Lung and I read this guy daily, and it’s always a good read, and frequently a funny read. And sometimes, a LOL is induced. And now and again, he’s so damn on the ball that there are multiple LOLs, which i call mLOLs.

I had to repost this one in it’s entirety. The link is below so you can see the photos referenced. Oh, but it’s good. I’ve highlighted the mLOLs to assist you.

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"The Indignity of Commuting by Bicycle: Sounds, Sasquatch, Stupidity, and Specters

Clearly, we’re living in tumultuous times. Cops are tackling cyclists. Riccardo Ricco is not only confessing that he took EPO, but he’s also outraged that he didn’t fail more tests. And methanogens with cytochromes have considerably higher growth yields and threshold concentrations for H2 than methanogens without cytochromes. Whatever the hell that means.

I don’t have an explanation for all of these things, but I can explain what’s happening in New York City. Simply put, it’s hot. Riot scene in "Do The Right Thing" hot. The kind of hot that creates the moist, tropical conditions in your underpants that are ideal for fostering new life forms. So as you’d expect, people are getting angry out there. And when people get angry, things get ugly.

I was pondering this very thing as I propelled myself to work today, only to be torn from my reverie by an urgent horn-honking. It was the kind of honking you hear from team cars as they try to make their way through the peloton to their riders in the break, and it was coming from a large van of the sort upon which you don’t go knocking if you see it rocking. It was easy to imagine that inside it might contain an array of bean bags, or a rotating bed, or B.A. Baracus, or possibly all three, and its pistons snarled angrily like Mr. T himself used to while he pitied fools. I couldn’t figure out why the driver was honking at me though, and I confess that this combined with the heat made me irritable. So as he passed I kindly told the driver to "Shut up," only I also included a bad word for emphasis. I didn’t say it particularly angrily, mind you. Instead, I said it in the same way you’d say it to your friend towards the end of the ride after he’s made fun of your Pentabike socks for the millionth time. But yes, I said it, and there was no taking it back.

"I’m just trying not to hit you, dumbass!," he replied.

This threw me for a loop. You’d think there were other devices in the vehicle that he might have employed more effectively if his goal was not to run into me, but apparently by simply sounding an alarm he thought he was doing me a favor. After a brief exchange that was actually fairly civil (apart from the fact that every sentence finished with the word "dumbass") I reflected upon the incident. An then it hit me. Some people are actually so stupid that they think horns make things happen. They actually believe their car comes with a magic button in the middle of the steering wheel that can change reality. Suddenly, I became aware of the constant chorus of beeping all around me–the kind that’s always present in a big city, and the kind you simply tune out like you do crickets in the country. In every case, I realized the drivers stuck in traffic all around me were using their horns not to communicate information but simply in a vain attempt to change what was happening to them. It was as though they thought sitting in congestion was a bad TV show, and that by honking they might somehow change the channel and be transported to a clear roadway. I’m not sure where this notion comes from. I don’t think there’s ever been a traffic jam where somebody beeped and the thousands of others also caught in the traffic jam suddenly realized, "Hey, he’s right, we can all just go!" and it was over.

Similarly, honking at me isn’t going to change the fact that I’m there, and it’s not going to somehow transform me into an ethereal presence that can ride straight through the row of parked cars besides me. Hopefully, someday soon, more people will realize that horns do absolutely nothing except turn people into bleating sheep. Maybe we can get Ralph Nader on the case and he can get horns out of cars the way he got seatbelts into them. The only time a driver ever needs to use his horn is when he’s waiting at a light, the light turns green, and the driver in front of him doesn’t notice. Then, and only then, a horn is useful. But you don’t even need it then. In the horn-free future I think if a driver is stuck in that situation then it’s perfectly acceptable after a polite length of time to inch forward and nudge the other person’s bumper. Quieter, and way more effective.

