Bulls and Bikes

Riding a bike back and forth to work gives one lots of time to think. For the most part, that's a good thing. If your not careful though, you can find your mind wandering to some pretty strange places.

Case in point. The other day I was riding home from work and happened upon this...

This got me to thinking. Would I ever consider hanging a pair of "bull balls" from my bike. Upon further consideration I came to the conclusion that "bull gonads" and "bike riding" are actually diametrically opposed. I guess that's why you never see bulls riding bikes. It's not because they don't have hands to properly grip the handlebars. This puzzle is not solved by the fact that they don't make helmets with holes designed for horns to stick out of. The answer to this mystery lies not in the reality that they don't make "bull shoes" much less ones that integrate with clipless pedals. There is but one - correction - two reasons that bulls don't ride bikes and they can both be found lying gently in the nether region.

Furthermore, If in the unlikely event I felt obliged to supplement my masculinity by hanging a pair of bull nuts from my bike, I certainly wouldn't choose an injection molded plastic version that you buy at a nickel and dime store. No - if I were to embark upon such a desperate path, it would be the BIG BRASS version for me. Yea - I know - they are more expensive. Yea - I know - they would be added weight. But - come on now - we are talking about my manhood after all!! Aren't we??

A Bike's Story?

If bikes could talk, oh the stories they could tell. Take this bike for instance...
I first saw it on my ride home the previous night. I was riding through a park, when my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of it on the perimeter of the glow of my headlight. I only saw it for an instant, but was immediately struck by the oddity. It was parked, exactly as it sits in the above picture - all alone, in the pitch black of night, pulled into a parking spot and resting on it's kickstand. What was it doing here? Where was the owner? That evening I was tempted to turn around and get a better look, but it was dark and in an isolated part of the park - I was tired, anxious to get home and not particularly inclined to being mugged in the event it's rider was of ill refute. I kept riding.

The next morning, on my ride to work, I was surprised to see the same bike, in the same spot. I was tempted to turn around, but was running late. I kept riding. That same afternoon on my ride home, there it still sat. Now my attention really peaked. It was daylight, I was in no hurry and I had no where to be or go. I stopped riding.

It was an old Peugeot that had certainly seen better days. It's chain was black with grease and grime. It sported steel rims that were rusted and while I did not spin them could tell were far from true. The handlebars were unwrapped and exposed. The tires were thread barren and the front one was flat. This bike had been around the block a time or two and was most definitely in need of a little TLC.

If bikes could talk, this would be one whose old, rusted wheels I would sit at and listen intently to it's tale. How old was it? How many miles passed beneath it's wheels? What was it's top speed? What paths had it taken? How many riders had it known? I would most certainly hear stories that brought a smile and still others that caused me to discreetly wipe away the tears that involuntarily trickled down my cheeks. In the end, I would be forced to bid this old steed farewell and hopefully walk away a better bike rider for having made it's acquaintance.

I Have To vs I Want To

This past Tuesday, I drove my truck to work for the first time in almost a year and a half.

It was raining, but I've ridden in far harder rain.

It was cold, but I've ridden in far colder temperatures.

The reason I drove is far more complicated. It all started with this...

...rubbing brakes. For the last couple weeks I've been having trouble with my wheels rubbing against my brakes. The previous night, I decided to rectify this situation in preparation for the upcoming commuting week. When I put these new brakes on my bike, I realized that I had to move the pads all the way to the very end of the arms to barely clear the tires. As the pads wore and became wider, they started to infringe upon the tire. I tried an assortment of adjustments to no avail, become increasingly frustrated and desperate in the process.

It was getting late, I was tired, cold and hungry, but I couldn't stop. I had to ride to work the next morning. My other bikes were either in the middle of preventative maintenance or remodeling, so they were unridable. This bike was my only option. It had to be fixed. I had to ride to work.

