Quilt, Quibble, Quit.

We all have our obsessions I suppose. She has hers; I have mine. The girl on one hand has a healthy supply of scissors, bet you thought I was gonna say T-shirts! I, on the other hand, think each pair of scissors should have a specific, defined role. She, clearly, does not.

Eight pairs of scissors and not a one that can cut material. I think it may have been a set up. See, the girl also has an unhealthy supply of T-shirts, ah, there it is, the T-shirt reference. And doesn't want a single one cut.

I like to make quilts. Out of T-shirts. Little cut squared pieces of T-shirt. Cut with a clearly defined pair of material scissors (used on nothing in its lifetime but material). She likes to hoard, yes hoard, T-shirts. And what does a hoarder do? Clings to every day items in an abnormal obsessive irrational way.

I get it. Kind of. I did an essay in college about the importance of T-shirts. But I believe in a time and place to let go. And if you've got T-shirts from college, or worse yet, high school...it might be time. Or not, hence, the immortal T-shirt quilt. I thought it the perfect match; she and I. She has 852 T-shirts. And I have the ability to turn them into a blanket to keep us warm.

Wrong. She can't bear to let a single thread be cut. "What is it about this one?" I ask. "I went there", "my friend made his one", "I like Peanuts", "the color", "I've had this one 30 years". Yes, I could tell from the smell and the fact that I can actually see through the shirt. Baby, not only is it time to let go, but I can't even use those for a quilt...be a chilly blanket.

So I gave in. Keep your ratty T-shirts squirreled up in the unfinished room, you can use them as insulation. I'll cut all of mine and make a boring TV quilt. She actually buys shirts, I can't blame her. I get so many free I wouldn't dare spend money to get one more. And I'm not that great at quilting so it's just better this way for sure. At least for the sake of the relationship.

Time To Lower The Bar

Yes you guessed it. The bike went back. Today. Before Christmas even arrived. And here I sit with nothing under the tree, or really, next to nothing. I still have the monkey.

I could promise to buy another one, but if you read the last post she had the smallest adult bike they make. I might be exaggerating, but I still had to face the chick mechanic at the shop and try to explain why this amazing bike was coming back. An no offense, but she's not ready for a $5,000 carbon replacement (the next step up).

There was talk of T-Rex arms and stand over centimeters...she looked at me like I was crazy. I said, she's afraid of hitting the bar. I told her I asked how many times that had happened...None, but it could said my girl. And I can't touch the ground.... Okay. Oh dear, your trail cred is dwindling fast my love. I feel a life of redirected energy a'fore me.

The girl at the shop just looked at me (again). I shrugged. I know the girl teeters on her motorcycle, but this is a 20 lb. bicycle not an 800 lb. motorbike. The last trail I rode had right around the estimate of ZERO red lights or stop signs. And really....Why are we stopping on the bike anyway, just ride!

I honestly can't remember a time when I wasn't 'coming off' the bike because I couldn't handle the terrain. It was steep, it was rocky, I was flying over the handlebars as I nosed into a log. There's not too many times when I can touch the ground and way too many when I was getting intimate with my bike parts. (what the neighbor calls the 'vagina bar') The girl in the shop agreed, she can't touch the ground on her bike and she said, if the bar isn't all up in your business something is wrong.

I rode it from my car to the curb and cried just a little. She said, we could fit you on one for you. To which I replied, if I could find a way to fit Sneezy onto my old bike you'd have a deal!

So the bike went back. It's good for the vacation fund...except the vacation won't include mountain biking. :( I believe her, the bar was high, but the price was right and the components bomber. I couldn't pass up the deal. Too bad, it just didn't fit Cinderella.

Boarders, Carried Alive

It has finally happened. There is a cardboard box in my attic. An empty cardboard box in my storage area. Please don't tell my neighbors.

 Maybe you don't know me, but this is a huge taboo. It happens. There are tools on the table and a box in the attic. What the hell is going on?

I am not a hoarder. I am not in denial. And I still think saving empty boxes is stupid. Unless it's a bike box. Or a bike light box. Then it's completely logical. I stand by my criticism of saved teevee boxes. It's not like the new ones will last long enough to be moved. And the old tank tubes could withstand a steamroller, I don't think it really needs a box.

And then there are the action figure boxes. And the Hallmark ornaments. Really? The box retains its value? Yes, I guess you could make $5 on that ornament you've been hanging on to from 1983 so you better hold on to that box. I bought a toy truck for $500 without a box, so I'm just saying box or no box it all depends on the buyer.

However, when you have a delicate, specially delivered, cool as shit beer bike sign, go on and keep the box. You're not gonna wanna risk damaging that in a move for sure. Oh, there might be a good shoe box or two in the attic too, I'm not gonna lie. Give me a nice sturdy Keen's box or a 5.10 and I'll hang on to it for papers or trinkets. I think I've actually got plastic Easter eggs in one of them so there! Holiday items do not count as hoard.

