With the industrialized world disappearing in its own fat rolls and gas prices in this country skyrocketing to half of what other developed nations have been paying for years (heaven forbid!), the US Department of Transportation's Two Mile Challenge is promoting the use of your own two feet, public transportation or bicycles for trips less than two miles. The DOT cites the benefits for your wallet, the environment and your health if you leave the car parked and find one of the better ways to get around on short errands.
It all sounds great, but no one wants to be this kid:
http://youtu.be/tF9Ky6EYCZM
His miraculous escape from death has been featured on Good Morning America and other news outlets. So maybe you DO want to be that kid, since he came out with a few bumps and scrapes instead of being completely mashed and scrambled by his impact with a speeding car. However, the dramatic crash reinforces what's in many people's minds when they think of going onto the street in anything less than a Humvee.
The lad in Colorado made the classic little kid move, dashing headlong into the path of a moving car. As a kid I was told to avoid that very mistake. Later, as a young driver I was told to look out for kids making exactly that mistake. The driver who was clearly going sociopathically fast on a residential street should have been going more slowly and certainly should have stopped after peening the kid. But then, if you're someone who drives selfishly, self preservation is your first reflex. Get the hell out of sight and hope to avoid the consequences. Maybe guilt will inspire later good works. We may never know.
Even in the cute little town of Wolfeboro there are streets I prefer not to ride. People under the influence of horsepower have such a sense of entitlement that they feel they're doing you a favor if they miss you at all, let alone slow down and give you a reasonable amount of space. There is no worst class of offender. Drivers of large commercial vehicles are scarier when they get aggressive, but they seem no more prone to aggression than drivers in pickup trucks, sporty sports in sporty cars, texting teens, busy entrepreneurs driving their offices and the host of other scurrying hardshell crabs one might encounter as a soft shrimp sharing the rushing current with them.
The fact remains that high(ish) gas prices will have a little influence on a few people, but most drivers will simply bitch and pay. They might look upon the cyclists with a little more understanding for a while, but the ranks of cyclists will shrink back as the newcomers have to deal with the harsh realities of a life unshelled. I wish it would work out differently. All we can do is keep talking it up and keep setting the example. But just as few people actually volunteer for hazardous but commendable duties while praising those who do, so do they perhaps admire our pluck and appreciate the parking spaces we leave for them, while most of them view cycling as unacceptably dangerous and inconvenient.
Maybe the many arguments in favor of expanded use of human-powered transportation will actually prevail before civilization collapses under its own unsupportable weight. History shows no example of any culture in our species that did avoid galloping into a disaster, but past performance does not guarantee future results. It only provides strong indicators. Throughout the millennia, it's been the pushy bastards who dominate the gene pool for better or for worse. The grabby, greedy, guzzling, short-sighted hordes of thugs whose might makes right force the course of events into a series of crash landings. These have steadily led to increasing standards of living in some parts of the world, so the method is viewed as prevailing wisdom. It's really just making the best of things as we blunder into them.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Monday, May 02, 2011
Expensive Slapstick Moment
A local rider took offense at an illegal advertising sign placed on his residential street near his house, so he snatched it up as he rode by at the end of his morning training ride. The sign was one of those temporary ones used by politicians and other questionable enterprises, cardboard over a wire frame. The wind caught the sign and blew it into his front wheel. He crashed immediately.
The wire sign frame bent one spoke in his Shimano Dura Ace front wheel. That had to be ordered. Only later did he notice that the end of the wire had punched a hole in his carbon fiber fork.
Hole is marked with an arrow
Here is a closeup of the damage.
A steel fork might have bent when the sign stopped the front wheel. An aluminum one might have bent or cracked depending on the forces involved. Anyway, it was an expensive morning for the guy.
The wire sign frame bent one spoke in his Shimano Dura Ace front wheel. That had to be ordered. Only later did he notice that the end of the wire had punched a hole in his carbon fiber fork.
Hole is marked with an arrow
Here is a closeup of the damage.A steel fork might have bent when the sign stopped the front wheel. An aluminum one might have bent or cracked depending on the forces involved. Anyway, it was an expensive morning for the guy.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Spring Retraining
Life is war. Despite all protestations of peace and love, nothing reminds you that humans really don't like each other more than a simple bike ride during the early season.