It was at this point that I stopped and considered my state of mind. Here I was, forgoing rest and food all because I had this perception that I had to ride to work. I started riding to work because I wanted to and now it had become this inward obligation. What was I trying to prove? Who was I trying to impress? I had become a slave to myself. That simply would not do. I dropped my tools, straightened up, turned off the light and walked out of my garage. "I'm taking the truck tomorrow", I said to myself. Not because I have to, but because I want to. It was time to break this vicious cycle of bike commuting out of obligation so that I could get back to bike commuting out of love.

When I got home that evening, in a much calmer state of mind, I switched back to my older brakes that had longer reach and the bike was ready for me to ride to work the next day. Not because I have to, but because I want to. I plan on making sure I keep it that way in the future.

Barefoot

One day this week as I was leaving work, a young man, wearing slacks and sporting a backpack came running by. I don't see that many joggers at this time of day, much less ones dressed as he was. However, it was neither the time of day or his attire that drew my attention. The most unusual thing about this man's actions was the fact that he had his pants legs rolled up and was wearing no shoes or socks.

The temperature outside was well down in the 30's and this guy was running completely barefooted. Furthermore, he wasn't running on the grass, but on the hard, cold pavement. Furthermore still, he wasn't running on the part of the road that was swept clean of debris by the automobile traffic, but he was running along the edge where sand, rocks, glass and steel belt treads collect. I ride Kevlar belted tires and I don't even venture into that area of the road. Every once in a while he would stop, brush off his feet and keep running.

I stood there and watched him until he disappeared into the distance. Thinking this was the last I would see of this unusual stranger, I continued on to my bike and readied it for the commute home. As I was riding, you can imagine my astonishment and excitement when I gazed ahead and saw the barefooted jogger in front. After a couple of blocks I caught up with him and as I pulled alongside asked the question that had been burning in mind since I first laid eyes upon him...

"so, I'm just curious, are you running barefooted out of desperation or desire?"

He chuckled softly at my inquiry and responded...

"desire. It's actually more efficient."

I lied and told him I understood and then continued on my way. As I rode, I couldn't help but think that this barefooted young man was not much different than myself. I'm sure there have been a many a motorist that pass me as I ride my bike in the heat, cold, rain, wind, sleet or snow that have wondered the same thing of me, do I ride out of desperation or desire. I'm sure it's equally as hard for them to envision giving up their atmosphere controlled cars and riding a bike to work as it is for myself to consider taking off my shoes and running.

We have a natural tendency to look at things that are unfamiliar to us and come up with a plethora of reasons why not.

Running barefooted in the cold will cause your feet to get frost bit.

Running barefoot on the hard unforgiving road is hard on your joints.

Running barefoot in trash will cause you to cut your feet and suffer an infection.

We are quickly able to dismiss the unfamiliar as ludicrous and those who engage in it as idiots. As a result, we miss out on some amazing experiences because we don't have the courage to take our shoes off.

Buttcicles

I ventured out to my bike after work earlier this week. It was cold and had been misting / sprinkling / sleeting all day. I was taken aback to observe that a fine layer of ice coated the top of my seat and icicles hung from it's perimeter majestically. I did not have my camera so was unable to record this image for your pleasure. As I stared at this icy spectacle one thing but kept running through my mind...

"it's gonna be a cold a$$ ride home!"

Upon closer inspection of my frigid steed, I noticed that this fine sheen of ice and accompanying icicles also covered my top tube, handlebars, pedals and brakes. Using my fist, I broke away what ice I could. It was no easy task and no matter how much I wailed upon my bike, it was not entirely effective. I finally managed to chip away enough ice to mount my lights, get the brakes in some semblance of working order and transform the surface of my pedals to something less than an ice skating rink.

On the ride home, my warm a$$ was effective at melting the ice that remained on my seat so that I was treated with a nice big wet spot on my posterior. Conscious of this as I stopped at the grocery store, I took of my jacket and tied it around my waist. I didn't want the other patrons to take notice and their imaginations run wild. Thus erroneously concluding, with disgust, that I was not in full control of my faculties.