My fantasy of a horn-free world almost made me forget the heat, until I was dragged back to reality yet again, this time by a Subaru wagon weaving more erratically than a drunken seamstress. As it forced me towards the sidewalk, I looked over, only to see something horrifying hanging out the passenger window. At first I thought maybe it was a hunk of smoked mozzarella cheese that had been rolled around the floor of a barber shop or something, but on closer inspection it turned out to be the shoulder of the shirtless passenger. Sickened, I realized I had seen something even rarer than a fixed-gear pie plate. I was actually within vomiting distance of the sweaty torso of Sasquatch himself. As the bile rose in my throat, I reached for my camera, but as I withdrew it the car containing the great beast lurched forward. I immediately set off in pursuit, but no thanks to an unlikely–dare I say supernatural–string of green lights I was unable to catch up with it before it escaped into the Holland Tunnel. All I managed was this shot of it careering back out of the bike lane before making a right hand turn from the left hand lane.

I know there’s not much to see in this photo, and I know my story is suspect, so I can only assure you that I saw what I saw and leave the rest to you. Note also the Alabama plates. I realize the Sasquatch is supposed to be a Pacific Northwestern phenomenon, but I posit that what I saw was an even rarer Appalachian strain. It’s much shorter and squatter (as you can see from the passenger silhouette), and while its fur is sparser than that of it’s Pacific Northwestern cousin it is still quite thick I can assure you. And, most horrifically, I think it may have been female.

No sooner had I recovered from the disappointment of missing out on the shot that would have made me world-famous than I encountered yet another heat-addled moron. As I rode in the bike lane, a GMC SUV with Jersey plates pulled over in front of me, stopped, and began backing up. Naturally I assumed I was under attack, and fortunately I was able to escape by weaving around him. Once I stopped however, I realized I wasn’t the target. I had actually simply had the misfortune of being too close to the parking space the driver wanted. Only another ape-like creature could be capable of this sort of stupidity, so in hopes of finally getting Bigfoot on film I walked into the space and took a picture.

Note the look of slack-jawed indignation on the driver’s face. There may actually be a string of drool hanging from his lower lip as well, though it could also be a trick of the light. Here’s a closer look.

As soon as I took the picture the driver and his passenger emerged from the car and demanded angrily to know what the hell I was doing.

"I’m working on a project," I explained. "I’m taking photos of people who almost kill me."

This sent the driver into an agitated state just a few degrees lower than a full boil. As I sat casually on my top tube, he explained some things to me. Firstly, he explained that I was stupid and that while he was doing something important I was out "playing games" on my bike. This upset me. I mean, sure, I had been playing "Flat Out: Ultimate Carnage" on my handheld game console while I was riding, but that’s not a game–that’s a way of life. He continued his diatribe. He said I wasn’t "from Manhattan" but he was. I wasn’t sure what this had to do with anything nor what led him to that conclusion. I was about to ask him if being born right across town in Beth Israel Medical Center counted as being from Manhattan but then he finally arrived at his point. "This is the most busiest place in the world and you’re riding around on a bike being stupid." The use of "most busiest" in the sentence he used to call me stupid stopped me like a stick in the spokes. All I could do at this point was repeat "most busiest" over and over again like a shock victim. Finally he concluded his speech by telling me that I should thank him for protecting me from getting hurt. I suppose he had a point. I had been quite lucky to have been on the receiving end of so many favors this morning. First a guy in a van beeped at me so he wouldn’t run me over, then a guy from Jersey who says he’s from Manhattan tried to back into me. Still, I didn’t feel lucky. I just felt angry. I told him that he had indeed hurt me and that my brain was now smarting from his retardation. Something told me he wasn’t taking that well though, so as it sunk in I opted to ride off before he figured it out and started swinging.

At this point I had no doubt I was running the gauntlet through a mad world driven even crazier by the heat. I only had one goal at this point–to get where I was going as soon as possible without getting into any more trouble. Carefully I made my way along the bike lane, only to encounter a police car parked in it. The officer, clearly driven insane by heat herself, was quite literally staring into the middle of the empty street and writing a ticket to nobody. Here’s a picture if you don’t believe me.