After months of having the road to themselves, drivers have to get used to seeing cyclists again. We the cyclists have to reestablish our claim by using the road, while a certain number of the motorists try to discourage us from doing so.
This year, drivers of large pickup trucks seem to be trying to see how close they can brush a cyclist regardless of the rider's lane position. Few of them honk. No one has yelled. The offenders have passed with inches to spare when they had ample room to shift over, or have blasted through dangerous gaps at the risk of collision not only with the cyclist but with the oncoming motorists they have forced to the curb. It's not just me. Most of the cyclists I know have reported that behavior.
Every morning news broadcast brings reports of motor vehicle accidents causing injury or death to the motorists. Motorists are not a unified bloc set against cyclists. Driving behavior simply points out the pervasive selfishness of people that finds its expression on the road.
Not enough people want to ride bikes for transportation to make high-quality infrastructure engineering worth the money. If people felt safer from traffic, more of them would ride, but probably not in impressive numbers. I wish that was not true. I doubt the theory will ever be tested, because I doubt that this country or any significant portions thereof will ever make the investment to find out. So we're left with our imperfect system. Cyclists stitch together what routes they can and endure continuous harassment.
Most drivers pass a cyclist at what they think is the safest distance they can manage without slowing down. A traffic herding cyclist can force them to slow down and plan a little better, but most of them will still take chances around a cyclist that they would not take around a slow-moving motorized vehicle. Size matters. So does the perception of speed. A motorist knows that a cyclist probably will never catch them to retaliate for any aggression on the open road or a fairly fast-flowing street.
Whenever possible I release the following vehicles if they have not already pushed past. Unfortunately, certain sections of road do not offer this opportunity soon enough to satisfy an aggressive driver. Most drivers don't appreciate that a cyclist is working hard to get them through a bottleneck at 20 miles per hour when 30 miles per hour already feels creepingly slow to them.
One stressful section of my morning route runs parallel to the notorious rail trail in Wolfe City. Unfortunately, that trail is clotted with pedestrians and cyclists at almost any daylight hour during the milder seasons. The clumps of strolling humanity can bring a rider nearly to a stop. Riders meeting from opposite directions have to fit past each other with inches of clearance between their handlebars. Overtaking a slower cyclist is similarly tricky. Then when a rider wants to rejoin the street flow it means ratcheting up to full combat readiness instantly. The sight of cyclists in the cross walk also reinforces the stereotype in motorists' minds that cyclists belong on a segregated play path.
My evening route winds out through a different set of streets and roads to avoid the uphill grind through the stressful, curb-lined canyon of Center Street. That does not mean it's vastly better, only somewhat better. The route still grinds up a grade, slowing my speed relative to traffic. The road is narrow enough to require gate-keeping. Impatient drivers get pushy. Some display obvious anger with horn or words while others satisfy themselves by passing with a noisy downshift and abrupt swerves.
As I age, regular exercise is more and more vital to maintain vitality. As I negotiate the shaky economy and my own questionable life choices, I can really use the money I save by riding instead of driving most of the time. However, the human race being what it is, I have to fight just as hard as ever for benefits I thought anyone would be glad to join me in claiming. Most people don't see the sense of it. They just see an obstinate jerk who could drive like a normal person if he wanted to. Who would want to be that guy?
After months of having the road to themselves, drivers have to get used to seeing cyclists again. We the cyclists have to reestablish our claim by using the road, while a certain number of the motorists try to discourage us from doing so.
This year, drivers of large pickup trucks seem to be trying to see how close they can brush a cyclist regardless of the rider's lane position. Few of them honk. No one has yelled. The offenders have passed with inches to spare when they had ample room to shift over, or have blasted through dangerous gaps at the risk of collision not only with the cyclist but with the oncoming motorists they have forced to the curb. It's not just me. Most of the cyclists I know have reported that behavior.
Every morning news broadcast brings reports of motor vehicle accidents causing injury or death to the motorists. Motorists are not a unified bloc set against cyclists. Driving behavior simply points out the pervasive selfishness of people that finds its expression on the road.
