Wood Cookie
Riding home today, I saw a bumper sticker that said:
My kid wears a wood cookie.
I don’t know what that means.
Update: I figured it out. There’s this thing called Google.
Bicycle Epigram #1
Some days I just want to bike off into the sunset, but I don’t have the energy to make it over the West Hills.
What I Did with My Extra Hour Today, Or, Yet Another Reason Why Bikes Are Awesome
I did not make very good use of this beautiful weekend, bikewise– I spent Friday inside reading for classes, and Saturday at Powell’s with my folks. So, in order to get some exercise in before the early sunset this evening, I decided to do something I never, ever even consider: I went running.
Now, I have never been much of a runner. When I was a little fat kid, my dad used to try and pay me to run laps around the “lake” behind our house, and as is often the case for me, sloth trumped greed: I never once made it around the lake. Even in my top physical condition in early high school, when I was playing varsity basketball (in Chile, being 5′10 1/2″ puts you on varsity no matter how badly you suck), I could never run more than two and half miles. I am a natural swimmer, so I have long considered myself Exhibit A for the Aquatic Ape Theory.
The last time I went running was in July, when I was teaching at a live-in program and had few options for burning off three all-you-can-eat buffets a day; even then, I only ran twice, two miles each time. Still, I knew I was in pretty good shape from biking 75-100 miles a week since classes started in mid-September, so I set out this afternoon with the goal of running for 45 minutes, which would be the longest I’d ever run by five minutes.
Long story short, I ended up running for an hour non-stop, the last fifth of a mile of which was uphill. And I could have done more! My breathing returned to normal in 20 seconds! My leg muscles weren’t even sore: the only thing that hurt were my hips and ankles, from the unaccustomed impact and the extra 15 pounds I’m carrying. I gmapped it when I got home, and I ran exactly five miles (okay, nobody said I was running super-fast). That’s a mile and half farther than I’ve ever run in my life.
The point is not that I’m awesome (although I am feeling pretty awesome at the moment). The point is that bike commuting made me, the quintessential sweat-averse, life-of-the-mind chubby girl, capable of running five miles without even putting on sneakers for two months. That’s what I call a solution to the obesity epidemic.
Tool User
As I attest on my About page, my interest in cycling is decidedly not technical. Many of the Obvious Bike Enthusiasts that I encounter around town are total gearheads: as soon as I mention bicycles, they start spewing numbers and specialist (as opposed to Specialist) brand names, and I have no idea what they’re talking about.
I am not a gear afficionado: the mountain bike with street tires that I commuted with for nearly two years was completely painted over, so I didn’t even know what make it was. Now that I have my sweet “new” bicycle, I’m pretty proud to be able to say, “a Miyata touring bike,” whenever anyone asks what I ride, although I haven’t memorized those numbers painted on the frame (and I’m not even 100% sure how to pronounce “Miyata”). I like biking because it feels good, and I like having a nice enough bike that it feels even better, but beyond that, I’m generally uninterested in, and ignorant about, the details.
Maybe all of that is beginning to change, however, because today I put some new fenders on my bike all by myself. I mean, I had to borrow Ben’s tools, and Andrew had to show me how to operate the socket set, but once I had that figured out, I just read the instructions and did it. Granted, this is the second time I’ve put that same model of fenders on a bicycle– last year, I installed some on my old bike, with a bit more help from Ben. Nonetheless: I used tools (in fact, I opened the socket set box upside down, spilling all fifty sockets, or whatever they’re called, so I had to go through them one by one and put them back in their little labeled compartments).
I also put a rearview mirror on my “new” bike (and by “I,” I mean “Ben”– I couldn’t figure out how to bend the little piece of metal just right). My bike is now a lean, mean, fendered, mirrored commuting machine. After all of that work, I was feeling so handy that I decided to hose the whole bike down with Simple Green and relube the chain.
I realize this is all kind of pathetic: I’m falling into some gender stereotypes in ways that make me deeply ashamed. Still, I’m actually embracing opposite gender roles from the ones with which I was raised. My mom was the mechanic in my family, working on the cars, building the shelves, and fixing the computer. On the other hand, the last time I ever got spanked (1993) was when I made the mistake of bothering my father while he was trying (futilely) to reprogram the VCR.
