Urban-Crawl

Basic Humanity

2011-09-20T12:34:00.002-05:00

An issue that has planted itself in my thoughts of late is the vitriolic rancor sweeping America. This thought has been triggered by the myriad welfare bashing posts that were a minor trend on Facebook a while back. (They still pop up from time to time, ocassionally from my own family which grates me to no end.) There seems to be a commonly accepted myth that everyone on welfare is a crack addict who milks the system and sits back letting the government pay their ways. It’s not unlike Reagan’s favorite stump speech about the “welfare mom” that hatched in the 80s. The story was proven to be hype. But people latch onto such images, mindlessly repeating them as truths with little concern for the hatred and contempt that is bred as a result. Perhaps it's human nature to despise the notion of someone getting something for nothing. Especially if we “hard working” Americans are getting squeezed ever tighter in a recession economy.

This profiling manifests itself in many ways, like support of mandatory drug testing for welfare recipients. It’s also present in the call for bounties on welfare violators. I’m no fan of people acquiescing to a lifestyle of defrauding the system. However, the popular backlash among many rank and file Americans smacks of hatred, divisiveness and gross labeling. It does little justice to a system that has helped countless Americans better themselves over the years. Growing up it helped my family from time to time. I feel fortunate that we had that assistance and I am lucky to have a firsthand knowledge of some of welfare’s benefits. I believe too many people clogging the airwaves in dissent have no clue. They'd rather spread lies and hatred in an effort to protect their piece of the pie, I suppose.

This is a difficult time in America. It’s made only more difficult when we citizens mimic the infighting and partisanship that our supposed leaders in Washington have made a standard operating procedure. One of my favorite bumper stickers of all time reads “If the people lead, the leaders will follow.” It is as true to me today as it was the day I first saw it. But we are not leading. We are choosing to blame everyone and everything we can, not unlike our "leaders." It’s Obama’s fault, the government’s fault, big corporations’ fault, immigrants’ fault and , now, poor people’s fault.

We must break this cycle of blame, forge and hammer it, refine and focus it to something useful that will propel us forward. Surrender non-productive ideologies for the sake of tangible progress. Quit arguing religion and political party alliance. This movement to vilify the less fortunate among us disgusts me. It’s hatred and resentment personified and it is wrong. Americans engaging in such chatter would do well to focus attention on our leaders and their coddling of the most fortunate among us. Press them to revise tax code in a way that makes the uber rich pay more of their fair share.

Furthermore, quit worrying that someone’s stealing your cheese. A miserly approach to living is never healthy. In our recession climate it will only help ensure we bleed and starve to death a large segment of our citizenry on whom the sun has set. Our insular habits and self-protectionism will be the demise of us all.

On a related note -- long live the Occupy protesters! Our government leaders and business leaders need to realize the people are speaking, even if it's a message they don't want to hear. These people are my heroes because instead of turning their ire on the other (the phenomenon described above) they're directing it at corrupt banks, corporations and leaders who have usurped the Dream that underpins our nation's legacy.

For better or worse questions are being asked, accusations fielded. We'd all do well to get behind that.

Thanks, Dad ... & Super Glue

2011-07-12T22:03:00.005-05:00

I was an accident prone kid. I had well over a couple hundred stitches before I started school. Really. (That's counting a major eye injury as well as "normal" dermal sutures.)

My Dad was a carpenter and a pragmatist. He was always getting injured -- from minor to seriously minor. He never went to a doctor. It didn't help that we were chronically uninsured. Doctor visits were reserved for life-altering moments. Blood loss and strong illness were not necessarily those sorts of moments in his regard.

Much to the chagrin of my Mom, Dad would tape flaps of skin back onto fingers using duct tape. For infections he was not unknown to patronize the local pet store and purchase tetracycline. He dabbled in poultices occasionally and generous doses of alcohol were part of the prescription. His pain care regimen was old school -- like teeth clenched against a stick.

I used to think he was a total hard ass. I cut myself mowing the lawn once during my teenage years. While pushing up a hill in our backyard, my footing slipped and I came down on my knee which fatefully planted onto a shard of glass. He met Mom and me in the emergency room as the doc was numbing me up for sutures. "Next time wear blue jeans," was his advice. Then he left to return to work. No matter it was late July in Tennessee -- "Blue jeans, you fucker?!" I mused. Being sixteen, I suppose I would have thought him a jerk no matter what he said.

(I want to insert a caveat that we have taken our kids for all recommended and necessary care, as well as the frivolous visit or two [in retrospect] because we were paranoid. However, in terms of my own personal injuries I have adopted a more liberal policy of professional attention that I owe in no small part to my father.)

Not long after starting college about 20 years ago, I embarked upon a serious interest in rock climbing. Like everything I take on, I read lots to supplement the actual practice of the craft. I learned knots and studied stories of climbs. That's when I first learned that cyanoacrylate -- Super Glue -- can be used to seal wounds in place of sutures. Sounds painful but cool. Like many things any of us read that information was filed into the cabinet of my twenty-something brain.

Being that I have a shop space (and more than a few lacerations occur in my shop courtesy of edge tools), I've had reason to recall that knowledge. I have Super Glue on my adhesive shelf anyway. In addition, I recently read an article about how to properly glue shut a laceration. I've tried it out. It works wonders.

(Let's pause a moment for another parenthetical paragraph. I'm not talking about injuries from powered blades or serious cuts that affect more than soft tissue [read: tendon, ligament or bone]. Rather I am referring to the deep cuts where one cannot quickly stop bleeding with pressure or a bandage so as to resume normal activity. If I retained a lawyer, s/he would thank you for reading that statement.)

Last Sunday morning I stopped by a friend's house before proceeding to the grocery store to get some grillable grub for dinner. I took a stupid spill in the alley hopping an obstacle. I landed on my left hand, elbow and ass. It hurt like hell, but like most accidents on a bike, I jumped up quickly and tried to walk off the pain. It wasn't until I grabbed my brake lever that I realized that wet, slippery grip meant I was bleeding a lot. I must have landed on some glass or something because my left palm was deeply gashed although it hurt nothing in comparison to my hip. Still, it needed attention.

I rolled home and applied first aid. April suggested, and I agreed, that it could use stitches. (One telltale clue is the depth and visibility of fatty tissue.) I told her I didn't want to spend four hours in urgent care on a Sunday and a few hundred dollars to mend something so minor. We have decent insurance, but I value my time. Besides, I've spent plenty of time in hospitals over the course of my life. They all smell the same.

The first application of glue peeled off yesterday. This evening I decided the wound was still flexible enough for another closure. I washed and dried it thoroughly and went to work:

The key, according to an MD whose article I recently read, is to gently hold the skin closed and glue across the laceration in criss-crossing strips. Let dry without gluing your uninjured hand's fingertips to the skin. Bingo!

My dressing consists of a Band-Aid smeared with Burt's Bees Rescue ointment applied over the laceration, and then tape holding the opposing sides of the wound closed (a band all the way around the knuckles). This is then supported by another band in an X configuration opposing any propensity for the cut to re-open, as well as the Band-Aid to peel off, with normal hand movement. Keep in mind this will only be in place for the next 12-18 hours. No need to leave it tightly bandaged longer than that since skin needs air.

Why am I sharing this? Honestly, I think it's good if we realize we don't have to rush off to the hospital at the sight of blood -- even flowing, dripping blood. Save your time. Don't forget the ER staff's time since they have fun stuff like trauma and gunshot wounds to deal with. By the way, hospitals use Super Glue all the time, so this isn't like some wacko application.

Please remember, I'm no doctor, so take everything you read on my blog with a grain of counterfeit French sea salt. That said, next I'm going to work on my skills at reducing dislocated digits. I've got a toe injury that still hurts from two years ago. Something tells me I didn't self diagnose that injury very well.

More Great Press for Biking & Infrastructure

2011-07-05T18:56:00.001-05:00

Stories like this often make my day -- NYT Economix: The Bicycle Dividend. You see, when cycling is part of one's everyday transportation equation it is often easy to get into a rut. This can be due to a number of factors: The emotional effects of dealing with belligerent drivers; the physical effects of riding a bike over distance in all types of weather; fielding off-base comments from non-cyclists who regard bike transportation as freakish; and generally concluding that society is not moving more in support of cycling, but simply polarizing the parties involved into more or less 'for' and 'against' positions.

But when an article like this comes along it reminds me of two things: 1) There are numbers, the result of more frequent study and analysis, that support the benefits of biking on many different fronts (health, environmental, economic) as well as the benefits of investing in bike infrastructure; 2) These articles are popping up more often on higher profile news outlets which signifies greater awareness and interest in the topic. The article is a short read and well worth the time.

I'm not expecting motorists to cheer me or stop and ask to shake my hand any time soon. However, I will bask in the glow I feel whenever I read one of these articles. While the pro-cycling message is agreable to me, that is not the biggest theme I take away from such press features. What really brings me hope is that Americans are beginning -- out of necessity and lack of legitimate counter-argument -- to examine the myriad destructive legacies of building our culture and shaping our daily lives around the automobile. Bike lanes and trails are good, but this realization is the source of truly profound change yet to come.

The article closes with this quote: "Hats (and helmets) off to the bicycle activists and policy makers who work to promote bicycle paths and lanes. They are spinning us all in a good direction." Agreed.

I'd like to take a couple revolutions backward, however, and tip my hat to the vigilant cyclists who have quietly maintained a road presence in the decades up to now, before cycling (specifically for transportation) was enjoying more frequent and positive PR. Many such individuals have been my role models and sources of inspiration. No matter their motivation for biking, they're visionaries all the same.

Community

2011-06-27T17:08:00.002-05:00

I'm home on a Monday. It's a beautiful, sunny day. I haven't been outside once. In fact, I am still in my pajamas. A sickness came on yesterday. When I awoke this morning I felt like I'd been dragged behind a pick-up through a gravel parking lot. I don't get sick often, so when the sinus pressure and painful deep coughs set in I tend to shut down if I need to. I slept away a good portion of this stellar summer day.

I try to make the best of most situations. I had a long and pleasant weekend. I was genuinely ready for the work week ahead. There's plenty to do and I want to get it done. However, when it hurts to simply stand up chances are productivity will be nil and mistakes plentiful. Leave it alone. Send the attendance email and walk away. Lie down. Let the body mend.

Last Wednesday I opened a Facebook account. Now, if any of you who still happen to read my infrequently updated blog recall, I have been a vocal holdout from the social media thing. I have numerous reasons for "giving in". Over the years I've sought dozens of opinions on the matter. The facts I kept coming around to were simple: 1) The motivation is pure -- we are social critters; people want to keep in touch and 2) I have the power to make Facebook whatever I want it to be.

The past few days have been full of confirming friend requests, uploading photos and generally attempting to make my page a representation of who I am and what I do. I regard these as valuable considerations since a good portion of the people I've signed on as friends are folks from a past life in a place far away where I rarely visit. Yet, a fondness and friendship endures and I'm looking forward to keeping up with them.

Another motivation comes from what I regard as the highly polarized state of our culture today. A shaky economy, wars many don't support, oil spills and natural disasters haven't helped. We have looming problems with our nation's ability to address energy problems, quality of life for citizens (i.e. economic equality and health care) and the definition of our role as a waning global economic power. Leaders have become little more than bandwagon sensationalists fomenting debates on hot-button topics in order to bolster a fan base for re-election. Fingerpointing has become an art at the Washington level.

Something wonderful I have been reminded of these past few weeks/months is that most people are rational. Really, I believe they are. During a trip to China back in May I was availed of something else (we murdered bin Laden while I was on that trip) -- Americans take ourselves, our problems and our role in world drama way too seriously.

So, in an effort to take myself a little less seriously, I started a Facebook account. It's a small token perhaps, but an attempt nonetheless to curb polarization, cynicism and hate that have become easier than ever to foster these days.

Be well.

Sprung

2011-04-26T18:43:00.001-05:00

Two happy girls. Happy because they don't tune into weather forecasts perhaps. It's cold and rainy here today. There's talk of the S word falling from the sky tonight. All we can do is wait and see. Spring is lodging here, but we can't seem to locate our esteemed guest for the honorary dinner announcing her arrival.

Willa's just turned three and Sylvia will be six in a week and a half. My how time flies. Seems like just yesterday I was growing my hair and listening to the Grateful Dead. We'll be shipping Mom off in a couple of days for a vacation with friends in NYC. It's a long weekend with Dad coming up. We did this same thing last year. I'm really looking forward to it.

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Here's an interesting tidbit on "Made in America." It has to do with cars, but what other topic strikes so close to we Americans' hearts? Honda exports to 30 countries from assembly plants in the US. Hmm ... this topic could be more complex than it sounds. After all, Honda's not an American company.

For some reason the adamant insistence of some people to "Buy American" has always bothered me. It's a protectionist mentality that has little basis in practicality or sustainability. We're better off in our buying decisions to support locally owned businesses as much as possible and to extrapolate downward to purchasing locally sourced products from food to bath soap.

The "Buy American" argument is often waged at the corporate-produced level of cars. It presumes power is in the hands of large corporations. And I think we all have plenty of evidence that equation gets balanced at the expense of everyday workers and taxpayers.

Springing

2011-04-18T22:59:00.003-05:00

The remains of the longest winter in my short MN history are melting away. Happy spring, everyone. Go ride your bike.

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I wrote that "post" over a week ago and intended it to accompany a photo of my bike parked next to a tenaciously lingering snow drift slowly melting on a warm, sunny morning commute. The photo was taken with my new phone -- a smartphone, nonetheless, and smarter than I -- but I have to reconfigure some settings to get things to work for blog posts. If you're in the Mpls area you get the picture without need of an actual photo. Pretty much everyone's been tired of winter for a while now. And it's been spring for nearly a month. That's saying something.

It's easy to personify winter in a less than pleasing get-up when you've gone four months without seeing green grass (e.g. the 'ole man winter' image ... I think I even refered to winter as a baby boomer whose retirement account tanked in one post a few months ago).

I must note, however, that spring has been showing its instability -- its unmedicated, bipolar side. One minute it's warm and balmy like the party's in full swing; the next, spring's sobbing uncontrollably and smashing soft plates of half-frozen precip on the kitchen walls.

Settle in and have another beer. You're better off pinning your hopes on nothing this early in the game.

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So I got this new phone. Did I mention that? I like gadgets; I have to fess up and admit I really do. This new phone (a Motorola Defy [with Motoblur], in case you're wondering) has me enamored. I'm glad I didn't hop on the smartphone craze right away because it seems developers are ironing out a lot of things. No, I don't chase technology, but I like a good gadget. I'm especially prone to the compact, powerful gizmos that can store and access an inordinate amount of information. I guess it helps that I don't mind reading small fonts. Oh, and I always wait for my contract to expire so I can get a good deal. Weird.

Right after getting this phone I pondered the list of gadgets I've owned in the past 10-12 years. This is my sixth cell phone (five I actually bought since the first was a hand-me-down). Back in the late 90s I inherited an Apple Newton (anyone remember those?) and followed that up with a Palm III and a T|X purchased five years ago. Whew -- color screen and WiFi! I no sooner bought the T|X than realized I should have bought a netbook instead. I have a netbook now and love the thing. Fortunately I'm not a Mac person or I would have an iPod, an iPhone and now an iPad. I have none of those but can appreciate their appeal, I guess.

Where the hell am I going with this anyway? Oh, my blog!

If you read my blog with any regularity you might have noticed that it gets updated rather infrequently. Well, I think about this a lot more than you might imagine. I've read articles about how no one blogs anymore. I'm hip to the "Twitterization" of our culture. I think there's substance and truth in much of this. Vinyl gave way to tapes which gave way to discs and now it's all in the clouds. Who'da thunk it?

In my case, part of it is the sheer coincidence of timing. Blogs were cool way back when and now Facebook is all the rage. I always enjoy digging beneath pop culture trends to explain behavior though. For me it has more to do with where I was then and am now. A handful of years ago when I started this blog I was a student (again) working part-time in a warehouse. I checked my email 3-5 times a day. I rode my bike from school to work and then home. My mind was on fire with ideas and advocacy. I wrote papers for shcool and vented my spleen on my blog, based largely on the issues I saw on a firsthand basis aboard my bike every day.

I'm still aboard my bike most every day, but things have changed. The infant we had when I went back to school is now a young lady and our second daughter is not far behind. My job is more involved, meaning not only do I reside behind a computer screen for long periods of time in the office, I often bring my work home in order to catch clients in time zones stretched around the world. Don't get me wrong -- I am a lucky bastard and I love my job. But my point is I spend most of my day in front of a computer toiling over emails, documents, reports. I'm often ashamed how long it takes me to reply to personal email (sorry, JB and Aaron). Let alone how long it takes me to work up the resolve to write a coherent blog post.

Perhaps that is the issue that reveals me as a hold-out -- the fact I think of a meaningful blog post as an essay with a thesis, supporting material and a conclusion. In our Twitterized society, publicized thoughts become the prostituted haiku of techno-altered parents conceiving illegitimate children with half-baked intellects.

Perhaps that was harsh. But I digress.

I have this new phone now. Have I mentioned that? It came with all these pre-loaded apps (Widgets, even) to facilitate interfacing with social media. But not blogs, because blogs are no longer legit social media apparently. I can work it out though and as soon as I get my next burst of blog energy to follow this one I plan to do just that.

In the meantime, I've been giving some more thought to the Facebook thing (FB, I understand the kids are abbreviating it these days). This could be due to a couple of things. One is a trend I read about last extended winter that indicated the authorities responsible for the OED (or Oxford English Dictionary, as opposed to OCED which is Obsessive Compulsive English Disorder) began admitting text slang to the venerable tome. Maybe I'm just fighting the inevitable? My new phone has Swype, so I'm texting more, dawg. OMFG YO.

Then last night we watched 'The Social Network'. After seeing the depiction of how miserable all those bastards are I have little hope that anyone created social networking sites based on philanthropy or goodwill. It's all posturing, self-absorption and money-grubbing capitalism. I can dig that desperation.

Why can I dig that desperation? Because I have an immense respect for the breadth and depth of holes that people dig for themselves. And I do include myself ...

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On my ride home tonight I had one of the most egregious buzzes by a car I've had in a long while. A Nissan Altima, or some other Euro knock-off sedan, MN license plate 046 ATX, cruised by me above the speed limit on Xerxes just south of Hwy 62 passing within one foot of my handlebars. It was after 9pm. There was no other traffic about and I was lit up like a christ mass tree given the reflectives and LEDs. Didn't see me? Scary. Saw me and hated me and my presence? Even scarier.

I had no chance of catching up to confront but I had half my ride home to ponder. I passed two gas stations on the way and noted fuel is $4 a gallon. Maybe that's it? Maybe it's also the fickle weather that's got people cranky. I don't know.

I do know that a few years ago this sort of encounter made me mad. Don't get me wrong, I had a flush of anger. More so, though, I felt a wave of sadness. I related the story to April tonight and told her my philosophy of riding which goes something like this: "I take every precaution I can to ensure that I arrive home safely and avoid harming anyone else while I'm riding my bike. But I have no control over a driver approaching from behind who doesn't see me or sees me and regards me as little more than a bug on the floor."

I don't smash bugs on the floor and I try my damnedest not to berate those around me. Some of it is human nature, I suppose, lost in the moment of judgment by acquaintances. Still, we can regret and mend. How many are engaging that pattern, however? How many who wage a disparaging word have the courage to apologize? Moreover, how many who buzz a cyclist, intentionally or not, go home and think, "Geez, that was bad. I need to give that person more space because I could have killed her/him"?

The desperation I can dig is the trough that surrounds me, and us, at all times -- dug by people on both sides of the fence who want to berate, name call and otherwise sling shit at thine neighbor.

What is crying foul? In a caustic environment are words apt to burn more than the ire already ablaze in an inferno? The wisdom of age quells my desire to lift my finger, but in return my heart despairs all the more. We are a society of self-absorbed idiots. Fear rules us, not unlike my fear of some driver striking me from behind while I'm blogging away in my mind ... and thinking about getting home to my family.

It's not unlike our fear of $4/gallon gas, or Facebook and the breakdown of our culture. Does anyone truly think that while we stand steadfast by the empty bastions of our freedom that our language, our culture and our very "moral fabric" are not being stripped from beneath us? Apparently, yes, many people think so because there are armed guards with theoretical jurisdiction posted at every entry point as you read this. Thus the hatred for one another, those with opposing viewpoints, within our own country.

Ironically, the "threat" (if anyone dare label it as such) is so far beyond our borders yet embodied within each of us. We are all truncating our language, eating factory-farmed food and consuming willy-nilly. Meanwhile the places formerly known as the third world are emulating and chasing our own wake hoping to ride that elusive wave.

On that note, cheers and good night!

MISC

2011-02-15T19:36:00.002-06:00

Happy heatwave. I got back from a balmy 8 days in the UK a week ago and we plunged into the negative digits for overnight lows here in Mpls. I found myself wishing I'd extended my stay across the pond.

Last weekend we swung 'round to highs in the 40s. It's been holding there, so we're in the middle of a slush-n-puddle festival. I was craving the end of winter but this sudden end was unexpected. There has to be a walloping storm around the corner. (Weather's other shoe is perpetually ready to drop in Minnesota.)

I've had a couple of interesting bits drop into my email inbox of late. The first is amusing, perhaps downright funny, while also revealing a few disturbing presuppositions regarding cyclists. Still, it is interesting to note that a competitive cyclist logging thousands of miles in a single race wouldn't be tempted to use drugs to keep himself going. However, the leap that only kids would dare ride bikes without the benefit of drugs to inspire them is narrow if not utterly spurious.

In defense of this mindset, it re-occurred to me recently that what we serial cyclists do is not normal. So if you are among this crowd you should keep in mind that many of the drivers passing you believe the "normal" thing for adults to do is buy a car and drive it places; that riding a bike to get somewhere is what people who've had their licenses revoked must resort to. Have patience with them and remember that oil prices are hiking.

But without further ado, here's Lance Armstrong Does Drugs.

The second tidbit was simply astounding. I didn't dig deeper into the work of Michael Rakowitz, but the concept of building low cost shelters for the homeless (seriously low budget) is fascinating. There's also a pleasant theme of subverting discriminatory city laws. I dig that.

Not long after moving to Minnesota in February of 2002, I was invigorated by the winters. I walked a lot and every time I passed a large building with its heat exhaust spilling onto the sidewalk I wondered, "Why can't this warm air be recycled?" Rakowitz's bivvies do just that.

How much more basically can a theory of conservation be extrapolated? Why should we waste such vital commodities as heat during a MN winter? We Americans have myriad ways to mend.

Here are a few of the Project Parasite examples, or as Johnny Nebraska coined them "Bivy Sacks for the Homeless."

I love new ways of looking at things, new thoughts on a topic. Don't you? Well, if you don't I wholeheartedly encourage you to get right with the lord and start embracing differences, challenges and shit that generally rocks your world.

Make love to your fear. Hug your hate. Water the seeds of your hope. Spring's just around the corner.

Worn Welcome

2011-01-24T20:33:00.003-06:00

Winter in Minnesota. I love it mostly. I idealized it while living in Tennessee during my youth. Oh, how I longed to live some place where the snow would visit often and linger more than a few days. I moved here 9 years ago and my wish came true.

That wish has never rung truer than this year. Boy howdy, we have snow to spare. We've had 6 feet of it so far this snow season. It's gotten to a point -- perhaps The Point. If you've read some of my previous posts you'll know I'm a snow shoveling zealot. These days, however, if the snow amounts to less than an inch I don't bother. Let the wind blow it away.

There's been plenty of wind, too, and cold. It's been cold and windy and snowy. Welcome to Minnesota.

Still, there have been bright moments. I enjoy the times when I am out in the snow and can enjoy it without the rush of a schedule. I've snowshoed a bit this winter. It's very enjoyable and extremely warming since it's damned hard work in fresh, deep powder. I've had a few amazing biking experiences. Okay, more than a few to be fair. On one such occasion last Thursday riding my Pugsley at Theo Wirth with co-workers (read: we were not in the office but still getting paid) I felt warmer than anything I'd muster commuting at 10 degrees.

I had a nagging reminder of something at lunch that day. The mention of an unforgettable fact. One of my colleagues, a fellow Tennessee ex-pat, asked me: "So, do you feel like you just love winter, like a native Minnesotan?" I wanted to say I've met plenty of Minnesota-born folks who begrudge winter, but I got his point. And while I was warm from the indoor heat, delicious pizza and camaraderie, I lowered my head and replied, "No. I'm over it this winter."

I'm not a "winter-loving native Minnesotan." The truth is I'll never be a native of anywhere unless I move to West Virginia to live out the rest of my days (but I haven't lived there in over 30 years). Perhaps his question touched more than one nerve.

But who am I to drag you down even farther? After all, from sea to shining sea, we've all felt the icy slap of Old Man Winter this year. Well, I'm not so sure Old Man Winter ain't behaving like nothing more than a baby boomer whose retirement account tanked with the recession. He's pissed and he's taking it out on the rest of us 'cause he had to sell the RV, move into a shitty studio apartment and start drinking Popov vodka martinis.

No, friends, I am here to share the enlightened wisdom of a 5-year old. My daughter Sylvia has crafted, in true Letterman fashion, her second (yes, this is number 2 written just tonight -- since the first one went missing) list of reasons to dislike winter. I submit for your consideration her list in ascending order:

(Oh, by the way, I should mention I'm preserving the spelling for your enjoyment. Laugh and think like a kid for a minute. It will do you more good than all those corny email forwards your relatives send you. C'mon, you know you get them too ...)

reesins we do not like outside
1. it is to colde
2. it is to windy
3. you can't do math
4. you can't cut and glew
5. you can't do progeckt's
6. you can't make papr chanes
7. you can't draw pichrs
8. you can't play elid fodetag
9. you cant run
10. your feet get stuck
11. you haf to put on snow close

I have no idea what a couple of those things mean ... well, specifically, number 8. Sylvia's asleep so I can't ask her. The etymologist in me, however, can't help but revel in the similarity of some kid words to old English (but not in the O.E. 800 way).

Getting back to the coarser topic of the weather: The Earth is gonna tilt again soon and we'll all get to go about fuckin' it up with our internal combustion fascination. With top down and music loud, we'll use great speed and reckless abandon to prove ourselves. Oh man, those will be the daze. Warm and horny without a care in the world.

Maybe winter's not so bad.

Be well, people.

Mincing Words

2011-01-04T19:21:00.003-06:00

I’m a fan of words. I can safely say words – the study of the English language and the examination of mechanics, grammar and vocabulary that unite to create meaning – are the one thing I’ve studied my whole life yet never lost interest in learning more about. Perhaps that’s because language binds together everything we do in life. It is fascinating to me that the study of language is not something to be mastered; I will never reach a level where I am confident I can stop, a level where learning more is deemed frivolous or unnecessary. The peculiar thing about language is that we all regress or lapse into lazy patterns of speaking and writing based on interactions with peer groups or the lack of stimulation brought about by fresh words and phrases. I’m in a phase where I’m working against that tendency.

I am not a fan of phrases that permeate our common discourse yet utterly fail to purvey any truth or meaning. Examples of these abound. It’s true that we need a common lexicon of everyday jargon, slang and idiomatic expression. It is part of our cultural glue. I’m not downing those familiar turns of phrase. However, I believe there are some significant ways we negligently attempt to convey meanings that fall short of stating what truly happened or why. I’d like to focus on a couple that pertain to cycling, or more specifically the perilous side of cycling in the age of the automobile.

I began thinking critically about some common phrases and expressions five years ago while renewing literature studies at Metro State University in St Paul. I was enrolled in an information studies course where we examined electronic media and methods of evaluating bias in reporting. I wanted to complete a report linked to bicycle advocacy issues. I did not find all the information I needed for the report, but found some very interesting essays along the way. The articles that intrigued me dissected the prevalent tendency to categorize tragic collisions between motorists and pedestrians or cyclists as “accidents.” How many times do we hear on the news or read in the paper something to the effect of “Automobile Accident Leaves Walker/Cyclist Dead”? Or when reading an account you learn details such as: “Officers concluded the death was an accident. No citation was issued.” It was an accident. We have a dead person and someone who is visibly shaken and affects remorse. Case closed.

I’m not going to pick apart the definition of accident because we have assigned meaning to the word that makes it appropriate to use in cases where the outcome was unexpected. However, what of negligence? Or fault? And what about incidents where the severity of outcome was not unexpected but could have been avoided altogether (i.e. denied intentionality)? Is temporary anger an accident? Strong emotions or hatred (e.g. road rage)? Can these things cause what is truly an accident or is it something more?

My father got us involved in a radical church when I was in middle school. I have mixed feelings about that time in my life, but that’s a topic for another post (if not a chapter in a book – or an entire book). The minister of that church was a former big city police officer. He was kind of a smug, authoritarian, know-it-all prick at times. One of his regular rants was about accidents. He’d go blue on the face defending the stance that there is no such thing as an accident. Really, no such thing. And he believed, to a fault, there was shared blame for every situation. In theory this makes a lot of sense, but it leaves little room for getting shot while walking down the sidewalk or being rear-ended by an inattentive driver. Occasionally bad things happen to people who have done nothing to provoke the outcome. That’s an accident, right?

This idea that there’s no such thing as an accident that has been composting in my brain for the past 20+ years. I’ve come to the conclusion that it holds water, certainly in a theoretical sense, but in the real world, too. There are many steps we can all take to avoid “accidents” that become clearer in hindsight. We say all the time: I should have slowed down, looked the other way, watched where I was going, etc. If we can say these things resolutely, does that not blur the distinction as an accident? The more years I log as a regular bike commuter I’ve come to appreciate this idea of no such thing as accidents. After all, am I not more than 50% responsible for my safety every time I travel by bike? I like to think I operate my bike in a way that holds me more in the 85-90% responsibility range because I try to anticipate the behavior of drivers around me. Is that realistic though?

It’s begun to sink in – it’s not the word (accident) or the expression (it was an accident) that gets under my skin, it’s the implication of the word or phrase. In our society, labeling something an accident negates accountability or fault. And in many cases an accident is chocked up as Fate waving its fickle hand at some poor (injured, maimed or dead) person who should have exercised better judgment. Labeling the death of a human as an accident opens wide the tendency to blame the abstract or uncontrollable (fate, chance, the now-dead victim, the weather) and absolve others so we can get on with life. That’s worthwhile, eh? No doubt, it contributes to the uniformity of cultural discourse and preserves cultural flow. Some would argue this is paramount – to preserve the order of people going about things as normal. However, when our culture is anchored by such graven images as the automobile – a sacred cow that represents much of the status quo, yet is as empty as any idol cast down by early Christian zealots – I assert the cultural discourse must be challenged.

