wanted when they got a license for the first time. So, for instance, if you started turning cranks with regularity in the 1970s, maybe the classic road machines of that era trip your trigger: squiggly lugs, lots of chrome, Nuovo Record kit, non-aero brake cables flapping in the breeze, etc. I can appreciate that look (and even have a squiggly-lugged Raleigh in the garage), but being a bit young to have experienced it firsthand, I don't go all irrational ga-ga for it.
See, I came of cycling age in the mid-80s, right when the mountain bike absolutely exploded. The bikes I wanted in those days looked more like something out of the Museum of Mountain Bike Art and Technology than something out of a sepia-toned photo of Eddy Merckx (I know, they had color photography in Eddy's day, but sepia just sounds right in this context.)
Give me the polished, toothpaste-welded triple triangle of a GT Zaskar. The funky front end and bizarrely cantilevered rear dropouts of a Cannondale Killer V. That undeniably Gary Fisher yellow-to-red fade paintjob. Or the eye-searing neon green/white/pink of a fat-tubed Klein with matching chubby aluminum fork blades. Or the yellow elastomer stacks of a Proflex. Or -- be still my beating heart -- the low-slung bad-assedness of an early-90s steel Stumpjumper (WHY didn't I buy one when I could've gotten it cheap on employee purchase?!?) Even the hideously ineffective Trek 9000 "stack of little chocolate donuts" rear suspension has a place in my heart, if only because it was new and exciting "in the day." Kit any of them out with an M900 XTR drivetrain (has there ever been a better or prettier parts kit? I think not) or some Suntour XC Pro, maybe a Rock Shox Judy up front, and I'll be reduced to a gelatinous puddle of irrational desire.
Of course, I don't mountain bike any more. Too many blown shoulders and broken bones. So I like the feel of a good, long-wheelbase road ride, that flywheel effect when a fat, slick road tire comes up to speed on good pavement -- something you just won't get from the dirt bikes of my youth. But my id still goes goofy over that 80s/90s mountain bike look. So, I wind up with these bizarre hybrids. No, scratch that. The term's been killed by the industry. Call them "remix bikes" -- the utilitarian, take-no-prisoners look of an old mountain bike paired up with the road feel of a good tourer. Upjutting stems. Thumbshifters. Fat (albeit smooth) rubber. Wide canti brakes. TIG welds -- yes, my iBOB bretheren, the heretic just said WELDS. Something like my Bruce Gordon tourer. Or, if you want off-the-shelf, maybe a Rawland Sogn. Or even a Kogswell PR, if you kit it up right. Slap on some 36-spoke wheels, and let's party like it's 1989!
Crap, I think this might be a midlife crisis! Ah well, there are worse ones...
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
I've Lost My Tube-Patching Mojo, Baby!
I think it's finally time to admit it: I suck at patching tubes.
This dawned on me the other night. I'd smacked either a boulder or a canyon with my back wheel coming through Water Works Park. For non-locals, the name of this park was inspired by the following conversation between two city engineers:
Engineer 1: "I need a substance that, when applied regularly to asphalt and subjected to a freeze/thaw cycle, will turn said asphalt into a lunar surface guaranteed to pummel any cyclist silly enough to enter."
Engineer 2: "Water works!"
And so, we got a park in the wickedest part of the flood plain, where bikers usually need sealed and inflated "pontoon panniers" to get through during the Spring thaw. In the non-flood season, you get alligator-back asphalt and gaping potholes -- thus my guess above that I'd hit either a heaved-up hunk of asphalt or one of the pits it left behind.
I didn't just hit it, either. I smacked it good. At full (albeit laughably slow) speed. Hard enough that I fully expected to have a tasty rim taco for dinner. But all I got was the telltale hiss of a snakebite puncture.
So, in my very best "Dave Stohler as Little 500 Pit Crew" impersonation, I flipped the bike in the grass, slapped in a fresh tube, and went on my way, figuring that later that night, I could put a patch on the old one at my leisure.
No such luck. Because, in case you missed it above, I suck at patching tubes.
This is hard for me to grasp, because I was once a Supreme Bad-Arse of Butyl Repair. In my shop days (oh boy, there goes Grandpa again), I patched a TON of tubes. Not for customer bikes -- policy was, you sold a new tube (because the time it took to patch one cost the customer more in labor than the $4 we charged for a new one) and tossed the old one in the recycle box.
Aside: I don't know where those tubes went. They sure never hit our dumpster, but it wasn't like we had some kind of official recyclery. Every shop just had some local guy off the street who came in weekly/bi-weekly/monthly and picked them up. For all I know, each "tube guy" was secretly assembling a gigantic Wile E. Coyote ("Super Genius") slingshot from ACME Corporation in his garage, preparing to do battle with "tube guys" in the surrounding towns.