This mechanical stuff is just another way that my bike is helping me grow as a person. I used to be completely unathletic: now I have quads the size of hams. I used to dislike getting dirty: now I always have chain oil under my fingernails. I used to be terrible with directions: now I have a mental map of this city that rivals Google. Biking has allowed me to join the elite ranks of the highest orders of primates: I am a tool user! I’m evolving!
Red Light
I somehow lost my rear red bike light between Portland and La Grande (or maybe between La Grande and Portland) a few weeks ago, and I’ve been riding with just the white front light ever since. It is now dark when I leave the house on my early mornings, and dark when I leave campus on my late evenings (unfortunately, my early mornings and late evenings are on the same days). This is especially exciting when it rains.
Technically, the law only requires me to have a white light in front and a rear reflector, on the theory that cars approaching me from behind will see my ass winking in their headlights, like the eyes of that sodden possum that’s smeared across the road near my house.
One of my co-workers got hit on his bike on Vancouver last week. Some little old lady took him out at a stop sign in the rain. His bike got fucked, but he says he’s okay, except that his ribs hurt when he sits in front of a computer, lays down, or breathes. Fortunately, it happened right in front of Legacy Emanuel– a doctor was standing on the corner, saw the whole thing go down, and rushed to his aid. Last week was a bad one for Portland cyclists: a 19-year-old girl got killed on 14th and Burnside when a cement truck turned right across her bike lane. The same day, a Ghost Bike appeared at the intersection.
I’m not afraid of death: I’m afraid of how afraid I’m going to be when I realize I’m about to die. Riding my bike home in the damp dark, I can hear the swift-moving vehicles rushing me from behind on Willamette, and sometimes I imagine how it would sound, how it would feel, if one hit me. If it ever happens, I hope I never see it coming.
I should really get a new red light.
Punished
Last weekend, I had to go out to La Grande with two other grad school friends to co-present on our research at a Rhetoric and Composition conference. La Grande is on the other side of the state, the side where it rains less, snows more, and suffers from a general dearth of public transit and bike lanes. My buddy Jon was doing the driving, so I pedaled over to his apartment in outer NE at 7:30 on a foggy Saturday morning, professional wear wadded up in my messenger bag.
We didn’t get back until 11:00 in the evening. I should have biked home, but I get a little sketched out riding in the dark on weekends– I’m afraid of getting caught in the grill of a drunk driver. Plus, we were all exhausted. My other friend, Elizabeth, had her truck parked a few blocks from Jon’s apartment complex, and offered to give me a lift home. Just as we were getting ready to cross the street, me wheeling my bike, over to where she said her truck was parked, about eight cop cars came screeching through the intersection, lights flashing and sirens wailing. They swerved into positions up and down the block, cutting off every possible exit– including the one we needed to drive out. The cop in the car on our corner climbed out of the driver seat holding an enormous shotgun.
After a few minutes, Elizabeth walked across and asked him whether we’d be able to get the truck. He said, “Sorry. We’re pursuing someone. It’s going to be a while before you can get your vehicle.”
Both of us wanted so badly to just go home and sleep, but there was nothing to be done. I didn’t want to jump on my bike and leave her hanging, so we walked down the block, and were faced with a choice between a sports bar and a pub with very loud live music. After some discussion, we went with the sports-free establishment; I locked up my bike, and we sat inside for an hour, shooting the shit and waiting for the blue and red lights to dissipate.
When the coast was clear, we walked back up to the block where Elizabeth’s truck was parked. She couldn’t remember exactly where it was, and we paced up and down a few residential streets before we stopped to double-check the street signs– at which point, we realized that Jon had pointed us in the wrong direction to get to Flanders. The truck wasn’t parked on that block at all: in fact, it was actually over by the bar, blocks from the area that the police had cordoned off. There was no reason why we couldn’t have left an hour before.
All of which is to say that I should have just sucked it up and biked home. Although then I wouldn’t have gotten to spend an extra hour with Elizabeth, who is awesome.
Another Great Poem from the Search Engine Terms
sweating noxious skivvies
“Adult video” “wet nylon” samples
wheeledpower nude
A Two-Line Poem from the Search Engine Terms
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i lost my britches on the railroad
Bang!
Some of you have been clamboring for pictures of bangs. Can’t nobody say that wheeledpower never did nothing for the peoples:
