There isn't much I can do when it comes to curing cancer . . . But it is my privilege and my honor (apparently) to roll the FAT CYCLIST colors in this year's Race for the Cure. So I will do my best.
Consider supporting me, if you will.
Check it out here.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Respect
Tell you what, every now and then you find a product that is just so good you gotta respect the people who put it together. Sometimes it is a timeless classic like velox rim strips or the original shrink-to-fit Levis 501 jean (I like to kickstart the shrinking process by boiling them for an hour in a big pot of water to bleed out the excess dye and the starch). Other times it is a new product.
Today I went down to the running store to get some new shoes. Not different ones; just new, not-worn-out versions of the shoes I bought last year. Trouble is, they were out of my size in that particular brand and model. Now, for the past decade or so I have been buying shoes in the the 76_ series, made by a brand with a 2-letter logo (the 14th and 2nd letters of the alphabet). But I really needed some new shoes, so sort of half to myself I said to the helpful shoe guy, says I: do you have anything similar from some other brand? And helpful shoe guy says (and this is a direct quote) Oh, shit yeah -- just hang on a minute and check this out. So he disappears into the stock room and comes out with two different models of the swoosh brand.
At first I was skeptical. I don't give a rip about shoe brands. I want something that works, and I don't want to pay extra just 'cause it has a logo or someone famous endorses them or its a hip color. No, I want a shoe that will work, that won't make my feet ache or throb mid-run, and that will last a decent amount of time. So I was ready to flat out reject the swoosh shoes on principle alone. But I figure that helpful shoe guy and I go way back, and I known he is not just trying to make a quick sale or dump some old stock. I gave the swoosh shoes a try.
The first model was a nonstarter -- too narrow, even for my euro-like size 43 paws; but the second pair, well, the second pair was something else.
You know when you get the driver's seat adjusted just right? You know when the jeans fit just perfect? You know that feeling when your new cleats are in the sweet spot and your saddle height and bars and brake hoods all line up exactly where you want them? You know the feeling of putting on a brand new pair of well-made bike shorts with a big comfy Italian pad? That's the feeling I got when I put those babies on and stood up. Bada bing, bada boom: my feet were instantly super happy.
I laced them up and trotted outside for the obligatory test jog up and down the street. Only these shoes felt SO GOOD that I just kept going and went all the way around the block. Twice. It took all my will power to stop and go back into the store. Man, I just wanted to RUN. I haven't felt like that in years. Maybe not since childhood.
I had forgotten how much I like running. It's been a few months (OK, more than a few), and starting up again had begun to seem like a chore. It never occurred to me that my perfectly decent old shoes might have been as much a part of the problem as part of the solution. How amazing that something as simple as a well-designed, well-made, slightly different shoe can have such an effect.
Props to the swoosh people. Whatever their failings may be, whatever sort of saturation advertising-plus-outsourcing business model they may have, whatever sort of cheap hockery and gotta-have-it gimmicks they may daily shill to the masses on an unsustainable global scale, I will give them this: they make at least one damn fine pair of running shoes. I wish I had bought them sooner.
I can't wait to go running tomorrow morning.
Today I went down to the running store to get some new shoes. Not different ones; just new, not-worn-out versions of the shoes I bought last year. Trouble is, they were out of my size in that particular brand and model. Now, for the past decade or so I have been buying shoes in the the 76_ series, made by a brand with a 2-letter logo (the 14th and 2nd letters of the alphabet). But I really needed some new shoes, so sort of half to myself I said to the helpful shoe guy, says I: do you have anything similar from some other brand? And helpful shoe guy says (and this is a direct quote) Oh, shit yeah -- just hang on a minute and check this out. So he disappears into the stock room and comes out with two different models of the swoosh brand.
At first I was skeptical. I don't give a rip about shoe brands. I want something that works, and I don't want to pay extra just 'cause it has a logo or someone famous endorses them or its a hip color. No, I want a shoe that will work, that won't make my feet ache or throb mid-run, and that will last a decent amount of time. So I was ready to flat out reject the swoosh shoes on principle alone. But I figure that helpful shoe guy and I go way back, and I known he is not just trying to make a quick sale or dump some old stock. I gave the swoosh shoes a try.
The first model was a nonstarter -- too narrow, even for my euro-like size 43 paws; but the second pair, well, the second pair was something else.
You know when you get the driver's seat adjusted just right? You know when the jeans fit just perfect? You know that feeling when your new cleats are in the sweet spot and your saddle height and bars and brake hoods all line up exactly where you want them? You know the feeling of putting on a brand new pair of well-made bike shorts with a big comfy Italian pad? That's the feeling I got when I put those babies on and stood up. Bada bing, bada boom: my feet were instantly super happy.
I laced them up and trotted outside for the obligatory test jog up and down the street. Only these shoes felt SO GOOD that I just kept going and went all the way around the block. Twice. It took all my will power to stop and go back into the store. Man, I just wanted to RUN. I haven't felt like that in years. Maybe not since childhood.
