bikelovejones

I have moved my blog to a new site:

http://bikelovejones1.blogspot.com/

See you there.

Pondering the reasons for maintaining a drop bar bike in my stable for the last several years, I find that none of them seem to be terribly compelling anymore. I find that I am most comfortable, and ride most confidently, with some kind of upright bar, even in racing situations.

So probably in the next week or so, the drop bar on the 26"-wheeled bike is going away.
Ultimately, this may compel me to consider the neccessity of having four bikes with upright bars -- and one of those may ultimately go away, but not immediately. Anyway, I suspect that changing the drops to uprights may invite me to ride that bike more and enjoy it. So there they go.

(Anyone want a used set of 42cm Noodle bars with aero brake levers, cheap? I may even toss in the Nitto stem and just leave the whole thing intact.)

Yesterday I went over to the Pedal Nation show at the Oregon Convention Center. Mostly a bicycle trade show for the public, I nonetheless found a few items of interest that our shop might want to carry. What I didn't find very much of was my own excitement around bicycles and the bike industry. I walked through the entire show several times in two hours and in the end left feeling sort of underwhelmed and glad I hadn't actually paid to get in.

There were some lovely things on display: craft-built bikes of all shapes and sizes, some sharp-looking clothing designed to be comfortable on the bike and stylish enough to wear to a restaurant, and some interesting new technologies (including a hub with gradual, clickless shifting). I had brought some money in case I found something that caught my eye, but in the end I left without buying anything. I work in the industry, of course, so what could I possibly need at the show that I couldn't buy for cost-plus-ten at work -- or that I couldn't find a way to make myself out of repurposed materials? (Instead of selling bags of repurposed materials, why not teach classes so folks can learn to make their own stuff out of repurposed materials?)

On another level, this felt deeper, older; I felt a lot of longing for the days when Citybikes was a shop that sold only used bikes, and when everyone who worked at Citybikes was of one mind regarding making bikes not only sustainable, but truly affordable. We all dressed down, wore old and sometimes ratty clothes we'd gotten at Goodwill or found hanging on a nail at a construction site; every committee and general meeting was catered by potluck and we broke early to go for a bike ride somewhere. And we felt a little more relaxed about dealing with the many homeless and truly destitute folks who came through our doors, and felt happy when we could get them back on a bike and down the road.

Today our shop sells mostly new bikes ranging in price from roughly $500 to $1500 each, and a smaller quantity of refurbished/overhauled used bikes for around $350 and up. Although we still welcome anyone who comes in to buy a bike or accessories or to get an existing bike repaired, there's a tension now whenever someone who is obviously destitute comes in, because we have far fewer things in the shop that person can actually afford. And when someone comes into our shop, see what the bikes are going for, and walks out again with a frown and a sad shrug, and I KNOW it's because we've gotten more expensive, I feel sad.

I feel sad because we're no longer the kind of shop that encourages folks to build their own cargo bikes or trailers out of shopping carts, no longer the kind of shop that says yes, you CAN ride your bike all day in blue-jeans if that's what you've got and it won't kill you, and look, see how you can make your own messenger bag out of inner tubes or repurposed advertising banners.
We can't encourage all that creativity if it means folks won't buy the ready-made stuff from us. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.

I went to a bike show yesterday where no one was talking about $200 or $300 bicycles, but $200 and $300 components for bicycles; where a pair of bike shorts that looked rather like a pair of ordinary walking shorts but with a center crotch panel and a pocket for your mini U-lock retailed for $90 a pair; and where I saw a beautiful front-loading cargo bike that would retail for just under $3,000 fully built.

Don't get me wrong; that we can now see a cargo bike for just under $3,000 is an indication of how affordable these things are becoming, and I am glad that we're moving in that direction. But we need to move there faster, and without a shred of pretension.