Not enough people want to ride bikes for transportation to make high-quality infrastructure engineering worth the money. If people felt safer from traffic, more of them would ride, but probably not in impressive numbers. I wish that was not true. I doubt the theory will ever be tested, because I doubt that this country or any significant portions thereof will ever make the investment to find out. So we're left with our imperfect system. Cyclists stitch together what routes they can and endure continuous harassment.
Most drivers pass a cyclist at what they think is the safest distance they can manage without slowing down. A traffic herding cyclist can force them to slow down and plan a little better, but most of them will still take chances around a cyclist that they would not take around a slow-moving motorized vehicle. Size matters. So does the perception of speed. A motorist knows that a cyclist probably will never catch them to retaliate for any aggression on the open road or a fairly fast-flowing street.
Whenever possible I release the following vehicles if they have not already pushed past. Unfortunately, certain sections of road do not offer this opportunity soon enough to satisfy an aggressive driver. Most drivers don't appreciate that a cyclist is working hard to get them through a bottleneck at 20 miles per hour when 30 miles per hour already feels creepingly slow to them.
One stressful section of my morning route runs parallel to the notorious rail trail in Wolfe City. Unfortunately, that trail is clotted with pedestrians and cyclists at almost any daylight hour during the milder seasons. The clumps of strolling humanity can bring a rider nearly to a stop. Riders meeting from opposite directions have to fit past each other with inches of clearance between their handlebars. Overtaking a slower cyclist is similarly tricky. Then when a rider wants to rejoin the street flow it means ratcheting up to full combat readiness instantly. The sight of cyclists in the cross walk also reinforces the stereotype in motorists' minds that cyclists belong on a segregated play path.
My evening route winds out through a different set of streets and roads to avoid the uphill grind through the stressful, curb-lined canyon of Center Street. That does not mean it's vastly better, only somewhat better. The route still grinds up a grade, slowing my speed relative to traffic. The road is narrow enough to require gate-keeping. Impatient drivers get pushy. Some display obvious anger with horn or words while others satisfy themselves by passing with a noisy downshift and abrupt swerves.
As I age, regular exercise is more and more vital to maintain vitality. As I negotiate the shaky economy and my own questionable life choices, I can really use the money I save by riding instead of driving most of the time. However, the human race being what it is, I have to fight just as hard as ever for benefits I thought anyone would be glad to join me in claiming. Most people don't see the sense of it. They just see an obstinate jerk who could drive like a normal person if he wanted to. Who would want to be that guy?
Thursday, April 21, 2011
How Blogs Languish
Writing doesn't have to be a solitary occupation as long as you leave me the hell alone. I have no trouble concentrating when people are around. They just seem to have trouble letting me.
At work they keep expecting me to, well, work. It's a huge impediment to literary -- or even journalistic -- achievement. On the other hand, my servitude in the bike business has provided most of my actual material, so I shouldn't bitch too much. I intended to be a writer who cycles more than a cyclist who writes, but whatever my day job I always insisted on biking to it, so here I am. Whatever might be teeming in my brain during the day, it has to get through many obstacles just to make it home with me.
At home I fully embrace the concept that I did not marry the cellist just so I could ignore her. In fact, I defy anyone to try. I might come home to hear her running through a Bach sonata with or without the TV on. The house might smell like fresh-baked bread or any number of delectable creations, or she might be poking moodily at her computer in a sit-down strike because she's tired of having to come up with meals all the time. My kitchen wizardry is rudimentary at best. My expertise extends more to cleaning up.
Since her illness makes her a definite limited-time offer, I spend time with her when she's around unless she's working on something of her own. Medical intervention might extend her span, but it will depend a great deal on luck. And, of course, we live in a world that is proven to be 100 percent fatal anyway. If you find someone you like to be with, be with them.
Good writing takes time. I'm not a link-farmer and a news junkie. I'm a thinker. From a single dropped cigarette butt I can extrapolate the entire future of the human race. I would rather sit and watch a dewdrop sparkle than go to a major sporting event. What can I say? I'm a boring nerd. And not even the science-wizard, geeky millionaire kind of nerd. So I usually have to sit a spell to craft good sentences and build them into paragraphs worth posting.
When I get some time to myself I have decades of ideas jammed in a tangle in the closet/playroom that passes for my brain. New ones come from life every day, and every day most of them get stuffed into the pile with the others.