Of course, not ALL the tubes went to the tube guy. Do the math: You have a box of tubes that only need a patch, plus a staff of college kids who need tubes for their own bikes but would rather spend money on beer. So, we skimmed the ones that fit our bikes, patched them, and built stockpiles at home. I may have gone five years without actually purchasing a new tube. (Which is also why I'm the guy who looks hungrily at the dead tube you're about to toss out, like my Depression-era grandparents scolding me for wasting food -- "There are kids in China who don't even HAVE tubes with holes in them!") And in that time, I got damn good at patching. Straight-up nail puncture? Don't make me laugh. Snakebite on a skinny road tube? Interesting, but still no challenge. My proudest moment was the day that I cut a small X in the center of a patch so I could fit it over a presta valve and patch a hole at the BASE of the valve stem. I didn't need to... I just wanted to prove that I could. Even the Romanian judge had to respect the level of difficulty on that trick.
So it's even more painful for me to now admit that I don't think I've successfully patched a tube in maybe two years. I know the drill: Rough it up, lay the glue on thin and wide, let it dry, slap on the patch, burnish it down. But my stupid edges always peel up, or I get an unglued spot that bubbles until it finally leaks out the side of the patch, or I drop the patch on the garage floor and get schmutz all over it, or I can't get the dumb thing to lay down correctly around the circumference of a small tube, or I catch one side of the snakebite and miss the other. In short, I suck. So much so that I get nervous if all I'm carrying is a tube I patched. I need that shiny cardboard box around it as a security blanket, letting me know that I'm packing virgin rubber, unsullied by my own incompetence.
I want to blame the tubes ("Why, back in MY day, they knew how to make tubes right!"), but I know that's a lie. We used the same cheap, crappy, seam-crossed tubes back then that I'm buying today, and I used to patch those miserable things with the skill of a surgeon.
Guess I'll just have to keep buying 'em new (though -- here comes Grandpa again! -- they sure aren't $4 any more) and donating the punctured ones to recycle box so the "tube guy" can arm himself and the wrenches can keep their beer funds in the black.
This dawned on me the other night. I'd smacked either a boulder or a canyon with my back wheel coming through Water Works Park. For non-locals, the name of this park was inspired by the following conversation between two city engineers:
Engineer 1: "I need a substance that, when applied regularly to asphalt and subjected to a freeze/thaw cycle, will turn said asphalt into a lunar surface guaranteed to pummel any cyclist silly enough to enter."
Engineer 2: "Water works!"
And so, we got a park in the wickedest part of the flood plain, where bikers usually need sealed and inflated "pontoon panniers" to get through during the Spring thaw. In the non-flood season, you get alligator-back asphalt and gaping potholes -- thus my guess above that I'd hit either a heaved-up hunk of asphalt or one of the pits it left behind.
I didn't just hit it, either. I smacked it good. At full (albeit laughably slow) speed. Hard enough that I fully expected to have a tasty rim taco for dinner. But all I got was the telltale hiss of a snakebite puncture.
So, in my very best "Dave Stohler as Little 500 Pit Crew" impersonation, I flipped the bike in the grass, slapped in a fresh tube, and went on my way, figuring that later that night, I could put a patch on the old one at my leisure.
No such luck. Because, in case you missed it above, I suck at patching tubes.
This is hard for me to grasp, because I was once a Supreme Bad-Arse of Butyl Repair. In my shop days (oh boy, there goes Grandpa again), I patched a TON of tubes. Not for customer bikes -- policy was, you sold a new tube (because the time it took to patch one cost the customer more in labor than the $4 we charged for a new one) and tossed the old one in the recycle box.
Aside: I don't know where those tubes went. They sure never hit our dumpster, but it wasn't like we had some kind of official recyclery. Every shop just had some local guy off the street who came in weekly/bi-weekly/monthly and picked them up. For all I know, each "tube guy" was secretly assembling a gigantic Wile E. Coyote ("Super Genius") slingshot from ACME Corporation in his garage, preparing to do battle with "tube guys" in the surrounding towns.
Of course, not ALL the tubes went to the tube guy. Do the math: You have a box of tubes that only need a patch, plus a staff of college kids who need tubes for their own bikes but would rather spend money on beer. So, we skimmed the ones that fit our bikes, patched them, and built stockpiles at home. I may have gone five years without actually purchasing a new tube. (Which is also why I'm the guy who looks hungrily at the dead tube you're about to toss out, like my Depression-era grandparents scolding me for wasting food -- "There are kids in China who don't even HAVE tubes with holes in them!") And in that time, I got damn good at patching. Straight-up nail puncture? Don't make me laugh. Snakebite on a skinny road tube? Interesting, but still no challenge. My proudest moment was the day that I cut a small X in the center of a patch so I could fit it over a presta valve and patch a hole at the BASE of the valve stem. I didn't need to... I just wanted to prove that I could. Even the Romanian judge had to respect the level of difficulty on that trick.
So it's even more painful for me to now admit that I don't think I've successfully patched a tube in maybe two years. I know the drill: Rough it up, lay the glue on thin and wide, let it dry, slap on the patch, burnish it down. But my stupid edges always peel up, or I get an unglued spot that bubbles until it finally leaks out the side of the patch, or I drop the patch on the garage floor and get schmutz all over it, or I can't get the dumb thing to lay down correctly around the circumference of a small tube, or I catch one side of the snakebite and miss the other. In short, I suck. So much so that I get nervous if all I'm carrying is a tube I patched. I need that shiny cardboard box around it as a security blanket, letting me know that I'm packing virgin rubber, unsullied by my own incompetence.