I was no longer hot. I was no longer irritable. I was terrified. I felt like that guy in "28 Days Later" when he realizes everyone in London has become a flesh-chewing zombie. Note the manic glint in the officer’s eye as she spots me. I didn’t know if I was about to be tackled or eaten, and I wasn’t about to find out either. I put my head down, pedaled hard, and made straight for the nearest air conditioner.

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Highbrow vs. Lowbrow: Lost in the Intellectual Spectrum of Cycling
In response to yesterday’s post, one commenter said:

Get over yourself. It was an unprovoked assault by a policeman in uniform. Real funny. Must be ’cause everyone except you is stupid.

In all honesty I’d hate to think I gave anyone the impression that I side with officer Pogan. Rest assured that I think he’s a disgrace to Patrick Pogan, Sr., he’s a disgrace to Massapequa Park from whence he hails (as well as to neighboring Massapequa), he’s a disgrace to Nassau Community College where he probably majored in homophobia with a minor in snacking, and he’s probably going to be a disgrace to the strip club where he will ultimately wind up working as a bouncer because his only asset in life is his oafishness. More importantly, I’d really hate to think I gave anyone the impression that I think I’m smart. Please know that I’m as stupid as I come, which is what allows me to recognize stupidity when I see it. Trust me, the only reason I know the people on the iPhone lines are idiots is that my first impulse is to stand in that same line for 45 minutes until it finally occurs to me to ask the person in front of me, “Hey, do you know what this line is for?” I’m only human after all. I’m sort of like the “Dexter” of idiots, in that I criticize stupid people not because I’m better than them, but because I’m one myself. All I’ve got going for me is that I’ve come to learn over the years that if I want to do something, there’s a good chance it’s stupid, so I should probably think for awhile before I do it.

But there is a bright side to being stupid. As I said yesterday, stupidity loves crowds, and when you’re stupid you’re never lonely. And if you ever want to see a crowd of people operating in a bovine fashion that’s exquisite in its stupidity, come to New York City and watch pedestrians in Midtown. Here you can watch herds of people walk out into the middle of the busiest streets in North America despite the fact that they don’t have the light, and then express surprise when they’re subsequently flattened by wheeled traffic. All it takes is for one idiot to start walking, and then the rest follow. They’re like cattle who don’t realize they’re in danger until the bolt actually shatters their skulls. If you’ve ever seen the way sharks trick schools of fish into swimming themselves into one giant fish ball, and then simply take bites out of that ball like it’s an apple or something, you have some idea of what I’m talking about. And the stupidest thing about them is that they don’t even realize why it’s happening to them, as you can see in this (ahem) hard-hitting article from the New York Post. “Ever try to cross Sixth Avenue at lunchtime?,” the writer, Andrea Peyser, asks. “It’s like human pinball. You get more warning before a lightning strike.” Actually, Andrea, you do get a warning—you get a red light and a giant electric sign that says “Don’t Walk.” I think it’s safe to say Andrea Peyser is a fellow stupid person.

Speaking of stupid, that creepy guy Rod Stewart who looks kind of like Barbara Walters once sang either “Every picture tells a story, don’t it?” or “Every picture’s of assorted donuts.” Because I’m stupid, I’m not sure which. But assuming it’s the former, I’m inclined to agree.

Both of these pictures tell the story of one of my favorite phenomenona in cycling, which is the bike with one part on it that costs more than the rest of the bike put together. In the first example, submitted by a reader, the carbon fiber Zipp wheel is the obvious standout. It fails to tie the rest of the bike together much in the way that the hardware store chain does. (A diligent thief could cut through that chain with a pair of toenail clippers.) In the second example, submitted by me, the Brooks saddle is so dear compared with the rest of the bike that the owner has elected to lock it instead of the front wheel. (The bike also sports a pie plate larger than the charger upon which John the Baptist’s head was served to Herodias.)