When the cellist goes away I can spend my time as I choose. For instance, tonight I was going to ride straight home from work, take care of necessary domestic chores, shower, stretch, suck down a simple supper and start writing.
The temperature was 43 degrees F, the wind was gusting over 40 miles per hour and turbulent gray clouds released scattered snowflakes into the gale as I prepared to ride home. Then the sky cleared. The wind didn't drop, but the snow ceased and the sun lit the scene with golden light. And then the clouds came back. And left again. All the while the wind swirled around, hitting me from the side, the front, the back, helping, impeding, harassing.
I got home shortly before 7 p.m. I had to scoop the cat boxes, grab some dry firewood, get the wood stove going, shower, stretch, put away clean dishes and figure out that supper. I sat down to eat at about 8:40. So then it's after 9.
The cellist called. She's having a bit of an emotional time because she's playing a gig in the church where her brother's funeral was held about a month and a half ago. When she scheduled the trip months ago he was still alive. They were going to get together. There are other things, too. When someone calls with stuff like that you listen.
And so we close in on midnight.
During the brief times in which I didn't have a job and could turn entirely to creativity I would frequently stay up late because that's when people finally quieted down. With a day job it's still easy to stay up too late and then resort to coffee and will power to get through the next day and the next and the next until stamina runs out, at least when my night noises won't disturb someone else who has to get up early the next day. I find it much harder to pound out the bike commute day after day on short sleep, though.
Maybe I'll have a little better luck tomorrow night.
At work they keep expecting me to, well, work. It's a huge impediment to literary -- or even journalistic -- achievement. On the other hand, my servitude in the bike business has provided most of my actual material, so I shouldn't bitch too much. I intended to be a writer who cycles more than a cyclist who writes, but whatever my day job I always insisted on biking to it, so here I am. Whatever might be teeming in my brain during the day, it has to get through many obstacles just to make it home with me.
At home I fully embrace the concept that I did not marry the cellist just so I could ignore her. In fact, I defy anyone to try. I might come home to hear her running through a Bach sonata with or without the TV on. The house might smell like fresh-baked bread or any number of delectable creations, or she might be poking moodily at her computer in a sit-down strike because she's tired of having to come up with meals all the time. My kitchen wizardry is rudimentary at best. My expertise extends more to cleaning up.
Since her illness makes her a definite limited-time offer, I spend time with her when she's around unless she's working on something of her own. Medical intervention might extend her span, but it will depend a great deal on luck. And, of course, we live in a world that is proven to be 100 percent fatal anyway. If you find someone you like to be with, be with them.
Good writing takes time. I'm not a link-farmer and a news junkie. I'm a thinker. From a single dropped cigarette butt I can extrapolate the entire future of the human race. I would rather sit and watch a dewdrop sparkle than go to a major sporting event. What can I say? I'm a boring nerd. And not even the science-wizard, geeky millionaire kind of nerd. So I usually have to sit a spell to craft good sentences and build them into paragraphs worth posting.
When I get some time to myself I have decades of ideas jammed in a tangle in the closet/playroom that passes for my brain. New ones come from life every day, and every day most of them get stuffed into the pile with the others.
When the cellist goes away I can spend my time as I choose. For instance, tonight I was going to ride straight home from work, take care of necessary domestic chores, shower, stretch, suck down a simple supper and start writing.
The temperature was 43 degrees F, the wind was gusting over 40 miles per hour and turbulent gray clouds released scattered snowflakes into the gale as I prepared to ride home. Then the sky cleared. The wind didn't drop, but the snow ceased and the sun lit the scene with golden light. And then the clouds came back. And left again. All the while the wind swirled around, hitting me from the side, the front, the back, helping, impeding, harassing.
I got home shortly before 7 p.m. I had to scoop the cat boxes, grab some dry firewood, get the wood stove going, shower, stretch, put away clean dishes and figure out that supper. I sat down to eat at about 8:40. So then it's after 9.
The cellist called. She's having a bit of an emotional time because she's playing a gig in the church where her brother's funeral was held about a month and a half ago. When she scheduled the trip months ago he was still alive. They were going to get together. There are other things, too. When someone calls with stuff like that you listen.
And so we close in on midnight.