I had forgotten how much I like running. It's been a few months (OK, more than a few), and starting up again had begun to seem like a chore. It never occurred to me that my perfectly decent old shoes might have been as much a part of the problem as part of the solution. How amazing that something as simple as a well-designed, well-made, slightly different shoe can have such an effect.
Props to the swoosh people. Whatever their failings may be, whatever sort of saturation advertising-plus-outsourcing business model they may have, whatever sort of cheap hockery and gotta-have-it gimmicks they may daily shill to the masses on an unsustainable global scale, I will give them this: they make at least one damn fine pair of running shoes. I wish I had bought them sooner.
I can't wait to go running tomorrow morning.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Spring is here at last
So, up here in the wet NW corner of the USA, spring has been a long time coming. It is mid-May and the tulips are still blooming -- normally the petals would have fallen off and the leaves and stems reduced to compost a month ago. But there are signs that spring is in the air, and summer is not far off: tonight, for the first time this year, I rode through a cloud of gnats on the commute home, and inhaled enough enough of the little suckers to cause me to gag and spit for the better part of two blocks. Nasty, to be sure; but there is no clearer sign that the seasons they are a-changin'.
It is also a good reminder that it is not PRO to ride with your mouth gaping wide open unless you are racing flat-out or riding up a hill that would be rated hors categorie if it were located in France. I will try to remember.
It is also a good reminder that it is not PRO to ride with your mouth gaping wide open unless you are racing flat-out or riding up a hill that would be rated hors categorie if it were located in France. I will try to remember.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Reality
Go here. Now.
http://www.fatcyclist.com/2008/05/02/has-it-been-only-one-day/
Then, after you're done reading, go hug your loved ones. Or a willing stranger. Talk with your neighbor. Whatever. Just show some love.
The future is uncertain and the end is always near, as Jim Morrison said.
Back to the fun stuff later.
http://www.fatcyclist.com/2008/05/02/has-it-been-only-one-day/
Then, after you're done reading, go hug your loved ones. Or a willing stranger. Talk with your neighbor. Whatever. Just show some love.
The future is uncertain and the end is always near, as Jim Morrison said.
Back to the fun stuff later.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Le dirt smurf is dead. Long live le dirt smurf!
'Bout to get up close and personal with some Vitus 888. Steel is real, and none more so than old french steel at that. 'specially old French steel with english threading. (!) I will try to post some pics when it comes back from the shop in a day or two.
You have been warned . . .
You have been warned . . .
Friday, April 4, 2008
What is a ledirtsmurf, anyway?
If you got here, you are probably wondering. (I am wondering how you got here too -- leave a post and let me know!)
If you know me, then you probably have a guess. If you don't, then you need the back story. So here it is.
In my early 20's I was going to grad school and doing a lot of road riding, a little road racing, and fair bit of local mountain bike racing. Back then the 2 core books available to guide cyclist training were Eddy B's book, Bicycle Racing, and Greg LeMond's book. They both recommended cyclocross as a great form of winter training. By sheer coincidence, my brother and I had already seen the 1987 cyclocross nationals in Bremerton, Washington, so I knew what 'cross was. We had been blown away by the technical skills that those riders had. (From my current perspective, the course seems like more of a novelty than a real 'cross course - there was a huge mud bog, an 18"- or 24"-tall concrete retaining wall that some riders managed to bunny-hop up, and, just for good measure, a short jaunt through a livestock barn replete with a deep carpet of wood-shaving animal bedding.) I was more interested in the mountain bikes, but there was no doubt the racers on "real" cross bikes were faster. The hook was set.
I ran across a local ad for someone selling a 'cross bike cheap. I called up the number, drove a few miles, and picked up my first CX bike. It belonged to a woman who had recently had a baby, and didn't have time to race. (Not something I could relate to back then, but I sure can now.) I don't remember much about her except that she was tall, kind, and very fit. The bike was a Raleigh Technium road frame, three aluminum main tubes glued into steel lugs, with steel stays and a steel fork with canti mounts brazed on to them (that was a dumb thing to write -- where else would they go?). She told me that a friend of hers who worked in the Technium plant in Kent had fixed it up for her. Anyway, it was white with purply-blue tape stripes, and it didn't take very long before that color scheme inspired me name it le dirt smurf. When I got it, it had a single chainring setup with dual custom chainguards made from ground-down chainrings; a 6-speed friction bar end for the back end; and those strange gray michelin "mud" clinchers with the wide shallow chevron tread pattern. The wheels were heavy Rigida rims on some sort of low-end hub. This was around 1991. The thing was built like a tank and rode like one too.
Anyway, I railed around on that bike all winter, careening around on muddy grass, blasting through puddles, sand and gravel, practicing horrifically uncoordinated dismounts, and generally riding like an idiot in the worst possible Seattle winter weather. It was fun. There was something perversely enjoyable about heading out to ride precisely when any sane person would be curling up with a book or flipping on the TV to wait out the storm. It gave me kid-like pleasure at a time when I was grappling with what I wanted to do as a "grownup."