Is it not possible to prove, by simple anecdotal evidence, that there is inverse proportionality between the consequences of culpability and the willingness to admit fault? If the stakes are low (you trample your neighbor’s flowers) it’s easy to knock on the door, say ‘sorry’ and offer to replant them. You know this person (hopefully) and realize the value of preserving a peaceful relationship with him or her since it can benefit you down the road. If the stakes are high (you kill someone by striking them with your car) it’s much more savory to blame something beyond control (chance) and shrug responsibility (and penalty) by playing the accident card. The person was most likely a stranger. You didn’t know them or their family. And what were they doing walking there or riding their bike in the road anyway? ‘I only looked away for a second. My gosh, I didn’t even see him!’ The report states accident. Case closed.

If you’ve not inferred by now my point is the accident claim is a slippery slope. The variables are myriad and so intricate that they deserve more than a cursory label printed in short newspaper headlines and uttered thousands of times in news reports every day. As much as I sometimes despised that parochial figure from my youth, I believe it only fitting to give him credit for calling a spade a spade. An accident is not an accident, but rather a conveniently relabeled trapdoor used to jettison happenings that otherwise might call into question too many of the presumptions upon which our realities are based.

One of the most steadfast presumptions propping up our American reality is that automobiles are vitally important and their operators must be given the most generous benefit of the doubt so we can keep cars on the road, which in turn justifies the need to keep more cars on the road. The result is a grotesque disregard for other forms of viable, human-powered locomotion and the human right to life of those who choose to engage in those alternatives.

The second phrase I intended to pick apart is related, but the explanation is much shorter, so bear with me. What is the greatest fear of most cyclists? That’s easy – being hit by a car. Cyclists and non-cyclists alike rattle that off without a pause: So-and-so got “hit by a car.”

Have you ever thought about that phrase though? It’s ridiculous and nonsensical. One may be physically impacted by the outer shell of an automobile, but one does not get “hit by a car.” This casual phrase that is firmly rooted in our speech personifies the automobile, giving it life, intention and action. Now, one could argue that we have personified automobiles in our culture for as long as they’ve been in existence. How else does one love, pamper and worship something unless it has form? However, my point is not to launch a complex analysis of the role of the automobile within American culture, but to correlate the notion of culpability discussed above.

Personifying the car absolves the driver. It removes one step toward erasing human blame and labeling an incident an accident (it’s the car’s fault). However, the logical retort is plain – cars don’t think or act. I can’t pass up the opportunity to twist a gun rights bumper sticker into a defense of my point. The sticker reads: “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” The logic is sound. Cars don’t kill people. People kill people. Eschew personification and face the ugly fact: Intentionally or not, drivers kill people with their cars. Whether it’s inattentiveness (texting, talking, changing the station), lack of skill and ability or maliciousness, I’m putting it out there – automobile accidents are not accidents at all. They are caused, there is responsibility, there should be culpability and there should be penalty.

Some would laugh at that argument, saying “but a gun is a weapon.” Really, is a gun a weapon? No, technically a gun is a tool (not unlike a car). A gun is a weapon if used to threaten or harm another human being. My Swiss Army knife is a tool, too. Most people (outside of an airport security line) would laugh at its classification as a weapon. However, in trained or determined hands it could be an effective one. Still, I am allowed to carry it with me most places every day.

Can a car be a weapon? Well, if you are someone who quickly leaps to label a gun a weapon, the answer is ‘damn straight.’ Drivers threaten people with their cars everyday. That is precisely the next leap we must make in the American psyche. Hell, most of us consider guns weapons but more and more states are allowing citizens to legally carry them. It’s no stretch, the proof is there – cars are used as weapons everyday to threaten and harm. Yet, in the event of an “accident” all that’s needed to evade penalty is a simple mention of the ubiquitous A word. It’s a sociopath’s dream.

Let’s not stop reclassification with guns and cars and Swiss Army knives. Our culture is full of tools, both physical (e.g. baseball bats, tire irons, ax handles) and intangible (think ideas and philosophies), that are routinely transformed into weapons. What of power, strength and maleness, money and resources, hunger, inequality, dogma and doctrine? But that thesis is the topic of another future essay.

If you're not sufficiently tired of reading, I'll leave you with one of the saddest bike-car stories I've ever read.

Be well, be kind, be nice when it hurts.

Looking Forward

2011-01-04T19:12:00.002-06:00

While I'm partially digesting the next essay I'll regurgitate in the form of a full post, have a nibble on the The Year Ahead in Bikes courtesy of Grist.org.

There's some good stuff in there like increased bike sharing programs, more people going car-free and cities adopting transportation philosophies that rewrite so much of the archaic, automobile-centric layout we contend with now. There's also some not so bright stuff like the possible increase in bias against bikes and biking infrastructure. And that is precisely what my next entry will be about.

Subzero temps have been the overnight norm in the 6-1-2 lately. Be well and stay warm.

Exclusive Breaking News!

2010-12-22T21:40:00.003-06:00

After numerous bicycle commutes and walking forays following our recent snowstorms in Mpls, yours truly, editor of Urban-Crawl, could discern no rhyme or reason to the City's plowing methods and criteria. So, I decided to dig a little further.

While I had to pay two informants an undisclosed sum in Northern Lager Light (case packs) and gift cards to Sauce Wine Bar, as well as guarantee their complete anonymity, the cost was well worth the dirt I've uncovered. That's the grimy dirt that lay well below many of the unplowed and poorly cleared paths we cyclists have been forced to contend with so far this season.

It seems the City's plot is two-fold, but equally sinister at both turns.

My first correspondent, code name Hans Hunyuk, holds a position with Mpls Public Works. We spoke via Skype using an elaborate system of multinational relays. I posed a simple question in layman's terms: "Hans, how come the snow plowing is so shitty this year?"

He replied: "Oh yah, da City's made a lotta cost savin' measures dis year, ya know. Like skippin' da corners of every street and jus' pilin' snow on da sidewalks. Plus, der hirin' rookie plow drivers from Florida and Arizona to clear what we call, uh (he paused as if to pluck the term from memory) ... da 'non-essential routes'."

I pressed Hans for clarity just what he meant by "non-esential routes": "Well, der da trails around da lakes and all dem paths da skinny folk go ridin' bikes and joggin' in der funny outfits. Dat's da best place to go a-practicin' yer plowin', ya know."

I thanked Hans as we cut the conversation short to avoid a trace (but not before I got a few tips on the best holes this year at Mille Lacs).

My second informant, who goes by Zoe, is a fashion consultant/writer for a local trendy rag. In her spare time she's a social media maven focusing on conspiracy theory surrounding the City's dark inner workings. I'm not on Facebook so we texted. (I've expanded some of the text language because that stuff annoys me anyway, but I had trouble keeping up with her machine-gun texting prowess):

"The City doesn't care about bikers. They wish their hippie scum would move to Portland where they belong, so they've launched an aggressive campaign to strip away all the amenities you people have bragged so much about. The City needs new stadiums after all. Ones with real goddamn roofs."

"What might those amenities be, Zoe?" I queried.

"OMG, don't give me that shit! You know, 'Oh they plow our paths FIRST before the streets. They're smooth as a blow mirror. Blah, blah. We're number one in the nation now. Ha, f-ck Portland!' You know the lines, Dagwood." (That was the best code name I could muster on short notice.)

Zoe went on: "Well, blow me! I'm sick of your whiny crap because you naive bunch of sweaty, smelly, badly dressed misfits are gonna get screwed over like the rest of us. This town's no place for my art, my sensibilities and I don't give a shit whoever else they put the screws to either. You'll see."

Her last text read: "BTW WTF! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST DRIVE A FUCKING CAR IN WINTER LIKE THE REST OF US????"

I thought it best to forego thanking Zoe and instead contacted my cell provider to immediately have my number changed.

Well, there you have it folks. The City's definitely put cycling low on the list with snow removal this year. And it could be standard operating procedure going forward. Pray for subzero, because the warmer this unplowed stuff gets the nastier it's going to be when it does freeze hard.

Happy Solstice

2010-12-21T16:58:00.002-06:00

Sylvia made a small Solstice shrine tonight, complete with candles and an original illustration to show the lengthening days.

We’re on the uphill side of daylight. Uphill if you consider the days will lengthen between now and spring; as in, we’re no longer descending into darkness. That’s downhill, I guess, if you consider it’s an effortless slide toward longer days. Either way you label it, I’ll take it. I'm not averse to winter but I like daylight.

Unlike the growing days ahead, the weather’s been anything but effortless, however. Mother Nature is working hard to make us work harder here in the 6-1-2. I rode to work yesterday morning in a pleasant snowfall. I was aboard the fixed gear Cross-Check, deciding to give my experiment with Pugsley commuting a break. The Check has Schwalbe Marathon Cross 40c tires on it. They are great for snow and feel like racing rubber compared to the 4” footprint of Pugsley. I kept my chin up in spite of the impending accumulation. Keep in mind some park paths still haven’t been plowed from our mega-snow a week and a half ago. I admit the reality of more snow made me wonder whether, as some of my cycling friends have posited, the city is giving up on clearing some of the smaller paths.

Shortly after arriving at work it REALLY started to snow and didn’t let up for about 5 hours. I’m glad I waited it out rather than leave work early, since I was able to avoid most of the automobile traffic congestion as well as the poor visibility from the heavy snow. I did have a fresh snow depth of 5” to contend with. No problem, I thought. I’ll slog through the residential connectors and hook up with the plowed main roads as available.

Out of the parking lot and into the street I began the zig-zagging pattern that inevitably greets the cyclist navigating the compacted cookie dough left by hundreds of car tires. That’s not my favorite kind of riding for sure, but it lasted no more than a quarter mile since the sidewalk connection I take to avoid a major road was snowed in. Someone on a fat tire bike looked to have successfully cleaned it earlier, but I was not able to hold a sufficient line to keep momentum. Oh well, the evening was warm so I dismounted for a half-mile walk to the next residential street. Remounting on the next street I proceeded to zig-zag some more. A half mile later I popped out onto a nicely plowed secondary and began sailing along with a decent tailwind.

A couple miles down the road I turned onto another residential and got stuck on a hill. Off again and more hike-a-bike for a hundred yards. I was working up a pretty good sweat on these walking sections – no cold feet tonight. At first I thought the wetness on the outside of my wind shell was my body perspiring through the well-worn nylon. But I rethought that as I realized the moisture on my face wasn’t sweat at all, but a fine, misting rain falling. As I hooked up with the main road for a 6-mile push straight north I carried some steady speed. The windchill created froze the slick layer to my jacket and mittens. I’ve never had that happen before on a ride. It seemed plenty cold enough that anything falling should be frozen, but it wasn’t. The few sections of clear pavement were beginning to crust a thin layer of ice. Nice.

My helmet and mittens, encrusted in ice, upon arrival at home.

Rounding Lake Calhoun I had the one and only driver of the night shout something I couldn’t quite make out as he passed. I could discern that it was directed at me and was derogatory in nature. I’m sure plenty of drivers think riding a bike in the snow and ice is dangerous, stupid and perhaps should even be outlawed. So be it. Do they really think driving in the snow and ice is particularly smart? Especially when so many continue to drive at unsafe speeds and behave recklessly with little regard for other non-drivers exercising their right to get peacefully from point A to B. This thought led to pondering the city’s philosophy of clearing snow. The emphasis is placed on restoring the ability of average motorists to confidently return to the streets. The resulting piles of snow on walkways and paths (some are impassible and will remain until spring) prove the concerns of the driver take precedence. It’s a shame since I regard those of us who choose to explore alternatives to driving to be the saner, safer variables in the equation during any season of the year. The internal-combustion-driven wheels of commerce must keep turning, however.

I expunged the negativity quickly because I was within a mile of the saving grace of winter cyclists – the greenway system. This peaceful ribbon is reliably plowed during snowfalls making it one of the best parts of any commute. I stopped off for a few cans of fizzy liquid refreshment to celebrate this most epic of solstice commutes upon my safe arrival at home. Moving quickly, I tried to avoid shedding my entire layer of ice in the store and made my exit back into the steady snow that had resumed.

Minutes later I rolled my tires onto the greenway where my enthusiasm quickly flagged. It hadn’t been plowed. Not only had the path gone uncleared, but a generous number of walkers and a couple skiers had already chopped up the way. I wanted my Pugsley but had no alternative. My skinny tires cut back and forth in the all-too-familiar zig-zag pattern. In addition I was fighting to turn over the gear in the deep snow. Moving to the edges didn’t help since they had been pocked from footfalls as well. A man was jogging ahead of me. Under normal conditions I would have rapidly overtaken him and left him behind. Tonight I was struggling to catch him. The effort to guide the bike and crank the gear was wrenching my lower back. My cyclometer read 4-5mph. I gave in about 2 miles from home, reasoning I could walk almost as fast and save my back for shoveling snow when I got home.

I walked for a while, cursing the city’s lax snow removal practices so far this season. As I left the last row of visible houses behind I noticed the warmth in the air and the glow of the full moon illuminating the dense, gray cloud cover. Then I remembered I had beer in my panniers. Propping the bike against a snow bank I introduced a celebratory crack into the silent night air. Then I took a few minutes to quench my thirst and ponder the beauty of it all – a fresh snowfall, peace and quiet in the middle of the city, plans that don’t work out but turn out okay in the end.

Feeling somewhat refreshed, I trudged the final mile of walking, post-holed across the railroad tracks and ascended the spiral ramp into Bryn Mawr. I rode the last stretch toward home, stowed my bike in the garage and mustered a soggy grumble ‘hello’ to the family. Still a bit chafed by the city’s untimely snow removal this season I swapped jackets and headed out to grab the shovel and complete my own snow removal responsibilities.

Happy Solstice, friends. Winter’s here.

Best of 2010 (continued)

2010-12-17T11:36:00.005-06:00

2010 was a busy year. I've been thinking over the past few weeks about the things I enjoyed, milestones that were passed and memories that will warm my heart over the coming winter months.

I returned to Germany (made two trips there this year actually). A couple of my associates took me to a hometown beer festival in Forchheim outside Nuremberg. It's called Annafest and celebrates the famed beer kellers (cellars) burrowed into the massive hillside where the festival takes place.

Of course there is the beautiful scenery of Bavaria. Although it was late July the evenings were cool and the days sunny and warm. Perfect for riding and we got to do some of that, too. It's a bonus that my work travel doesn't consist of landing in a country and going straight to a convention center or conference to be locked indoors the entire time. Riding bikes is part of the job.

Also this summer we went north to our friends' cabin. Charlie and Kathy are the girls' adopted grandparents. Our family is lucky to have them in our lives. They have a very impressive little getaway perched on a rock outcrop overlooking Lake Superior. I'm not much for the MN "cabin culture" but in my opinion this is doing it right. Their place had an amazingly settling energy about it. The structure is sustainable and fits with the landscape, literally built into the bedrock of the hillside.

We broke away for an overnight trip into the BWCAW. It was our first canoe trip in 5 years. That's far too long between adventures. Even though the Boundary Waters is in the same state, it's a big commitment in time and planning to make a trip happen. Here April looks a little soggy. We'd just emerged from sheltering beneath some trees while an impressive thunderstorm blew threw.

After camping we ventured to Grand Marais with the girls. The town was hopping in honor of the Fourth of July holiday. We fled the packed sidewalks to wander on the rocks sheltering the bay. Grand Marais is a special place. If you've never been and you get the chance to go, don't pass it up.

More on 2010 later, I'm sure. For now, forget Christmas -- have you made solstice plans for Tuesday? This year it's a full moon and an eclipse. Fortuitous indeed.

Best of 2010

2010-12-08T19:03:00.001-06:00

Sylvia confidently riding her own bike a long way.

Laziness

2010-12-07T20:27:00.002-06:00

It's not quite winter, but winter has arrived in MN. We have about 8" of standing snow on the ground in Mpls and temperatures are holding below freezing. It's forecast to be below zero (F) tonight. The last snowfall came on Friday. I walked to get the kids from the babysitter today (Tuesday) and was a bit dismayed that most people in our neighborhod have not shoveled the curb cuts. That basically meant I could not push the stroller on our sidewalks; I had to resort to walking in the road. Same as it usually is in winter, I suppose.

When I shovel snow on our walk I clear at least a single swipe or a portion of the walk for both our immediate neighbors. I figure this is just being, well, neighborly. They tend to occasionally return the favor, which is a bonus. In addition, if we tell them we're gone for the weekend and it happens to snow they usually have our backs. Beyond that though I think about the common good. People who can't walk so well, but must, have a much easier time on a shoveled walkway. I shudder to think about those confined to wheelchairs living in MN. Once the snow piles up high enough few people consider a full width for passage.

Challenges with neighbors are relative I guess. Our previous neighbors were rude and sometimes hostile. We placed over half a dozen police calls against the building during the 18 months they lived there. Since then, the building went into foreclosure and was purchased by a conscientious landlord who renovated the place.

We now have seemingly affluent and quiet neighbors. They drive nice cars and mind their own business. They're almost too quiet. In a queer way I miss the noise from time to time. The silence is rarely broken by the four tenants -- save for one woman's automatic car starter which she uses to fire up her white Chevy Yukon sometimes 45 minutes before she comes out to drive it away. That grossly negates the 3-minute idling rule Mpls passed a few years back.

I have a problem with remote car starters, but I will spare you a full-fledged rant. I try to maintain an open mind. I knew someone a few years ago who moved here from a warmer overseas climate. She claimed she had an allergy to the cold. I understand we have identified a whole slough of modern allergies that were unknown in olden days. However, I have a difficult time accepting the existence of an allergy to environmental cold.

My own laziness is settling in. Getting myself on the bike for the 32 miles of daily pedaling to and from work has been more of a challenge. My toes are cold most of the way. It takes so long to dress and prep. If only it were 5 miles instead of 16. The list of 'If onlies' goes on.

Ah, inertia. Bless your inspiring, yet inanimate, heart.

The Other

2010-11-27T22:35:00.003-06:00

I do not like you
I do not like what you stand for
I have not sought to speak, discuss or debate with you directly
but I need know nothing else
I do not like you or what you stand for
I have my reasons
and they are sufficient

I do not see in you
humanity
commonality
Those like you swiped down towers,
spread as waste all you can conquer
in an effort to destroy my identity
I do not like you
And I do not like what you stand for

I have the luxury of living within my comfortable space,
a place where I can form the opinions that comfort me,
a place where I can proclaim myself to be oppressed,
a place of private judgment against any and all
Do not challenge me
I will only call you the dick,
the villain,
and proclaim any and all claims against me erroneous
hereafter the Victim
I do not like you
And I do not like what you stand for

Of course, I contest,
there are no generalizations here --
after all, your kind are all alike
As oppressors I do not see what you can possibly contribute
to any constructive discourse
So I will profile you,
avoid you,
document and revile you,
fear and build fear against you,
detain you,
torture you
So that I may feel safe,
feel free

I do not like you
And I do not like what you stand for
Why is that not enough?

This might not be necessary
if you'd simply observe the requirements

Why can't you conform, re-shape and fall into line?
Pray to my god
Eat the same things I eat
Fuck the same way I fuck
Believe the same lies I quote
What's wrong with you, anyway?

I can't stand you
You're not calling bullshit on me
You're not asking me to the table
because I won't have it
I'll fake
a headache
a tremor
a 19th-century episode
anything to avoid speaking with you

I can't stand you
and I won't stand for this
it is my entitlement
Do not bother me with reconsidering that

I need you to be evil
so I can feel pure
Together we can preserve this model
that is vital to my belief system
But to that end,
it's convenient,
I don't require your cooperation

So fuck off
and let me hate you.

Resolution?

2010-11-03T00:40:00.002-05:00

I got a reply from Metro Transit. This pleased me since my prior experience (as I noted) was the run-around. I'd like to encourage any of you who have similar experiences to log them officially, no matter where you live. The reply is below, but first I'd like to post my complaint:

My encounter this morning with one of the Be Line busses proves the vehicle is aptly named. The driver was apparently “be lining” it to his next stop as he sped past me on my bicycle, clearing me by no more than 18”. I was cycling westbound on Poplar Bridge Rd on my way to work at 9:55am. I was in the shoulder (right of the white line) and there is a full center turning lane on this road. In addition, there were no eastbound vehicles present. Three facts – 1) I was not in the lane, 2) There was an empty turning lane to the driver’s left, and 3) No oncoming traffic was present – frame one important conclusion: There is no reasonable excuse this driver shouldn’t have allowed the 3ft passing distance proscribed by MN state law. While I begrudge belligerence frequently from private motorists, I believe professional drivers should have the training, skills and tolerance to observe all traffic laws and operate their vehicles with concern not only for their passengers but all other users of the road. In the case of those operating large vehicles such as trucks or busses that can cause sufficient wind disturbance to affect bike control, failure to provide a safe passing distance endangers cyclists’ lives. The last (and only other) time I filed a complaint about a bus driver’s behavior toward me on my bicycle it went no where. I was told since I hadn’t gotten the driver’s number you couldn’t identify the driver since no such bus runs on that street at that time … . I expect nothing more this time. However, I sincerely hope Metro Transit enforces operator policies that promote greater safety for cyclists. This is only the second complaint I’ve filed. As a regular bicycle commuter, however, I’ve witnessed numerous instances of behavior by bus drivers that indicates some need additional training on sharing the road.

Here's the reply from Metro Transit I received this morning:
Good Morning Mr. Fleck, You are right, our driver should allow you a 3 foot clearance on the road. Especially if there is no on coming from the other side and there is a middle turn lane. I am apologizing for our driver for not giving you that clearance. When I asked him about it, he said that he doesn’t remember seeing you at all that day. I have given him a warning about paying attention and I hope that there will be no more instances like this. I am glad that you are not hurt due to this encroachment into your space. Again, I apologize for our driver and I will be reminding all of our drivers to give the proper clearance in our next safety meeting. If you have any other issues, please feel free to contact me. Thank you for your input.

Steve Youmans
Road Supervisor
Transit Team
612-332-3323

Of note: Steve's email address is donald.youmans@metc.state.mn.us
He also copied Michael Richter (his boss?)whose email address is Michael.Richter@metc.state.mn.us

In short, if you live in the TC and experience a problem with a bus driver I encourage you to file a complaint with my encouragement to send it directly to the email addresses above.

Sadly, "doesn't remember seeing you at all that day" is a convenient excuse pulled by drivers involved in fatal crashes every day. But, friends, we'll fight each battle as it comes.

A Clean Ride

2010-10-25T20:51:00.003-05:00

I’ve made up a few games I occasionally play during my bike commutes. A 16 mile ride that follows the same basic route can seem mundane from time to time. I’d conjecture others who regularly ride longer distances do similar things. I used to think about cadence and heart rate. I’ll never tire of pursuing the perfect pedal stroke, but I don’t race anymore so the training aspect of my rides is no longer a consideration.

There are plenty of other things to think about. I’ve written hundreds of mental to-do lists in my brain over the years. I’ve had more than one great idea for a business venture, a woodworking project, a gift for the kids or April. Heck, I even come up with some damn fine ideas for blog posts while I’m pedaling. (The current entry not withstanding.)

Every once in a while though I like resort to little rituals, things that don’t distract me. A few examples: I chant mantras when I pass flattened critters who couldn’t outrun the death machine in time; I practice memorizing license plate numbers (I picked up that one from Brother Nick Sande); I’ll spend a portion of my ride consciously reminding myself to breathe with intention; I sing a playlist from a bad 70s and 80s radio station that broadcasts 24/7 from the dark recesses of my brain; I’ll see how much of the Cedar Lake Trail I can ride no-handed.

There’s one thing I dig above most any other, however. I get a special thrill from achieving what I call the “clean ride.” This has nothing to do with the Pro Tour peloton or doping scandals. It’s the rare occasion when I leave my house, clip in at my driveway and don’t set a foot down until I arrive at the door of my office. No interruptions, just 16 smooth miles of constant rolling at a steady pace. I can’t trackstand worth a piss, so I don’t count that. I’m talking about setting out with an empty mind, not even trying to make it happen. Then one-third of or halfway to work I realize, “All the intersections have been clear, the lights have been green. A few more and I will have a clean ride!”

If I rode mostly bike paths this would be a normal thing. But I ride across several major roads and through some busy interchanges. By my count there are 7, maybe 8, places I regularly must stop and put a foot down. There are another handful of possible snags on top of those. Getting everything lined up is a special occasion. Or so I think. Besides, it’s my dorky game anyway.

I was on my way to a clean ride this very morning. The weather was perfect for fall – overcast and 50s. Rain was in the forecast but I stayed dry the whole way in. I got that little tingle as I approached the halfway mark. With each successive intersection I rolled cleanly through my excitement grew. I was so giddy I approached the one hill of the ride – a steep bump on Poplar Bridge Rd – with glee instead of a sigh. I decided to let myself grab a smaller gear and stay in the saddle. After all, the clean ride ain’t about speed it’s about alignment of the constellations, working with harmonic energy, wheels spinning in synch with the world around, baby! Halfway up the hill I was feeling a little winded but ecstatic. The clean ride was practically realized; it was mine.

That’s precisely the moment the Metro Transit “Be Line” express bus be-lined its way straight past me. I was positioned right of the white line, in a comfortably wide shoulder but this guy, driving a freaking bus no less, chose to buzz me with 18” to spare. He had an empty middle turning lane to pull over. There were no cars coming down the hill. In other words, he had no excuse for nearly hitting me as he booked by at over 30 miles per hour. I was livid. I gave him the long floating finger while I muttered epithets in disbelief. “You had the whole road, asshole. Why did you, a ‘professional’ driver need to pull that stupid trick?”

The mojo of my clean ride was broken. Within 90 seconds I pulled up to the final light of my commute. It was red. I know this light. It’s long. It hates the very thought of the clean ride. The light is evil. It’s in cahoots with the bus driver.

The bus and its driver were in the turning lane. I pulled up parallel with one lane separating us. I contemplated knocking on the door to inquire what the hell his issue was to drive like that. I didn’t though. I stared him down. He’d seen me ride up. I saw his head turn as I approached the line. He stared straight ahead while we waited, never making eye contact. The son-of-a-bitch knew full well what he’d done. There were no passengers on the bus. He was smug and proud. I noted the time (9.55am) and his vehicle number (6015) and filed a complaint with Metro Transit after arriving at work.

I filed one other complaint a few years ago against a bus driver who cut me off egregiously, forcing me into the curb on Bryant Ave. It went no where. I don’t expect this one to get much further. For the two complaints I’ve filed I’ve had dozens of close calls with buses and reasons to file complaints on a few other occasions, but didn’t. I ride the bus from time to time. I’ve observed the drivers and how they interact with cyclists, quietly from the passenger seat. I can say there are many patient, competent bus drivers out there. I can also attest there are sociopathic bus drivers out there. For that demented subset perhaps intimidating cyclists is one of their mindless pastimes while they endure the drudgery of the daily route. In a twisted way there’s probably some truth to that. At least my little games aren't designed to intimidate or hurt anyone. These yokels need to find new jobs.

I’ve had a theory for quite some time. I strongly contend that habitual driving is psychologically unbalancing. The DOT might as well require a psych exam along with the vision screening and road test for professional drivers. Because worse than some nut job driving his Ford Explorer like a belligerent jerk, I truly cringe at the thought of encountering an intolerant wacko driving a bus, dump truck or semi – any vehicle capable of turning me inside out instantly.

My vision of a clean ride does not involve viscera smeared across the pavement, my organs or anyone else's.

Damn you drivers. Whether it's delusion or stupor -- wake the fuck up.

Warming the Bench

2010-10-18T19:23:00.005-05:00

The moon is waxing. Daylight is waning as the evening temperatures fall. We have yet to turn the heat on in our house, but April's mentioned (and I've noticed) how chilly it's getting in here. Every year I believe we should hold out until some arbitrary date before setting the thermostat. I told April this evening that date is Nov 1. I don't think we'll make it that long without firing up the boiler, however.

I'm entering the period of introspection. I'm prone to turning inward but the fall has always been a time when I focus on contemplation. This year, more than any other in recent memory, I have compiled a rich mound of experiential manure to mentally compost this winter. Fortunately decay releases heat, so perhaps I can utilize this as a back-up source of warmth on the cold bike rides ahead.

For all intents and purposes wood shop season is over. It's getting cold enough that soon I will have to move wood glue and waterstones into the basement. I've considered many times installing insulation in my garage. I waffle though, reasoning the lack of full electrical service and other attributes make this less than ideal for a potential future owner. Read that as I won't get my money back (and it might be a less than ideal solution anyway). This year I intended to repair some siding and paint the garage too. That will have to wait along with the rest of the list that seemed so doable 7 or 8 months ago.

I was moderately productive this year for as often as I was traveling. I had intended to launch into a full-scale piece of furniture like a bed or table. While I did not accomplish either I tightened up some shop fixtures and organization. I also made a very nice frame as our friends' wedding present (see earlier post). I had sketched some plans for an entry bench, too, with the idea to build this from reclaimed wood stowed away in the garage rafters. Since I had the plank of wood and the project was not complex I decided this would be my last real project for the year.

Stored in our garage is all the original interior trim before our house was reconfigured, as well as some leftover timber from various projects. The board in question was a 2x12 plank nearly 10ft long with two rusty steel L brackets affixed to either end. I figured it was an old scaffold board since it had two colors of paint splotches and burn marks from soldering. Plus the whole surface was gray weathered and checked in spots. I have no idea how old it is, but it did measure 1 1/2 by 11 1/4", so it's not old enough to be true dimensional lumber as some other timbers in our house are.

One thing is for certain, it was too large and fair a piece of wood to cut and burn. The board was nearly flat and true over its entire 10ft length -- a rare trait in 2x lumber. I have a keen interest in conserving lumber. Wood takes a long time to grow and is typically wasteful to harvest. I regard it to be a precious commodity. With all this in mind I set out to adapt a design that would look decent (i.e. not look like it was built with Home Depot lumber) and allow me to have some fun with joinery.