What I want to see -- and what I think we need to see -- is a time when we see really well-designed, utilitarian  cargo bikes for under a thousand bucks. Because today you can get a used car with bad paint and a decent engine for just under $3,000 these days, and it's that kind of comparison that we're up against when we try to sell bikes as transportation to the masses. The masses may not be interested in whether a frame is craft-built or factory-built, they may just want a good bike for an affordable price. They may not be so interested in cool, hip, natural-fiber clothing that's sutainably made, maybe they just want a bike they can ride somewhere in whatever they pulled off the top of the clean laundry pile that morning.

Or -- and this is what I really fear is happening -- The masses DO want style and fashion and a sense of bike chic, they DO want the fancier bike and bike clothes because it makes them look cooler than their neighbors -- because designers and advertisers and marketers have taught them to want it. What's more, anyone with a decent paycheck is willing to pay for that chic without looking further and deeper. And that feels worse, somehow.

I fear that what's happening today with bicycles is what happened with punk -- it got co-opted by marketers and advertised and got turned into something so "cool" that it's in danger of becoming a parody of itself.

We need a bike culture that is no longer a "culture". I saw too much culture at the bike show yesterday and not enough substance, not enough reality about bicycles and their part in re-fashioning a world to make it more affordable and sustainable, and more fair. I want a bicycle culture that is about making change for all, not only for those with fat wallets. I want bikes to become truly punk again.

Today's video comes courtesy of discussions over at the Rivendell Bicycle Works discussion group.

Tim Wright is a knife maker and rides a bicycle everywhere:

I am happy to announce that Kris Schamp, the organizer of the PIR Short-track XC races, has agreed to create a separate sub-category for Womens' Singlespeed at this summer's short-track series. Womens' Singlespeed will race at 6:30 p. m. with Cat 2 Women, and will be counted separately for racing singlespeed.

Stay tuned to this website for registration details:

http://www.portlandracing.com

And please, PLEASE be sure to jot a thank-you note to Kris Schamp for agreeing to be the first to create a separate Singlespeed category just for the ladies! (His contact info can be found at the Portland Racing Web site.)

I am so happy it's ridiculous.

No guarantees, of course, that this will provide enough momentum to add Womens' Singlespeed to the Cross Crusade races in the fall. But I am happy all the same. I hope enough women will sign up for the category during short-track season to give it legitimacy so it will survive more than a single season.

(If you race in Portland, tell your friends. I'd like to see at least forty women sign up for the category this first year!)

Last night, as I unlocked my bike from a friend's porch after a party, I reached into my saddlebag and found the bright yellow safety vest that lives at the bottom. After a moment's pause, I pulled it out and slipped it on. The route back home was relatively traffic-quiet but also poorly-lit. I was glad for the extra visibility when the headlights of three cars in succession shone from behind and I heard their engines slow as each gave me a wide berth in passing. The vest is there for longer recreational rides and the occasional rando event. I don't normally wear it in the city unless it's raining at night, or very foggy; but lately I'm thinking it would probably be a good thing if I went out on my bike looking like a Christmas tree on acid, regardless of the time of day or the weather.

Last week I received a sample of a product called a GloGlov. The glove is designed to be worn over your regular cycling or work gloves, and has reflective patches on the back of each finger and the back of the palm. When you signal to make a turn your hand is instantly more visible to people behind you. For many reasons, it's unlikely that my shop will choose to carry this product -- it generated hoots and howls of derision when I passed it around among my co-workers. That said, I'm inclined to buy the sample and keep it for myself. Although it looks sort of ghastly, it's also kind of geeky-cool, and it would certainly come in handy during my commutes through the longer evenings of fall and winter. (The fact that my cycling buddies Michael and Kent have given it great reviews didn't hurt either.)

I have lately found that I prefer riding with big, flat BMX pedals on all my bikes, installing grip-pins in every hole and wearing flat-soled skate/BMX sneakers for maximum grip and comfort. I keep wrestling with the future of the All-Rounder. Should I strip it down and return it to the person who gave it to me, explaining that I don't ride it enough to justify the space it takes up? Should I convert it into a fat-tired, upright barred, go-anywhere bike? (Do I need such a bike when I already have the Rivvy and the cargo bike? Still pondering this one.) The truth is that drop bars work less and less for me as time goes by, and I am much more comfortable on a bike with upright bars.