Okay, okay, I might have some old Panasonic tape boxes at the ready too. But those are superior ace boxes. And on the endangered list, not to mention I no longer have access to swiping them. I'm not making excuses. Just what are you trying to say? Okay, so I hoard boxes. It's not exactly Reality Show material.

Up In Smoke

Let there be no mistake, I am bored in the country. I complain about the incredible lack of things to do. The limit of culture and art. It's just not like the city.

Take today for example. My country mouse was in town for some very important training after which we were under the gun, so to speak, to get our butts downtown for some very important 'art'.

Forgive me, I stand corrected. Turns out the city, too, bores me quite a bit. A limitless amount of culture and art, apparently, is not always a good thing. Today, a Chinese 'artist' blew up a tree. And called it art. I call it FAIL. To quote Deana Carter, "I shaved my legs for this?"

I expected pyrotechnics, like the sign said. I expected mind bending, tree altering effects like the diagram indicated. I expected lights and wows and cool. It's not at all what I expected. It was beyond the complete opposite. It was what they call in the fireworks biz: A DUD.

It sounded like a ancient gun fight with the smoke of one to boot. But when the smoke cleared, the tree stood unaffected and the crowd dispersed, scratching a collective head going, huh? The guy next to us turned and said, Is this Art?!

 

Well, it's in front of the art museum; that's the closest it's gonna get to art in this town. The smoke artist said he hoped the smoke would look like a virtual tree. O...kaaay.... It was some kind of protest about lighting Christmas trees. Protest, YES!, now you're in the right neighborhood.

 

Art, maybe not so much, and the Chinese, maybe not as big a threat as once thought.

 

Huff and Puff and Bluff

You may be scratching your head these days over the topic of this blog. You look up, you look over, it appears to be about biking and yet the body is disguised as something else. Why did you sign up for this feed after all? Certainly not the wisdom, or the entertainment. Why DO you read this insanity?

Well, strap yourself in, you are in for quite the ride, AND we are bringing it back to riding. I anticipate some lively entries this upcoming riding season. I, as you know, have more time to kill. And perhaps you've noticed I've also acquired a girl...to kill. Tell your friends, they're gonna wanna subscribe.

She will tell you different. She will puff out her chest and spit quite the smack. I will goad her on. I will tease and taunt her. She will call my bluff. I will chase her up hills. She will run me off the trail on the down. IF she can catch me.

I think her lungs will explode. She has informed me it is not about lungs, but heart. Baby, this isn't a Hallmark card, pocket your sappy sentiment.  These are her exact words, not lungs, but heart. I am recording them here so I can feed them to her later. A mid-trail snack. That is if her heart doesn't stop due to lack of oxygen. I'm just saying....

But we ARE talking single track. She doesn't get to pass me on the down if she can't get ahead of me on the up. I don't doubt she will blow me away on the downhill. We haven't been on the trails together yet. She will say she is fearless. It could be that. It could be her competitive nature. Stubbornness?  Perhaps stupidity? It could be she's a card carrying insurance holder, and I am not. I'll let you, the reader, be the future judge and jury.

Like I told her earlier, it is she who makes it uphill first that controls the speed on the other side in single track. Baby, try to keep up.

Doo Dad

IF he had a day job I might tell him to keep it.  My inheritance depends upon it you know. We are talking about my dad. And I'm not being overly critical, technically he did fix the problem.

The ah, the DANGER sticker there on the right...I realize the red highlights look particularly nice against the red mower but it is NOT an accessory. It is actually alerting the user to potential DANGER. Go figure. The most notable ones, surprisingly, involve putting your hands in places they shouldn't be, hence the hand on said label.

So the lawn mower has not worked for months. Every week I pull it out and try to start it, without really doing anything to it, and well, it doesn't start. See, it's not a computer, you can't turn it off and turn it back on or reboot it or even unplug it.

It's a good old fashioned mechanical engine. Even runs offa petroleum based gas-o-leen. In fact I thought that was the problem. I tried filling it. Nothing. I checked the brake cable. Nope. I took off the cover and confirmed the primer has actually spitting gas into the doohickey. Wasn't it.

I tried my Dad again not that he typically answers my calls. He knows about this issue and he is avoiding it. See, he 'fixed' it last fall. AH, Hello? You're home?!?! The mower....here's what it's doing, or rather not doing.

He tells me to take another cover off, back near that brake cable I already checked. Here is where the previous issue resided. Do you see a wire? Yes. Cut the red one, NO NOT THE PURPLE ONE...Just kidding.

He told me to disconnect the wire and try to start it again. Clearly I didn't understand what this does and I asked if I needed to squeeze the handle, he confirmed that I did. Now, here would have been a great time to explain that the mower would no longer stop running when you let go of that handle, but he left that part out. Sure enough it started...