This doesn't look like much but it is the four pieces of the bench cut to rough size. Four pieces and four joints -- simple, eh? I belt sanded the pieces and left all the screw holes and other damage. Planing it down was possible. I might have eliminated most of these flaws and made the wood more dimensionally appealing, but I wanted the piece to look intentionally built from a piece of construction lumber that most jobsites would have burned or thrown away.

Early stages -- I made a template and routed the rough mortises on the top and legs. I found a compromise with the tenon/mortise width that allowed me to cut them all the same size, thereby utilizing one template.

The whole piece has mass -- physical and aesthetic. That's frequently a problem with 2x lumber. To lighten the appearance I planned a diamond cutout to let light through. The waste of each mortise and diamond is relieved with the drill press and router; all the corners were cut and squared with chisels and mallet. The notch at the bottom of the legs also lightens the form and echoes the angular motif. Here the legs and top are stacked to allow a brief glimpse of the final shape beginning to take form.

Both the top and leg mortises are cut to partial depth in the middle to accept a stub tenon. With tenons cut the hand tools are used to fit everything. This is the slow (and fun) part in my opinion. It's quiet with no earplugs or safety glasses required.

This is the top of one leg detailing the stub tenon in the middle while both sides are through tenons. The joint is extremely strong since it provides a lot of glue surface and will later be wedged. (Note the burn mark from soldering at the left. This board saw some action in its day.)

Garage door open wide and working in the sun and fresh air. Here I'm cleaning up the mortises in the top. The tenons are cut fat and shaved with a plane to close the gaps. It pays to work slowly with a square close at hand to make sure everything is being fitted as precisely as possible. The tapers on the legs have been cut. Again, that visually lightens the piece since structurally it wouldn't matter.

The legs are mating nicely and I'm moving onto the stretcher. I carried over the diamond cutouts in that as well.

Here is a detail of the stretcher tenon. These are through tenons mortised to accept a square tapered key. The key is a wedge that can be tapped farther in to tighten the legs over time and resist racking forces that could pop the legs loose. As tight as the leg tenons were in the top I realized I might have skipped this step but the outcome would be a nice visual element in the overall piece. I've also added some chamfers to blend the raw edge grain with the weathered faces.

Here is the matching mortise that accepts the previous through tenon from the stretcher. The middle portion creates a pocket for the stub tenon. The chamfer detail was added to each of the diamonds, but I chose not to chamfer the legs or top of the piece. These details can be overdone making a piece of furniture look like you got too happy with the router.

After this step I dry fit all the pieces. They went together tight. It was beautiful, my best joinery to date. In disassembling them I had a mishap. The board had a surface split its entire length that went about 1/4 of the way through the board. Since the tenons spanned this I didn't worry -- they'd reinforce it all. However, tapping the dry fit assembly apart I completely split one of the legs in two. I had little choice but glue it back together and hope for the best. The next morning I inspected the results and they looked good. Reluctant to rely on a glue joint alone, I was contemplating how to drill a deep enough hole to sink some dowel reinforcements. Eventually it occurred to me I needn't worry. The tenon placement would hold everything together. Beauty.

The glue-up was like most glue-ups meaning everything does not go exactly as planned. I had a tough time getting the top seated and created another small crack in one end while "coaxing" it into place with a few anti-Zen mallet blows. Clamps picked up the slack though and things were looking good. Angles were 90 degrees, joints sealed and I got all the parts in the proper order.

The only pieces not cut from the same board were these cherry wedges driven into the tenons on the top. This was a technique I learned from my previous picture frame project. It spreads the tenon and locks everything in place. I'm a fan of bombproof joinery and am regularly accused of overbuilding things. I think there are worse shortcomings for an aspiring woodworker.

One of the revelatory details I've picked up about joinery is how one cuts projecting components long. Enter the hand tools. After everything is dry, a flush cut saw, chisel and finely set block plane make it all smooth. Notice the knot between the tenons. In laying out this project I had to be very deliberate with where critical through-cuts would land to avoid disaster like a blowout from attempting to chisel out a mortise in a knot.

I cleaned up the glue squeeze out and cut the stretcher tenon keys from the tapered leg off-cuts. The whole thing got a little more sanding and a couple of coats of boiled linseed oil. There's no stain at all. The weathered pine turned out very golden and reddish in spots -- with burn marks, holes and green and white paint stains. I'm happy that the piece has the elements I set out to preserve with more natural patina than I'd imagined. Finished dimensions are 36" long, 18" tall and about 11 1/4" deep. It's the perfect size for our front entry where guests can use it to remove and put on shoes. Mostly Sylvia uses it to stack her stuff when she gets home from school.

There's nothing special about the design but I wanted a piece that was Arts and Crafts inspired. I think I achieved that with strong angles, a dark appearance and bold joinery. After I finished the project though, I felt a bit let down. I'd invested all this time into a chunk of old pine. Shouldn't I have poured that energy into a finer wood and achieved a more refined piece in the end? I don't necessarily think so. This bench is in use now and it works quite well for what it was meant to be.

Last Saturday morning we happened to be watching PBS. Many people (whether or not they ever make a speck of sawdust) have heard of Norm Abram and the New Yankee Workshop. Well, he retired and there is a new show in town called Rough Cut with a younger, hunkier star. We saw our first episode last weekend. As Tommy assembled a walnut trestle table from rough lumber, April told me she could better appreciate each of the steps I put into my projects seeing them laid out in a 30 minute TV program. It makes sense -- there's no way she's going to spend 9 hours in a weekend day watching all the details unfold. While I'll never build a piece of furniture in 30 minutes (neither Norm nor Tommy could either) it's helpful to note that every time I assemble a piece my precision increases and the time required diminishes. That's pretty sweet.

Right on!

2010-09-17T09:29:00.002-05:00

Here's a delicious quote from Dr. Ian Roberts, professor of public health at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine and trustee of RoadPeace (this is in part a response to a World Safety Conference theme that 'youth, music and poverty' are significant causes of road deaths in Britain):

“We must reclaim our streets and neighbourhoods from the lethal motor vehicle traffic that currently blights them so that we can begin to move our bodies again, in the way that they were designed to be moved. Youth and music are not the causes of road death – wealthy middle aged men who refuse to surrender their cars, or even consider alternative forms of transport, are the problem.”

And here's a tasty sweet to follow that substantial main course assertion:

“Our dependence on motorised transport has made us fatter and less fit. It has made the roads more dangerous for pedestrians and cyclists, and driven many them off the streets and back into their cars, further increasing the demand for transport. It has made controlling oil supplies the primary strategic objective of nation states so that scarce resources that should be devoted to building a sustainable economy are instead spent on war and destruction.

“We should look to a future where there will be fewer road deaths and injuries, cleaner air and much less traffic noise. Urban infrastructure must show a new respect for humanity. The torrent of lies that has been used to justify the ‘accidental’ deaths of 3,000 people each day on the world’s roads and the daily disabling of 30,000 more, will take its place in history alongside the justifications for slavery, racism and imperial war.”

Check out the entire article from the UK's Road.cc

And here's a link to RoadPeace

Bully for folks raising awareness of the negative tolls of automobile culture and unveiling a long-view approach to assessing its impact upon our world.

Ha

2010-09-14T19:06:00.002-05:00

Fall is coming. Here is a summer memory. Willa at the aforementioned wedding of our friends. Classic two-year-old behavior. Or maybe she was just emulating me.

Cheers. Ride yer damn bike.

Sawdust and Plane Shavings

2010-08-24T16:43:00.001-05:00

It can't all be about cultural criticism. I don't fritter away all my time pondering what's wrong with our culture and layering my opinions over it.

Lately, I've been spending as much time as possible in the wood shop. That's not much given my travel schedule this year. I sometimes joke that I work harder in my free time than I do at the office. Perhaps that's true, but immersing myself in a project is extremely challenging and rewarding. The small scale focus is a welcome change for a person who often feels the big picture of politics, etc. is hard to reconcile.

Our dear friends, Angela and Eric, were married in June. April suggested I make them a wedding gift -- patterned after a picture frame from an issue of Fine Woodworking magazine. The project was small and had limited joinery. I estimated it would take a weekend to build. It just so happened I had a board of thick cherry suitable for the project. I scaled a drawing of the frame to hold an 8x10" photo with mat. What luck -- the board was just the right size to cut all the parts. This meant the grain would be be complementary. The board had some very nice figure.

I recollect this board was given to me in 1999. I'd used it to practice face planing technique but the board still had a pronounced twist. It was beyond the necessary thickness, so I decided to rough out the cuts, take out the bench planes and make the stock true. That part went remarkably smoothly. Here are the parts planed to dimension and stacked in preparation for joinery:

Attempting to cut the long through tenons with the table saw produced some tear-out. Behold the beauty of hand tools! I marked out the tenons in full, cut them with a dozuki and trued the shoulders with a plane. The entire time I worked quietly without the need for ear plugs or safety glasses.

The groove for glass/mat has been routed, mortises are pre-drilled and the tenons rough cut. It's all chisels and planes from here. Here's a shot of the frame with tung oil finish applied, sans glass, of course:

I absolutely love the natural grain and figure of hardwoods. This piece really popped when the oil was applied. It became a vibrant red with dark banded accents. The frame is double-sided and freestanding so you can show off two images or pieces of art. The original frame design used small dowels to hold the top in place. I thought this looked a little chinsey. I have a couple blocks of ebony that were gifts years ago, but I've never worked the wood. Rather I've been intimidated by how dense and hard it is. Inspired by my success with the frame, I decided to handcut tapered keys with a finial to hold the top in place. The black ebony would add a contrasting touch to the flaming red cherry.

To my surprise the ebony is very stable making it easy to control chisels and planes when shaping it. I don't have an image of the finished keys, but they added a nice touch.

I sometimes feel like all I build is shop fixtures out of 3/4" plywood and dimensonal lumber. It's true, that's mostly what I have worked on over the past two years. This cherry picture frame was a nice break. It served as a reminder of two important things: 1)I am learning a lot of practical skills, and 2)All my work setting up shop is a foundation for crafting many fine furniture projects in the not-so-distant future.
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Here's how the shop is looking these days. I have a short wish list of a few remaining tools. The list of fixtures and shop projects numbers less than half a dozen currently. My one-car space is well laid out. There is little space I'm not utilizing, but if I need to make more room I can.

By woodworkers' standards my space is quite small. I think it's pretty darned close to ideal for now. More space just tempts one to fill it with more stuff anyway, and more stuff costs more money. I'll eschew the pursuit of the fanciest tools with lazer sighting and jigs that do most of the layout work in favor of developing solid skills and handtool techniques.

Color u.s. stoopid

2010-08-23T22:19:00.003-05:00

Greetings, Friends.

I may not be typing into this electronic box much lately, but my brain is still functioning. I have a handful of great essay ideas each week. I just don't make time to write. Every day, it seems, I am availed of something that is so downright inexplicable I not only shudder to reconcile the fact someone could have done or spoken it, but also the fact that it was done or spoken by people to whom others listen and heed.

No, I am not going to write about Sarah Palin. I am, however, going to mention what is sure to be one of her favorite songs.

I had the opportunity recently to listen to some christian radio. Actually, a lot of it. (Don't ask.) In the course of one of these sessions there was the jesus-approved version of the top 40 countdown. Number 2 on the charts this particular week was a song by Chris Tomlin & The Passion Band entitled "Our God (Is Greater)." It was mind-numbing background noise until I heard the lyrics. The words incited my ire. I've heard gangsta rap with more pertinent, truthful and meaningful lyrics.

First, a little preamble: I make it a policy to avoid discussing religion with people. I don't want to know and they probably don't want to either. This is true unless someone has something to prove; unless they believe their mission is to convert, witness or proselytize. At that point all I'm doing is taking the bait if I engage in the conversation. I have better things to do with my time.

If religion comes up, I'm typically forthright: I'm not a fan of christianity, but I respect its practice by intelligent people who espouse good christian (humanitarian) values of respect and acceptance toward others. I don't care one bit for the epidemic faith -- what I'll call "popular christianity" -- that is all too rampant in our nation today. Its banners pepper the crowds of Tea Party rallies and line the halls of every conservative congregation that preaches our country is in a state of moral bankruptcy, threatened by socialism, communism, terrorism ... . The list is continually refreshed with the fear du jour.

Yep, this song, "Our God," got me going. Perhaps I fancied it could make the perfect anthem of the popular christian movement (hell, it was already at #2). It poignanty depicts themes of divine right and superiority. The chorus is particularly offensive. Here are the first three lines:

Our God is greater
Our God is stronger
God, You are higher than any other

It's no leap to guess, "Greater, stronger, higher than whom?" Well, any god except the christian god, of course. Those would be the figureheads of a lot of the rest of the world's believers. Quick sidenote: Foremost in Americans' minds that is Allah and the followers of Islam.

The song wraps things up with a triumphant proclamation that forges a link to manifest destiny and that doctrine's extrapolated role of the U.S. in world politics. I make this claim based on the fact that popular christian believers and their leaders hold nothing back in stating the United States is a christian nation and must be governed by the rule of god if we are to escape destruction at the hands of amoralists, atheists and infidels:

And if our God is for us
Then who could ever stop us?
And if our God is with us
Then what could stand against?

It's beautiful propaganda actually, levied upon the feeble minds of people who believe faith is equivalent to reason and single issues are enough to constitute a voting platform. It also taps into fear, a motivation I find most disturbing because it excuses the practice of people and nations to close their minds and hearts, to justify torture, murder, exclusion and hegemony for the sake of self-preservation. This song is propaganda through and through. It reaks.

(Oh, a quick thanks to livingforjesus.com for publishing the lyrics. Any errors are theirs, although I did add some obvious punctuation and capitalized "You" in reference to Yahweh -- only the touches I thought would have been added by a diligent christian editor.)

****************************************************

I travel internationally a lot. In the course of the past 2 years, and a dozen or so trips to a handful of countries, I have to report that Americans are the butt of many a joke. I'm occasionally unnerved, but I have to admit, we deserve it. Our nation and many of our leaders, as well as celebrities' and commoners' hijinks alike, are of moronic proportions. But we're obviously damned proud of it since we keep supplying sensationalist stories for others to lambast.

I receive an email newsletter from a news service called Bike Europe. Sprinkled in with stories about the latest maneuvers of the bike industry's biggest players, shifts in trade regulations and reports on new products are funny headlines you can't avoid reading. Last week this one flashed by: "Bike Hire Schemes are 'Sinister UN Plot'." Whoa, I gotta dig into this one, I thought.

Mpls launched a bike share program, Nice Ride MN, this past spring. Apparently Denver did as well. Awesome, right -- more people exercising and getting out on bikes? That's what entrepreneur Dan Maes, a Tea Party candidate for CO governor, first thought. That was until he made the connection that the "bike sharing program is the first step to a UN takeover of the city." Apparently, god spoke to him in a dream or something telling him the International Council for Local Environmental Initiatives (ICLEI) is the UN's conduit for alien infiltration and domination.

Okay, so I made up that part about god speaking to Dan. But other than that you can't make this stuff up, people. Read the article. Maes even invoked the Constitution. That is, after all, what the Tea Party buffoons are wont to do. Like the bible, the Constitution is supposed to be a charter laden with absolute truth. Perhaps that will suffice for those who need absolutes to beat over others' heads.

After you read the very short article, sit back and marvel at the fact that the Tea Party even exists in our great land. Chuckle a bit that elitism is alive and well. Then look around you and ponder how many of your co-workers and neighbors subscribe to such fear-induced bullshit. Finally, be proud that you are not one of them; challenge ignorance at every turn.

I've picked on faith a lot in this essay. I'd like to step up and admit there is something I want to have faith in -- the belief that our nation can endure with intelligent leadership by its citizenry -- tempered with patience, acceptance and forbearance -- no matter whether we're Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, Pagans, or abstainers altogether.

We elected our current president on a platform of change. Polls show his approval rate sliding and many are predicting a reactionary ousting of Democrats in our coming elections. Did anyone expect change to be easy or agreeable? Furthermore, did we expect ANY major party candidate to deliver the goods?

I suppose the rats would rather jump and risk drowning than work to right a tilted vessel.

Old Skool Beerz

2010-07-26T23:36:00.003-05:00

I received a retort of sorts regarding my last post. That's always nice.

If you like beer and you like looking at old beer can art, then fritter away 10 or 15 minutes of your company's salary dollars on this gallery of classic quart canned beers. It's alphabetized with an index that allows you to jump to whatever letter you wish.

Much to my dismay, there's no Fleck's.

Thanks to J Marshall for the link.

Speaking of beer, I'm off to the Fatherland of Beer tomorrow to sample the best Bavaria has to offer. In the meantime, keep it real.

Oil Cans

2010-07-22T22:14:00.005-05:00

I got into a rather vigorous debate this afternoon with Johnny Nebraska concerning the volume of an "oil can." He stated the cans hold the same as an old school oil can -- one quart (32 ounces). I retorted that I understand a true oil can held one quart but that a Foster's style oil can is 24 ounces. It turns out neither of us were exactly right.

I happen to have a couple of cans around from recent sessions, so I present Exhibits A & B. Exhibit A (the top photo) shows both varieties of Foster's oil can available in Mpls. Exhibit B (immediately above) shows a close-up. In reality the volume is 750mL. But in a reverse play on the French McDonald's line from Pulp Fiction ("You know why they call it a Royale with Cheese?") the fine folks at Oil Can Breweries (Albany GA & Ft Worth TX) who are licensed by Foster's in the US have seen fit to give us a measure we Americans can understand -- 25.4 fl. oz. (Am I the only one who finds it interesting that's also the conversion of millimeters to an inch?)

I'm not saying a larger "oil can" beer does not exist, but not in our venerable US Foster's. I once bought a Danish Lager in Germany that was in a 1L can. But, Mr Nebraska, that's not a quart. In beer terms, 1L is 1.81 ounces superior to a quart. This leads me to believe the Forty will never catch on in Europe or elsewhere enlightened enough to utilize the Metric system of measurement. They'll just one-up it with the 1.75L and be done.

Now if anyone else had engaged me in this debate I might have accused them of quaffing less volume than they claim. Like the folks who seem to think a 12-pack is a "case." However, my hat is eternally off to my opponent because he puts his tall boys where his mouth is.

While we are on the topic of beer and measure -- what gives? The British pint is 19.21 US ounces. We might have thrown off a lot of the imperial baggage when we formed our own union. But there's one tiny facet we should have held onto.

Socks and Sandals

2010-07-15T22:11:00.002-05:00

The family and I attended the Tour de Fat (New Belgium’s beer and bike festival) in Loring Park last weekend. Costumes were encouraged. I decided to wear a kilt and tie-dye shirt along with some knee high argyle socks and Chaco sandals. The idea was to be outlandish. A female acquaintance saw fit to comment that I’d taken it so far as to pair socks with sandals. I thought nothing of the comment. The day was rather warm and the combination was functional – I could easily remove the socks and air out my feet if needed.

A couple of days ago I saw a headline on Yahoo entitled "Men’s 10 Biggest Fashion Mistakes." Yep, at the top of the list (#1 in fact) was wearing socks with sandals. I don’t do this much anymore but I used to all the time when I lived in TN and sandals were my default year-round attire. What's the big deal? Must function and fashion completely diverge?

A few years ago I learned the hard way at a pre-wedding party that knickers aren’t acceptable menswear. The mood was casual and plenty of others were in shorts and t-shirts. However, when I tried to convince a female acquaintance that knickers were gaining popularity in some circles, she wasn't having it. I guess they look dangerously like capris and even if you’re a cyclist who has decided knickers are perhaps the most functional garment ever adapted for pedaling, you’re still committing fashion murder. (Or maybe it’s gender murder, more aptly, in most people's eyes.) Geez, hang-ups.

Some guys don’t have this hang-up, I've since learned. A few weeks ago I stopped to get some beer on the ride home from work. The guy behind the counter asked: “Where’d you get those capris? I’ve been looking for a pair for riding.” I prefer to call them knickers, but you call yourself out if you like.

Over the Independence Day weekend we took the family north to visit some friends and get in a little time with canoe and paddle. It worked out that we could go to Grand Marais on the 4th to have dinner and walk around. The town was packed. I hadn’t changed out of my Utilikilt for most of the weekend since it’s a damned fine summer garment, not to mention the other two temperate seasons in MN. Again, I thought nothing of it -- what's wrong with wearing clothes that make sense? Most of the visitors of Grand Marais were apparently perplexed. It's been a long time since I’ve had so many stares – many to the point of rudeness (e.g. people sitting in their cars to watch the imminent fireworks, the front seat pair staring at me and muttering back and forth as we walked by). You’d think I was carrying a severed baby corpse with blood smeared on my face. I take it for granted how liberal most city dwellers can seem in contrast.

Last weekend we also popped by the Farmer’s Market to get some grillables. I’m a bag person. I have a pack or bag for almost any purpose including a Duluth Pack Haversack that is the perfect size for an every day tote. It’s a man-bag. Some might call it a murse, aka man-purse. I call it practical -- a faithful companion on many a trip long or short -- for a variety of excursions over the 8 years I've owned it. I carry it everywhere.

We stumbled across a booth hosted by a few folks calling themselves Man Cave. I’d have kept walking except they had the nicest stainless chicken-roasting grill pan I’d ever seen. I looked it over and in the course read some of their marketing materials. They are very much a "man’s man" kind of group (whatever that means ... it always includes football in America which I couldn't care less about). A sticker they displayed read, “A man purse is still a purse.” It turns out that’s their final Man Law.

I guess I can’t join "the Cave" or attend "a MEATing" if I choose to carry my bag. Bummer, since I rather agree with Man Laws #1 & 2: “1)No man shall ever turn down free beer... for any reason. Never. Ever. Seriously, Never. AND 2)Grilling, regardless of weather, is always the first choice for cooking.” Both activities at which I think I've achieved mastery level, despite the impediment of my purse.

I never knew I was a Fashion Felon or less than a "manly" man. I guess I’ve been kidding myself all these years.

A Bike Path Culture

2010-06-09T21:44:00.003-05:00

I'll summarize what I've said many times before -- I ride on bike paths; I enjoy a break from riding on roads. At this time of year, path riding can be a bit unnerving, however, given the glut of users of varying ability and the majority who seem to lack personal awareness skills. But overall, I recognize bike paths for their essential place in the infrastructure of a bicycle-friendly community.

For several weeks I've been thinking about blogging the very topic that tonight I was reminded is as pertinent as ever. In fact, it may be growing in significance as we pursue more "bike friendliness" along the current US trend of dedicating and paving more bike paths.

Regularly I read an argument that goes something like this: Without more bike paths (i.e. separate and PROTECTED surfaces for cyclists) communities cannot capture a large portion of folks who are motivated to ride more yet are intimidated by the thought of riding on streets. Strangely, as a seasoned cyclist, I am more unnerved by riding the bike paths in peak season. In fact, if my goal is to get somewhere on my commute, riding the bike paths can present more obstacles that challenge my safe egress than most busy streets I ride.

That's not the point I wish to make, however. I want to ponder for a moment the notion of the bike path and what it means not only to cyclists but its greater implications to motorists.

I was just over halfway home tonight when I maneuvered onto northbound Xerxes Ave. This is a busy four-lane but I ride about a quarter mile before it transitions into a two-lane semi-residential road again. Like France Ave a quarter-mile west it's a beautiful north-south direct route. However, a major shopping center and two freeway interchanges introduce a steady flow of traffic accustomed to driving fast and desiring to get someplace in a hurry.

I've often thought: What awesome spots to introduce bike signage and/or bike lanes to acclimate motorists. But in my personal assessment Mpls would rather spend money on trails. Perhaps there's even lobbying for expensive dedicated trails versus bike lanes that utilize space that's already paved because motorists don't want to deal with cyclists. That's certainly the popular movement afoot with bike advocates across our land.

Headed north at a pretty good pace I caught a yellow light at Hwy 62 (a freeway on-ramp). I could have run it but there were plenty of cars around so I opted, as I usually do when drivers are watching, to follow the rules of the road. I figure I'm presenting a better image for cyclists at large. I care about that.

I put my foot down at the signal. I heard a horn blast from the car directly behind me. A second or two passed, then a voice from the car window shouted, "This isn't the goddamn bike path. Get on the sidewalk." I paused and unclipped my other foot. I started to turn and actually contemplated laying my bike across the lane and walking to the driver's window to call bullshit in his ignorant face. But I bit my tongue, held my finger and waited for the light to change. Then I rode on not once acknowledging his belligerence.

I've heard comments like this plenty of times in the past, but this one struck me differently given its semantical qualities. Here are a couple of other common lines that get shouted. Let's see if you notice the difference:
"Get out of the fucking road, asshole."
"Ride on the fucking sidewalk, dumbass."
The difference, of course, is the mention of "bike path." The ignorant driver who chose to yell at me wasn't smart enough to know I have a legal right to ride in the road but he was aware that bike paths exist and wasn't afraid to exert his belief that's where cyclists belong -- exclusively was his implication. (Bikes Belong ... where?)

In the cycling mecca of Mpls (#1 in the nation, baby) who couldn't be aware that bike paths abound? But is this a good thing? As a transportation cyclist, I put forth a dissenting voice. It is not a good thing insofar as the growing divide between cyclists' perceived safety and the tangible loss of recognition among motorists that bikes should be allowed a spot on the road worthy of all the respect that is alotted fellow motorists. (Even though that might not be saying much these days.)

Cities and states can spend as much federally subsidized money as they like but they will never succeed in crafting a network of bike paths that get every cyclist where s/he needs to go without setting a tire on a common road. In most cases cyclists must ride on roads for a large portion of their commutes. Why should we begrudge that and avoid roads if the law supports our riding decisions?

A quick answer: Because public opinion is shifting -- thanks to advocacy groups that devote massive amounts of funding for bike paths. That means bikes should go there and get out of the way of motorists.

I've posed a challenge perhaps by linking bike paths with commuting because I don't think that was ever the intent. In a city like Mpls, god help the hapless soul who chooses to commute on many of the paths. I drive occasionally and I have been stuck in rush hour traffic enough to proclaim that I'd kill myself sooner than deal with that everyday reality.

Ironically, the congestion of the bike paths in fair weather sends my mood south as well. In the grand scheme I'm happy people are riding bikes, getting exercise. But no matter the intent, the paths have become the freeways of recreational cyclists much the same way legislation has benefitted the recreational cyclist. (Jim Oberstar = Poster child for middle aged recreational Trek rider. Must you always wear lycra and pedal a road bike in your photo ops?)

People are on bikes. Isn't that good? I suppose, but I surmise it's still a classist feeding frenzy of privilege. Godammit, I want people to wake up and take cycling seriously as a lifestyle -- not as a fucking hobby. If you're driving to a trailhead on the weekend or riding your $6K road bike on your days off you aren't doing the cause of biking any justice. You're not reversing the consumer trend in America and you're not challenging the automobile paradigm, you're simply paying off your legislators to grant you a place to play.

Sorry to spoil your fun, people, but bikes aren't simply toys.

Panorama

2010-06-02T23:02:00.003-05:00

What's on tap?
Southern Tier IPA & 422; Full Sail Session Lager

Conundrum of the Week
The salsa in the fridge tastes like kim chee and the fresh jar in the cupboard tastes like marinara sauce.

Who's driving this space-plane anyway?
Two weeks ago I left for a ten-day stint in Japan. I get back and we have two failed attempts at plugging the Gulf oil leak and another failing one in the works. What the fuck, people?

Oh sure, blame British Petroleum BUT let's pick another reason to hold Obama's feet over the coals; let's crucify the high levels of government and draw partisan lines over unilateral (dare I posit non-governmental?) issues. I grow tired of the victim scenario ... along the lines of: "Oh, I can't believe these shining beacons of corporate greed could have let this happen. I mean, there are RULES and REGULATIONS and such, right? It must be THE fault of whomever is in power."

Think about your own job. How much shit do you have to deal with that was created by people above you, below you -- people you may not even like? But they stirred the pot, made downright crappy decisions and now you're left with the white glove and the butterfly net, expected to make everything right.

Culpability. The stark reality of this -- the blood is on us all. Each and every one of us are holding smoking guns. After all, we are the nation that commands cheap energy at any and all costs. The kicker? Look around you -- do you see any tangible evidence that this latest oil disaster has changed anyone's habits? Have you overheard any talk at the office coffee machine (err, sorry ... on Facebook) about this other facet of oil-mania? Forget community detachment, obesity rates, psychological malaise, global warming -- this is an apocalyptic reminder of the true costs along the full cycle of oil consumption. Yet, beyond pointing fingers at blame it seems few care. What a privilege to assert. How very American.

What did you really log on to write about?
Jetlag. When you fly back from a place that is 14 hours ahead of your home time zone you learn a lot about yourself. You behave in ways that are most shocking. You think, "I really ought to be able to just convince myself I'm not feeling psychopathic in this moment." Fortunately, it soon passes.

There are the upsides, too: Lucid dreams that are so vivid and joyful within 30 seconds of closing one's eyes: Appreciation for the old and familiar: Clarity that can only be gained by experiencing another reality for an extended period of time. I revel in this. It is perhaps the greatest personal benefit of my current job.

Another benefit is that I am up uncharacteristically early. This morning I cleaned several months' worth of blackened burner residue from all six stations of our antique range's cooktop. I scrubbed and scrubbed with citrus cleaner then resorted to oven spray. I washed all the laundry from my trip. I changed light bulbs and swept a few lingering piles of dust. I cleaned out all the old contents of the fridge (but missed one container of salsa).

So what?
This evening I watched the kids. I was determined -- after being a sleepy, jetlagged crank yesterday at this time -- to power through the urge to nap and do something fun. I suggested a walk. Sylvia countered a bike ride. Despite the lethargia I hitched the Burley trailer and Sylvia grabbed her bike.

We pedaled away from the house -- Sylvia on her bike and me towing the trailer with Willa aboard. The pace was remarkably slow. Here and there an occasional trackstand was necessary. I steered us toward the bike path. I wanted Sylvia to learn some new skills about riding around other people. She powered up several hills and pulled her bike over the railroad tracks. She also pedaled a muddy, graveled detour without being phased. Eventually, I had to load her and the bike onto the trailer. It is worth noting she rode 2.2 miles on her own.