However, when you’re stupid, cycling isn’t always easy to appreciate. For example, I recently received the following request from a reader:

I know we are a fringe element and hardly worthy of mention, but you seem to be holding back with respect to the randonneuring community. I feel slighted. I mean think of the opportunities. Generators. Fenders. Berthoud bags (not to mention the arcane world of decalaurs.) Where else do you find silly people riding through the night, in storms, on fixed gears, in the mountains for fun? So the Cascade 1200 isn’t hard enough? Go ride that 2000K in British Columbia.

If I seem to be holding back, it’s not because randonneurs are a "fringe element." It’s because the whole thing goes way over my head. I followed one of the links included in the email and the first thing I saw was a "call for poets." Frankly, I avoid poetry and anything that inspires poetry. I don’t want to smell wet wool, nor do I want to read poetry about the smell of wet wool, and I have a feeling the randonneuring community’s capacity for pretention may be as capacious as their saddlebags. Also, I love long rides, but I have no interest in excessively long rides, or in rides that involve sleeping in a bed other than your own. I avoid touring and 24-hour mountain bike races for the same reason. I don’t believe in doing anything for more than five hours at a time, whether it’s cycling, or working, or reading, or even watching TV. (I do however consider riding for five hours and then watching TV for five hours a day well spent.) I also avoid sleeping in strange places because when you do and you wake up from nightmares involving geese it can take awhile to re-orient yourself and figure out where the bathroom is.

Another thing that goes over my head is philosophy. Sure, I suppose I can be philosophical myself, but sometimes I have trouble discerning where philosophy leaves off and marketing begins. Take "Rapha Continental:"

The Continental is about participation, exalting any and all who endeavor to ride with passion and heart. Central to the project is our desire to discover the places and people that do and have done the style of riding that we’ve only just begun to call – Continental.

I’m going to be completely honest here–I spent a decent amount of time studying this site (though naturally less than five hours, in accordance with my rule) and I still don’t know if this is a line of clothing or a team or a philosophy or what. Every time I think it’s something I click on another link that tells me it’s not what I thought it was. For example, for awhile I thought it was a team, but then I read this:

The Rapha Continental riders are not a team. At least not in the typical sense, or the racing sense. We are a group of individuals united in effort and focus, and we do cooperate.

Eventually I gave up. I feel like something tremendously important may be going on here, but I also feel too dumb to understand it. I get confused by things that say they aren’t what they appear to be. It’s like looking at a Magritte painting–which, I might add, I also don’t understand.

Fortunately, there are people out there dumbing it down for us stupid folk. Sure, sometimes this can be dangerous, like the King Kog Crass t-shirt (sadly no longer available), which may appear to be easy to understand, but is actually quite insidious in that the design was stolen and wearing it can actually make you look dumber than you actually are. But there’s also more straightforward stuff you can purchase in order to appear countercultural, like the Pentabike, which has a similar fixter appeal but also has a tidy backstory and doesn’t appear to have been stolen from anybody except the Wiccans. (Perhaps someday soon we will see products being sold as "Certified Pop Culture Plunder-Free.")

But what if your sensibility lies somewhere between metal and Magritte? What if you’re just looking to inject a little pop art and whimsy into your ride? Well, if this is you, soon you’ll be able to lock your bike to a David Byrne bike rack:

Ah, yes. Clever and ironic, but not intellectually challenging. It’s the perfect lukewarm pool for the masses. Sure, David Byrne may have gotten all flustered while trying to explain the process of powdercoating, and sure, it may have taken the reporter and him a full hour to make the six-mile journey to Brooklyn. But until Rod Stewart designs an "assorted donut" bike rack, or until Letle Viride weighs in, I can safely say that these giant tie pins are some of the best bike racks ever designed by a pop musician. "

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Oh sweet lord.
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