And so, I had the cell phone in one hand, the mower in the other, and when I let go nothing happened. Cool, now the mower won't stop! I might have preferred it not starting. I could barely hear my Dad, and then he was gone. Perfect, Call Lost. Now? I lose the call NOW?

He tells me to grab a piece of metal and touch the wire, it needs to be grounded. Do WHAT? Ground a live wire? Really? Is that safe? From a man who will stick a metal object in a live receptacle. I bravely pushed a screwdriver on it, nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He said, well, I guess keep mowing until you run out of gas. Awesome.



Good Ole Fashioned Neck Wringing

Why I oughta...I don’t often ride up to an open window. Especially one at a stop sign, lingering, on a chilly, dark night. But it was clear I wasn’t pedalling forward tonight if I didn’t.

The driver leaned over and back and said, “Excuse me…” This is how they ‘get you’. They act like they are in need of assistance and then they try to school you. And not like they ever ask, but this particular night I was all good with my pile of knowledge, thanks.

So he says, “I just wanted to let you know you aren’t very visible from behind.” Now I had checked my light before I left and I knew it was bright and visible. The headlight….not so much, it was desperately in need of a charge. And so I waved my hand in front of my sputtering headlamp and said, “I’m not overly visible from the front right now either and the longer we stand here and discuss it the less visible I become so I’d really rather go.” 

Then, because he’s the type that knows everything and needs to not only let every one of us know that but also spread his diarrhea of knowledge around the crib like a unsupervised baby with a dirty diaper, he starts to talk about the angle from which my light is dangling from my bag and the trajectory of light emanating from within. 

He follows this up with, “And you should really have reflectors on your pedals.”  Okay, Mr. Selfish…did I not mention my dying headlight? I politely and less condescending than him explained that real pedals don’t really work that way, but thanks again.  I left out the presence of the glowing reflectors on my shoes, bag, jacket, and gloves, which he clearly didn't see.  

And if he actually had his eyes on the road, the brightly lit city road, he might actually see me. Given the field angle times the hypotenuse of the beam spread divided by the width of the lens x focal length of the instrument minus the kelvins absorbed by my dark clothing…Really I just wanted to say, maybe it's your driving.

Then he gunned the engine, scared the elderly man dead center of his front bumper carefully crossing the street in the crosswalk, as I screamed, “Don’t hit the pedestrian in front of you!” The street crosser breathed a sigh of Thanks to me and I rest my case about this guy’s driving. Just sayin...

Believe It Or Not

It wasn't quite a Jake Ryan moment but it was close enough. And it makes perfect sense to me that this biker chick would prefer a pickup to a Porsche any day.

My girl thought it might rain on me today so she decided to surprise me and pick me up at work. It was quite a surprise. She lives 150 miles away.

That's right she drove 2.5 hours just to drive me home from work. She blamed the dog. Like Ripley said, hey mom I feel like squeezing my ass in the cab of your pickup where I'd like to sit still for about two hours. Turns out dogs can't tell time. She sat still for around about two minutes. Now that you mention it, I don't think dogs can't talk either. So this had to be her crazy idea.

She thinks I think she's crazy. I don't. I think she's pretty amazing. I could list all the reasons why here but I bet you don't want to hear it and she already knows. I'm not sure when I became one of those couples, but I'm not complaining, feel free to gag at my happiness, I don't mind at all.

Right about now you're saying, I don't know what this has to do with a bike. But you did see how she picked me up above right? Bike. Truck. Whisked away. And besides I'm on the ride of my life, so there you have it.

To recap, my Jake Ryan drives a truck not a sports car and who knew, answers to She not He. If you don't know what I'm talking about you're either decades younger than us or you had your head in the sand during the 80s. She got it right away. Damn Mom, Got my headgear on!

EMERGENCYCLE

Drunk Dude in the road will jump out in front of you and scream at you.  I guess all that didn't fit on the sign.  USE CAUTION does cover it, but I thought they meant the grooved pavement.  I was somewhat unprepared for Drunk Dude.

"Call 911 Sir, I've just been assaulted"  Now it was my turn to do something.  And I swerved and pedaled on.  No, I never looked back.  This wasn't a comatose guy on a tricycle.  I did nothing.

He was lunging into the street demanding I take action.  Now I'm not up on my liquor bouquets, but I strongly believe that basenote was octane.  Or at least flammable.  And he didn't appear assaulted, but I'm no expert.

Lucky for him those guys on the right are.  I hate to point out the obvious, oh who are we kidding I LOVE that, you might actually get a quicker response on your left.  There, that brightly lit building...I'm fairly certain it's open.  And I bet they have phones.  They might even have a direct line, bypassing 911 altogether.

Yes, there, that one, the one that says HOSPITAL.  Really.  If you go around to the side they can dial 911.  In fact, if you were truly assaulted, they are uber trained for that.  There, under the EMERGENCY sign, the doors should open when you walk up.  You may have to wait, but the phone call, immediate.  Best of Luck.