Where are you going with this?
That short trip on the bike trail was not exactly care-free. I was tensely looking over my shoulder and reminding Sylvia to keep to the right. The path warriors are never at bay and sure enough a half dozen or so buzzed by us panting, knock-kneed and piston-pedaling along. Some said nothing, others seemed to whisper and others gasped abruptly 'On your left." I'm a critic for certain, but not until tonight do I think I fully realized why the lycra-clad give cyclists a bad name in most circles. Much to their (and our) demise, they transform the bike trails, streets and byways into ribbons of narcissitic pursuit, forging the carbon-copy type of speed-defined dominance. Still, we crawled on greeting the smiles of some who slowed enough to notice the utter joy that is a child learning to ride a bike.

I don't know exactly why I was compelled to note the mileage when Sylvia gave in, but I did. As the minutes ticked onward, it occurred to me she had surpassed a national milestone. You know that one about the majority of Americans' automobile trips being two miles or less?

"Holy shit," I thought, "My five-year-old daughter has just ridden her 12-inch kids' bike farther than most adults think possible."

Both kids and the bike loaded, my 100 lb+ burden-in-tow seemed like a balloon full of helium. We made our detour to the beer store. On the way back we swung by the seedy beach on the east side of Cedar Lake.

The kids played in the water as I pointed out the gregarious activity of Red-Wing Blackbirds flittering all about.

We rolled on to the abandoned rail dock that is now a gravel road west of Linden Yard. It's one of my favorite detours on the morning commute and a frequent stop on the way home. From there a few short, steep paths climb up to Kenwood. (Secretly, I always hope this egress for vagrants keeps the rich folks on their toes.)

I sipped a beer while we explored the paths. Sylvia and Willa practiced pied a canarde as well as a variation of glissading on the way back down. Willa settled on the most instinctual method of descent -- the ass slide. I was delighted as they both asked to go up one more time and test their new skills. Right there, in real-time, I could see their confidence growing.

Perhaps what we need is more opportunities for people to learn and more openness to these opportunities. Even amidst settled routine there is spontaneity awaiting the receptive mind.

Drop your baggage and follow your kid for 5 minutes. S/he will show you something you'd forgotten long ago.

Bike Bells Demystified (For the Non-Cyclist)

2010-05-17T23:25:00.003-05:00

Hi
I'd like to say that
but you see
I am 30ft away
and closing this gap
quickly.

Ding, ding.

A quick sharp ring
a pure brass tone
penetrates the drone
friendly conversation
dogs panting
shoes slapping
cell phone gabbing
or so, that's the plan.

Ding, ding.

"Good [insert time of day]
On your left."
I'd like to say
Hi
but you see
I am 30ft away
and closing this gap
quickly.

How shocking
The jumps and starts
The mutterings of profanity
The occasional outright insults
The deafness
dumbness
blindness
unawareness
That's why I have the bell
but you ain't hearing it.

If you'd rather
really
I don't need to ring it.

It's not meant to frighten
but if it offends
the bell is easily replaced.

Ding, ding
becomes a nudge or a push
or
a GETtheFUCKouttaMYway!
It doesn't really matter though
because what I'd
truly like to say is

Hi
Excuse me
Thank you
Have a good day.

Absolutes

2010-05-01T00:44:00.000-05:00

Everything I ever thought was a constant I've desolved.

God.
Family.
Marriage.
Friendship.

I have found all transient, if non-existent.

I do not stand before anyone seeking solace.

I do not seek evidence to prove or disprove.

What is, is.

Bumper Stickers

2010-04-29T20:46:00.002-05:00

I like bumper stickers. I've been known to fly a few over the years. My zeal for presenting a message to the world at large from the surface of my car has waned in the past few years, considering I sold my car and get around mostly by bike.

However, I must admit the impact of bumper stickers is not lost on me. In fact, the more I cycle the more I realize the mindless beings trapped behind the wheel are fodder for AHA! moments when a lucid message can make some real impact for better or worse. In my observation, most people are not paying much attention to their driving, so why not suggest some social change amidst their profound dis-engagement?

There are categories of stickers for me. I admit I am a bit polarized. I believe there are worthwhile and useless bumper stickers. I'm not partial to the conservative or christian ones in part because they tend to show little creativity or intellectual depth. Then there are the obvious contradictions -- some of my least favorite are pro-environmental stickers plastered on cars. And I must admit pro-bicyclist stickers affixed to cars ('My Other Car is a Bike!' or 'I SHARE the road') that pass me too close, cut me off or treat me like a mere bug on the street get on my nerves. We're all human though and prone to forget what's hanging out of our garments, let alone stuck to our bumpers.

But I am not here to split those already frazzled hairs or dissect previously mutilated science projects. I wish to address a new sticker I saw this morning while driving the kids to the baby sitter. (Yes, driving ... it's a long story.)

Crossing a quiet neighborhood street in S Mpls, there was a smallish car parked with a brightly contrasting sticker stuck top and center of the trunk hatch. I particularly take notice when an automobile owner has chosen to adhere a sticker to the paint of their car, not just the plastic or metal bumper. This one was stuck smack on the paint of a newish car, high and proud. It read: Cats NOT Kids. The caps are not added for emphasis, that's how it read.

I am not the world's poster-child for Buddhism, but I am a Buddhist. I don't hate animals, but rather recognize everything from cows to cockroaches as sentient beings. I also happen to believe pet culture in our country is over the top. We've divided our country over socialized medicine while millions of Americans spend billions on their dogs and cats for everything from organic food to shrink sessions. We smash and poison insects, neglect destitute people on the street (they ought to know better, right?) but we extol the merits and rights of our domesticated pets. How bizarre.

As a Buddhist I believe in reincarnation. If you don't understand reincarnation, it is based on karma (merit of deeds) and presents a certain hierarchical order to why you end up as the being you are today. To be reborn a human is an extra special outcome -- a treat of merit. You've done a lot of good things in the past. Not only do you have sentience, you have reason, choice and the ability to further advance your presence (and help others) in this go-around. You have a choice to overcome instinct with reason and intellect.

Helping others means all other sentient beings -- animals, humans. That's cool. I don't kill bugs and I teach my children the same. Yes, we eat meat sometimes; I realize that is not ideal. I don't agree with war. Aspects of socialism appeal to me because they present a more level access to basic services that preserve a healthier state of human existence.

I was married previously. My partner and I both agreed having children was out of the question. That's lucky since we split up and I happen to think that kids caught in divorce have a really tough time. I endured it myself. At the time of my previous marriage though, I was even more convinced not to procreate from a philosophical viewpoint of zero population growth.

However, my viewpoint softened somewhat as I found myself partnered with someone who was confident and resilient beyond the call of social convention. I listened to friends who told me what a good father I would be. I pondered the possibility of raising offspring who are taught more than the empty urge to breed others to join the status quo (whatever the parent/society defines that to be).

What if the ultimate act of parenting is to raise kids who will question and cry bullshit at the norm?

That is my goal as a parent. I can imagine, but not actualize, the pain I'll feel the first time one of our daughters tells me, "Fuck you, dad." But I will revel in the realization that I have helped guide a free-thinking being who can discern shit from shinola.

To espouse a doctrine (Cats NOT Kids) of breeding animals over humans, however, is ludicrous to me. Sure, it echoes a statement against human overpopulation but it reflects an inability to relate to the dynamic human element that is necessary to make our world a better place. I'm not saying cats and dogs don't matter. We host a cat now. I have partnered many cats and dogs (not to mention hamsters, mice and rats) over the years and I've been seriously attached to them. They were good souls. I carry their presences with me now; I remember them fondly. But the bumper sticker "Cats NOT Kids" irks me.

I took some time off from work recently. As I am wont to do, I spent a lot of that time in the garage where my shop is. One afternoon I heard through the window a surreal hissing sound below the open window. I popped outside to discover our cat in a face off with a neighborhood stray. This critter was lean and mangy. I positioned myself between them, charged at him shouted, "Get out of here!" He not only didn't budge he stared up at me with a piercing gaze that said, "I'll just as happily fuck your shit up, too." I've stared down plenty of wild animals from skunks to bears and boars. But I have never felt as chilled as I did when challenging this cat. It took a foot and a grill cover, twice, to get him out of our yard.

Cats (nor dogs) are not going to change our world, our society, our government for the better. Not in the sense that they can begin delivering speeches, running for office or affecting policy. Perhaps I'm missing the point -- the person who bought the bumper sticker thinks otherwise and believes cats can bridge this gap of communication and reason (i.e. they can talk to certain people). In that case I should stop typing now.

If you believe you relate better in cat or dog language, you're probably not reading my blog anyhow.

Pet people, love your pets. But don't neglect, dismiss or hate your human co-inhabitants.

Spylab

2010-04-23T01:12:00.001-05:00

The old stuff.

Corners

2010-04-17T02:00:00.004-05:00

I’m going to jinx us all when I open up this topic, but I just have to brag about how incredibly awesome our run of early spring weather has been. A month ago when I boarded a plane bound for Taiwan it was sunny and topping out at a sweat-breaking 60 degrees. I cursed the fact I had to leave Mpls because I was certain I’d return to some cold snap or a late snow. Every year we yearn for the warmth as winter winds down, but you do well not to get too comfortable during late winter/early spring in MN. Things are known to change quickly.

When I returned from Taiwan a week and a half later it was warm, sunny and dry. This made me happy but I couldn’t let myself get too smug. It was only late March after all. Now as we slide toward the tail end of April it’s looking more and more like we are truly fortunate to bask in the glory of the earliest spring on record during my eight year sojourn here.

Sylvia sports a piece of fresh tulip jewelry.

The latest snow that I recall fell during the final week of April about 5 years ago. Those few slushy inches quickly melted and we were back on course for May flowers. I don’t want to knock them -- spring snow storms are fun in their own special way. But my main point here is this – no matter how you slice it, spring in MN is one of the most incredible seasonal experiences anywhere on Earth. All of our seasons are defined with well-marked transitions. I love that as do most of the others I know who choose to call this place home.

Last Saturday night Willa looked up into the western sky and spied the sliver of a moon. She pointed it out to me stating, “Daddy, there’s the moon … the moon.” She followed up by dispelling a popular myth: “There’s no cheese in it.”

Just in case you were wondering.

Things to be Happy About (Unless You're a Republican)

2010-04-17T01:23:00.003-05:00

US Transportation Secretary, Ray LaHood, stating bicycling and walking should be given the same consideration as motorized transport in state and local transit projects. Yay.

Backbone. I wish more politicians, or appointed officials had one.

Bicycling voted Mpls the #1 city for cycling. Double yay.

Go ride yer bike.

Dumber Than We Look

2010-03-25T14:21:00.002-05:00

It's old news now -- over a week old in fact -- the Harris poll that drew such shocking results as 24% of Republicans believe Obama is the antichrist. Plus, he's a Muslim, non-citizen socialist who's doing many of the things Hitler did ... blah, etc, blah. You can't Google a search for the poll without getting countless blog posts. It seems everyone has said something about this poll, and for good reason I suppose. In case you haven't kept up here is a nice summary I found along with some interesting analysis.

I couldn't leave it alone so I dug deeper and found the complete results of the poll on the Harris website. The poll is related to John Avlon's book Wingnuts: How the Lunatic Fringe is Hijacking America. I plan to check out this book because it: A) Sounds right up my alley and B) I'm very intrigued by this quote from the author (in response to the Harris poll stats):

"These new numbers are shocking but not surprising – they detail the extent to which Wingnuts are hijacking our politics. This poll should be a wake-up call to all Americans about the real costs of using fear and hate to pump up hyper-partisanship. We are playing with dynamite by demonizing our president and dividing our country in the process. Americans need to remember the perspective that Wingnuts always forget – patriotism is more important than partisanship."

I was not going to write about this since it has been drawn out by so many others. However, this morning I read a couple of stories about the arrest of the Hutaree wackos next door in MI, OH and IN. As my very patient wife-partner and better half can attest, I get worked up by such stupidity. Sometimes really worked up. I am an idealist at heart. But pragmatically speaking, I believe my greatest character flaw is the tenacious, yet erroneous, belief I hold that all people can be civil, intelligent and respectful. We can live courageously and take responsibility for our actions. We're smart and resourceful and confident in all the best, slightly above average and heavily gilted Lake Wobegon sorts of ways.

Wrong.

In America we might look pretty and have nice houses, big cars and cool clothes. We can eat like royalty to excess. We can firm our wrinkles, bleach our teeth, plump our pleasureable parts and suck out our cellulite. We afford exorbitant gym fees because we can't be bothered to sweat in the name of practicality or physical labor. We pay immigrants substandard wages to perform those tasks for us.

We might look like -- hell, we may actually believe -- we have it all. And we do; as long as "it" means "shit for brains." We are a pathetically stupid nation. This is an undeniable fact in spite of No Child Left Behind, higher rates of literacy/graduation and greater numbers of young people attending college. Some folks are getting certificates and degrees and whatnot, but aren't learning a goddamned thing about how to be intelligent and productive members of society.

Wingnuts and Tea Party-ers are saying they're fed up. Well, I'm saying, "Fuck you, Wingnuts and Tea Party-ers. I'm tired of your bullshit and the bad rap you and the rest of the putrid-brained people abusing their American citizenship are giving us the world over. Push off."

In fact, sensible friends among us, you'd do well to tell these people to fuck off too. Now, you may be wondering how can someone who espouses tolerance be telling others to fuck off? The distinction is simple -- I am not asking anyone to adopt any belief or accept any religion; I am simply saying that anyone who tries to get folks to do such should be stopped. Free speech does not encompass maiming or killing, or condoning such acts. If you don't get that you have serious road blocks to your development.

It's that simple.

I posit this: America would be a better place if we had far fewer people who believed they were ordained by god and carried some divine rite. You godly people are ignorant, weak and feeble because you replace intelligence with blind faith and rely on the hope of divine retribution. Fuck off.

Our country was built on humility but we outggrew our breeches. One may harken to the olden days of god-fearing citizens like it was some sort of golden, pure age. It was, but not in a naive way. Conservatives want to say we've lost our morals. Liberals want to say we are stretching our destiny.

Early Americans feared god because they were ironically humble; taking on huge rivers, unchecked storms and unscaled cliffs did that I suppose. As soon as dams were in place and bridges built exltation was in order. Who needs fear the natural world since mankind can tame it all?

The not-so-good part was the eradication of all indigenous people who were non-christian and would not convert. That phenomenon seems to have changed little these days. Now everyone with a bible study passport, an iPod and a plane ticket thinks they're a theologian. You're chaff, I assure you, in that whole wheat equation. Dumbasses, every one. You are doomed to repeat history and it will bite thee in thine ass.

Here's a taste of my creed -- to hell with religious zealotry and fundamentalism. Quit living life like you're right and others must therefore be wrong. Polarity of thought is useless. Morals exist without a god to carve mythical tablets or men to forge sacred scriptures. You can keep making them up but they will still be conditionally false and wrong.

Come on. Seriously. If you have enough brain power to craft dogma and defend empty positions based on faith can't you dream up a few positions based on square logic and reason? So what if I and we are all heretical -- can't you overcome reason and science that are based on "usurping god's law?" What the fuck ...

Friends, Romans, countryfolk ... give up your stupidity in the name of ... . ?

Lance Just Gained Some Cred

2010-03-18T19:00:00.002-05:00

While I have never been a huge Lance Armstrong fan, the guy has his moments that make me think 'Hell yeah.' I just caught this story on the electronic wind where Lance lambasts an ESPN radio host for encouraging motorists to run down bikers.

C'mon ... really, Tony Kornholer of ESPN? I suppose I worry about average folks in their automobiles harboring these sentiments, because I confront them in realtime when I commute by bike. But do we truly need (rather, should we condone) higher profile people with command of broadcast media going off on these insensitive and ignorant rants? Hate mongering should not be a part of anyone's job description. No one should be allowed to broadcast death threats.

This ESPN radio 'professional' was quoted to say: "The last time I looked, the roads were made for automobiles," he said. "We're going to be dominated as if this was Beijing by hundreds of thousands of bicyclists ..."

Thanks, Tony Kornheiser, for adding yet another stick, fanning the flames of a ridiculous throwback to red scare paranoia. Why must you and so many other ignorant Americans like you defend driving and consuming fossil fuel consumption with such a zealous fervor, as if yours is the last true religion?

Honestly, find a way to re-examine your reality. (Hopefully your employer will nudge you by releasing you from your obligations with ESPN.) In the meantime, please keep your ignorant comments to yourself and others of weak-minded ilk.

Network News

2010-03-05T12:58:00.002-06:00

For some oddball reason I watched about 35 minutes of major network news last night. I was tired and just wanted to sit on the couch. I intended to read over some things, but I decided to turn on the TV. What were the stories that are really shaking things up? Hell, I don't remember. Among the things that were emphasized the most: a strong possibility that MN will adopt a sales tax on clothing, a couple who went into labor during their wedding reception (it was god's wedding gift, since we wanted to be right in his eyes before the birth of our kid ... uh, did you miss that premarital prohibition part?) and the fact that Minneapolis isn't lifting the single side parking ban despite consistent warm temperatures and ice melting away from the curbs.

Path to Enlightenment

2010-03-03T22:16:00.003-06:00

I moved to MN in 2002 and came to Mpls the following year. April, my wife-partner and best friend, was the first person I met at random in this new city. I was seated in a tea shop. She pulled up on her bike. I watched her from the moment she glided in front of the window, locked up, came in and ordered. She spoke first. I guess it was just meant to be.

I've been a cyclist for many years -- junior road racer, part-time commuter back in Tennessee and someone who skirted the cycling scene in previous lives. I was an ardent cyclist but not someone who embraced the bike for a true transportation alternative. I was reminded of this tonight as a friend and I shared a beer and the topic of riding on busy city streets came up. I thought back to my own impressions from not so long ago.

The first date April and I went on was aboard our bikes. I had just got my only bike -- an old Cannondale Delta V -- running again and rode to her apartment on Lyndale Avenue. We pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road. I was new to the city, as well as new to city riding. Even though Mpls is, to me now, hardly what I'd call "city riding" back then it was weird and intimidating. April, who had several years of Twin Cities commuting experience under her belt, took the lane undaunted. I remember distinctly thinking she should ride more toward the shoulder. Some guys in a car passed and shouted cat calls at her. She simply replied, "Come on, is that all you've got?" and rode past. I was exhilirated by the whole experience and enamored with her.

But tonight, as Seth and I talked about people being scared to ride in the city I realized how that is a part of my not-so-distant past and how hardened I have become to routinely pedal in lanes while diesel engines idle and rev behind me, passenger cars wizz by at greater-than-safe speeds, horns honk and drivers occasionally shout their judgments against my presence on the road. That memory from seven years ago is bright but is distanced by experience and my current reality.

So what should I do with this memory?

I do what I do now as a matter of course. At one time we owned two cars. I sold mine a few years ago reasoning it was a superfluous expense and selling it would make me commit to riding my bike all the time. Perhaps that was not necessary because I am committed to riding anyway. As a bonus, I love riding; I love being outside, engaging the reality of weather. I suppose that helps.

I don't preach to others about riding. We all have to make our own choices. I won't tell you to fuck off for driving if you don't tell me to get the hell out of the road. Live and let die, right?

I do feel where I ride and how I ride set an example to sympathizers and haters alike. I intentionally rode down a multilane, major road today (France Ave) with the thought "Drivers need to see cyclists. They need to know we are here." I don't need Critical Mass or a posse of fellow wheelpersons. Whenever I do this I ride according to all rules, as if I were also driving an auto. It's a fun game because the 'opponent' is never of singular motivation and friends are always among them.

The road is the western boundary to a series of shopping meccas. It also happens to be the most direct route to my job and a road that gets first priority for plowing, so I often take it when there's snow. During a snowstorm drivers give me loads of berth. I got mixed results today because it's sunny and the ice is receding and people act like our whims can rule the world again since Mother Nature's gone on a bender and cut the apron strings.

I feel especially violated when an environmentally sensible car with a bike rack attached buzzes past me. Who are these drivers? I want to know. How can someone who obviously also rides a bike pass me in their car and score a total naught for self-awareness and respect? I presume, far too often, that any two people who co-inhabit the Earth, let alone a few million roof rack owners, can feel the same.

And I am reminded of one of my first impressions of the person I was to later discover I had more in common with than anyone. In that moment she was out of her mind, or so I thought.

That was summer, and by fall we were connected. April announced she was buying a new bike. Her friend who worked in a shop had her talked into a fixed gear that was a conversion of an old road bike. I knew road bikes but WTF did "fixed gear" mean? I did some web research. On Old Skool Track I read about the Zen of fixed riding, as well as plenty of tales of what can happen when things happen. I asked April if she knew what she was getting into -- she could die riding this new bike. But before long I was convinced I should try it for myself.

That memory is so recent that I can still remember the inflections, the verbage, the smell of the room. Yet, here I am living something wonderfully antithetical to what I defended a mere 7 years ago. Not with fixed gear riding, but with bikes in general. Bikes are my life at the moment, in such a way that even if my career was no longer bikes, my life would still be bikes.

In one way or another, we all astonish ourselves because we need to be astonished. Latching onto beliefs and ideas is a personal choice that is astonishing. Letting beliefs and ideas guide one's life is comforting. After all, who doesn't want comfort? However, never questioning or challenging the adaptation of beliefs and ideas is the stagnation of human intellect.

I do what I do now -- and think how I do now -- as a matter of course.

Solar Climb

2010-02-28T11:31:00.003-06:00

Here in the Mpls area we have been treated to a couple of weeks of very mild, pleasant and sunny weather. It is welcomed wholeheartedly, as everyone appears to be ready for winter to pack it up and move on. We're finally emerging from beneath icy shells that encased most of our world since Xmas.

I believe living far north helps one tune into changes that might otherwise go unnoticed. Perhaps it's also a product of getting older -- I've had more time to chart the cycles of the moon and the seasonal shift indicators. However, our latitudinal distance from the equator means the angle of the sun shifts dramatically as we head into spring. The extra light seems to grow by minutes per day. The power of el Sol manifests before your very eyes as the ice slides away into pools of water. The patches of brown earth begin to speckle an otherwise uniform white landscape. The buzz of life and growth trembles gently in the thawing ground. Hallelujah.

The bike commuting lately has been good. I like riding in the 20-30F temperature range. The necessary layers are minimal and it's easy to stay warm. A lot of the pavement has been cooked dry by the sun. Still, we are in an interesting time of the year with drastic freeze/thaw cycles. The bike paths often collect the melt water in pools and puddles. These freeze overnight creating sections of trail that make one think ice skates are perhaps a superior commuter vehicle. I've been fortunate to stay upright most of the time.

Winter really got to me this year. I can honestly admit I began pondering the question of whether or not I envision living out my days in MN, or will I eventually be drawn to consider some place south again? Of course, it could be the length of my bike commute wearing on me during the core winter months. The snow, the cold -- I don't think I mind those as much as the requirement to add a 32-mile roundtrip bike ride to the mix. Unbridled enthusiasm certainly carried me through my first few seasons of winter riding.

There have been bright spots. I had two bikes breakdown within 24 hours. That might sound like a negative thing, but it really wasn't all that bad. It provided the opportunity for me to walk a couple of miles during a stunning winter sunset as well as the gorgeous morning that followed. What a perfect way to slow down and break the normal routine of getting on my bike to arrive somewhere by a specified time.

Things came together in terms of parts I'd been collecting and some I scored from friends. I just recently assembled the Pugsley I'd been planning. Riding that bike has contributed to a dramatic shift in my attitude toward winter. It has also nudged me to get out for a couple of wander sessions aboard the bike -- no place to be and no time constraints -- just pedaling down every little snow path, attempting to bridge larger and larger snowbanks, as well as crossing the lakes on the groomed width of the ski trails. The snow is so packed the Pug barely leaves a track. It rolls right over the snow and rutted ice without the jostling skids of a skinny tire. It's just plain fun to ride. The footpaths become singletrack trails. Unlike my commutes when I am seeking the clear pavement, with the Pug I'm steering into the snow and ice.

We've been getting out with the kids whenever possible. One of my goals is to help them see, from a very early age, the joy of immersing yourself in the seasons no matter the weather. The fact that we can create adventures right from our door makes it even better.

However, one highlight of February was a chance April and I had to go for a ride together without the kids. We took off for the start of Stupor Bowl, not intending to race but instead just cruise around with some friends. That didn't work out but we rode around and ended up running into countless bike folk. The City of Lakes Loppet was also taking place. We were headed toward home, but chanced one last stop on the ice beside the course.

On the way out we discovered a striking pyramid of ice lamps. This glowing beacon seemed to give off warmth as the darkness approached.

We might have long winters here in MN, but there is no shortage of ways smart and creative types can get out and enjoy the freeze. Still, for now I'm soaking in the sun anxiously awaiting spring.

Minutiae

2010-02-13T01:28:00.003-06:00

(In the minor sense) I don't care
Do you care? (In the major sense)
This (all caps) truly means nothing
beyond what some stuffed scarecrow says it means

When I live outside the crows call me
I am a friend to the crow
Others have told me
It is creepy that the crow is
one of my favorite birds.
Creepy like death?
Creepy why?

I love the crows.
As opportunists they utilize everything we cringe.
Detritus, effluent.
As opportunists, they prey on everything
Including opportunists with their guard let down.

Stupid opportunists
If you're going to be a social predator
A capitalist opportunist
You best be prepared to have your carcass --
dead or half alive --
fed upon at will.

Winterlude

2010-02-02T19:05:00.002-06:00

Back to the good stuff. Winter that is. I returned from the UK last Saturday afternoon. The sky over Mpls was covered in a perfect flat blanket of low clouds. The plane plunged into the mist and emerged below. What opened to my view was the familiar white frozen landscape I'd left 9 days earlier. Welcome home.

Traveling abroad is always fun. I often get to visit bike shops and observe riding styles, gear and the overall bike culture in these destinations. It never ceases to get me even more fired up about bikes. I come home thinking of the modifications I've been meaning to try, projects I've temporarily postponed or the next new frame/bike I want to put together. I was eager to get back on the bike for the ride to work.

On Monday we had a steady shower of snow all day and temperatures hovered in the teens. I quit keeping a bike log some time ago, but if I had one I would have recorded something like: "Perfect snowy ride. Enough precip to make things fun but not so much that the going was miserable. Warm most of the way. No rude drivers. Plenty of beautiful, quiet solitude."

The next morning Sylvia came out to help with clearing the snow. It was light and powdery with distinct flakes that glistened in the bright sun. In short, it was a serendipitous expression of winter's beauty.

You may say I'm a dreamer, but I swear I can feel spring starting to blow in the air. We are on the downhill side, looking into the light. I'm gonna hold my chin up and keep pedaling.

Winter Reprieve, Sort Of

2010-01-27T04:55:00.004-06:00

I'm currently in the UK for a bike show. They've had a quite a run of weather with snow storms prior to our arrival and cold residual temperatures in the aftermath. All the snow mas melted but it was below freezing last night. It's cold and windy today.

Still, the grass is green. The color is a nice break for the eyes when you're accustomed to staring at a white landscape day in and day out. In addition the air is warm and holds enough moisture that it's possible to smell things like the soil -- the smell of the earth that is frozen away for several months in MN.

I love visiting here. It's a nice winter break. The people are cool and the food is pretty good and the beer is not bad at all. I hope to get some photos up later. Until then, be well!

I'm not on Facebook BUT you may have seen me on Facebook

2010-01-20T22:41:00.003-06:00

Facebook is for suckers, but SKYPE rocks! Long live Skype!

Yeah, Im an international sales dude but I just signed onto Skype. Wah. I'm a stupid, cultural-centric American like the rest of you, so go easy on the guff.

However, I can't say how psyched I am to give my $2/minute cell service a rest while I travel abroad. Just this afternoon I had chats with clients in Spain and Italy as well as Johnny Nebraska across town -- and it was all at no charge to me.

Now, tomorrow or the next day I may find out the perps behind Skype are bludgeoning seals wih their bare hands or selling third world children on the Black Market, but for now I'm pretty stoked.

Live well, friends. Choose your technology appropriately. And remember to think twice before you climb behind the wheel of your car.

Ex-Mess, A Recap

2009-12-30T09:17:00.003-06:00

Here we are well past the tail end of another December 25th, having ringed in the New Year. Our house, like the homes of many others with children, went through a transition. It became a place resembling a littered city after a ticker-tape parade and slowly returned to a subjective state we call normalcy.

This year we found ourselves on the receiving end of a couple of gifts that were real hell-raisers. Now, if Mom and Dad are crying WTF, something must be up. I won't call any gifts out by name or explicit description, but I want to air a couple of grievances.

One: Those people who write those age recommendations for kids' toys product packaging know a lot about laws/liability and a surprising amount about what's appropriate for a child of a given age. Now, you may think our kids are SOOO smart (and they are, mind you -- just like everyone else's prides and joys) but he or she may have a sibling who is too young to know better. Please keep that in mind, people, when you're choosing the cutest science-inspired erupting volcano-like contraption that is certain to do one thing alone -- wreck our dining room and cause Mom and Dad to spout age-inappropriate phrases after stepping upon one of hundreds of misplaced plastic remnants that have landed on the floor.

Two: Packaging. I might already be on the road to dressing my kids in clothes sans zippers and cutting off electricity to our house, but, by Zeus, I am just goddammed tired of excess plastic packaging. This doesn't go for toys exclusively, but toys seem to be a prime offender. The toy itself is made of plastic. It's doubly encased in a plastic clamshell and plastic twist-tied to the plastic-reinforced header card. Some of these things take me 10 minutes to extract intact with a tool or two. Then I get to spend another 10 minutes bagging and disposing of this plastic, all the while carrying a heavy heart in addition to the bag of useless plastic shit going to the can.

All kind-hearted givers of gifts to young people can help. Head it off at the pass. Don't buy or gift useless, meaningless crap. Cute is not an acceptable enough excuse for Mini Coopers or Julia Roberts, let alone dumb bobbles made in somewhere else.

Am I looking forward to the myriad arguments that will erupt when I tell my daughters they can't have something because it is useless and wasteful? No. Am I looking forward to the greater good this "hardline" stance can affect? Yes.

Not to worry. I'll be sure we have plenty of fun along the way. In the meantime, I'll be carving some whalebone buttons in the shop.

Beer Stop

2009-12-28T17:13:00.003-06:00

I rarely ever enter a beer store and march right out with a quick purchase. Some people buy the same brand of something all the time. I might always buy Colgate (if I'm too cheap for Tom's of Maine) toothpaste, for instance, but I never buy the same beer again and again.