This opens the door towards an eventual overall adjustment in my cycling wardrobe, and a reflection of how what we wear on the bike influences our behavior while riding (or in choosing what to ride).

How many bicyclists secretly think, "I can't wear that lycra kit while riding an upright city bike", or "I'm on a sleek road bike so I'd better put on the lycra"? Does this sort of thinking run along gender or generational lines? Is it all or mostly trickle-down from the racing-influenced bike industry and its use of racing images to market products to the masses? It's just a point of curiosity for me. Living with someone who's not a daily bike rider has certainly invited me to ask questions like this more often. (Sweetie rides her bike in pretty much whatever she pulled out of the drawer that morning, adding only a helmet and bike gloves for safety and comfort.) How many bike riders use the racing images in most bike marketing to influence what they ride and how they look while riding? How many others purposely ignore those images and go out o their way to look as "normal" as possible? It would make for an interesting study for the marketing crowd.

Anyway, the more time passes and the more I realize that I probably won't ever get rid of that thing in my middle called a belly -- or add many miles more per hour in cycling speed -- the more I realize that I'm slowly leaning towards the Fred side of things, the side that eschews the racer look and is content with whatever speed they're going at the moment, as long as they're moving forward. Perhaps by the time I turn 70 the transformation will be complete.

This morning, while Sweetie went and did her radio show, I went for a bike ride. I'd told her in advance that I needed a longer ride, and when she asked where I would go I shrugged and said, rather off-the-cuff, "Oh, I think I'll go up to Rocky Butte."

Rocky Butte is one of three dead volcanoes inside the Portland city limits (along with Mount Tabor and Powell Butte) that is also home to a city park. Before that it was home to a jail and a bible college, and before that it was home to a military academy. With just over 600 feet of elevation it's not a big deal, but the climb is only a couple of miles long from the beginning of Rocky Butte Drive to the summit at Joseph Wood Hill Park. And then there's getting to it from my house, which takes several miles. Not a super-long ride, only about 15 or 16 miles RT, but just enough to feel like I actually rode somewhere.

The thing was, it was really nice yesterday, and today it was colder and cloudy; rain was due any minute and I heard a little voice in my head saying it might be nice to stay home with a good book and a cup of coffee. But I wanted to get in a decent bike ride, so I kept going. I went out too hard the first couple of miles and felt my heart rate go up very fast, and then I felt my lungs get sort of wheezy. I pulled over, reached for my inhaler (which I only use for about three weeks at the beginning of allergy season to help me get over the acclimation phase), took a couple of hits, waited a couple of minutes, and proceeded at an easier pace.

My wool was doing a good job of keeping me warm once I'd gotten going. I'd packed rain gear just in case but it wasn't really raining yet. And by the time I'd gotten to 82nd Avenue near Madison High School, I felt more like riding to the top, which was almost in view by then. But then the wind picked up, and the first cold drizzle began to fall, and suddenly I had fleeting thoughts again of turning around and going home.

But another voice in my head asked: I'd already come this far, why stop now?

So I crossed 82nd, and went up the road to the intersection with 96th and Rocky Butte Drive, turned left and began to climb. The weirdest thing was, I was still having nagging thoughts of turning around and going home even as I began the climb to the top. I simply acknowledged them, took stock of my body -- nothing really wrong here, totally over the worst of the flare-up and feeling just a touch underslept -- and kept pedaling. After another hundred feet or so, I forgot about going home and focused totally on pedaling my bicycle, trying to find the perfect gear that would let me enjoy spinning effortlessly without spinning out. My accelerating heart rate, which I could simultaneously feel and hear in my head, soon distracted me from anything else -- and I forgot all about going home.

I was rewarded with lush evergreens and new spring buds, with birdsong and the occasional scolding of a squirrel from somewhere in the trees, and fast-moving clouds whose drippy edges foretold the rain that would soon be falling directly overhead. The mist was so thick that it all but blotted out any view of the city beyond the trees, giving me an illusion of being way out on the mountains somewhere. I pulled over a few times and took pictures, and then pulled over longer when I realized my heart rate was really high. Without a special meter on my bike to tell me what the percentage of grade was, all I can say is that it took me about 20 minutes (including stops) and a little under two miles to ride from basically sea level to the summit (612 feet). That felt steep at times, but never scary.