I want to blame the tubes ("Why, back in MY day, they knew how to make tubes right!"), but I know that's a lie. We used the same cheap, crappy, seam-crossed tubes back then that I'm buying today, and I used to patch those miserable things with the skill of a surgeon.
Guess I'll just have to keep buying 'em new (though -- here comes Grandpa again! -- they sure aren't $4 any more) and donating the punctured ones to recycle box so the "tube guy" can arm himself and the wrenches can keep their beer funds in the black.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Thou Shalt Not Covet
First, since I know my wife reads this blog, I am VERY happy with my current bike fleet. I lack for nothing when it comes to nice rides. In fact, I feel pretty bike-blessed to have been able to collect a small sampling of fine specimens (including one from one of America's most respected builders), even when the paycheck/bills balancing act probably didn't justify them. And I am NOT shopping for a new one.
But that never stops me from ogling, I admit. At one extreme, there's pal Steve K's outstanding collection of snaps from this year's North American Handmade Bicycle Show. So much fancy bike goodness, and if I didn't know Steve was an engineer (and not the train-drivin' kind), I'd think he was a professional photographer. Go ahead, lose yourself in there for a while. I'll still be here when you get back.
Done yet? Nope? I understand.
How about now? Couple more minutes? Okay.
Alright, I'm going on without you.
At the other end, I'm fascinated by humble-yet-useful bikes... ones that won't make a bike nerd look twice, but still have some neat mixes of good geometry and smart features at not-incredibly-ridiculous prices. My old Redline 925 (now sold to make space for the retro Raleigh) was like that... it did battle in the now-crowded market of $500 ready-made fixed gears, but did so with lots of tire/fender clearance and the brazeons to support fenders and racks. Sure, it lacked that fakenger "dude, check out my NJS track iron" street cred, but what's that worth in Des Moines, anyway?
Another bike that gets my virtual vote these days (since there are no Kona dealers in the area where I could fondle one in person) is the Kona Dew Drop. I dunno why. It just pushes the right buttons for me. For one thing, the Dew series has always seemed to feature shorter-than-normal top tubes, so I just might be able to reach the bars with my stubby T-rex arms. Aluminum frame (so it could be dinged relentlessly with no fear of rust), trusty steel fork to keep your teeth off the pavement, nice touring/do-it-all geometry, seems to have tire clearance, those discs brakes would be nice on a snowy commute, and it's red, which automatically makes it faster.
Of course, nothing's perfect -- I'd ditch the triple crankset and front derailleur for a single 42-tooth ring (in keeping with my current drivetrain simplicity mania), lose the STI for Tektro aero brake levers, and shift the remaining rear derailler with some kind of thumbshifter. Slap on some luggage, pedals, and a favorite saddle, and you'd really have something.
(And by "something," I mean something that appeals to my bizarre little demographic of one.)
But that never stops me from ogling, I admit. At one extreme, there's pal Steve K's outstanding collection of snaps from this year's North American Handmade Bicycle Show. So much fancy bike goodness, and if I didn't know Steve was an engineer (and not the train-drivin' kind), I'd think he was a professional photographer. Go ahead, lose yourself in there for a while. I'll still be here when you get back.
Done yet? Nope? I understand.
How about now? Couple more minutes? Okay.
Alright, I'm going on without you.
At the other end, I'm fascinated by humble-yet-useful bikes... ones that won't make a bike nerd look twice, but still have some neat mixes of good geometry and smart features at not-incredibly-ridiculous prices. My old Redline 925 (now sold to make space for the retro Raleigh) was like that... it did battle in the now-crowded market of $500 ready-made fixed gears, but did so with lots of tire/fender clearance and the brazeons to support fenders and racks. Sure, it lacked that fakenger "dude, check out my NJS track iron" street cred, but what's that worth in Des Moines, anyway?
Another bike that gets my virtual vote these days (since there are no Kona dealers in the area where I could fondle one in person) is the Kona Dew Drop. I dunno why. It just pushes the right buttons for me. For one thing, the Dew series has always seemed to feature shorter-than-normal top tubes, so I just might be able to reach the bars with my stubby T-rex arms. Aluminum frame (so it could be dinged relentlessly with no fear of rust), trusty steel fork to keep your teeth off the pavement, nice touring/do-it-all geometry, seems to have tire clearance, those discs brakes would be nice on a snowy commute, and it's red, which automatically makes it faster.
Of course, nothing's perfect -- I'd ditch the triple crankset and front derailleur for a single 42-tooth ring (in keeping with my current drivetrain simplicity mania), lose the STI for Tektro aero brake levers, and shift the remaining rear derailler with some kind of thumbshifter. Slap on some luggage, pedals, and a favorite saddle, and you'd really have something.
(And by "something," I mean something that appeals to my bizarre little demographic of one.)
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