Now, there are the old stand-bys and the brands that I frequent. But I'd guess I spend on average 5 to 15 minutes pacing back and forth in front of the glass cooler doors taking in all the possibilities. Occasionally, something will stand out due to one of a number of reasons -- type of beer, label, place of origin, quantity, price or a combination of quantity/price.

The latter attributes were stacked in my favor when I spied this dark, dappled bottle through the glass a few weeks back. With a brand name like Baltika it sounded distant and intriguing. It had an ABV that would be high on the pH scale and 51oz of this liquid set me back less than four bucks.

That bottle thrice filled my pint glass. Good thing, since the first glass was sufficient to deaden my taste buds and bring them around to my foreign experience. After that the second was startlingly palatable. The third made me believe it would matter not if I were stranded above deck on a freighter hauling timber stuck smack dab in the middle of the actual Baltic during a winter storm.

O, Baltika ... I hope to visit your shores one day, but I think I'll drink your salty brine before I quaff your namesake malt liquor ever again.

Noteworthy Quotation: Quote-Worthy Notation

2009-12-14T12:26:00.002-06:00

"Cars are all right on occassion, but they are not moments of grace, as bicycles are."

From The Forsyte Saga, John Galsworthy

I stumbled upon this quote while checking out the website of a bike touring outfitter in Vietnam. I was at work at the time and the reason I was on this website was completely work-related. However, the quote resonated with me so completely that I sat daydreaming, meditating on it for a good long while (consequently ignoring my tasks at hand). I could get neither the quote nor the images of quiet, rhythmic motion that accompanied it out of my head.

Now, at least a week later I'm still captivated. The words are so true, to me anyway. Beginning our winter with subzero nights and a few inches of snow causes me to dig deep for cycling inspiration. The thought of four seasons of graceful movement lightens and warms me.

May you all be light and warm, my two-wheeled friends.

Now Back to Some Cycling-Related Banter ...

2009-12-03T21:46:00.004-06:00

We had a dusting of snow this morning that managed to cling to the streets deceptively well in our lower 20 degree temps. I accomplished my first slow speed wipe out of the winter season while cornering onto Xerxes Ave. As my Big Dummy was sliding away from me into the traffic lane I executed a deft leg hook and reeled it back into the shoulder next to my body. I’m sure the motorist who slowed to pass my sprawled out body and bike was laughing and/or thinking how foolish it is to ride a bike in winter. Note to self: Remember to be mindful of corners for the next few months.

I recently cleaned out my panniers. This can be a truly revelatory experience 2-3 times per year. I discovered I had been hauling around a couple dozen plastic bags of all shapes and sizes that had settled out of sight to the bottom of the packs. I never know when I’ll need one to waterproof something or cover a saddle, but I think I can get by with a half dozen at the most. It’s amazing how those shopping bags seem to breed. They multiply no matter where they congregate.

I added my emergency clothing bag – a couple of dry outer layers to don should I have a breakdown in winter. I once had to change a flat when it was 18 degrees and windy. Hopping around to generate body heat in sweat-soaked riding clothes taught me to carry some insulation along at all times. Over dressing in winter sucks while riding but the game changes when you have to make a stop.

I’ve been selling some bike bits on Ebay of late. I made a run to drop off a few parcels a couple of days ago. It didn't matter that these packages consisted of a bike frame and a wheelset. Transporting them was no problem. I marvel at the ease of loading stuff on the Big Dummy. I wonder how I’d live without this bike, yet I believe I’m far from maximizing its potential. Next year I plan to craft a couple of custom decks – one with dual kid perches and another with bungies to haul a lock and a trunk bag.

Wideloaders snapped in place and the load is ready to go. I had a little extra time so I was able to explore some dead end streets and happen upon a couple of new connector trails that saved me the hassle of riding down Excelsior Blvd. Despite the sudden snap of cold we had back in early October, things evened out and now we're experiencing a slow, steady drop into winter temps. Still, the ponds and lakes have begun to collect that micro-thin crust of ice around the edges signaling the inevitable freeze to come.

>I pulled up in front of the UPS Store and easily off loaded the goods. Riding a long bike attracts attention on its own. Every time I haul a conspicuously large load, however, I marvel at the stares and double-takes. I usually pay them no mind. If nothing else, I hope the image of me transporting large loads on a bike sticks in people's heads and makes them reconsider the viability of cycling as a mode of transportation.

Pedaling back from the UPS Store and Post Office was very pleasant. The sun was setting on rush hour. I had a pleasant tailwind and peace along the Cedar Lake bike highway. I rode the bike path alongside I-394 at Penn facing the drivers stacked in a quarter-mile long line along the ramp, stopped and waiting to merge into bumper-to-bumper traffic that was going nowhere fast toward downtown.

I try hard to understand people’s unique situations and respect them as best I can. However, at that moment I found myself unsympathetically thinking how dumb these drivers were to get in their cars, pull into an asphalt sea polluted with fumes, and languish there in sheer boredom and frustration day after day. Maybe some people actually get off on driving in rush hour traffic. But I believe most people regard it as a necessary inconvenience, nonetheless an undeniable reality. How else am I going to get to work? To the store? Get the kids to soccer practice and violin lessons? … And the list goes on.

I’m certain more than the majority of these drivers believe traffic engineers could fix these congestion problems with more lanes and bigger, better roads. (If only the money weren’t spent on bike trails ...) They think automobile transportation is a system that can be made efficient. I do not believe this.

The problem could be mine, too. Perhaps I don’t have a new enough automobile, one with sufficient amenities to coax me out of believing every time I drive I’m dying behind the wheel – passively, sitting still -- one red light, stop sign and traffic snarl at a time.

My commute’s been wearing on me this year. It’s finally hitting home that 16 miles is a long way to ride to work. But when I let my laziness set in I encounter a significant conundrum – even if I could justify buying another car financially (which would allow me to drive whenever I wanted), I would still be left with this ideological chasm: I simply don’t believe I could let myself become a habitual driver again. I think I’d quit my job and find some way to make a living closer to home before I would get another car.

Yep, it’s probably just my problem. However, I am convinced that I, and so many others like me who use their bikes every day to get places, have struck upon one fantastic component of the solution.

The Knife-like Edge of Karma

2009-12-03T00:13:00.005-06:00

So, I bought three Swiss Army knives on Ebay for $11.50. They arrived today. The seller did not specify the knives were TSA forfeitures or otherwise confiscated, but I should have guessed. All look to have been carried a while and used occasionally. The one I really wanted in the lot has a name engraved on the handle.

Now I suppose this isn't like boxer shorts or lingerie. Swiss Army knives are tools. Like most tools, performance depends on the care devoted by the owner and can be refined by others afterward. Unlike good shoes or Brooks saddles, Swiss Army knives do not break in to conform to one's anatomy. Rather tools, being made of steel, can be reshaped and revived.

Thank goodness for the former owner of this knife. Brian Connolly, I have the Swiss Army knife that was once your property before it was confiscated somewhere along the way. If by some weird stroke of Zeus you read my blog, let me know.

But first, let me ask you a couple of questions, Brian. Did you think it was okay to attempt to cut, repeatedly, beer cans or some other metal with this knife? Whoa, 'cause you sure mangled the edge. And the small pen knife blade ... did you not notice there was a thin screwdriver already built into the knife? Because you tweaked the blade pretty good using it like so many morons before you have done with knives -- misappropriating them as mini screwdrivers.

In short, Brian, you can't have your once knife back. You don't deserve it. It appears the TSA or the police rescued this knife from you, the same way they rescued knives from other simpletons who don't know an edge from The Edge. Your blade has a better home where it will be much more at hone. Deal with it.

Good night, forfeitors, wherever you are.

Swiss Litigation

2009-11-29T19:44:00.002-06:00

Swiss Army that is. And if I were in the upper mucky-muck of Swiss Army Brands Ltd I'd be a little pissed at the latter 20th century Keystone Cops -- the TSA, or Transportation Safety Administration -- for cutting into sales. You know that event that changed our country forever ('9/11'), well it made possible the careers of all these folks charged with protecting us from ourselves ... err, and the unforeseen threats of terrorism too, I guess.

I fly a lot these days. Usually it is out of MSP International, our local airport. Earlier this year a friend recalled an overheard conversation at our airport between two folks in TSA uniforms who were off duty. The jist of it was one quote: "If only people knew how much of what we do is just for show." Well the GAO has apparently picked up on that theatricality. You see, the TSA has spent money like crazy since its inception but to little or no avail. The article I recently read cited none of the fancy new security systems they'd been developing ever went into service.

During one heavy travel period this year I flew out twice within two weeks. I showed up, checked in and made my way through the cattle chute known as 'Security.' Nearing the scanner conveyor I slipped off my shoes and overheard a TSA member barking at other passengers, "Shoes on the conveyor, people. Your shoes must be directly on the conveyor!" He backed this up by marching up and down a couple of lines and yanking folks' shoes out of bins and slamming them onto the conveyor. Point conveyed. Terrorists get craftier by the day, y'know. Who are we to question?

Two weeks later I went through the same line at the same airport and it was business as usual -- shoes in the bin -- no muss, no fuss. I asked around, "Do we need to put the shoes directly on the conveyor?" Nobody knew what the hell I was talking about. Security measures perhaps. Just some prick two weeks earlier fucking with everyone for the hell of it more like it.

So what are these people, this governmental organization, doing anyway?

Well, they're confiscating shit left and right. You see it when you fly and I do too. There's the 2 oz rule and the ziploc baggy rule and the laptop rule and the bottles of Evian and Gatorade swiped from folks just trying to hydrate or die. And there are the pocket knives (not to mention nail clippers). I'm talking about small pocket knives, keychain knives etc. The kind that are little longer than a key itself and of little consequence in the hands of anyone except Chuck Norris. Funny, I don't believe the TSA has started checking for sharpened keys because you could do just as much harm to someone aboard an airplane with a filed key as you could most of these knives.

However, there's no arguing the rules with someone in an airport who has been beknighted with the authority to tase and subdue your ass. In fact, in the "new reality" you'd be well advised to avoid dissecting semantics or literality with anyone employed in an airport. I once got charged the bike fee -- the fee for an oversized bag which encases a partially disassembled bike frame (a large bag indeed) -- for a regulation luggage size bag which I had foolishly revealed to the agent contained a bike (a break-apart bike). I gave an honest answer to an honest question, but she got stuck on that word 'bicycle' and the rest is $150 worth of history.

I have a 20-year-old Swiss Army knife which has been carried daily in my pocket for that duration, on countless backpacking trips, climbing adventures and everywhere I've been in between. It's gotten me out of many a jam and saved a plethora of wine drinkers by the by (it's the magical corkscrew everyone forgets to carry). I have been fortunate enough to avoid confiscation by remembering to place it in my checked bag. It's missing a handle (I glued both back on twice) and the blades are thinner now from dozens of honings. I've entertained getting a replacement more than once over the past few years.

Recently it came to my attention I should check Ebay for Swiss Army knives. I don't shop Ebay much, but I've bought and sold tons of bike stuff on Ebay. Occasionally you can find a really screaming deal if you're savvy. I discovered one needs little savvy to get good deals on Swiss Army knives, however. Just log on, search and it won't take long to discover some conspicuously low-priced auctions and buy-it-now deals on all models of Swiss knives.

The best deals to be had? Well, I discovered the sellers have little remorse admitting in plain print in their listings that these knives they're selling (most often in lots of 3, 5, 10 or more) are TSA 'forfeiture' or confiscated knives. Dozens of sellers on Ebay in locations all around the US are selling these knives for next to nothing compared to retail. And because most people have no clue how to sharpen knives, most of those being sold might as well be new except for scuffs on the handles and blades from being carried in pockets and bags.

So the next time you forget to clean your pockets before airport security and that innocent pen knife you carry every day gets lifted by the TSA with no chance of retrieving it, you might want to check Ebay. If you don't find your exact knife I guarantee you'll find a deal that will most likely wipe your remorse away.

Perhaps someday the TSA will be held accountable for giving away the personal property of millions of citizens it is supposed to be protecting. And those citizens making a few bucks off those of us ignorant enough to attempt to carry a pocket knife onto a plane? Well, you might want to get your good deal and then rip 'em a new one with negative feedback.

The Shop of Bikes

2009-11-23T23:53:00.004-06:00

Old school/New school. Nearly 30 years difference in age and design development but the same basic principle. I can tell you, though -- they behave nothing like one another in practice. Still, both are sculptures of metallic beauty. (Either could be yours soon on Ebay.)

A photo of the bike shop. For those who follow my blog and have kept up with all I've done in the garage/woodshop, it is apparent I need to spend some time imparting such order to the basement. I've bought tubes, chains, bottom brackets and not soon afterward discovered I had the part I needed hidden in a box I had yet to unpack. Argh. That is one of my first generation woodshop benches now functioning as my main bike bench -- built in 1999 and since modified slightly with a pegboard back and extra shelf.

There is decent head clearance in the basement but it is far from ideal. (Our basement was originally earthen -- like most Midwestern basements -- dug 6-8" deeper than it is now that a concrete floor has been added.) However, it makes a good space for bikes and maintains an even temperature throughout the winter. That's a plus when it's ten below and the garage is basically off limits. (I still can't get the Big Dummy down here for maintenance however.) Incidentally the small box to the left of the bench is our boiler, followed just beyond by the water heater. You tend to warm up quickly if you're sawing a headtube or leaning against the pipes drinking a beer. By the way, the floor joists are all true 1" by 12" lumber and have shrunk little over the years. Funny to own a home that allows you to get why we use those now arbitrary numbers to call out lumber dimensions.

Tools organized, degreaser and beer at hand. Some might argue no further organization need be accomplished. Yes, Houts, that's the 'Cow misses Patch' photo to the left of the bench, stuck into the 9 x 9" solid column (the main center beam of the house is basically the same dimension, nearly 50 ft long, but only two pieces of wood). I still hang that photo in every shop I establish and I always think of you ... well, and Cow.

Goodnight, folks.

Garage With a View

2009-11-16T22:51:00.004-06:00

"Oh, hi. How's it going?"
"Great. That's good to hear. Yeah ... thanks for stopping by."
"Where have I been? Oh, I dunno. Around ... you know how it goes."
"Yep, thought so."

I'm gonna ease back into this thing, the blog that is, with some miscellaneous and sundry updates. Nothing very earth shattering has gone down. I wasn't in the hospital with swine flu or locked up in detox. Just kickin' it with friends and family y'know. Fall is a time for revelry and irreverence. Plenty of both going on and, well, maybe they've just sapped my energy for writing. Personally, I blame Vegas, but that's just me.

Since we moved into this house in July 2008, I have been on a mission to create the perfect woodshop space in half of our two-car garage -- all 217.5 square feet of it. I think I've mentioned this before. In fact, I know I have. You'll just have to bear with me, I guess.

Woodworking is no new hobby of mine; I grew up tinkering with wood. My Dad was a carpenter who in his spare time built reproduction muzzleloading rifles and period accoutrement patterned after 18th century designs. Later he restored furniture and built a number of fine pieces himself. I suppose I inherited from him no sums of money or fancy possessions, but I did gain a love for working with my hands. For that I'd barter not even a king's ransom.

I can't shake it. At times I feel it is the thing that drives me most passionately. I've had a string of "professional" jobs that I've been fortunate to love in one way or another. I think he would be proud. What blue collar parent isn't happy their kids are working with their minds and not their hands, after all?

My jobs have tied me to the outdoors and allowed me to peddle in things I pedal -- bikes now, but previously canoes and kayaks, climbing and backpacking gear. It's not like I'm a guide or something -- living in dirtbag glamor out of the back of an oxidizing Land Rover, gracing the glossy recycled pages of a Patagonia catalog. I sell stuff. It's fun stuff, stuff that isn't going to overdose people or rot them from the inside as they sit glued to electronic gadgets and LCD flat panel screens. For that I am thankful. But, still, I sell stuff. I make my living in front of a computer screen writing emails, compiling reports, laying out processes, policies, plans and documents. I am a cog in the capitalist machine and we all know what oils the gears of that machine. (Kinda tough when you also carry Marxist tendencies in your heart.)

Anyway, I think I was talking about my garage and maybe leading up to what it means to me. Members of the fairer reproductive set (no, not the Kennedy clan) can say things like "man cave" or "man space" but I believe that belittles the deeper implications of what my garage shop means to me. I want to throw out two caveats: 1) I've spilt plenty of beer in said garage with my guy friends telling stupid guy jokes and whatnot, and 2) I admit I fully grasp that what I am about to describe will mean nothing to some people. I don't get you people, but I am trying to become more tolerant and open to those who care little about systems and order -- those who think "work triangle" means gossiping in the office about a certain office mate, not achieving the most efficient use of a limited space that supports a subset of highly repetitive tasks.

This is the fourth woodwork-specific shop space I have designed. My first was on the back porch of a tiny rental house my first wife and I occupied from 1997-1999. My Dad came into town for a weekend and we bought the lumber and materials to frame, deck and wire the 6 by 12 foot concrete porch within the span of 2 days. Most of my experience working alongside my father had been while I was younger. He'd explained things like roof pitch and how to mark it out with a framing square. As a kid, that stuff would go in one ear and out the other. But that weekend I absorbed volumes. It was to be the last time he and I would work so closely together, ever. I've since thought back to that experience and wished I had a dozen more tutorials like it. But I won't. Even though I went on to study calculus, probability theory, differential equations, statics, dynamics and physics I never grasped the proficiency with which my Dad and his peers were able to perform such "simple" math on the fly at a jobsite.

I grew into that first tiny shop and my skills grew some too. My next space was the basement of a large rental house. I had so much room but still too little experience. My father-in-law lent me a bandsaw and a jointer and I had no idea how to use them or maintain them. I was still of the belief that power tools weren't supposed to need adjustment from the factory or occasional sharpening and tuning. He gave me a decent set of bench chisels and I sharpened them all wrong. I bought my first plane and set it on a shelf when all I did with it was butcher wood marginally better than hacking through it with my poorly honed chisels. I was spoiled though with space. It was pretty nice while it lasted.

Things went on hiatus as we moved into and then out of a small house from 2000-2001. I packed everything up and mothballed it in my mother-in-law's greenhouse. When I moved to Minnesota in 2002 I sold to friends the tools that were too big to carry (tablesaw, router table, miter saw) and kept the rest in boxes. Except for occasionally breaking out the cordless drill or saw, most of my stuff didn't see the light of day again until July 2008 when I began moving into this garage.

That is where our story resumes. (Lucky for you, I'll stagger your monotony with some photos!)

Previously, my workspace had three sources of light: 1) A generous assortment of fluorescent worklights. Nice if you need them but far from ideal on their own. 2) A garage door on the west wall. A beautiful option for nice days but less than adequate for cold or rainy weather and what if you want to fire up the table saw at 10p.m. on a summer's night? 3) A small 2X2 window pane on an anchored door (I don't even have a key if I wanted to remove the 3" drywall screws holding it closed) on the southeast wall. I'd been daydreaming of windows and skylights and anything else that could bring some real sunlight streaming into the shop since I began outfitting it over a year ago. With the basic space allocation finalized this summer I knew where I needed to place a natural light source. I built my final bench and shelves in anticipation of popping a window smack in the center of the east wall.

Here's the interior view of the east wall with the bench moved away. Dark, eh?

And here is the exterior view of the same wall. A lot of bland siding. This is also the view from the kitchen at the back of the house. (Some dark gray touch-ups indicate where I had to patch holes from pesky woodpeckers attacking the garage. Placing a suet feeder out there was the instant remedy for that problem.)

Making progress with new king studs, jack studs and sills in place. After measuring once, twice, three times ... hell, I think I measured nearly a dozen times because there was no going back from the next step -- cutting the hole all the way through. One website I'd consulted referred to it as "violating the building envelope." Yes, that is a descriptive phrase.

Once you're sure of the whole deal, grabbing the reciprocating saw and plunging it through the masonite is a cool feeling. I was even more pleased because our annoying neighbors who like to argue and play loud music at all hours of the night were hanging out on their back porch the entire time. Perhaps the next window will be installed on a full moon at midnight just for effect.

Marking the rough opening to square it up with the circular saw. Compared to cabinetry doing something where a sixteenth or even an eighth of an inch mattered little was fun.

Here's the trimmed, finished product complete with bird feeder. The new window is nice. I find myself spending some time staring out of it at different times of the day. Most mornings, as I'm loading my bike, I take a few minutes to walk over and see the birds going nuts at the feeder while I notice where the light illuminates previously dark recesses of my shop. I sink away in my mind to imagine a time when the projects of the future -- the moments that will be spent there with perfect golden sunlight guiding my pencil to mark boards or position material to make a cut -- are all that will occupy my mind.

I also think about how the proficiency to install the window, simple as it is, would not have been possible without my Dad. Years ago when we'd built my back porch shop we didn't quite finish it that weekend. I distinctly recall some of those final tasks seemed extremely daunting to me. I called him to ask for advice and instruction. In one of the clearest moments of wisdom I ever recall my father displaying, he calmly told me, "You know all you need to know. You can do it."

The window, and the shop, mean something intangible to me. Those who get it, get it, perhaps. But I'll keep thinking and keep writing in hopes of better realizing it for myself.

WHY

2009-10-14T21:50:00.004-05:00

I'm gonna rip off Pinch Flat News courtesy of friend Paul. (Thanks, Pinchie, in advance. That reminds me, I should add a link to yer shot on my blig.)

I'm gonna rip off this quote only because of Paul. Otherwise, I'd have never known it was there. He sends me emails at work, but his are some of the emails from friends and co-workers alike I never mind receiving at work. Even though they are hardly ever related to work. Let's face it -- who ONLY wants to get work related emails at work? But, then again, some of those non-work related ones are worse than the "Does anyone have a safety pin?" missives sent en masse to 400 co-workers. (Yeah, guy ... at least 379 of 400 co-workers have a safety pin or know where one can be found. Try asking a minimum of two people before you disrupt the whole company next time.)

Back to the rip off ...

I've never read any Carl Sagan. In fact, I owe all I know of the guy to a comedy skit by Robin Williams overheard many years ago ('cause I was young and probably should have been asleep instead of listening to it). In short, I know nothing. But this quote makes me want to learn more: "Some people think God is an outsized, light-skinned male with a long white beard, sitting on a throne somewhere up there in the sky, busily tallying the fall of every sparrow. Others — for example Baruch Spinoza and Albert Einstein — considered God to be essentially the sum total of the physical laws which describe the universe. I do not know of any compelling evidence for anthropomorphic patriarchs controlling human destiny from some hidden celestial vantage point, but it would be madness to deny the existence of physical laws."

Holy Jehoshaphat, that's rich! I say that because Sagan's quote is within me. Despite an upbringing that leaned heavily toward christian fundamentalism, as a young man (perhaps about the same time I was eavesdropping Robin Williams' uncensored comedy) I began to think how preposterous an uber-man-shaped-god concept sat within the confines of a ripe intellect. Throughout my adult years I've sought solace in eastern philosophies which (although too readily generalized and mislabeled by many westerners as pantheistic and denigrated as 'pagan') are perfectly comfortable with the notion of energy as god-like force, and humans as a self-contained, fully realized vessels that direct said energy.

I had no intention of going anywhere with this entry. The sole purpose was to circulate this quote in a form much more graceful than a preachy junk forward email. I get enough of those from my family. Fortunately, you can just click away from my blog.

Me? Well, I rarely check that email account anyway.

Eating the Nuts, Saving the Raisins for Sunday

2009-10-12T13:54:00.005-05:00

Winter's coming and don't we know it in the Upper Midwest. We got our first snow Saturday morning. That was followed last night and this morning with a steady blanket of wet, slushy pellets that accumulated a couple of inches on the grass and in the trees. The pavement was mostly wet melt. It would have been just like riding in the rain except for tree branches lining the path regularly dumping their heavy loads on unsuspecting riders passing beneath. Oh, and the wind-driven ice projectiles pelting my face incessantly. Don't get me wrong -- the experience, as early season snow usually is, was quite beautiful. But it's only mid-October. I'm not ready for this stuff yet.

If someone had walked up to me in Las Vegas a couple of weeks ago, while I was sweating my way through the oven-dry heat of midday in the desert, and told me I'd be commuting through snow in exactly two weeks I'd have thought they were loony. But, then again, I never would have believed I'd walk off and leave my digital camera on a bench either. (It's a shame, because I missed a lot of great photo ops this morning.)

Softness and whining aside, I have begun to tap into my favorite thing about off-season commuting in MN -- the solitude. All of a sudden I have the bike trails to myself and I kinda like that. I no longer have to play nice with blissed out wanderers, chatty path-hogging walkers, overzealous and impatient skiers on wheels, tight-dudded weekend warriors or canines guiding their retractable human yo-yos. The few cyclists I do pass seem to have the same idea. We mutter a short 'Hey', or perhaps nod silently and roll on.

Of course, the seasonal change affects other areas of life. "Shop season" is over. I say this because my tools and workspace are housed within an unheated garage. That's probably best since I tend to hurl myself toward projects like a brakeless train, working into the wee hours of the morning and beginning my "real" work week more tired than I went into the weekend of supposed time off.

I was able to complete my last project -- a set of sawhorses. I did the old hem and haw for months before settling on a design and getting down to work. I could have knocked out a set in a day with simply a Skilsaw and some drywall screws. But of course I didn't go that route. Instead, I resawed and handplaned the hell out of some 2X6's from Home Depot in order to create a slightly more elegant set of horses that are held together with pegged mortise and tenon joints.

Given a plunge into the freezing temps, I decided to haul the project into the house for the glue to cure overnight. As you can see, the kids enjoyed that. They seem to have no problem making light of Dad's hard work.

Perhaps I could learn a thing or two. After all, there's no stopping winter from coming.

Friendly Cycling P.S.A. (Rerun from last season)

2009-09-29T20:46:00.002-05:00

Darkness is upon us, friends. It seems like just yesterday we had twilight until 10pm. Now it's dark by 8 and the days are shortening as I type. It's getting chilly. Returning from Las Vegas I plunged my body from a week in the 90s(F) to the 50s in a matter of hours. Instant autumn. Man, that was fast.

Leaving work last night I opted to blink my front and rear lights all the way home. That still did not prevent two trucks facing opposite directions at the same intersection from pulling directly in front of me. I have enough experience to anticipate these things and simply braked hard to avoid any real danger. All I was left to do was give the 'attaboy' wave and shake my head. Ignorant drivers.

Tonight I opted for an extra spoke light to increase my side visibility. That was the theory anyway. Halfway home a vehicle gunned it to cross four lanes of busy traffic. I was on the main road crossing the lane the car was destined to end up in. I watched the timing and grabbed the brakes at the last moment. So did the driver who was already 3 feet from hitting me. I slowly rolled in front of the Lexus SUV and stopped completely. Peering through the windshield I spied a woman, cell phone pressed to her ear, staring back at me with an expression that read: "What the hell are you doing in my way?" I shouted "What the hell?" and making the finger phone with my thumb and pinky motioned a quick hang-up gesture. I then rolled slowly away and said, "Hang up your phone and learn how to fucking drive!" Without missing a beat, she deftly stretched her left arm out the window and unfurled a boney, bejewelled middle finger at me as she drove off.

I guess indignance is the fallback reaction when someone calls out your shit. Funny though, it's a bit different than cutting in front of someone at Starbuck's. She broke the traffic laws and almost ran me down. Would a simple 'sorry' have been too much to muster?

Drivers in general are negligent enough with regard to non-motorized traffic. But the more I bike the more I support a law that prohibits cell phone use while driving. Furthermore, why not instate the death penalty for drivers stupid enough to text message while operating a moving vehicle?

So folks, one message: BE SEEN. If you think one little LED front and back is enough, it's not. Be seen. Lights are cheap. The batteries last a long time. Wear some bright clothing. Put reflective tape all over your fenders, rack, frame, helmet. Dork out. Ride naked with your body painted dayglo orange. Do anything to BE SEEN.

That goes for you two-wheeled yahoos who take the ninja approach to cycling not only the streets, but the very dark, tree-lined bike paths after sundown. Personally speaking, I'd rather have a dozen close calls with cars in one night than one run-in with you dim-witted fools. You're idiots. Why? Here's why: It's not just your safety you need to worry about, jackass. I'm not a violent person, but if you crash into me or I clip you because you're cruising in stealth mode I'm gonna get up off the ground and attempt to enlighten you with fists of compassion.

I reiterate: Lights are cheap. The batteries last a long time. Wear some bright clothing. Put reflective tape all over your fenders, racks, frames, helmet. Dork out. Ride naked with your body painted dayglo orange. Do anything to BE SEEN.

Good night.

Stranded in Vegas

2009-09-26T21:51:00.003-05:00

"Vague-ass." "Lost Wages." I'm weathering the last day here coming off Interbike. Call it by any name you want but I don't like this place. Never have.

I got out of the hotel and past the casinos today. Work was finished and I had time to kill, so I went for a long walk. It was really hot but so dry that it felt pleasant. I thought to myself, "I'm gonna find something to enjoy about this final day in Vegas."

I found a local Korean restaurant where I ate my favorite dish. It was delicious. Afterward I wandered down some more sidewalks, empty except for locals, littered club brochures and homeless destitutes. I circled the block past second-tier casinos still trying to live in a heyday of yore. I kept walking, back toward the Strip, revelling in the heat, learning that even the shade of a utility pole can deliver respite from the baking midday sun.

I climbed stairs instead of using escalators. I studied the blown litter and broken glass in vacant lots awaiting new condos, shopping malls and casinos. Perhaps the economy will one day allow "progress" to continue. I quickly learned that perpendicular diversions from the Strip can grant one a bit of solace away from the noise and bustle, to places free from drunken frat boys as well as young and old women alike trying in vain to impress someone whose tastes I'll never comprehend. I thought to myself, "Maybe I've found something in Vegas to enjoy. This is not so bad after all." I was pensive about adopting this conclusion, but I marched on somewhat encouraged.

I walked to Caesar's Palace because last year I found the only spot on the Strip designed for stopping and sitting a while -- absolutely free of charge. It's a small Hindu shrine to Brahma, a modest yet brilliant oasis of genuine spirituality amidst a desert run amok, heeding a quasi-religious doctrine of empty consumption. The shrine's surrounding air is scented with sweet incense instead of fake floral casino stench. I sat and studied passersby. I photographed a few groups who shuffled through to inspect this cultural curiosity in all its preposterousness. Mostly it appeared to represent another quaint photo stop along the way.

