Big Bikes

If You Party Like a Rock Star You Gotta Go Ride Your Bike Like a Rock Star

And that would mean riding very slowly, with a throbbing headache, an awful bitter taste in your mouth, looking like you woke up in a puddle of your own vomit, but we'll get to that in a minute.

I've started writing more over here. Check out the IBC Blog exclusive on escaping Zombie Attacks.

Did a little clean up over there on the sidebar. Put the blog links into an actual blog list so the most recently updated ones rise to the top like the cream from the chaff. Exciting stuff, I know my heart rate is about pegged right now.

With all the commuting and the attempts at getting off my ass training-wise I often come home lacking the necessary motivation required to ride my bike to the pub or whatever. This is just pathetic. Last night I got home and found myself in that lame, little boat. It was 44° out, which might not sound warm but it is compared to the teen and single digit crap we've been dealing with here. If I didn't ride my bike to the pub I was at great risk of losing what's left of my tough guy points.

Stumbling block, the Varsity had a flat. The fact that I'd forgotten this shows just how infrequently I've been riding my beloved cruiser around. The last time I went to use it was weeks ago, I was going to meet its previous owner, and I believe The Varsity actually committed an act of minor Seppuku to avoid the ignominy of being seen by its creator in its current state. That would be a state where the schrader valve tubes in its flaking gum wall tires had been replaced with Presta valve tubes. OK, maybe not Seppuku-light, maybe the donor organs were simply rejected by the recipient. Either way the Valve ripped off the tube as I pumped up the tire and I had to ride my Commuter with Vans on, the SPD pedals threatening to burst through the soles and impale my feet.


What am I going on about? So I did get off my ass and ride my bike down to the Pub and then later to the big show at P.A.'s Lounge. I'm not a New Wave/Power Pop/Rock critic so I won't go into detail other than to say that The Secret Sea (with my good friend Deborah on drums ) was bumpin'.

The Major Stars were pretty damn good too. Crazy Psychedelic rock.

Miriam Sweet Fixie-ing it home.

Julie, Giulia, and John with the wind (and me) at their heels

And that's why I woke up Sunday morning going "Today is the kind of day sunglasses and cold Chinese food were invented for". I had plans to meet up with some IBC folks and possibly my super-hero neighbors at 10 over at the bike path in Arlington. I woke up so hurtin' that I was at risk of not making the ride. The (my) definition of an alcoholic is someone who allows alcohol to interfere with their life. What this means is that sometimes a non-alcoholic who drank more PBRs in two hours than Clint Eastwood did during the entire film Gran Torino has to hurl themselves out of bed, drink three pints of water and three cups of coffee, stare at themselves in the mirror going "Why?" several times, then stumble out the door into the light hissing like a Vampire to greet the day with a hardy "Oh God...you again".

We put together a solid ride, heading out to Nagog Hill where we ran into another IBCer, Mike Harris out on his Single Speed Cross bike with studded tires. All the snow melt going on makes group riding pretty sketchy right now. By the end of the ride my arms were tired from pointing out every giant puddle and gaping pot hole and I was polka-dotted head to toe with dirt from spray off other people's tires. I was happy to have the company, winter rides can be a lonely business.

Of course my sunny, little ride report wouldn't be complete without a tiny bit of angst. After I left the IBC posse I was sitting at a light in the left turn lane, four Arlington high school boys roll up to my right in someone's Mom's Volvo. I hear them snickering then the inevitable "Nice Pink helmet!". "Wow, how did you think of that one? Nice Volvo, I didn't realize men drove those".