During the brief times in which I didn't have a job and could turn entirely to creativity I would frequently stay up late because that's when people finally quieted down. With a day job it's still easy to stay up too late and then resort to coffee and will power to get through the next day and the next and the next until stamina runs out, at least when my night noises won't disturb someone else who has to get up early the next day. I find it much harder to pound out the bike commute day after day on short sleep, though.
Maybe I'll have a little better luck tomorrow night.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Pointless Fashion Strikes Again
A few new bikes this year have arrived with handlebar stems with the bar clamp bolts threaded into the face plate from the back. This serves absolutely no practical function. It does add several minutes to assembly time because it's awkward to maneuver wrenches alongside the stem. It's especially fun when you're juggling the bars with one hand as you try to assemble the stem clamp with the other.
Thursday, April 07, 2011
A Pint Low
The information package they gave me to read at the blood drive yesterday said I should avoid strenuous exercise for five hours after donating. Does riding 15 miles in wind, snow and rain count?
I had never donated before. Because I planned to drive today, I wanted to ride yesterday. The forecast called for a chance of showers in the late afternoon. Chance. Showers. I have fenders. It'll be fine. So I rode to town. At noon I went to the church where the blood drawing was set up.
The screeners liked my pulse rate, blood pressure, hemoglobin level and general fitness. They raved over my large veins. Then they had trouble establishing a satisfactory flow, or so I gathered from the conversation between the phlebotomist and her supervisor as they jiggled the needle around. I wasn't watching.
"You'll feel a little poke," the technician had said. Indeed I did, followed by a strong impression that they were digging for my humerus with a hot wire.
"Keep taking deep, relaxing breaths," they told me. What else could I do? I had a mission and they'd already made the hole. After a minute or two they got things settled. I squeezed the little rubber thingie in my hand periodically to enhance the flow and wake up that hot wire sensation again.
By donating blood I not only contribute to the lifesaving stocks of blood in reserve, I also get to find out my blood type for free. I need to know my blood type as part of the compatibility criteria to see if I can throw my wife a kidney or if we need to get involved in one of those chain-reaction donations becoming popular with the live-donor set. Once it becomes totally routine, people may even do it at parties. Imagine swapping all sorts of body parts at a wild revel on a Saturday night.
"I woke up with one green eye and one blue one. Is one of them yours?"
"Yeah, the green one, but you got it all red."
You could actually have two left feet.
As a first-time donor I took seriously all the stories I'd heard about people jumping up too quickly and keeling over right afterward. I lay there a bit before walking carefully to the snack table, where I drank a pint of water and ate some excellent crunchy stuff, a small bag of raisins and a chocolate chip cookie. Then I walked back to work, where I drank more water and stuffed down lunch while I assembled a bike.
I couldn't linger at closing time because I needed to rip home to get to a zoning board meeting. It hadn't been quite five hours yet, but I had no other options.
The chance of showers had turned into dark gray skies dumping wet snowflakes into a gusty wind. At 36 degrees, nothing was sticking to the road. It would just be raw and unpleasant. And so it was.
I kept meaning to get out my camera to document how nasty it was, but I never did. Pictures can't convey the feeling of a raw wind slapping fat snowflakes in your face. They don't portray the creeping wetness, the steady chilling of arms and legs. I didn't want to change my position and give that wind another way into my collar, so I faced front and kept pushing the pedals.
The snow and rain passed to the south after ten miles or so, but the wind still cut. By the time I got home I really wanted to take a hot shower, put on comfy lounging attire and put my feet up. Instead I just had time to feed the cats, put on some dry clothing and drive off to my meeting.
Today is dry and milder but I have an evening engagement, so I did not ride. A warming trend promises improving conditions for the weekend. I'll have regenerated my blood by then, too.
I had never donated before. Because I planned to drive today, I wanted to ride yesterday. The forecast called for a chance of showers in the late afternoon. Chance. Showers. I have fenders. It'll be fine. So I rode to town. At noon I went to the church where the blood drawing was set up.
The screeners liked my pulse rate, blood pressure, hemoglobin level and general fitness. They raved over my large veins. Then they had trouble establishing a satisfactory flow, or so I gathered from the conversation between the phlebotomist and her supervisor as they jiggled the needle around. I wasn't watching.