The sweat on my back quickly evaporated. Deciding it was time to move on, I shouldered my bag and went off into the crowds again, past cooler toting street vendors offering "ice cold water ... one dollar!" I paced onward, smugly sipping the now warm tap water from my stainless flask and shirking off the cards thrust at me by men whose t-shirts promised girls in just 20 minutes. After all, I had found my Vegas and it was so far above all of this.

Quite by chance I arrived in front of the Bellagio at the stroke of 4pm. The fountain show was beginning. I had never seen it before. Music cued and the jets of water shot choreographed patterns of water-dance across the previously placid pond. Camera shutters clicked around me. I, like all the others, felt this to be a picture worthy stop. Reaching for my own camera I noticed it was not where it was supposed to be. I had little time to panic because I knew right away what had happened. Oh shit, oh shit! I'd set it beside my bag while shooting photos at the shrine. Then I got up, shouldered my bag without looking down and marched away. I left the camera, neatly in its case, in open sight on the step.

I ran back to Caesar's, but five, maybe seven, minutes had passed. My lovely new Canon was gone.

In my Vegas I'd found the one spot I could sit and enjoy absolutely free of charge. Ironically, one could say that slice of peace cost me an offering of $250.

Damn, I despise this town.

Nippon

2009-08-29T10:16:00.005-05:00

Japan is a fascinating place. I spent a week and a half there at the end of July. It was my second trip and was much more enjoyable than the first time. If you've never been to Japan, expect to be incredibly confused and disoriented the first time you go. On this second go-round I was able to fall back on much that I'd learned and observed last year. I could relax and take in more of the culture.

One of the things I find interesting, even shocking at times, is the Japanese affinity for American English slogans. I might not be able to read signs or advertisements while I'm there, but cruising the streets I would constantly spot t-shirts, posters, etc. with English phrases. Some were borderline offensive. I thought that funny in a way considering the conservative demeanor and lack of flamboyance exhibited by most Japanese. But when you realize most passersby can't read the phrases, it's bizarrely humorous to a native English speaker. Even if some Japanese folks can read the words, many of these phrases are so obscured with slang and profanity that it would be difficult to make a direct translation.

Here are a few fun sightings from Japan:

Tommy Lee Jones is BOSS. At least he's the posterchild for BOSS beverages. Kinda reminded me of Bill Murray from Lost in Translation. Similar wrinkled crusty old guy persona.

This is a crappy photo of a poster in the Kaze messenger headquarters in Kyoto. Who knew drunk cyclists had their own tarot?

I saw this gem in a respectable tea shop in Nagoya. Just a place where friends meet for a quiet beverage and some chit-chat. This poster was displayed front and center behind the counter.

Okay, I was once told by a friend that Japan is the land where they perfected the plastic fake food used in restaurant display windows to give you an idea what a dish looks like. I chose this one thinking the white squigglies beneath the tiny shrimp were noodles. Look closer. The noodles have eyes. Yes, I ate it. And it was, like all the food I've eaten in Japan, damn good.

I'm off to Germany for Eurobike. Be well, friends.

Wow: Bike Parents Challenged Part II

2009-08-20T21:55:00.003-05:00

My last post has elicited many responses. I appreciate them all. My longtime friend and lost-soul-brother-at-birth, Brother Houts, just emailed me a link to a most disturbing story extracted from reports of an incident in Asheville, NC involving someone who chose to use a gun to show his disapproval of a parent hauling his kid aboard a bike.

"You're endangering your child, so I'm going to attempt to kill you." That's sound logic.

The moral of the story, I guess it could always be worse.

Meddling with Pedaling

2009-08-17T22:03:00.010-05:00

Quite often April and I are approached by friends, acquaintances and occasionally strangers who are impressed with what we do to integrate cycling into our family's lifestyle. The truth is we're copying a trend set by others across the country and around the world. We are far from original or ingenious. We supply some gumption and will power, but otherwise there are countless people who've actually developed concepts and designed products that make it possible. We're far from radical. We own a car and April uses it plenty to shuttle kids around during the week. Even though I am able to commute daily by bike, we try to offset the family's regular car reliance by keeping it parked as much as possible on weekends and days off.

I sometimes think about detractors, the people who aren't fans, don't agree and like to make sure someone hears them. You know the types -- they're quick to condemn an action as irresponsible or dangerous based on a narrow subset of rigid criteria programmed into the collective psyche of the status quo. We all suffer from judgmental tendencies. I firmly believe it's human nature to bolster status and shore up ego by criticizing, evaluating, judging, then labeling good/bad, right/wrong. As far as cycling goes, there are enough people who think and actually go so far as to decry the simple act of solo bike commuting on roads as foolish and flagrantly fatalistic. If one chooses to pull young children along on such 'irresponsible forays' the likelihood for negative criticism increases greatly. It only stands to reason.

Quite remarkably, we hadn't experienced any overtly negative feedback until yesterday. Unexpectedly, it came in the form of a safety lecture (replete with citings of supportive interweb research) from none other than some friends of April's. The background info is innocent enough. They dropped their daughter off in the morning for a play date. April wanted to visit the farmer's market to pick up some food for the week -- a normal weekend activity. The market is only three-quarters of a mile away along quiet roads. Since we had an extra kid with us, I surmised we could carry two on the back of the Dummy and one in the kid seat on April's bike. That would make it a quick, efficient trip.

Our young visitor had never ridden a Big Dummy, but Sylvia is a pro by this point. Her enthusiasm was beneficial -- there wasn't the slightest hesitation from her friend. We had an extra kid helmet, so we buckled lids on everyone and slowly rolled away from the garage. Our new passenger wasn't freaked out in the least; she was already telling Sylvia that next time she wanted to sit in front and hold on to the handlebars. A few minutes later we rolled up and parked the bikes on the curb outside the market. The kids were beaming. I get excited when kids have fun on a bike ride. It's just how I'm wired.

We did our browsing, got a snack and eventually met up with our guest's dad to make the hand off. In hindsight I knew it was coming -- a seemingly benign question at first: "How did you get everyone down here?" April immediately piped up that we'd brought the two bigger girls on the Big Dummy. "What's a Big Dummy?" It's a cargo bike. "Does it have a box enclosure?" No, it has a flat deck and handlebars. "So ... the kids aren't strapped in?" No. All right, enough Minnesota passive-aggressive questioning; I could see through it like worn out lycra shorts. We were ready to leave anyway, so we walked over to the bikes and showed him.

He tried to act interested in the concept but it was all too obvious he was mortified. I could see it unfolding in his body language, but I like to watch people squirm if they can't muster the chutzpah to say how they actually feel. April accentuated the fact we'd properly fitted his daughter with a helmet and ridden extra slow to be sure she was comfortable. We talked about how Sylvia rides the bike all the time and how I've even carted the whole family around on it. It's stable, safe and easily hauls a lot of weight.

Sadly, I realized that in his eyes my lowly cargo bike was missing a few things to pass muster as a "safe vehicle" for transporting a child -- namely a roll cage and CPSC-certified kid harnesses -- go a little further and add anti-lock brakes, a metal skin and an internal combustion engine. Both April and I had a hunch the case was far from closed as we bid them farewell. Sure enough April got a call from the girl's mom later that night.

I want to offer a caveat upfront: At play is a divergence of parenting styles. While I may have some strong opinions, I am not in the business of saying one is better than the other. However, it is clear some other people make it their business to do so.

I will state a fact: Our style seems to be working rather well. We have vibrant, healthy kids whom we have never injured in anyway while cycling, camping, canoeing, hiking or doing any of the stuff we love to do outdoors (and started doing with them practically from birth). Instead, we are beginning to notice our kids are well-adjusted to weather, bugs and the elements. They play outside four seasons of the year. They are both quite adventurous as well. Far from reckless though, they are connecting the dots between the physical laws of cause and effect in terms they can grasp. We don't hand them forks to shove into light sockets, but we don't bemoan the opportunities they take to leap off an object without first bending legs to land the jump. They learn -- it's a rather linear process. Neither of them would get the slightest lecture on physics if I attempted to deliver one, but they can learn tons in the experiential classroom of playgrounds, backyards and forests.

Now, I say all of this not as a self-indulgent digression. I say it because the comments from our parental counterparts warrant it. The mom on the other line could simply have said, "We'd prefer you not take our daughter out on bike rides." Churlish perhaps, considering we are a family of skilled cyclists who have a positive track record of safe family cycling. But at least that would have been to the point and would have asserted a personal choice. Fair enough. I believe in honoring friends' wishes.

However, they chose to surpass that and launch into the realm of condemning our actions and choices as substandard and unsafe. Here are a few paraphrases: "I think you'll find you guys are pretty far out in your choices" was one comment. We started riding with our kids in a Burley trailer way too young, according to their sources. And, "Research shows that kids shouldn't ride on those 'things' until they're thirteen." Wow, really? I plan on kicking my kids off the Big Dummy well before that age. They can pedal their own bikes.

I can be rather self righteous at times. Especially when it comes to topics like people taking steps toward deconstructing the culture of the automobile. April will tell you I all too easily slide out the soap box and climb aboard. But I genuinely try to follow the philosophy of 'live and let live.' As such, I generally have a disdain for self righteousness united with proselytizing. If you don't like what I do but it ain't hurting you, then why are you blowing wind at me?

I don't really know these particular friends but I've weathered secondhand comments from them that have occasionally chafed me -- offhand, judgmental comments concerning everything from kids' diets to car seats and lead paint. Add "unsafe cycling" to the list and a critical mass was achieved. I was reminded of another bit of practical wisdom I try to live by: If you don't know someone, have never really had a conversation with them, forged a friendship or had a glimpse of what makes them tick, then chances are your misplaced criticisms are not well-balanced, nor are they welcome.

Is this simply a personal rant or can it have some relevance to others reading? It can have some relevance. If you think you'd like to have kids or are a new parent, let me share a lesson I've been slow to learn, but one I believe is a timeless maxim of parenting: If you choose to have kids, be forewarned there's a chartered bus load of people waiting in line to offer comments on everything you're doing wrong. Sometimes those comments might hold water; if so, act on them. Some people just like to stick their noses in odd places, so most of the time it's fine to smile and nod and say 'Thank you ... buh-bye." A few occasions may actually warrant a stern reminder that someone is out of line and might want to politely fuck off.

Furthermore, I like to expose such off-base comments as attempts to vilify cycling. Cycling has been condemned, implicitly and explicitly, by many for countless reasons but one that is cited wide and far is a blanket indictment: Cycling is not safe. Hooey. Do you really know safe? Are we talking absolute safety -- a mythical state that government agencies strive toward, one where nothing bad happens to anyone and stat counters remain at 0? Do some people really hold the belief that even if you're living the most mind-numbingly bland existence, practicing all the agency-endorsed safety tips you can print out on a daily checklist, that nothing bad will happen to you?

By the way, if you'd care to condemn biking have you bothered to check any stats for automobile deaths lately? Can I find safe at the end of the "Toward Zero Deaths" corridors I see posted along Minnesota's highways?

I won't sit back and be told that transporting my family by bike is unsafe or irresponsible. Beyond practical evidence, I'll argue safety is an illusion, like comfort and security. I see great merit in learning to develop a proper relationship with similar conditionalities, not make oneself a slave by attempting to construct them as concrete states of being. Mostly though I'm disconcerted by this: Everytime someone bashes cycling as dangerous or risky, worried people everywhere (which is the majority of our society, especially parents it seems) are shaking their heads and agreeing, thereby further narrowing any portal of expanded vision, quietly massacring another chance to see solutions, possibilities and sustainable ways of doing things differently.

I don't admire scared people. I simply don't see the world in the same way. I believe skill and resourcefulness are more powerful than flimsy insurance policies and empty precautions. I don't carry sanitizing gel to the playground, but I pack a first aid kit on my bike and I know how to use it. We let our kids occasionally eat candy and potato chips. But we don't let them play with lead paint chips. We don't cloister our kids at home because we believe the benefit of interaction with other humans and the value of seeing their parents in a wide array of social situations will make them adaptable and resilient. We trust the mores of our friends and caregivers and regard their lessons as valuable additions to the sets of guidelines we are working to instill within the girls.

Do we make mistakes, exercise poor judgment or occasionally just screw some things up? Hell yeah. But raising our kids in, on and around bikes is one thing I will never apologize for.

My heart genuinely aches when I imagine children held back, not allowed to experience a gateway to the lifelong joys of self-reliance, resourcefulness and practicality that is cycling.

Weekend

2009-08-16T20:47:00.007-05:00

What an awesome weekend. Perhaps it was the perfect weekend. I am not one to brag on weekends usually, but I feel compelled to recap what made this the ideal end to and start of a new week.

First I'll backtrack to Thursday. My friend Sara was in town. We rode around. There a few simple pleasures better than just riding around -- the rare moments when one has nowhere to be and no time required to get there. I have too little time to just get on my bike and ride around, so I welcomed an excuse to do just that.

We made the rounds and ended up at Shockspital. I got to peruse B Rose's new digs. Business was hopping. It was good to see.

We cruised Cedar Lake, hit a little urban singletrack, stopped for a beer, then picked up some food and headed home to grill dinner and see the rest of the family.

Sylvia set up an impromptu bike repair service in the backyard while Sara pushed Willa around. Sylvia can dream up all sorts of games and she's very good a roping grown-ups into playing along. She's even convinced Dad to occasionally play Candyland.

Super Bridge Club happened Saturday. It was super indeed and major thanks to Brother Nick and friends for pulling it off. Conceived as a celebration of the recreational opportunities provided by the myriad bridges we have around the city, the route took us on many paths and trails I've never seen. That's what I love about these rides -- I always learn new places to go on a bike that are off the usual paved trails and lanes. Oh yeah, I suppose drinking beer with friends is kind of fun too.

Some of the heavy hitters made a trip into town just for the event. Chewey Moffit frames the Grain Belt sign nicely just after the start of the ride.

Andy is double-fisting it. He's so pumped he's got two drinks in one hand. Okay, no white Russians -- rather these were baby formula.

After all, Garnet had to have something to feed Max on the curb in front of Lee's. Mpls cycling: Classy to the core.

As a father myself, I have no problem indulging the baby photos. Props to Andy and Garnet for towing the Burley to the first stop. Max was having a blast.

I simply call this one 'kids and sunglasses.' If you're a parent you know all too well your shades, cheap or spendy, stand no chance when you're holding a kid.

Our group crossed the bridge at 394 and Penn. I ride this a few nights per week and always enjoy pedaling home facing traffic at rush hour. I smile as I whiz by the drivers stuck in stop and go traffic trying deperately to merge onto 94 into the city.

Dominating the Midtown. At this point our ride was 64 thirsty riders strong. And had only verifiably pissed off one trail user.

Aww, aren't they a happy pair? We were all happy since by the time we made it to the Bryant Ave ped bridge, Nick showed up with a huge cooler of sandwiches and beer. Brian was packing ice cream sandwiches and push-ups on dry ice. I have to admit the mood was more festive than Zito's towel.

We rode on and on through Minnehaha Falls park and across to the east bank. The sun soon faded about the time eyesight was beginning to dim anyway. We waited out a shower beneath a bridge or two. Somewhere along the way we derbied and a wheel got broke. Wet, tired and happy, a number of us reconvened at Town Hall where it all began some 9 or 10 hours earlier. Then we went our separate ways for some much needed downtime.

Sunday felt like it came a little too early. I'd been exhausted from a busy week anyway, so I enjoyed sleeping in courtesy of April. Sylvia's friend Lilia came over for a few hours. We all piled onto the bikes and rolled down to the farmer's market just before it closed for the day.

The kids split a cheddar brat. When they're still babies, watching kids eat and make a mess of half chewed food can be a frustrating test of patience. However, Sylvia is now at the age where she can keep the food contained and manage to flat put down some chow when she's hungry. By the look on that face, she was hungry.

While April browsed for produce I watched the girls and managed to get a couple more cute photos. Another lazy rain shower came and went. The chaotic throngs at the market, awash in more cultures than you can count, seemed united in a celebration of food and good old-fashioned barter and commerce.

Yep, folks, it was a fine end to a splendid weekend.

The Bike I Couldn't Bear to Own

2009-08-11T08:14:00.001-05:00

A little over a year ago a friend asked me if I still had my Surly Steamroller. Yes, I did still have it. The color was the old metallic charcoal gray, no longer available, and he wanted that color. "Will you sell it to me?" he asked. I thought about it for a while. I wasn't riding it much at all so I agreed. I reasoned I could easily get another frame down the road. Besides, he only wanted the frame and fork; I could keep all my favorite Campy parts, King headset, etc.

My Steamroller replaced a beloved 80s Shogun fixed gear conversion. It started life a kind of coral color but had bleached to a nice semi-metallic pink. I rode that bike everywhere and I loved it. It was my first fixed gear. It was sensible since it was a 27" bike to begin with and that extra clearance left tons of space for fenders and a rear rack. The ride was cushy. It just fit and it cost me next to nothing.

The pain in my back was nothing compared to the pain in my heart when I crumpled the frame one night by running it into a fencepost on the darkened greenway. I still have the frame in the basement. I'm sentimental like that. The Steamroller frame came along like clockwork though. The day after I mangled my Shogun a deal literally fell into my lap. I was stoked and perhaps a bit overzealous. I built it too nice -- the result was a bike I didn't want to subject to daily riding. What a shame when that happens.

After selling it last year, I didn't miss the Steamroller all winter. But when spring came I saved my bike cash and bought a replacement frame in cream. All the parts were ready to go on including pink headset and pink wheels. I decided to fiddle with the choice of bars and built it up just enough for a couple of test rides:

Man it looked nice. It looked classy too. But the joy soon wore off. It looked too nice. Again. Not because of the parts spec -- I had already decided I was going to ride it as a commuter, not mothball it like some kind of cafe bike -- but because of the bling. Color matching on bikes is as old as the velocipede, but in the past few years the urban fixed crowd has tainted that once innocent fascination. As long as anodized bits and colored rims adorn a fixed gear anyway.

I rode the bike to work and back once. As I wheeled it to the basement that evening, my heart fractured a bit for a second time in this whole saga of the pink Shogun. I came to terms with two hard facts: 1) The Steamroller, no matter how fashionably accoutered, could not replace that beloved bike; 2) There was no way I could ride this bike in public. The implied guilt of association was more than I could bear. ("My god, what if someone thinks I'm one of them?")

Things come around. It wasn't hard to find a co-worker who was looking for a Steamroller frame. Another had a relative who needed a wheelset and was not disinclined to, but actively seeking, the bling. All's well, I suppose.

But I still miss my $25 pink Shogun.

Happy Monday

2009-08-10T08:09:00.001-05:00

This photo has absolutely nothing to do with anything. Have a great week.

Blind Eye

2009-08-08T12:53:00.003-05:00

[An entry begun in June ... ]

I've been thinking a lot lately but not writing. I've been doing a lot of other stuff, too. Some of it I might bore you with at a later time.

I'm fascinated with the idea that we humans "find ourselves in situations." I indulge this thought pattern all too often myself. When, in reality, I firmly believe we create our situations. We must own them free-and-clear; lock, stock and barrel. We also create the polarized viewpoints that some situations are good and some are bad. It's all in perception. That's a simplistic way to put it that can be incredibly intricate, but enlightening when approached with an open mind.

At least that is the way I see it, most of the time.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately. I'll keep on thinking.

****************************

We got into an argument with our neighbor last night. It was a really freakish series of events precipitated by overhearing evidence of the all-too-real possibility that she was beating her kid. Someone else on our street called the police before we could. By the time we made it out to the front porch the neighbor's roommate/relative had talked the cops away. We questioned what was going on and the source of the crying. He played it down, said it was just the mother getting the kid to bed. We knew what we'd heard and pressed it further. He smuggly said we should mind our own business, in much more colorful terms. I wanted badly to march over and get in his face but I swallowed my anger.

Convinced we'd called the cops on her, the mother was on our porch within a few minutes -- pounding on our door at 11pm. I can't begin to repeat what she said for I can't even remember it all now -- but little of it was cognizant and none of it was civil. It had the tone of a well rehearsed litany. In fact I'll indulge it no further except to say April very tactfully endured, for several days afterward, being called a 'stupid white bitch' from our neighbor's second story window while she played with the kids in our backyard. When I arrived home one evening I noticed egg residue on the garage wall with a conspicuous trajectory not coincidentally traced in the precise direction of the neighbor's back porch.

****************************

I wrote the first part of this essay over a week ago. While I wondered today whether to write about this or how it could possibly tie into what I had already written, it hit me -- what a horrible situation these people have created. My mind struggles with the myriad of back stories (which I admittedly can't understand) that brought these people to their current place. But I will begrudge no sweeping socioeconomic excuses -- our neighbors have created their situation.

Yet, I could not extract myself from culpability and that was the second epiphany on the rocky, angered road of understanding -- too many, too often turn a blind eye. It's easy to turn up the stereo, drink another beer, close the windows and turn on the A/C to convince someone "that's just not my business." However, if we acknowledge a lack of community and greater alienation from one another within our culture, I will posit one of the principal reasons for that is a lack of gumption from neighbors to step out of their houses and get involved. For me, getting involved often means calling someone's shit, crying foul, reminding others that people are watching.

******************************************

I wrote all of that two months ago. Shortly afterward we learned the four-plex next door was in foreclosure. Needless to say we were ecstatic. Our problem neighbors are forced to move. At last!

Some nights it seems they've moved out, but they're still here. Gas and water shut off, they're still here making as much noise, spewing as much repetitive music and abusive profanity as before into the common air for all to hear. I want them gone. I want them gone so badly. But I only want them gone as much as I desire one other thing at the moment -- understanding. I want to know how, and why? I think I know how one can shout such things night after night toward one another, but why does one think it's okay to blare music and shout arguments at a volume that rattles one's whole building and disturbs the neighborhood?

I'm dangerously conservative in my viewpoint at the moment. Conservative in a Reaganistic way and I'm none too proud of that. Our neighbors don't have jobs. This fact is confirmed. They are sitting on their porch day after day, getting drunk and stoned, on someone else's dime. That's where the mindfuck occurred for me: They're blasting a stereo that keeps me up all night -- but I payed for it; They're erupting into alcohol-fueled disputes multiple times a week -- but I bought their booze.

I should say we -- we bought these things for them, because obviously our system is providing all they think they need. Never mind their kids sometimes come over to play and often beg for our dinner leftovers. The parents have all think they need -- the kids can fend for themselves, right?

I've vastly oversimplified this point, so I'll dig no further. I've needed to let off some steam regarding the neighbors. However, while I consider myself a political liberal and even a socialist at times, I am at odds with the notion of idiot compassion. Flinging money and good intentions at problems will not cure them. Perhaps more of us have to walk out of our comfortable homes and traipse the gutters to re-assess issues with the folks who are involved. In all honesty, I'm not so sure I'm up for that challenge.

Sins of the Father

2009-08-06T11:40:00.002-05:00

I've been thinking a bit lately about all the things that have gone on in recent history that I have not posted. Not like I need to, I guess. It never ceases to amaze me, however, how many friends "keep up" with me through the blog. Have you lost my phone number or email address? You can come over some time, y'know.

In January I went to the UK. In March I was in Germany and the Netherlands for a week. The Fruita Fat Tire Fest happened in April. I glossed over our family bike camping trip Memorial Day weekend. I barely covered Willa's March birthday and Sylvia's May. I took a stellar work trip to BC in June. And last month I just cut a new notch (to loosen my belt) to commemorate my 36th year. Thanks to those who came to our party. Even those who fed me malt liquor and Jack Daniels. May ye have learnt yer lesson.

I'll provide only one shot from that shindig:

No, Don did not give me the Jack Daniels (right hand) or malt liquor (left hand). Notice he's drinking water. Wise man.

An old (and older) friend from Tennessee once told me, while I was young and yet untraveled, "Wherever you go, once people learn you're from Tennessee, they'll say, 'Let's drink some Jack!'" I despise Jack and always will. But please don't dare me to drink anything because I'll take the dare -- even if I have to crawl home dragging my bike. A party in my own backyard simply meant I had less distance to stumble.

I've lived in Minnesota now for seven and one half years. It blows me away to think that. Most of you reading my blog knew nothing of me before, in my past life. Tennessee is far from here, mentally and geographically. When I loaded all I thought I'd need into the back of my Toyota pickup and temporarily said goodbye to my wife at the time, I had no idea what I was venturing into. I came with an open heart. For the most part that openness has served me well. I'd visited Mpls twice before and had swiftly fallen in love with the city. That love for this place has served me very well indeed.

Here, I have been blessed with many, many new friends. Some new friends have come and gone in fact. Has it been that long? I'm beginning to tell seasons by feel, by the cadence of the chanting bugs. And it was a bit eerie when, last week, it occurred to me that summer has reached its peak and will soon be over. We have about 7 weeks to get our ducks in a row and finish all those painting projects and such before it's time to reach for long sleeves. It has been a cool summer in fact; leaving work some nights I've thought a long sleeve jersey might be just right. But I push away such frivolous thoughts, convincing my body that in a few short months I will yearn for this cool warmth again.

I returned from 9 days in Japan last Friday. On the flight home, NWA showed a film entitled New in Town. I'm not promoting the movie, it was cheesy as all hell. Set predominantly in New Ulm, it centers around a Florida-based food corporation exec who has to venture off to the hinterland in winter to revamp a plant and (naturally) falls in love in the process. Of course knows not what to expect and the writers saw fit to play up every stereotype available regarding wacky MN behaviors and mannerisms. Stuck on a ten-and-a-half-hour flight, missing home and watching cutaway scenes from downtown Mpls pulled at my heart strings a bit though. This place is home. Some of my friends talk and act a bit like characters from that movie. Wow, life chucks change at us whether we recognize it or not.

I don't go to concerts much, can't afford the hot restaurants, don't see much art or take advantage of the hundreds of festivals happening here. But, damn, I'm lucky to live in a place I love.

Meaningful Production

2009-07-22T10:29:00.005-05:00

It's been quite a spring and early summer. Matters that were put in motion over three months ago have yet to see resolution. It's work related. I won't go into it. I will simply say the actions and decisions of those entrusted with power are far too often detached from a balanced view and are never devoid of personal bias. Objectivity is a museum piece, locked away in an opaque box. The shell of the word lives on to be thrown around freely in a token gesture of authenticity.

I like to shift focus to other means of production -- industry of the cottage variety, if you will -- the real business that should matter most but is frequently usurped by the need to achieve and consume and "better one's situation." The reality of two young humans in our home, growing and learning and developing leaps and bounds every day humbles me when I truly stop to consider it. It puts to shame all the professional development initiatives and training sessions. It translates dictionaries of corporate speak into sheer gibberish.

A couple of months ago we built Sylvia her own workbench. She no longer has to balance precariously atop a stool to use the big bench. Like most things, I overbuilt it. But considering Willa has already begun to pound on it too, this bench will see at least 10 years worth of nail holes and glue spills. Sylvia has already grown to appreciate the front vise.

Productivity of the meaningful variety takes on many forms. This was the first family paddle where Sylvia tried to contribute to moving the canoe along. Mostly we all appreciated the blooming lotus flowers and families of ducks moving quickly by for safety.

The subtle curves of a canoe's bilge are naturally suited to children. If I were able to sit on the bottom of the boat and comfortably settle into the rocking motion while others did all the work I think I'd be happy as a clam. By the time we got back to the car, both kids had been lulled to sleep.

One vastly underrated means of production is flying a kite. This we attempted to do one Sunday not long ago. It transformed into a patient study of the wind which would lightly gust for 30 seconds then die again. Sylvia didn't mind. She'd let out 6 feet of string and run all the way across the field and back. Willa gave it a try, too, with limited success and many technical difficulties.

Kiting is hugely satisfying. I've taken to occasionally carrying my small parafoil with me to and from work. A couple of evening stop-offs to test the wind, sit in the grass and watch the daylight wane have been just the ticket for countering the trappings of conventional industry.

Untangling knotted kite string is pleasant when juxtaposed with fixing problems created by others or attempting to right some larger issue that, in reality, truly doesn't matter to one's overall well being. As the breeze picks up and the string uncoils I'm reminded of my cue to simply breathe out and release matters into the blue.

Running Toilet

2009-07-14T21:27:00.000-05:00

Our downstairs toilet mostly behaves. But I have learned to listen. Listen for the water refilling the tank; I've learned the duration of a tank fill by means of a mental stopwatch. It has become most precise.

Our downstairs toilet mostly behaves. Believe me, I've tried slow depressions of the lever, leaning to one side, making a ju-ju grimace and hoping for the best. There is no rhyme. There is no reason.

Our downstairs toilet mostly behaves. It is a finicky, if altogether non-personified, beast. The chain is the culprit. It has a weak link. Yet, I am weaker. That much is apparent.

Our downstairs toilet mostly behaves. When I am here, to hear, I can catch it. Lift the lid and correct that dastardly link -- the last before the flapper. Tonight I thought, Why use a chain at all? Why not a single filament of something reliable like kevlar core fly line backing? Or bailing twine? Or dental floss. Links bind. Why?

Our downstairs toilet mostly behaves. Its chain is defective. But the chain is bound. It is smarter than me. So, I listen.

Welcome Back/Learning to Fly

2009-07-06T10:23:00.002-05:00

Hello, friends. I can take the good natured ribbing when I run into folks at parties and such and they tell me I need to update my blog. I suppose I hadn't realized it's been nearly a month and a half. However, when I received an email from my father-in-law last week checking in to see if everything is okay, I thought, "Self, you really need to spew some words onto the screen."

There's much material available but little time it seems to get it up on the interweb. Although there have been trips and travels and lots of good riding, here are a few snippets that have warmed my heart over the past couple of months.

Sylvia is now officially ripping it up on two wheels, completely unsupported or aided in any way. I'd forgotten how amazing it is to watch someone learn how to ride a bike. There's not just the physical challenges that are overcome, but the greater notion of freedom and independence that person will experience through pedaling. We've been working on dropping curbs, but she's not quite up for that yet.

We enjoyed our first ride together -- one mile up to the neighborhood store where Sylvia got to pick out the fruity drink of her choice. The way home is about halfway downhill. It had not occurred to me that she was less than confident with her coaster brake, preferring instead the foot-down technique that is less effective but highly theatrical. Dad, who had been following, decided it prudent to instead ride in front of Sylvia so the Big Dummy could be used as a net should she roll toward an intersection at terminal velocity.

