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As a kid, I had mixed feelings about Evel Knievel but in then end, I respected that his exploits drove the energy of adrenaline junkie sports that I gravitated toward. Those sports took me in, gave me a place to explore heroic fantasy and personal challenge. I never took up motorcycles or jet cars, but skateboards and bikes and other outlets of the imagination were spawned by his popularity and exploits for our generation. Thanks Evel, rest in peace.
Take a driving test. Google spreads the wealth. The interweb should be a bit francophobic. Not all new politics are bad. Even when the sky is falling. It's good to remember, you could always be fired for your humor. Chicagoland getting a bike stunt park. Life is cycling. Even for dirtbags. Bikeblogs are collectively cool. Onward.
Briefly noted in the end of yesterday’s missive, Champion Don’t Stop second place in the 4b’s at Chicago Cross Cup #4. Viva! Here’s the bike that took him to the podium – steel is real beyatches. In awe and honor of Mr. McFetridge’s racing chops, yesterday’s five-hour tour and today’s two-hour recovery ride are dedicated to him. Today’s two valuable lessons: The legs and lungs may have the juice to go hard on a half day slugfest and get up to do it again, but the ass and shoulders do not. Butt my how sore that old familiar saddle felt today. Right collarbone and forearm not thrilled with repeating Saturday’s portage sprints in the sand. Fuck’em – play hurt boys, it’s a lovely day. Started the ride thinking the front derailleur was jammed up and resigned to a 9 speed only jaunt in the small front ring. Around half way through the warm up the left crank arm came off. Doh. Lesson two – always run a quick nuts and bolts check before you ride. Easily repaired and with the bottom bracket snugged back up, suddenly shifting properly. As a first experience with an outboard BB, the jury is still out. Not too crazy about having two hex bolts keeping the drivetrain from flying away. Hit Timberland and found some good technical mud and tree fall sections of around 400 meters to run intervals in, then came down Rawlings trying to spin big ring most of the way. Sharp turns at speed, wobble bobble. Came across a group of balloon tire fanatics, massing for a group ride or perhaps ending one. Lots of amazing old Schwinn’s and Excelsior’s and tons of custom kit, including a tricked out Sling-Shot and two insane custom fab choppers. Foolishly I left my camera but managed some phone snaps before picking through the weekend walkers on the way back to camp with visions of Three Peaks and Iron Cross taunting. Modular bike fabrication is smart. Educating new riders is smarter. Fixed in the Rising Sun. Long live the pool shark. Onward.
Riding in a playground of mildly challenging shared use trails in the University Endowment Lands hammered home the concept of weekend. The Jonny Starship floats through slipslidey rocks, roots, slime, sand and leafy hairpins on a frosty afternoon. Sweet. Sandy beaches lead to dismount, portage and run drills all the way up and back from the trailhead. The whole commute from apartment to nirvana entails around 1 mile of trafficked road each way. Once around the bend, this beautiful forest preserve appears at the edge of suburbia. While pushing some edges on these wide forgiving trails might give some adrenaline burst, these are bunny slopes and beginner runs. The real deal around here is a bit further up the mountain and up the skillset ladder. Contentment to skid and scoot around on fast forest floor for half a day is enough for now. Meanwhile elstwhere, much ado about nothing. Mike Janelle, 40, RIP. Tree Farm pushing hard. Peter McKay was shot for cycling. Portland cycling reaches New York. Eco-car fantasy or John Delorean's ghost? Bike Snob podcast. Law breaking. Well writ race coverage.
Well writ Tom Simpson story. Hunting cool. Thanks UrbanVelo! No thanks, AT&T. What the mainstream media tells you about the previous story is likely wrong. The price of gas hits the treads of your tires. DC Shoes and BMX bling the autosport anyway. Liars liars pants on fire. Forbes: sports scandals don't hurt sport. Apparently, sex can. Molecular food. Amnesty vs. terror. Tennessee Ti. Why we think Madison is pretty bad as. Could this be the next trend in urban track cycling? Dirty Dozen is not just a brass band, it's brass balls riding in Penn. Champion don't stop! Yeah brother! Onward.
Airports that suck more. Damn fine blog. Elliot Ness of dope. Exercise this. Helpful only if you know what you're doing. The end of the world as we know it. Just get singular. Or cognitive. Viva.
Back in Los for two days, semi-sorry to leave the trails of Vancouver behind for the weekend, glad to be around the hounds. Here's a variety of spices from various ports of call. Over-styled video of OC kids on fixies. Build a bamboo bike trailer. Bike friendliest cities. Hi Def moon shots. Go to the video links at Mollusk's site, and check the short shapers clip on the Stradivarius of surfboards, by Danny Hess. Staying with the surf, Tim McKenna shot a lot of photos at Chopes. Mark Cunningham is legend. Viva!
It pissed rain on Saturday all morning so of course, what better excuse to suit up and ride for three hours, with a pit stop at a friend's flag football game. After an hour n' half of climbing and skidding in the forest, Farverian passes were witnessed to be hurled against the wet, sliding TD's and trick plays the call of the day. Onward into the mist, back across the bridge for the second half of play on the trails of Stanley Park. Today, shoes still wet, round two in the morning before everyone squared away their clocks and got out there. When riding in the rain, the trails are shared only by black squirrels and old sages prowling doggedly weathered routes. The sun broke mid-afternoon so it was on for round three, just needed the perfect meal concocted by Lt. Fenkart here at Squadra North. Pulling on wet Sidi's is like pulling on your damp cold wetsuit for another winter surf session - it don't feel good. Hammered up Rawlings as the sun set and down in the dark. Can't see for shit in the dark these days. Need a brighter light and glasses. Or an earlier start time. There's a tranquility that comes when holding a line in slippery leaves and roots on wet hardpack at full throttle on a cx and that spiritual awakening was available in copious doses today. Nightfall just brought another obstacle, sight replaced by feel, centering on finding the perfect line through every section. Weekends are sacred these days.
Here's some finds on the interweb system of tubes. Good writing basically about Trent Klasna, via Big Johnny. Fucking Chanel is making a bike - here's moron the 12k of bling. Patrick spins his yarn, hung out to flap in the wind, no omerta to protect him now. Weisbecker's back although he never left. Friend of ours drives one of these to an airport you and I don't want to go to. That's a damn interesting bus. Ladies and gentlemen, Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings.
Ouch. Urban numero four. A video in three parts, from the man who brought us The Men Who Stare At Goats. Coke adds life to tennis. There's booze 101 and then there's 1. Why bio-fuel kinda sucks. Modern mapping. Bike tweakers. Aussie version. Vinyl takes back what's right. Waiting for the 'net. Bike evangelists poised to invade Londonistan. Baseball can't catch a hit. Remember Katrina. All bikes for all. Onward.
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