"You'll feel a little poke," the technician had said. Indeed I did, followed by a strong impression that they were digging for my humerus with a hot wire.
"Keep taking deep, relaxing breaths," they told me. What else could I do? I had a mission and they'd already made the hole. After a minute or two they got things settled. I squeezed the little rubber thingie in my hand periodically to enhance the flow and wake up that hot wire sensation again.
By donating blood I not only contribute to the lifesaving stocks of blood in reserve, I also get to find out my blood type for free. I need to know my blood type as part of the compatibility criteria to see if I can throw my wife a kidney or if we need to get involved in one of those chain-reaction donations becoming popular with the live-donor set. Once it becomes totally routine, people may even do it at parties. Imagine swapping all sorts of body parts at a wild revel on a Saturday night.
"I woke up with one green eye and one blue one. Is one of them yours?"
"Yeah, the green one, but you got it all red."
You could actually have two left feet.
As a first-time donor I took seriously all the stories I'd heard about people jumping up too quickly and keeling over right afterward. I lay there a bit before walking carefully to the snack table, where I drank a pint of water and ate some excellent crunchy stuff, a small bag of raisins and a chocolate chip cookie. Then I walked back to work, where I drank more water and stuffed down lunch while I assembled a bike.
I couldn't linger at closing time because I needed to rip home to get to a zoning board meeting. It hadn't been quite five hours yet, but I had no other options.
The chance of showers had turned into dark gray skies dumping wet snowflakes into a gusty wind. At 36 degrees, nothing was sticking to the road. It would just be raw and unpleasant. And so it was.
I kept meaning to get out my camera to document how nasty it was, but I never did. Pictures can't convey the feeling of a raw wind slapping fat snowflakes in your face. They don't portray the creeping wetness, the steady chilling of arms and legs. I didn't want to change my position and give that wind another way into my collar, so I faced front and kept pushing the pedals.
The snow and rain passed to the south after ten miles or so, but the wind still cut. By the time I got home I really wanted to take a hot shower, put on comfy lounging attire and put my feet up. Instead I just had time to feed the cats, put on some dry clothing and drive off to my meeting.
Today is dry and milder but I have an evening engagement, so I did not ride. A warming trend promises improving conditions for the weekend. I'll have regenerated my blood by then, too.
Saturday, April 02, 2011
The Great April Fool's Day Blizzard
We didn't get a foot of snow. We didn't get six inches of snow. We probably got four or five inches that snapped a few tree limbs around the area. I've heard that 25,000 customers were without power in the state. And of course people smashed up their cars. But that's a national pastime.
I drove to work on the slick roads without incident. A small shipment of Surly bikes awaited my attention along with some early season repairs. Since I had jumped into the full commute with no base miles, I needed a couple of rest days.
The snow continued to fall as the morning went on, but it melted on contact. It even seemed to melt on contact with the snow that had fallen overnight. Some days are like that: the air is thick with flakes that vanish when they land. A day of snowfall leaves nothing on the ground. It's fine with me. Snowblowing the muddy, rutted driveway would just gunk up the machine. Slop like we got yesterday just splatters out a few feet beyond the chute. Better to leave it to melt.
The highway crews laid down a new layer of abrasive sand and corrosive salt. Even if the roads are clear of snow and slush it's a setback. Cold mornings and rough, messy roads add several minutes to travel time by bike.
The sun is strong. Conditions improve.
I drove to work on the slick roads without incident. A small shipment of Surly bikes awaited my attention along with some early season repairs. Since I had jumped into the full commute with no base miles, I needed a couple of rest days.
The snow continued to fall as the morning went on, but it melted on contact. It even seemed to melt on contact with the snow that had fallen overnight. Some days are like that: the air is thick with flakes that vanish when they land. A day of snowfall leaves nothing on the ground. It's fine with me. Snowblowing the muddy, rutted driveway would just gunk up the machine. Slop like we got yesterday just splatters out a few feet beyond the chute. Better to leave it to melt.
The highway crews laid down a new layer of abrasive sand and corrosive salt. Even if the roads are clear of snow and slush it's a setback. Cold mornings and rough, messy roads add several minutes to travel time by bike.
The sun is strong. Conditions improve.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)