Sylvia asks to ride constantly. We're lucky to have a parking lot up the alley. We just wheel the bikes up and ride circles together. Round and round and round ...

Meanwhile, back at the ranch ... We finally got around to putting finish on the beautiful porch swing that Sabra built and gave to us for Chistmas. The front porch seems complete again. I can occasionally be seen relaxing in it. That's rare for me to sit in one place for long, but the swing has a certain allure. It whispers, "Sit here a while. Get a little rhythm going. All those to-do's will still be there when you're done."

Riding in circles, talking to porch swings, yielding to the urge to take it easy. Maybe I'm just getting old.

Cyclist Down

2009-05-20T23:36:00.002-05:00

Those are rarely words we cyclists like to read, but they flash across my email too often.

Dennis Dumm is dead. I did not know him. He looks familiar from the press photo that is circulating. I've probably passed him at some time or another. Such is the way of the Mpls bike community.

I know in my last post I said I did not give a shit about bike advocacy. Hopefully, if you actually read my words, you took away that I meant popular bike advocacy. What could pop bike advocacy have done for Dennis? What does it do for me or thousands like us? Another bike trail? Fuck off. A repainting of bike lanes? Too late. You people are missing the point.

Dennis Dumm died doing what he's probably been doing for weeks/months/years -- he was simply riding in the bike lane on Park Ave on his way to work -- where the city told him, through painted lines and signs, he belonged. But there he died. Bike lanes fail, and failed horribly in this instance. That is where pop bike advocacy can kiss my ass, and Dennis's dead ass.

I followed this story throughout the day and there was nothing new to report. Such is the case with mainstream news -- they focus on helmet usage, did a cyclist run a signal ... . Fuck you guys, too. If there are three things I've noticed from years of following bike/car incident reports they are thus: 1) Always report whether the cyclist (although maybe dead) was wearing a helmet; 2) Report whether or not the cyclist was at fault for breaking a traffic violation; and 3) Twist the language so that the cyclist was at fault. You penny-a-dozen journalists seeking the next Connie Chung award may not know you're doing it, but as late as this very night I watched the KSTP footage and heard "the cyclist collided with the semi" ... What?? The cyclist collided, meaning intentionally or not, "collided" with a vehicle some exponential amount heavier than him?? Please.

This brings me to my final point. The driver of the semi will NOT be issued a citation. That patent news phrase chaps my ass drier every time I read it. Excuse me, not issued even a ticket?? This dumb ass fucker cut into a bike lane to make a turn and KILLED someone but he will not be given even a slap on the wrist?

I have been issued one traffic violation, for speeding -- driving over the limit on a desolate section of Hwy 61 just south of Grand Marais. It cost me $135 and I thought it was unfair but I had little recourse to challenge it. I paid it with a smile the next day at the county courthouse and made the clerk's day because I was nice and she'd never had that experience before.

I have plenty of friends in the city who have been issued citations aboard their bikes for rolling through stop signs and lights. But you are telling me, in our American justice system reknowned for fair treatment and due punishment, that a person can KILL someone with their car and not get so much as a ticket?

Where is the justice in that?

A biker rolling a signal does nil damage, but a barely awake semi driver can kill. The former can get the Nth degree; the latter, nothing. Wow.

Dennis Dumm is dead. It was not an "accident," it was the result of an inattentive driver who killed him. End of story. I, personally, am tired of stories ending like this. I am sending a letter to our mayor, to state officials, to national legislators and to the bike advocacy guy that my corporation supposedly pays a lot of money to in order to make things better for cyclists. I suggest you get off your ass and do likewise.

Even if you're not an avid cyclist think about the disparities. A DRUNK driver strikes and kills someone -- s/he is charged to the maximum penalty. A driver strikes and kills a child and there's an outrage. However, it's all too easy to dismiss what happened this morning as an "accident."

Drivers are implicitly trained that all you have to do is say the stock phrases (that have been reported over and over in the media): "I didn't see her/him"; "I wasn't even aware something had happened." But, hello, driver, if you'd have been talking to your significant other on the cell phone you'd have heard it; if it had been your favorite team on the sports radio cast you'd have been listening. Accident, no. Negligence, certainly. Murder, yes. You have control, or should maintain control, over everything you do in your car. That is the implication of DWI, but the principle is thrown out the window as long as someone is "sober."

I maintain that double standard must be breached and eradicated.

Branching widely, where are you pro-lifers when things like this happen to adults? Could it be that you're only pro-life when it involves babies, and not adults or death-row inmates or any of the multitude others who "deserve" to die for misjudgments or poor choices? Hypocrites. Prove my judgment otherwise, please.

People are dying. The environment is wilting. Much is askew with the law but nothing is being done about it. EVERYONE deserves this chance to speak up.

Tempered Thoughts

2009-05-14T06:50:00.000-05:00

My blahg has undergone a bit of a metamorphosis from primarily a cycle-centric rant about the thrills and spills of daily life aboard a bike to a series of essays about family and expanding interests. I'm still on my bike, every day. I'm still thinking while I ride. I've been riding consistently for long enough now that perhaps I've chilled out a bit. And the other reality is I just take less time than in the past to sit at a keyboard and work it all out.

Last night I perused a recent edition of the Southwest Journal, a neighborhood rag that presents moderately insightful, if decidedly terse, coverage of the happenings in and around southwest Mpls. Mostly it seems to be chock full o' airbrushed ads for services I'd never patronize nor could ever afford. Our new residence is not included in this geographic area, but the issue caught my eye because it promised an interview with three Mpls "bike experts" concerning the state of cycling in the city. Gene O was pictured and I consider him a bonafide bike guru. The other two cats I didn't know from Adam.

Gene was Gene, camo Swobo hat and all. One guy looked like a pretty typical enthusiast -- screaming yellow attire and lycra toe covers gave that away. The dude front and center looked like a typical Wedge-dwelling, starving-artist MCAD student in thrift-store trendy duds, riding a 70's junker with no helmet. Turns out he's the "official" one of the group, the Mpls Non-Motorized Pilot Program Coordinator something or other. Go figure. (Hope you got a nice note from your boss about your stellar job representin'.)

I won't go into the article since it seemed to ask the typical questions. But as I was reading it something personally profound occurred to me: While not long ago I thought bike advocacy was my calling, right now I don't give a shit. Now that may sound harsh, but give me a minute.

I said I wouldn't go into the article but I'll mention one of the things that came up -- regulation. The idea, of course, is one of creating legitimacy through licensure and training. The inevitable result is fees and bureaucracy. Register the bike, license the rider and legitimacy will follow. Hold cyclists accountable to the (motorist created) rules of the road. I think many of us all know the intended cycle, certainly no pun intended.

This was the point where I had my slight epiphany. Advocacy means fighting for recognition, "fair treatment" or some legally protected notion of acceptance. When I ride my bike, sure I want to be accepted as a rightful user of the road. I want drivers to honor my place in a lane. I want to live -- get to work and do a good job, get home later and drink a beer, see my family and start a new project in the woodshop. I also want drivers to understand I am a different kind of vehicle, with a different vantage point, a different acceleration potential and a vastly different potential for inflicting harm upon others.

But you know what else I want to do? I want to have fun. I want to enjoy what I regard as one of the last vestiges of freedom readily available to everyone in our culture. I want to hop curbs and grab the sidewalk to beat traffic. I want to withhold my middle finger and instead pass that car who just buzzed me at the next light. I want to be faster and smarter and prove a point that I'm getting somewhere when those caged fucks in a car are stuck in a wallow of their own creation and demise.

But let's get back to freedom. I'd pay if it came down to it because I'm fortunate enough to be able to pay. But I resent with every ounce of bile in my body the notion that cyclists should have to pay to ride their bikes. What more ludicrous idea could there be? Our society is steeped in the idea that everyone should "pay to play." The cyclists I pass on the Lakes trails could certainly be beholden to that. But the folks I pass on the inner city streets are just doing what everyone around the world has the right to do -- get somewhere faster than on foot. I don't care if you landed 3 DUI's or haven't been granted a green card. More power to you -- ride a bike. And, brothers and sisters, ride with the freedom from governmental regulation and bureaucracy.

I'm not stuck on advocacy anymore because I think popular advocacy is missing the point. The point, to me, is why do we need to spend billions on new trails and bike lanes when cyclists already have a right to the road? I'm not opposed to greater bike-specific infrastructure but the point is we've let cars overrun our roads and drivers overrun our culture for far too long. Enough.

Quit saying bike paths and regulation will solve the whoas of the transportation cyclist. What will solve those whoas is a combination of factors. Ticketing cyclists for slipping through a stop sign; requiring them to pass a test or license their bikes will not, however. I've traveled enough around the globe to know that what works in other countries is placing the onus mutually on all users of the road. But the lion's share of the burden falls on motorists whose vehicles have the irrevocable power to mame and kill with one quick misjudgment.

Potato Chips

2009-05-14T01:14:00.002-05:00

I love potato chips. If they're in the house I eat 'em up like they're W's latest out-of-office conspiracy. I love potato chips and that's why I rarely buy them.

I once knew a guy who couldn't stand potato chips. But he was addicted to heroin and used to bang it like a skeet shooter set loose on a pheasant farm. He's dead now.

I never knew that guy. But I love potato chips.

Long live you freaks who don't eat potato chips.

Hey, Fleck, Why So Many Clamps?

2009-05-13T12:50:00.006-05:00

You answer that question, smart gal. (Insert appropriate alternate gender expression here: guy.)

Rite of Spring

2009-05-06T13:28:00.004-05:00

It's really spring in Minnesota. For many people the most important thing that kicks off this time of year is Garage Sale Season. Last weekend may have been the official start, in our neighborhood anyway. The Bryn Mawr Garage Sale Festival was in full swing Saturday and Sunday. Our normally quiet community was transformed into a chaotic frenzy of drivers circling like vultures, hunting for parking spots. They were joined by folks from all over the city crawling across lawns and up alleys in search of deals.

I let April talk me into accompanying the family into the milieu. We set out on foot for downtown Bryn Mawr. En route I convinced Sylvia we should take a short detour down a bank and along the railroad tracks. We quickly discovered that it was no shortcut at all but it did allow us to explore some of the urban "nature" around our home -- mostly reclaimed industrial and rail corridors that border Bassett Creek. We found a railroad spike (big excitement for a 3 year old). I had to carry Sylvia across the trestle over the water. But back on solid ground she jumped at my request to lead out and show me the way. We climbed back onto pavement into a cul-de-sac and found Mom and Willa at the first sale on the street.

Now, maybe all the good stuff went fast. When we first arrived I saw some potential and was hopeful that I'd stumble upon that unique old handtool or some other item that would really shout "Buy me!" Nope. As my patience wore thin and my hunger grew, I saw only junk, crap and more useless trash that should have been merchandised in a garbage can rather than on a sale table. But we plugged on, stopping briefly to refuel with corndogs and lemonade.

I didn't even bother thinking about what was in this decadent treat, but I couldn't miss what was dripping out of it. I had a small oil spill on the sidewalk at my feet.

Eventually I reached my breaking point at precisely the moment Mom was no where to be found and Sylvia announced she had to go potty. Impossibly long lines at the portable facilities portended a soggy disaster. I grabbed the stroller and marched toward home. April could figure it out.

She caught up before long. Exiting the throngs of deal-crazed corndoggers, I felt the homicidal desire melt away. We were able to coach Sylvia in the ways of discreet urban urination (a most valuable life skill) and she relieved herself under a bridge no more than 100ft from a crowded yard, but as private as our own bathroom.

Back home the kids ran around in the warm sun. April and I felt somewhat exhausted, but we hadn't come away totally empty-handed. At the third garage we snatched up a brand new Bialetti espresso pot complete with milk frothing pitcher -- unopened -- for $5. April stoked it and within 15 minutes we were sipping excellent beverages. April tried on some new, used clothes. Sylvia matched costume jewelry to her new tutu. Willa just bee lined it to the sandbox where she was happy as a clam.

Yep, it's officially spring, and so far it's been pretty awesome.

Why Do I Love Trips to Iowa?

2009-04-28T19:19:00.002-05:00

Okay, so if you read my blog much you know I might not be the world's greatest poster child for automobile use. However, I can occasionally concede to the advantages of using a car. One of those concessions: I love a good road trip. Iowa City is a voyage we make 3-5 times per year to visit April's family. It's just far enough away to be a viable road trip. Believe me, when the kids get cranked up and whiny, we're all glad the drive is no longer than the 5-6 hours it typically takes us.

Why do I love road trips? I've always had a nostalgia for the open road. Early in life I wanted to be a truck driver. Honestly, that was one of my first career fascinations. I collected realistic toy replicas of tractor trailers. I imagined weeks away driving across the country. I wore plaid shirts and cowboy boots and a trucker hat or two.

This twisted part of my psyche means I can somehow find beauty in the starkness of a slimy truck stop with its bare gravel and dusty parking lots, tacky stickers and unimaginable apparel for sale on overstuffed carousel racks. I actually like the smell of diesel fuel. One thing I would never be able to get over is the food, however. It can be a bit exciting (yet gastrointestinally devastating) to sustain oneself with food obtained along an interstate corridor for a couple of days. If I had to eat it consistently I'd be tempted to jump in front of a truck rather than drive one.

There are other facets of road tripping that capture me. While exploring a full-blown subculture peopled with a colorful cast of characters who fascinate and occasionally appall can provide a glimpse of an America quite unlike my day to day reality, I prefer to focus heavily on the poetic side of the trip's appeal. I love the singular motivation of those involved, the desire for achieving a common destination, the silence and also the deep conversations that can occur over the course of hours spent driving. Such is always the case when we head off to Iowa.

Early in our relationship, April and I set off on a nearly three-week-long odyssey beginning with a stop in Iowa. Then we pushed on to the North Carolina coast and back through Tennessee. During that trek we canoed across Fontana Lake and camped on Hazel Creek in the Great Smoky Mountains. We sipped champagne and rang in the New Year around a campfire. The rest of the time we shared the extended cab of a Dodge diesel pick up which towed a 20 ft box trailer. The trip was technically work, delivering canoes and picking up supplies. Our accommodations ranged from friends' floors to plush hotel rooms on the beach (off-peak rates, mind you). We ate homecooked meals and foraged truck stop buffets. I introduced April to Tennessee's finest chain restaurant -- Cracker Barrel. All the while we had a grand time. We'd only been dating about 6 months but we knew something had to be right if we could embrace spontaneous adventures, live in such close quarters for that long and not hate each other afterward.

Since then I've had no doubt that April is the best traveling partner I've ever met. We can't indulge our time the way we used to (taking the kids along in the car has hindered the ability to have long philosophical discussions), but there is a silver lining. We're so busy running in our own directions a lot of the time that a road trip is a way to put us in the same place, to give each of us the captive audience with the other that we so often lack now that we have a family. When the kids are both asleep and the car is quiet it's just like old times. And I can be reminded how in love I am with the sharply intelligent, beautiful woman I married. Yeah, she's the one who continues to put up with me.

Now that I'm all teary-eyed, roll the picture!

The Fleck girls having fun on the playground at the Straight River rest area in southern MN. This place has one of the weirdest buildings I've ever seen at a rest stop -- sort of like some throwback to a 70s arcade. By the way, if you never read the bronze historical markers sometimes found along interstate highways you ought to every once in a while. Frequently they're interesting and while I'm not saying you should believe everything you read you can certainly get some thoughts cogitating in the ole melon. (Did I really know prior to reading a plaque that Le Seuer canned goods, among many others, originated in MN?)

Dad with the girls. Needless to say I am extremely proud to hang out with such happy, healthy children (even though Willa looks like she's getting the Heimlich in this image). The girls constantly remind me I need to lighten up and have more fun.

Here's Willa trying to push her way past Sylvia. She's so young yet we can see many personality distinctions that clearly separate her from her big sister.

Willa in motion. Once she got started on the slide it was tough to get her in the car for the rest of the ride home. She has a sense of adventure that is a bit frightening. We thought Sylvia was daring, but Willa already acts as if three-years' age difference is not going to keep her from doing whatever Sylvia does. For instance, without any prompting she climbed the 7ft tall framework to go down the slide on her own.

More updates to follow shortly. I spent some time last week at the Fruita Fat Tire Festival. Surely that has to be good for a story or two, eh? Later ...

Best Dinner Conversation in a While

2009-04-18T18:46:00.001-05:00

Sylvia: "Dad, didn't you know everyone has a crack in their butt?"

Dad: "Well, that's true ..."

Priceless.

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen ...

2009-04-09T18:46:00.000-05:00

Off to Iowa for Easter weekend with the family far and near. But I couldn't resist one little rant (or two) ...

The evening of my last post (lamenting the return of sun-seeking, half-witted trail users) I was cruising my way home along the Cedar lake Trail at dusk. The light was dwindling but I had little trouble quickly verifying what my eye was sending back to me in the form of an awkward image. Up ahead, gliding in a lurching left-right pattern, arms flailing in a hacking motion of probes stabbing into the pavement, slight forward bend in the torso, eyes fixed down at the ground in front of him was a roller skier. Some like to call them "skeeters." It conjures an image. In the fall I can tolerate this type -- xc ski junkie who is praying for snow to some Saab-driving god of winter. But in the butt crack of early spring, after the slop and snow have barely melted away ... . You folks had a banner ski season this year. Hang up your pseudo-ski implements of supreme trail invasion. Try some cross training. Go ride your bike, for the love of Pete!

Lastly, a shout out to the lovely young lady in her Honda, running the light at Calhoun Commons to make a right turn onto Excelsior this morning. All while text messaging with both hands -- the base of your palms barely controlling the wheel. I'm glad you looked up at me as you went by. Yeah, I busted you. Just drive. Seriously, if you or someone you love TMs while they drive -- slap them and throw their personal communication device into a latrine. Enough said.

Be safe, folks. Watch out for rabid rabbits. Don't eat too many eggs and remember, beer stains rarely wash out of Easter dresses.

Cadbury egg yolks,
Patch

Winter's Legacy

2009-04-01T18:57:00.002-05:00

Yesterday was a challenge in terms of commuting -- mid 30s and rain. Today was much the same except the rain was replaced by pelletized snow. There was a relentless headwind most of the way. I started the ride in a pissy mood and I ended it equally unnerved and almost inexplicably angrier. I met up with a coworker for the last quarter mile and it diffused my frustration a bit as we laughed and commiserated about the wind.

I keep telling myself I'm over the cold, the snow and the wind. I am all but convinced I want to ride in a single layer of clothing. I'm certain I want to enjoy the warm sun we had a couple of weeks ago on a daily basis. I want to sit in the grass at a park and drink beer with friends until dark.

But then I remember the nuisance of warm weather and the trails -- specifically the lakes trails. All of a sudden when the sun shines warm it's as if a faucet full of fitness freaks has been opened wide and they spill all over -- flooding the right lanes, wrong lanes, blading, pedaling, crawling, gaggling, with iPods plugged into their ears, walking dogs, walking boyfriends, chuckling in huge groups of extended family stuffing the whole path during an afterdinner stroll in the wrong direction of flow. And the indignance should you attempt to politely state while rolling by that a walker is in the wrong path. While it might not be in human nature to take correction very elegantly, it seems to especially stress the code of "Minnesota Nice."

I don't hate people. Really. (April most assuredly would disagree at times.) Methinks I am a bit of a curmudgeon. May I make a public confession? I astound myself because my personal spirituality is aligned with one of the most humanistic set of ideals imaginable. But godammit if people behaving mindlessly don't make me sometimes want to join the Manson family circus.

So, winter, you're played. Spring's officially here. However, I welcome your icy grip a while longer. It's rapidly weakening and the wind's teeth cut more like cheap steak knives than freshly broken glass. But hallelujah -- it's enough to keep the soft-skinned, fair weather freaks at bay just a while longer.

Amen.

Fruits of Labor

2009-03-30T09:21:00.007-05:00

All these pretty little curly-twirly things are actually quite useful for something beyond fire tinder. Realizing that it is hardly fun for a 3 year old to stand around while Dad does grown-up things in the shop, last weekend I came up with an idea for Sylvia. It was successful and this weekend she commenced with Phase 3 in the development of her towering sculpture of wood by-products. It started with my buckets full of scrap and a cast-off partial sheet of OSB from a packing crate:

I think they're beautiful, but it turns out to Sylvia the shavings are pretty cool, too. They're not unlike snowflakes -- each one unique -- except they don't melt. This allows her to incorporate their individual shapes into her project. She was giddy sorting through the pile, remarking that certain ones looked like springy-sproings, others like ice cream cones and some like ribbons, bows and flower petals. When we ran out of 2X4 blocks I ripped some more with a handsaw. Sylvia roared with laughter as the chunks exited the bigger hunk, pinging off the garage door behind me.

I was a bit proud of myself since I'd found a creative way to make Mom and daughter happy while simultaneously getting some of my stuff done. Stuff, ya know, like making sure all the clamps are arranged just so. Here's a quick shot Sylvia snapped of me:

Sylvia knows we'll be building her a real bench this spring, so she's started showing more of an interest in acquiring real tools. We got her a small hammer a couple of weeks ago. Since Dad's been toying with planes she wanted to give it a try. I just happened to have a Sylvia-sized hobby plane about 2.5" long that fits her hand quite nicely. She made a few squiggly shavings of her own which promptly stuck to her Hello Kitty gloves.

I was happy to distract her from the sculpture for a bit. Every one of her sessions might be an hour or so of self-contained fun, but it also drains 6-8 ounces of wood glue. That stuff's starting to add up. Good thing I have the gallon jug for refills.

Happy Spring

2009-03-23T19:46:00.002-05:00

I know, I'm a few days late. I was busy soaking in the warm sun. We not only crossed the seasonal line on the calendar, we got the weather to match. It has been amazing. Something I learned quickly after moving here is that Minnesotans love to talk about the weather. I think that is in part because we get some damn fine weather along with the dramatic stuff. Honest, in-your-face weather. "You can't hide anything from your Mom" kinda weather. It can be brutal and it can also be brutally kind. I love it.

My love of weather is a primary reason I like riding my bike so much. You can't hide from the weather on a bike. I realize this is a huge obstacle for some people. It's hard not to exude some level of smug superiority for willingly subjecting my body to the wide range of outdoor elements. I remind myself often that many consider it foolish. Besides, I have a confession. This past winter I drove to work at least one day a week for the latter part of the season. I wanted a break and for the most part it was rewarding. You want to know a weird thing though? I'd predetermine the day I would drive since April doesn't need the car on Wednesdays and Fridays. As if the weather itself were taunting me we'd often get some break in the cold or precip. I estimate I drove on some of the nicest riding days of winter. Go figure.

So all this bragging about weather and I have to admit this morning was vexing -- mid 40s and wind-driven rain. The wind had some sort of sixth sense -- it shifted every time my route changed direction just so it could remain in my face. A co-worker who also pedaled this morning confirmed it. The wind has a bee in its bonnet for bikers.

In other more important news: Willa Fleck turned 1 year old today! We hosted a wee shindigger yesterday in her honor. April made a wonderful cake. The kids played and fell and played some more. Willa made out like a bandit and scored some nice stuff including a rocking moose from IKEA. I got to do what I love to do at parties -- hang out back by the grill, roasting tasty bits and drinking beer. I actually had a couple of friends wielding planes in the shop by the end of it all. It was a fun time. Livin' the dream, as a friend of mine is prone to say.

Maybe it is livin' the dream.

Snow's on its way tomorrow. Happy spring!

Socialist Pot Smoking Atheist Does Not Believe Obama is the Messiah

2009-03-20T22:05:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I want to ask, because I wonder, how much is too much? I realized lately that I ponder this question a lot: How often do we all take ourselves too seriously?

How much is too much? Whether we drink more than others think we ought to. Whether some athlete chooses to smoke a little pot. Whether we place stickers on bikes that scare law enforcement in an age of post-protectionism and terror. Whether humor is bawdy or off-color and just happens to offend someone because they don't like a certain word or phrase. Whether we think republicans are evil or hippies are lazy. Whether some confused woman wants, through artificial means, to exponentially increase the US population and the burden on taxpayers.

I ask another basic question (and I'm not trying to be flippantly libertarian or quasi-anarchist): People, when did we have to start taking everything and ourselves so seriously? I think this phenomenon is a manifestation of the ultimate kind of ego -- an ego of national, societal and cultural proportions.

I will admit there's one thing that needs to be taken very seriously -- as a culture we need to seriously lighten up and learn how to laugh at this preposterous construction we regard as absolute and worthy of any and all sacrifice to preserve. Lighten up. It (your/our reality) is not worth all that. Perception is fickle. Perception is subjective. Your view is yours and no one else knows what the hell you're looking at.

Rest assured of a few things: The Communists are at bay. Obama is not a fascist. Socialism is not bad and chances are you ought to learn more about it before current headlines or comments by overstuffed talk show Republicans cause you to shit your pants. You are not the only one who "gets it," but you are the weirdo you worried you'd become. So what?

Questioning is not insulting. Criticism is not hatred. Do you know the difference? Perhaps you need to educate yourself. And perhaps you ought to adjust your tone. Blame never got any soul off a sinking ship.

Twisted Friend

2009-03-18T18:34:00.000-05:00

I'm going to the doctor
To ask and see
Whether removing my
Memory's a possibility
If the answer is yes
I'll beg him please
To cut mine out and wrap it tight
Then ship it in a box
Labelled "Atlantic City"
Oh yeah, I'll ask him to help me forget
All about a band called
The Hold Steady

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

2009-03-09T07:36:00.000-05:00

I was a cute, if accident prone, kid. The year was 1974 and I was 13 months old. This photo was taken shortly following what was perhaps the most formative injury of my life -- the knife accident that caused blindness in my right eye. I was fortunate. The hunting knife that fell from the shelf of my father's gun rack was over a foot long. It could have killed me; at the least it could have sliced surrounding skin on my face and caused further scarring. But in characteristic fashion of large life events there is some sliver of bizarre luck lining the overall gruesomeness, tempering the stultifying reality of gross misfortune. This large knife fell from a couple of feet above me. The blade cut into my eyeball only, severing the cornea across my pupil and part of the iris. Somehow that was it. The hundreds of tiny stitches put things back together and although I could still sense light and some movement I would never again see with my right eye.

My tone is not meant to sound dramatic. The accident was simply something I lived with. It happened so early in life that I adapted. Some people don't see how when they perform a quick test -- cover one eye and try to walk a straight line or drive down the road. You can't accurately draw a comparison to losing an eye as an adult. I never fully developed stereoptic vision. I learned to compensate for a lack of peripheral vision on my right side. While 3-D movies do nothing for me, I can think of little else that I have been held back from doing. It never seemed like such a big deal, consciously anyway.

In the grand scheme that's true since it speaks to my reality. However, it does not take into account the impact on my family, specifically my Dad. He was there when it happened. Fresh from a hunting trip, he bumped the rack while hanging his rifle. He looked on in horror as the knife lay on the floor and I screamed and cried in shock. He drove us to the hospital and stood by as the medical personnel strapped me down in order to evaluate my injury and treat me. He was questioned by social services, asked to explain why I got into so many accidents requiring medical attention, the implication being that he was not a good father. I'm sure he questioned himself. He was not a bad father and he was certainly not abusive toward me. I just had some karma to burn and that was no fault of his.

My Dad and I did not part on the best of terms. He migrated from this life three years ago. The year prior we'd made up from a past quarrel that lasted several years of stubborn silence. We never resolved the dispute but agreed to put the separation behind us. It was awkwardly sincere and empty all at once. Despite the lack of resolution I'm thankful I had the chance to see him in the hospital. I read Psalms as well as Buddhist scripture to him. I squeezed his hand and told him I loved him because I did. I had a profound respect for the fact he was facing his own karma, encountering a pivotal moment of existence. I left Tennessee to return to work in Minnesota. He died a few weeks later at home, peacefully I'm told, while he slept.

After years of introspection and working with questions/issues I like to summarize my relationship with my father by saying we had a number of irreconcilable differences in ideology. It's a long story and I don't even understand all the parts of it. I have my accounts, my side of it. It's sad because he thought we were the best of friends, yet we weren't. He thought I should respect him simply because he was my father, but I wouldn't blindly pledge my allegiance based on blood. Perhaps he expected me to proudly pass on the Woodruff name, but I haven't. I wanted things he seemed unwilling to grant me -- honesty and openness; admission of guilt and hypocrisy; and concerted attempts at change.

One thing I never expected from my father was to bear the responsibility for my eye accident, but I fear he carried that weight every day. It's quite possible that was a larger obstacle in our relationship than I could have known at the time. In short, I believe I am being granted some inkling of wisdom into one of the most profound mysteries of life -- another side/sides of what we personally interpret as reality.

When I sustained my injury I was not much older than Willa:

I think about both our girls and the amount of concern I carry for their health and well being. As parents April and I are relatively laid back about the falls and crashes along with the resulting bruises and blood. But there have been those times when it's impossible not to imagine the worst (e.g. Willa shattering a full length closet mirror by pulling it away from the wall onto herself). Adrenaline races and the heart pumps in those moments.

I've felt that rush of fear enough times to have played the possible outcomes over in my mind. One of those is that we'd have to run to the hospital or call an ambulance. I hope we never have to do so and I'm not obsessed by the thought. But I feel I have personal history that compells me to remain aware of the possibility, to ask the question "How would it affect me?" The short answer is I believe I'd be devastated and I would feel responsible, or at least inadequate because I wasn't able to protect Sylvia or Willa from harm. Is that natural? Yes. Is it good? Not necessarily. It's complex though. If you are a parent and you're reading this you'll most likely understand.

I'm trying not to grasp too tightly. Discovering that old photo in a neglected file folder just made me begin to think. While I do not regret the stance I took with my father and I do not believe my views to have been unreasonable, I am remiss when I imagine his pain. If I could have had context, could even have known a fraction of the guilt he carried for my accident, I would have told him openly and honestly: It was not your fault; I don't hold you responsible.

You were a good father, Dad. I love you.

I'd Have Gotten Away With It, Too, If It Weren't for You Fettling Kids

2009-03-01T13:35:00.002-06:00

"Fettle?" you ask. Yes, fettle. Fettle the metal. A fetish for fettling. Fettle -- what is this you mean? As best I can tell it is a slightly more pretentious and arcane way of saying "tune;" tune in the sense of making something work better, optimizing its performance. "It" is of course a plane, a hand plane. Yes, I'm still stuck on that and this might very well grow into one of those annoying posts. And fettle is a real word, if you're British. Or a woodworking geek. Or both.