But after awhile I realized that at 56 cm it was too big for me -- especially for 'cross, and probably even just for riding around on the road. So I loaned it to a friend of mine, a casual rider in dire need of a bike and lacking cash. She rode it for years until the rear rim sidewall wore out and caused a blowout. She was OK, thank heavens, but understandably didn't want anything more to do with it. By then I was working in a bike shop and had temporarily kicked the CX habit, so I sold it to a taller friend of mine on the cheap, and he rode it as a rain bike/grocery getter.
The last I heard, le dirt smurf had snapped a canti mount and my friend had to have one brazed back on by our shop's frame builder. I lost track of the bike after that. But even now, 2o years after my first ride on it, I can still feel the wild, silly, exhilarating, crazy joy of railing around on dirt in weather bad enough to drive everyone and everything under cover except me and the ducks. For me, that gritty muddy wet warm chilled adrenalin rush, that sensation of heart-pounding speed over rough ground, that stark panicked two-wheel sliding recovery joy, that Proustian sense-memory of hammering away at a hard effort of goofy intense play, is what le dirt smurf is all about.
And so, ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . . ledirtsmurf.
Welcome. Just don't drag the rear brake.
If you know me, then you probably have a guess. If you don't, then you need the back story. So here it is.
In my early 20's I was going to grad school and doing a lot of road riding, a little road racing, and fair bit of local mountain bike racing. Back then the 2 core books available to guide cyclist training were Eddy B's book, Bicycle Racing, and Greg LeMond's book. They both recommended cyclocross as a great form of winter training. By sheer coincidence, my brother and I had already seen the 1987 cyclocross nationals in Bremerton, Washington, so I knew what 'cross was. We had been blown away by the technical skills that those riders had. (From my current perspective, the course seems like more of a novelty than a real 'cross course - there was a huge mud bog, an 18"- or 24"-tall concrete retaining wall that some riders managed to bunny-hop up, and, just for good measure, a short jaunt through a livestock barn replete with a deep carpet of wood-shaving animal bedding.) I was more interested in the mountain bikes, but there was no doubt the racers on "real" cross bikes were faster. The hook was set.
I ran across a local ad for someone selling a 'cross bike cheap. I called up the number, drove a few miles, and picked up my first CX bike. It belonged to a woman who had recently had a baby, and didn't have time to race. (Not something I could relate to back then, but I sure can now.) I don't remember much about her except that she was tall, kind, and very fit. The bike was a Raleigh Technium road frame, three aluminum main tubes glued into steel lugs, with steel stays and a steel fork with canti mounts brazed on to them (that was a dumb thing to write -- where else would they go?). She told me that a friend of hers who worked in the Technium plant in Kent had fixed it up for her. Anyway, it was white with purply-blue tape stripes, and it didn't take very long before that color scheme inspired me name it le dirt smurf. When I got it, it had a single chainring setup with dual custom chainguards made from ground-down chainrings; a 6-speed friction bar end for the back end; and those strange gray michelin "mud" clinchers with the wide shallow chevron tread pattern. The wheels were heavy Rigida rims on some sort of low-end hub. This was around 1991. The thing was built like a tank and rode like one too.
Anyway, I railed around on that bike all winter, careening around on muddy grass, blasting through puddles, sand and gravel, practicing horrifically uncoordinated dismounts, and generally riding like an idiot in the worst possible Seattle winter weather. It was fun. There was something perversely enjoyable about heading out to ride precisely when any sane person would be curling up with a book or flipping on the TV to wait out the storm. It gave me kid-like pleasure at a time when I was grappling with what I wanted to do as a "grownup."
But after awhile I realized that at 56 cm it was too big for me -- especially for 'cross, and probably even just for riding around on the road. So I loaned it to a friend of mine, a casual rider in dire need of a bike and lacking cash. She rode it for years until the rear rim sidewall wore out and caused a blowout. She was OK, thank heavens, but understandably didn't want anything more to do with it. By then I was working in a bike shop and had temporarily kicked the CX habit, so I sold it to a taller friend of mine on the cheap, and he rode it as a rain bike/grocery getter.
The last I heard, le dirt smurf had snapped a canti mount and my friend had to have one brazed back on by our shop's frame builder. I lost track of the bike after that. But even now, 2o years after my first ride on it, I can still feel the wild, silly, exhilarating, crazy joy of railing around on dirt in weather bad enough to drive everyone and everything under cover except me and the ducks. For me, that gritty muddy wet warm chilled adrenalin rush, that sensation of heart-pounding speed over rough ground, that stark panicked two-wheel sliding recovery joy, that Proustian sense-memory of hammering away at a hard effort of goofy intense play, is what le dirt smurf is all about.
And so, ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . . ledirtsmurf.
Welcome. Just don't drag the rear brake.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
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