By the time I got to the top, it was drizzling steadily, and the wind was gusting a little here and there. In short, it was nice that I'd made it to the top of Rocky Butte, my most ambitious ride since realizing I'd had a flare-up and taking steps to deal with it a couple of weeks ago; but with the weather coming in and obliterating the view, I didn't stick around too terribly long, just enough to snap a few evidence and bike-panda photos, slip on my rain jacket, and ride back down. Of course, the rain let up by the time I got all the way down off the Butte.

Of course.

The tunnel on Rocky Butte Drive, on the way back down from the top:




When I got home I stretched, took a shower and felt the oddly beautiful tingle of the embrocation on my legs.
I wasn't totally knackered out from my ride, but pleasantly relaxed, like I'd exerted myself and could feel it afterwards. Total: 15.5 miles.

"If you step back for a moment and think like a normal, non-cycling human being, you’ll realize that pounding six packets of berry-flavored snot in an hour is not usually considered normal eating."    --Frances Morrision

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On the face of it, much of what is done in performance cycling is pretty weird.

We wear clingy -- too clingy, for some of us -- lycra. We wear funny-looking shoes that work best with even funnier-looking pedals. Our helmets make us look like Mushrooms or Angry Insects. And for the most serious among us, our bikes weigh 20 pounds or less. It's enough to intimidate a newbie into not even trying at all.

Then there's Andy Dingsor. he's a 50-something self-described "office geek" who got into cycling a few years ago when his wife brought home an old 12-speed bike she'd fished out of a dumpster. (Why can't I ever find cool old bikes in dumpsters?) A rail-trail opened near his house and allowed him to have a car-free route to work. And he began riding a bike every day. He liked it so much he started riding on the weekends with a friend. And before too terribly long, the distances grew. Andy discovered RUSA (Randonneurs USA) and at first thought the whole thing was s spoof. But as his mileage increased, he realized that he might be capable of riding a century. Over time, he learned how to fix flats on the road, how to pack food and drink to bring along for the ride and generally how to pace himself so he could finish these longer distances. During that process Andy realized that the basic rules for randonneuring were sensible and reasonable enough that he might be capable of riding a 200k (125-mile) brevet. So he went for it, and accomplished the goal. He has since completed several 200k brevets.

In his article for the latest edition of American Randonneur magazine, Andy lays it all out in a very simple, matter-of-fact way. Anyone can do this, he says. Look at me. I'm nobody, I'm just a regular guy who likes to ride a bicycle. And there alongside the article is a photo of Andy and his bike, the same one fished out of the dumpster, with upright handlebars and a gym bag strapped to the rear rack. He's wearing slacks (with longjohns underneath, according to the photo caption); a windbreaker; a construction worker's safety vest; leather work gloves; and hiking boots to ride his plain flat pedals with. I'm guessing this is how he dresses to ride to work. Perhaps he swaps in sneakers and jogging pants for the brevets, I don't know. But there's Andy, dressed like Just A Regular Guy and with a hint of a smile on his face.

I think the hint of the smile is the best part. It's the admission of the reality that if you take this performance cycling thing too seriously, you run the risk of turning it -- and yourself -- into colossal joke. When Andy was learning about randonneuring and confronted all the tips about gear and diet, he read it all and said, "Balderdash... I don't need all this to get started." And he was right. All he needed to do, he surmised, was to ride his bike. He'd learn the rest of what he needed along the way. And he seems to have learned enough to enjoy the trip.

Obviously, Andy sounds like a guy who doesn't have to deal with some of the stuff I deal with every day, and that's fine. But what I like the most if that he boils it all down to a single idea: Ride your bike for pleasure and enjoy it. The rest is peripherals, and if you want to get that intense about it, go ahead. But start by just riding your bike and enjoying it. Smart guy. His article is probably the best and most useful thing I've ever read in the pages of American Randonneur, or indeed in any performance cycling magazine.