This is Part II of my plane post. You might remember the first back in early November. Well, I wrapped it up in December around Xmas. Indulge me, for this is the rest of the story, so to speak.

Now tuning planes isn't all about cloistering myself in the garage (but at times that's not an entirely bad benefit). Even though it was 5-10 degrees I was able, courtesy of a propane heater, to warm up the spot at my bench enough to spend a few hours at a time in the garage. Add a properly layered system of dress and a stock of canned goods (no ice needed) and you have a recipe for some seriously contemplative decompression and down time.

I'd saved the largest of my planes for last -- a Stanley #5 jack plane that's about 10 years old. Not a huge plane, but the sole is 14" long and about 2.5" wide. From the factory it looked as if it had been ground with a 50-grit wheel wielded by a preschooler. I had no idea what I'd find, I just knew I was in for a lot of work if one thing wasn't readily apparent after initial sanding -- at the least the front of the sole (toe), front edge of the mouth (blade opening) and rear of the sole (heel) ought to be coplanar. The rest, my research had told me, was negligable and mainly cosmetic depending upon how ugly I didn't mind the plane looking. I'd spent 8-10 hours sanding planes up to this point and I was perfectly happy to take the minimalist approach to getting this big beast tuned just well enough to do passable work.

A piece of long, heavy gray metal can look relatively flat until you start sanding it on a sheet of sandpaper backed by flat glass. With polished high spots revealed you can really see incongruities in the surface. After 30 minutes on 80 grit paper, I had the majority of the rough grooves sanded away and could see clearly, to my dismay, that there were three pronounced low spots -- front and back of the mouth and midway back in the sole. The middle of the sole doesn't really matter, but the area in front of the mouth is where the wood meets the iron (blade) and a flat contact patch is essential for smooth strokes and clean results.

Is this making sense yet? Are you still awake out there?

I really couldn't believe it -- I'd have to sand the entire sole until I removed enough material to get the mouth in line with the heel and toe of the plane. The only way this could have happened at the factory is if the machine, or person guiding the grinder, had paused at the mouth of the plane and allowed the curved wheel to dig a furrow around the slot. Only three possible things to do: 1) Ditch the plane; 2) Relegate it to occasional use for less critical tasks; 3) Keep sanding. Options 1 and 2 meant I'd be in for a replacement plane. Option 3 represented the noble path. I had plenty of time and a pardon from April for not being indoors with the rest of the family, so I picked option 3. (No, I won't get into the particulars of why I had a pardon and did not want to be indoors with the rest of the family.)

I sanded. I wore out all my 80 grit paper. Fresh from Home Depot and armed with the contractor's pack of 80 grit, I sanded some more. I envisioned myself transformed into the Sisyphus of sanding. Those grooves sometimes looked like they were getting shallower. Then sometimes I could swear they weren't changing at all. Keep in mind the goal is to keep the entire sole flat, so it's not like I could hand sand the spots with a piece of paper, or grab the belt sander for quick material removal. I simply had to patiently hold the massive hunk of metal perfectly flat while removing microscopic amounts of iron at a time, all the while trying to work down to a point that looked like a millimeter or more, but in reality was no more than a hundredth of an inch or so. But 1/100th spread over approximately 35 sq inches is a lot of material -- especially if it's cast iron.

I eventually completed my sanding odyssey, but not in one sitting or even two. I had to let it go. Beer, patience and time eventually run out. Sometimes they ran out at the same time. The sole of that plane is not perfectly polished, but it is better than "good enough." I went ahead and completely disassembled it to sand and fit the frog. I have a bit more to do, but I am pleased to say I am almost completely finished with the project of fettling my planes. That's okay, you can say tune. But don't dare drop your pinky when you sip your tea.

Are you finished yet? Why does this matter, Fleck? Well, other than satisfying my anal-retentive desire for order and sating a certain yearning for solitary rote tedium, it means a lot. First, I'm prepared. When the weather does warm up enough to begin the growing list of projects I want to tackle I'll be able to launch into work with tools that have been tuned. My Dad was not always the best in practice, but he taught me well the theorem. And it goes something like this -- if you own a tool you should: A) Know how to use it and B) Know how to maintain it, i.e. make sure it is properly prepared to engage in the task(s) it was designed to do. To accomplish that you really have to get to know a tool.

During this process I learned tons of new information that I can use to truly bore party guests. (It's working already.) When I started this project last fall I didn't know much about planes and I didn't like that. I don't like knowing that I don't know. I knew that many folks rave about what can be done with planes, but I hadn't a clue how to make a plane perform at that level. If I own something I want to know how it works, as well as be able to maintain it and keep it in top form. (Okay, maybe that doesn't apply to DVD players or electronics, but you get the picture.) Perhaps that's one key reason I dig bikes so much -- they're easy to get, simple to work on and build with a little practice.

Another important thing I learned -- buying new hand planes is a crap shoot. These are remnants of a bygone era when hand building things was the only way. Even though power tools do lots of cool stuff, there is still much to be said for owning and being able to use planes and other manual edge tools. They're faster in some cases since they don't require set-up and they remove deliberate, gradual amounts of material -- meaning one slip up rarely means you wrecked your whole project. But companies like Stanley, whose planes were king for decades, only make the most popular sizes of the myriad they used to produce. They've also progressively skimped on production standards -- eschewed tight tolerances, replaced wood with plastic, cheapened the whole product -- until now you're left with an assembly that requires hours of adjustment to work properly.

Perhaps I also confronted a lesson in economics. The #5 plane I just finished tuning cost me about $60. I have put at least 6 hours of work into it. Granted, it is work that I enjoy in some bizarrely twisted way, but what is my time worth? It makes the seemingly exorbitant $250-$300 price tag of a precision-built, modern American or Canadian made version of that plane seem much less outrageous. You can drop your jaw at that price. I once dated a hairdresser who bought a $300 pair of scissors. I didn't get it but it made so much sense to her.

Another option exists -- antique planes. I found and purchased a couple on Ebay this winter. They were cheaper than their modern versions but despite their age the machining and fittings are much tighter. The #3 bench plane I bought was probably produced shortly after our house was built (in the early part of the last century); the #7 perhaps around WWII. How cool is that -- tools that would have been antiques when my Dad started his career as a carpenter still fully functional and capable of producing quality results?

Due to some user-induced errors involving my waterstones and sharpening I was unable to try out these two old planes until last night. Yep, it was freezing in the garage. No matter, I clamped my test board to the bench -- a 1" thick plank of slightly figured cherry -- and set out to true and square the rough edge. With some dialing of the cut depth I zeroed in on the payoff -- thin, web-like shavings billowing out of the sole.

I don't know what else to say. Perhaps some will get it when I say the feeling was like that of driving my Bug after I'd just rebuilt the engine, or landing my first trout on a fly I'd tied, or noticing I just rolled 4K miles on a bike I assembled and maintain myself. I guess I get a little hung up on connections and I lament how technology has erased the perceived need for direct connection with many parts of our lives.

Make something yourself. Perhaps something useful. Craft it well. Don't worry, honesty provides its own embellishment. Be well.

Guilty

2009-02-26T16:19:00.002-06:00

I guess I had no idea so many others like me also liked these nifty things. If you have the same skin (or skine) condition, bookmark this site as a reminder that we are all dorks. Then laugh at yourself. Smear something on your clothes and laugh again. Ha! You're hilarious. Thanks to Sara for the tip to re-acquaint myself with this precious blog.

Holy shit ... was my last post actually the 10th? Sorry to the folks who actually read my blog. (And I mean sorry you have nothing better to do with your time.) Perhaps I've just been basking in the self-important glow of friends actually talking to me in person and saying things like, "Update yer damn blog, Fleck."

More news to come. We just had about 4" of snow in as many hours. Spring's a-comin'!

Dad's Death March

2009-02-10T17:08:00.007-06:00

A friend invited some folks out to Medicine Lake in Plymouth (NW of downtown Mpls) last weekend to take in the escapades of the Art Shanty Projects. I had a list of things I wanted to get done around the house. I always have a list. It's a long one, getting longer most all the time, and I'm beginning to understand it's never gonna go away. Most every weekend some spontaneous social possibility presents itself. This icy diversion sounded like fun for the whole family. Besides, not being a native Minnesotan, I don't make enough opportunities to go walk on frozen lakes.

Saturday was the day. Temperatures were predicted to climb into the 40s. There was sun, so I figured we should all ride out. I vacillated a bit thinking perhaps we should drive. I knew the commitment to ride meant this would be an all day affair. To hell with it -- load 'em up! An hour or so after beginning the process we had two kids dressed for the weather, tires inflated, a trailer hitched and some meager supplies packed for a jaunt to the lake.

Smiles ...

... the crying and screaming had not yet begun.

I knew the way to Medicine Lake. I'm great with directions. Most of the time I can accompany someone to a destination once and retrace the route there later without much of a problem. However, not unlike a Zip file, my mind compresses certain packets of data. I sometimes forget precise mileage markers and, therefore, have been known to state a destination is 1/2 to 2/3 its actual distance. True to form, I thought we'd be pedaling about 5-6 miles. It turned out to be a hair over 9 one way.

I may have mentioned Medicine Lake was slightly north and very west of our home. We had a blustery west wind to boggle our thoughts and test our nerves on the way out as well. I pedaled the Dummy with Burley in tow leaving April the freedom of an empty bike. Sylvia really wanted to ride on the snap deck for the first part of the trip. She made it about 5 miles before her hands were cold from gripping the bars. She climbed into the now cramped trailer with Willa. Kicking and crying commenced not long afterward.

I pulled over within 2 miles of our destination to wait for April to catch up and attempt to calm Sylvia. I announced some smartass thing like: "Dad just wants hearty folks who are up to the challenge -- is that too much to ask?!" My twisted sense of humor has always related a bit to the mock motivational phrase: The beatings will continue until morale improves. Morale rarely improves.

Are we having fun yet?

Now, I don't know if you've spent much time on lakes in liquid or solid form. But you might think it is a relatively windless day until you park your butt near or on a lake in Minesota. We arrived, kids howling from beneath the zipped canopy of the Burley. April was certain they were frostbitten, flesh withering as we wasted a perfectly good Saturday chasing one of dad's great ideas. The scene at the lake was a chaotic maelstrom of wind and crowds and ice and crying and short tempers. But beyond the shore was a low budget carnival that begged to be explored. Some sort of fun was being had by those freaks out there. Finally we locked the bikes and moved out onto the lake, faces to the wind, unsure where we'd find Linden's shanty.

April had other things on her mind. Certain we had a dire fate ahead if we did not escape the barren, wind-swept tundra, she made a beeline to the nearest open shanty to get Willa out of the elements. I wheeled Sylvia around the festival in the detached Burley. It felt warm to me and I don't think I was just being the hard-nosed dad either. It was a fine February day for Minnesota.

Around the perimeter of the festival a track of sheer ice had been plowed. We'd missed the bike race, but an art car parade was kicking off. Folks meandered as casually as if this were a grassy park on a summer's day. Spectators came dressed at all levels of ill-preparedness, but it was fun for them I suppose. Besides, they could just run to their heated cars after sampling enough of the quirkiness.

Yes, dear readers from points south, cars on the ice. Every year news headlines detail a few that punch through lakes around Minnesota. But for the most part I'm told it's quite safe.

This is not as safe and certainly not up to fire code.

Miscellaneous miscellany.

The line to the sauna. The shanties were quite diverse. I didn't go into many, but the sauna shanty did catch my eye. Maybe next year I'll indulge (since I forgot to pack my swimsuit ... I am ever the modest one).

We huddled out of the wind at PL's place for a while before deciding to load up for the trip home. The temperature had dropped and clouds hid the sun. But we had a tailwind to help us along. Sylvia began the journey with nonstop crying from the Burley. I imagined the police stopping us after some confused bystander dialed 911 because our kid was frantically screaming over and again: "Somebody help me!" (Tone and emphasis like that of a stabbing victim.) We rolled on though and I only had to stop once more to convince Sylvia to calm down. Willa sat there stone still and silent, possibly because she was smashed into the trailer's side by her bigger, more boisterous sister and physically couldn't move.

April attempts to raise a frozen finger while the band played on from the ice beyond.

Two cute kid sardines, safe at home at last. They were both true adventurers. I'm always amazed how intrepid our kids really are when we put them in weird situations. One day they'll get to try and work out the trauma with their therapists.

In all it was a fun day, a genuine family expedition. I was reminded how much work it used to be getting one kid ready for a ride. Getting the whole family ready is a serious task indeed. And although there might be some screaming, tears and cursing along the way, you can still make some fond memories.

Sylvia took this last shot from the trip, minutes after Mom took a spill in an icy puddle. Happy times.

Never forget people -- these thoughts are your Golden Memories. We are all truly living in the Salad Days. Don't spoil 'em with Hidden Valley. Have some class, people. These are organic greens after all.

Peace be with you. Even if you're an ass.

Good night.

I'm Going Gray

2009-02-09T12:15:00.003-06:00

This is NOT today. Temps are predicted to crest 40F. We're actually getting (liquid) drizzle.

Calm down. It ain't spring yet.

26 Out of 30 Ain't Bad

2009-02-03T20:19:00.006-06:00

No, I'm not talking about my cyclocross placings last season. I recently read a short piece on a survey that included Mpls. Apparently some people were asked the equivalent of "Would you ever consider living in city 'X'?" The 612 rated 26 of 30, besting only such dubiously lauded burgs as Cleveland, Cincinnati, Detroit and one more that slips my mind. The jist of the story though (since it was written by our local paper) was that we Minneapolitans live here because we like it. Profound, eh?

As overly simplified as that may sound, it does ring true. There is a lure to this place that defies logic. Especially when doors freeze shut and sidewalks take on the semblance of skating rinks for weeks at a time.

I fell in love with Mpls while here on business in the early spring of 1999. I knew nothing of the winters, but I thought they sounded fun. And they have been. Nowadays I'm kinda proud that 82% of surveyed respondents said "No way, Jose" when asked if they'd live here. I'm happy only 16% said they'd consider it. I feel our fair city has a nice population balance. This survey indicates we don't need to worry about a surge of new neighbors anytime soon. Ha! If only Portland could be so lucky ... (Geez, Patch ... you had to sneak in a Portland slam didn't ya?)

While some might think we're certifiably crazy to call Minneapolis home, I'd simply have to respond there's something I haven't quite figured out how to explain just yet, so I won't even try. But, trust me, it's there because if it wasn't I/we wouldn't be.

I now humbly submit a short list in photos of just a few of the reasons I dig Minneapolis MN in winter:

Snow that hangs around long enough you can actually study the individuality of flakes.

Primo, baby. Now made in New Ulm, but that's still pretty local. Besides, they left the big ass sign downtown on the river. Like the beer, it's a landmark.

Shoveling pathways in order to hang out in the back yard.

No need to put the beer on ice. (Artificially made ice, that is.)

Roasting chestnuts for the first time and having absolutely no doubt that it's seasonally apropos. (This photo was taken at Xmess.)

I was in Memphis TN a few weeks ago where we were treated to some significantly warmer weather than here. I was in England last week where it resembled spring with "warm" 40 degree rain. I got back on the bike in MN this week for 0F commutes, numb toes and a couple of fantastic beardsicles. But I came back. Man I love this place.

Kids

2009-01-08T14:07:00.003-06:00

I don't think I've said it yet, but Happy New Year!

It often occurs to me I'm one lucky guy. I have a lot of great friends. Thank you all for putting up with me. Plus, I have these wonderful women in my life. They put up with me even more:

Sylvia at 9 months. (Note matching socks and sexy Mom in background.)

Willa at 9 months.

Willa and Sylvia working together at Christmas. Let's hope they get along most of the time throughout their lives.

Sylvia proving that safety is never out of style.

Be well. Be safe. But remember it isn't always best to play it safe. Remember to have some fun in 2009.

Why Bother?

2009-01-06T19:01:00.003-06:00

I was thinking on my ride in this morning. I was wondering how many motorists who saw me or passed me had possibly read Joe Soucheray's rant linked in my previous post. I'm not saying I felt like some sort of target, but the whole deal kinda got to me. I tried to use the hour and ten minutes of sunny 20 degree riding (actually quite pleasant this morn) to sort it out. It didn't take long before I arrived at a couple of conclusions.

It doesn't offend me that people don't "get it." I don't expect anyone to get winter riding, particularly if their lifestyle choices include chronic reliance on an automobile and an unabashed love of climate control. Winter biking defies logic to some, but it transgresses any measure of entitled judgment to say that winter bikers are stupid or moronic. Riding a bike in the winter is no more dangerous than walking, driving or snowmobiling. But to those who have no context and choose to simply pass judgment I'm certain it makes little sense. To me and many of my winter biking friends, however, getting in a car every morning to go to work makes no sense at all. Are we even then? No. There are many valid sides to an issue. Unfortunately, hate mongering has no patience for other viewpoints.

Some unnecessary nastiness aside --the flagrant name calling, as well as belligerently fanning the flames of drivers' ire -- the issue that gnaws at me most is the utter disregard for life expressed in the piece. There is no respect or decency in saying that you'd run over a cyclist, squash them like a bug and leave the body for the authorities to find. This is sickening. It is disgraceful that someone would publish it on a "news" site. It is equally disgraceful that someone could read it and go, "Yeah! Right on." But I'm sure many frustrated drivers did just that.

Bypassing bikers' existences as breathing human beings, equating us with bugs, is simply dismissing our presence as a supreme nuisance -- a blight on the otherwise sanitary and urbane life of a driver, as it is implied. The reality is quite the opposite, as drivers are dependent on a web of expensive factors (economic, physical, emotional, environmental) that must be maintained in order for them to operate their machines. It might allow you to travel in style and avoid the elements, but in a grand sense operating a car is far from refined.

If you are a driver who truly views bikers as a nuisance, you'd be much better off directing your energies thusly: 1) Convince legislators to appropriate more money for bike lanes and paths; 2) Call St Paul/Mpls street departments and request that they thoroughly plow lanes to allow more room for bikes on your "favorite driving route," or request that they plow thoroughly on secondaries. (All they have to do is get a copy of the Twin Cities bike map.) One reason drivers notice winter bikers is because quite often the peaceful secondary routes that normally keep us out of your hair are hardly plowed and much less bikeable in winter. These approaches do nothing about the crucial need for patience while driving. I'll leave it to you and your therapist to work on that issue.

I'll get to my ultimate point. Even if you are one who does smash insects, spray them or zap them with a fancy light, you have to admit one thing -- cyclists are not bugs, they're people. If you toy with the sentiments expressed by the quoted editor (and passively condoned by Mr Soucheray) you're advocating legalized murder. That is truly sickening indeed. This practice reeks of a time in our country when stuffed white men referred to other races and ethnic groups in animalistic terms and treated them as such. In my idealistic way I thought perhaps we'd grown past such colonialist behavior.

So, Joe, I'll refrain from calling you Joe Doucheray again in this post. (Although it's uncanny how substituting one letter in your last name can convey such an effective image.) After all, that was engaging in the same sort of name calling for which I deride you in this post. However, I want to state how truly sad it is that a "news personality" can make it a business and develop a following by catering to the lowest common denominators of intelligence and reason. Your brand of pandering challenges no one to reconsider their judgmental tendencies and polarization on issues; it simply cements the laziness of one-sided views and further atrophies your fans' already oxygen-deprived gray matter.

Thanks for doing your part to chip away at tolerance and respect -- sorely needed traits among many drivers toward their fellow motorists -- by inciting fear and ignorance. But most sarcastically, thanks for your efforts to further alienate drivers from other LEGAL users of the road.

A Little Winter Riding Advice

2009-01-05T11:27:00.005-06:00

1) Read this bit of useless drivel. (That's a link that should work.)

2) Thank Joe Doucheray for heating you up for your next winter ride.

3) Now take out your bike. Don't hug the ice berm at the side of the street -- take the lane. Drivers are often scared and barely in control of their cars during winter. Don't leave them enough room to believe they can eek by you, dangerously buzzing you in the process. If it's sketchy you're safer exerting your right to the lane. The majority of drivers need more practice with patience anyway.

4) Ride tall. Ride proud. And drop ol' Joe a "happy new year" message if you're so inclined.

Fish and Visitors ...

2008-12-28T11:14:00.001-06:00

Old Ben was right.

F*ck Linus

2008-12-22T00:22:00.006-06:00

A blog title inspired by Sir Hurl.Happy solstice (yesterday) -- it counts since I'm still awake. Thanks, kids, for the comments. LF, I'm surprised you have time to comment. You got yer hands full and all with relocatin' and stuff. Folks are dedicated. I love you all.

So, I have nothing to say. Might as well throw up (figuratively speaking) some photos ...

April tried to contest paternity, but there was little contest. Never argue with a lawyer, even at your own party.

Whoa, whoa ... WHOA ... why don't I remember this level of abandon at my own party? Wait, I think I'd abandoned all hope before this photo was taken.

This is, I have to believe, not the first time the Schleyer has awakened to mystery progeny. Musta been one fun party, eh?

Sweet Sylvia. Need I say more? This little woman knocks my socks off every day with her budding intellect.

There was a Halloween party and there was Noren. I'd pull this trick with my real fake eye, but you never know where folks' fingers have been.

Oh, Sov and Simon ... there are volumes to be written about the stretchitude of lycra. However, I'm not so sure man-on-man love isn't a crime in this instance.

Who are these people??

Sister Erin, where are you now?

Sideways and all, I like this photo just how it is. Willa is walking and going places she wants to be going. (Cutting 6 teeth simultaneously and keeping us all awake is more like it.)

I sharpened all the kitchen knives tonight. Don't you feel better? If you break into my house, I've intricately studied which one I'd grab off the magnet to fight you to the death (or at least to the ER). Don't you feel better knowing that? They're all razor sharp meaning any incisions are easier to stitch back together.

Don't break into our house. Knock, and I'll let you in. We'll feed you an awesome dinner and give you a glass of scotch. We'll stare at the tree and listen to music and chat. You can even stay the night. Doesn't that sound much better?

Happy days of holly.

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like ...

2008-12-17T19:38:00.001-06:00

... an overrated, commercialized adaptation of a pagan festival. Aww ... c'mon, Fleck.

All right. I'm not that cynical -- honest. But I have been dealing with comments to the effect of "Christmas has no meaning" from members of the family who shall remain nameless. I think it all depends on what you're looking for. Me? I tend to gush rather romantically when I envision fresh snow, candlelight, communal meals with family, open fires, time off from work, no reason to leave the house and, yes, giving and receiving a well thought out gift or two. For reasons of my own I do not assign a religious context to the holiday. However, one of my greatest spiritual ideals is unity and I do love the idea of a world united -- you know, Snoopy and the Red Baron style. While we do have a family "Christmas" tree, stockings, wreath, presents and all that other jazz, we will most likely spend more time and energy celebrating solstice this year.

We've had a weather whirlwind here in the T.C. of late. Last Friday night I added my tent to an urban camping cotillion attended by some two-wheeled partners in crime. Temps started out in the upper teens and only seemed to climb from there. Saturday was downright balmy for December in Mini-Soda. I emerged from the tent after 4 toasty hours and hardly felt the need for more than a vest up top. Sunday it actually rained most of the day and temps climbed to 38!

Then by mid afternoon the scale was plunging rapidly the other way. All that liquid precip was turning into a microfilm of ice on porches, sidewalks, roads, etc. Rain became snow (thank goodness -- snow covering ice delivers some traction at least) and we ended the wild mercury ride at -5F with a couple of fresh fluffy inches. A loss of 43 degrees in 12 hours or less is quite amazing. I had some serious soul searching to do before I could dress and mount up for the morning commute on Monday. Funny how 20mph winds at subzero feel as if they can literally begin peeling flesh from your nose and face. Maybe it's just me. Probably not.

About halfway to work I stopped off at a convenience store. The interior temperature was nice. I lingered and in addition to the purpose of my stop I ended up buying two candy bars. I don't often buy or eat candy bars, but it was so easy to make an excuse to stand inside the heated building just acting like I was "shopping" the way one might do at the mall or something. Heat was good. As if the employees didn't already find it strange enough that I was riding my bike in the subzero snowy weather, the fact that I was lingering in their quickie mart almost certainly pushed them to a conclusion that I was bonkers.

A little more about recent commuting experiences: I left work last night at about 8:45. The temperature was 2F. Steady snow all day had slacked off to a dreamy mist of glassy flakes floating through the sky. None of the secondaries had been plowed. I rolled out of the parking lot into one of my least favorite riding conditions -- pie dough that has been mashed and rutted by hundreds of car tires. Slipping back and forth I had no time to notice or think about anything else. When I popped onto a sidewalk and began breaking smooth, fresh snow my thoughts re-centered. There was little to no wind. There were also very few cars out and about. In the peaceful darkness I was alone to ride. My layering was perfect and the fact it was near zero was of no consequence.

I love the squeeky sound of bike tires crunching through cold snow. I enjoyed a lot of that. I slid through many corners. A few caught me off guard. My quick saves made me erupt into giddy laughter beneath my icy balaclava. The secondaries were sketchy but the paths were untouched save for a few footprints. Riding those was dreamy in 2-3" of powder. I cranked out steep hills at a brutally low cadence, hardly making it without walking, but I cranked them out.

Then just over halfway home I spied a car disabled, its driver crouched in front of the wheel well attempting to mount a spare. I stopped and asked if he needed help. He said he was fine. I noticed two things: 1) he wasn't wearing a jacket, hat or gloves and 2) my helmet light illuminated his work pretty well. So, I laid my bike down and helped him out. Before long I had the spare in hand, lining up the lugs while he cranked his pathetic little jack a centimeter at a time. We got the tire on within 10 minutes. He thanked me and I was on my way. He probably would have got it on his own but you never know. When he spoke I could hear he was cold and when people get mildly hypothermic they'll readily say they're fine because they think they are. Not saying he was, but I have developed a personal code that is shared by most winter commuting friends I know -- you never leave someone by the side of the road in winter. I've never had the opportunity to apply that maxim to a driver, but it felt good to put myself out there. Who knows, maybe that guy will notice bikers more, give us a wider berth when passing, tell others of his positive encounter.

Perhaps Snoopy and the Red Baron really can get along after all.

Cold in My Bones

2008-12-02T18:46:00.000-06:00

I just can't shake it. I am not psyched for this winter riding season. I followed a friend's advice and invested in some new winter garments. Ibex woolen goods are awesome, by the way, and if you haven't explored the merits of wool -- be it thrift store surplus or flashy new superwool duds -- you need to do it. I'd say don't believe the hype, but there are countless merits to wool and, in my opinion, when you're using a fabric in a high-output activity like cycling, polyester quickly creates a not so pleasant sauna-like environment just beneath a shell. While the few items I added to my winter riding wardrobe have helped me dial in my layering better, there seems to be something missing. Maybe it's what Bob, Bob Seger that is, called the "fire down below."

It hasn't even been that cold yet. My chilliest morning commute was 15F so far. It has been gray and windy. The wind always takes it out of me, particularly those days when we get a wind shift that delights me with a headwind both ways. Maybe it's my longer commute, too. I tacked on another 20-30 minutes when we moved which translates to 30-40 extra minutes depending on weather and road conditions in winter. I see the family for an hour of frenzied activity in the morning. By the time I arrive home from work the kids are in bed. April's tired from work and shuttling the little ones to preschool and babysitters. There's a kitchen to be cleaned, a little quiet time and then a nagging reminder that it's time to go to bed and do it all over again the next day.

When I went back to school a couple of years ago I shifted into night owl mode. I'd stay up until 2 or 3 in the morning reading and studying and somehow still manage to get up at 7 to go to work or class by bike. I am convinced now that the inertia of excitement carried me through a lot of that period because I can't get by on 4-6 hours of sleep anymore. And I am less than zealous about leaving the warmth of the covers in the morning.

Maybe, too, it's something about my bike commuting. When you start riding your bike everywhere and looking for ways to curb your dependence on an automobile there is a lot of newness, creativity. Some of that has worn off. This is my third full winter of bike commuting. I sold my truck a year ago. I ride to work and anyplace I need to stop on the way home. It's just what I do. It's what I have to do and there's not much fuss to be made about it.

Am I happy I do it? Hell yeah. I believe in the commitment and all its benefits. I think I'm just tapping more into another side of it -- the occasional physical discomfort and the time commitment. An upside is I spend well over 2 hours a day on my bike and log about 160 miles per week. One downside is I spend well over 2 hours a day on my bike. I'm beginning to envy folks whose commutes are say 5 miles or so one way. 'Cause lately 16 miles has felt like a haul.

Temps are predicted to dip to around 10F tonight. We got a little snow and things were a bit slippery coming in this morning. I'm gonna ditch the clipless and switch over to platform pedals for a while. Ride in hiking boots. Maybe go for a foot down in the corners, try to have a little fun. After all, winter hasn't even begun.

Don't Try This at Home

2008-11-24T19:56:00.000-06:00

I did something Saturday I recommend you never try yourself. While reconverting my Cross-Check from singlespeed for the MN State CX Championships back to fixed gear for commuting, I got my thumb caught between the fixed cog and chain. It wasn't bad, thankfully. No blood even, just a HELL of a lot of pain. I think what saved me was the rag I was using to wipe the chain was wrapped above my thumbnail and below the fleshy pad, so I had no direct steel-to-flesh contact. I also had just installed a brand new cog, not a worn one with chain-honed, sharky teeth.

I clean my fixed gear drivetrains frequently and am well aware of the danger of a stuck digit. Sheldon Brown (MHRIP) has some graphic proof of such mishaps. They ain't pretty pictures, be warned. To my credit I was following my usual, time-tested procedure -- reverse pedaling with rag right in front of the cog, allowing plenty of distance between fingers and chainring. The difference was I recall letting the rag flap about quite a lot. Somehow it got caught somewhere and reversed the drivetrain, tugging my thumb into the works momentarily. The thundering voice of Cog spoke: Keep thine rag in check.

Enough of the PSA. My efforts meant I pedaled to work on a crisp, quiet drivetrain this morning. The sun made an appearance. It was about 32F and quite pleasant. After 20s and even teens last week I am happy to have a slight upturn in the mercury.

Be well.