So this week, while I continue to recover from a massive sneaker-wave of a flare-up and I deal with stress at work and elsewhere and my rides are short and transit-aided, I will think of Andy and try not to take the whole enterprise too seriously. And I will go back to remembering what it is I like about riding my bike, and focus on that for now. No performance, no "training", just riding around town on my bike and listening to my body so I don't blow up (and no beating myself up for needing to toss my bike on transit while I am recovering from the flare-up). I need to get back to just riding for its own sake. Thanks, Andy.

I just learned about an organization that collects bicycles and gives them to children all over the world.
But not just any children. We're talking about some of the poorest kids in some of the poorest places on earth, where a cheap bicycle that you or I could buy at a department store is so far beyond these kids that they could not imagine ever being able to have a bike of their own.





88 Bikes is the brainchild of two brothers who were so moved while bicycling across Cambodia that they decided to give their bikes away to an orphanage where 88 children were living. Immediately they realized that 86 of the 88 kids would be left out, so they e-mailed and telephoned everyone they knew and in less than a week they had raised enough money to buy bikes for the other kids in the orphanage. That's how 88 bikes was born. Since then they've given away hundreds of bikes to children all over the world. They ask for donations in almost any amount, but a donation of 88 dollars will pay for the cost of delivering a bicycle to a child. Plus, if you like you can send a photo of yourself that they will print out and give to the child so s/he knows who gave them their bicycle. (According to the report, some of the kids write thank-you notes back.)

"This is what I want for my birthday next year, and for Chanukah this year," I said to Sweetie. "Just give them the money you'd spend on a gift for me. This is so damn cool."

I went to the Web site and read more, and I really liked what I found. I can't afford a whole bike just now but before the end of the year I plan to make that happen. Meanwhile, I sent a little something to help for now (enough to cover a wheel or so).

A childhood without a bicycle is just too sad to contemplate. If you had a bike as a child and you're in a position to make a donation, I encourage you to do so, to help another kid have a bicycle.

Before we get any further, I will admit that this blog post states a personal preference based on personal experience. So any flamers out there can just Keep It In Their Pants, okay?

Let's contrast and compare.

This is a carbon fiber derailleur and crank:







These are components made of metal:







As you can see, the metal components not only look sturdier, they ARE sturdier. The derailleur is over 25 years old. Both parts were recently installed on bikes and they're working just fine.

Carbon is an amazing material. Fibers of carbon can be woven together and molded into shapes that allow for the manufacture of very lightweight bike components. Some of these components make sense and in fact I have occasionally dreamed of installing one of them -- a bashguard -- on my race bike.

But in most cases, carbon fiber doesn't hold up. It doesn't have nearly the durability of steel, or even aluminum. And when it fails, it fails spectacularly, often without much warning. I have seen too many carbon fiber bikes, and parts that come under load stress, fail.

Here's the other point that most folks -- including (especially) the folks at sites like Embrocation and Cyclocrossworld -- don't discuss.

Carbon fiber is for elite racers and rich people. Period.
The reason for this is that, if you're an elite racer, you're sponsored, and you'll get another bike or three before your season is half over. If you're rich, you can afford to swap bikes as often as you want, and usually before fatigue becomes apparent -- or dangerous.

Which leaves the rest of us wondering if carbon fiber makes sense of a bike frame material. If you're not a sponsored racer, or rich, then you're putting yourself at greater risk because you're going to ride that carbon frame longer and harder than it was really intended to be ridden. Carbon fiber is amazing, lightweight and sleek; but it is not durable or sustainable. The stuff breaks too often and is very difficult to dispose of.

(You can't -- shouldn't! -- just send it to the landfill, because the fibers don't break down quickly. And if you leave exposed [broken] carbon fiber kicking around your office, a souvenir from your last race or whatever, the fibers can actually get into your lungs over time.)

So now that I think of it, I will probably never get that bashguard. Besides being expensive it's also not going to be as sustainable in the long run, and even though I'll pay a weight penalty for sticking with my metal parts, I (and the planet) will probably be better off for it.