For those of you who have read and still read my homages to randomness, you know that occasionally I lapse into discussion of bicycles.  I am aware that no one but me wants to read these lapses.  Yet I persist.  It’s a little like my current occasional behavior of defying the Garmin Nüvi.  I just can’t help myself.

See?  My Gunnar Rockhound. Don’t tell me to turn on Roscoe.  I just won’t do it.

Today, though, I am coming clean about a new two wheeled addition to my life.

Here it is surrounded by its non-motorized friends…

Introductions all around, shall we?  In the back top, we have my newest bicycle, the Kona Dew Deluxe. It’s not REALLY a hybrid if it has disc wheels, right?  Underneath it (and mostly obscured) is Teresa’s Gary Fisher Tassajara.  To the right on top it my (now sold) Surly Cross Check.  We never quite got along.  Below the Surly is my Gunnar.  And in the center is my Kymco People 250. (Teresa’s Orbea Onix was inside at the time the picture was taken and her Honda Magna was in the shop–see explanation below).

There it is…

Let’s go back a few years shall we?

When I was in graduate school, I decided to get a motorcycle.  Why did I decide to do this?  Well there were a few reasons.  UCLA let you park one for free.  UCLA didn’t let you breathe for free.  They also didn’t let you park a car at all unless you lived in Amarillo and could prove your commute was too long by bus.  So, parking a motorcycle in any number of highly convenient motorcycle lots (including one right behind the building my program was in) seemed fab.

Also Teresa had one.  I like doing what Teresa does.  She’s my honey, after all.

Teresa, being the independent sort that she is, had learned to ride her bike on her own, taken the DMV test on her own, and was all set.  I’m not that adventurous.  Instead, I decided to take the Motorcycle Foundation Safety course.  It consisted of two in-class session that were a little like High School driving class.  Taught by an older guy who said he never drove a car, they were a little boring, but ok otherwise.

The class also had two riding days.  We rode little motorcycles in the parking lot of Pasadena Community College.  I was the only woman and the instructor thought me pretty much incapable.  Those two days were among the most stressful in my life.  I can, right now, conjure my late 20s self standing at the trunk of my car, on a break, my legs trembling, eating some string cheese and a nutri-grain bar.

Somehow, despite his dislike of me, I passed.  He wasn’t done, though.  His parting shot was, “do some of what you’re doing out on the road and you’ll get yourself killed.”

Pedagogically, a very weak approach, I must say.  I don’t know WHAT I did wrong that was going to put me in danger, but I do remember the fear and humiliation.

Anyway, I got myself one of these:

It’s an 84 Honda Nighthawk. I bought it in 95 or so.  I rode it to UCLA for several years.  Didn’t get myself killed, obviously.

I sold it in 99 or so.  I needed the money.  I had stopped riding it once I finished my degree.  I must say that I never quite got over the MSF guy’s warning.  I was relieved when a nice Air Force officer bought it from me.

I always regretted that Teresa and I didn’t ride more together.  We did a long ride once and I was barely able to get through Malibu Canyon because of fear.  She was fine.  I’m scarred.

Teresa kept her motorcycle and it sat in our garage for a long time, inoperable.  Last summer, with gas at almost $5 a gallon in California, she decided to get it fixed.  That’s her story.  My story, typically, is to follow along with Teresa’s enthusiasms.  No motorcycle, though.  Not this time.

I wanted a scooter.  Cute, fun, feet flat.  Automatic.  A Vespa.  I’d wanted a scooter for years.  I remember checking the alternative weekly in Washington when I lived there for one to buy. Didn’t have to be a Vespa.  Any decent scooter would do.  It was going to be different this time. I was going to be different this time.

So, I investigated.  Discovered that there were, essentially, four types of scooter manufacturers:

Italian: Vespa, Piaggio, Aprilia.  Uber-cool, super-expensive, and probably out of my league.

Japanese:  Some of the usual suspects, Honda, Kawasaki, etc.  Moderately priced.  Not a lot of choices.

Taiwanese:  Lots of choices, decent reputations, brands I hadn’t heard of:  Kymco, Sym, Genuine

Chinese:  I gather to be avoided.

I ran into a problem.  I wasn’t the only one who thought to buy a scooter last summer with gas the way it was.  Quelle surprise.  Finding a scooter in a showroom was hard.  Verging on impossible.

What you could get was a 50cc.

That Nighthawk?  It was a 700cc.

50s are great for gas mileage.  They’ll get 80-100mpg.  They also only get up to about 30 miles per hour.  I test rode one.  I really liked its looks.

I was a total freak about riding it.  Nervous and tense.  Once I got going, though, I remembered.  What to do.  Where to look.  How to use my hands and feet.

I might have bought it right on the spot, but for the 50cc thing.  And Teresa calming me down.  Bless her heart.

Most scooter manufacturers make a 150cc.  Yamaha 150s would be available in October (this was July/August).  Vespas could be sooner, but they cost $5000+.  Genuine Buddies were too small.  The world seemed to be tilting toward a Kymco.  The Kymco dealer was getting some Agility 125s in.

I haunted craigslist and ebay.  The same scooter popped up on both down in Orange County.  It was a 250cc, which seemed better for hauling my ass around.  I talked to the guy and made arrangements to come see it.  I even bought a helmet.  I brought some mountain bike gloves.  I got out cash.  Carrying around a lot of cash makes me nervous.  So does buying motor vehicles.

Teresa and I agreed that it would be better not to take it on the freeway.  Getting from Orange County to Los Angeles County without using the freeway is not easy.  I think it took about three hours.

By the time we pulled into the scooter dealer (it needed service), I was exhausted.  I was also pretty sure I had made a good decision.  It ran well, fit me nicely, and it was fun.

I ride it a couple of times a week, at least.

Sometimes, I act like a goober and stick my knee out when I turn.  Mostly, though, I just ride it.  Sitting up straight.  Following all the laws.  I never split lanes.  I always wear the gear (jacket, full-face helmet, armored gloves).  Gas costs $2 a gallon just now.  It cost me $3.11 to fill up the People last week.

Teresa and I have ridden a couple of times together.  We’ll ride some more, I’m sure.  Maybe not Malibu Canyon.  Maybe to the movies again.

Vroom.

So, this guy, who’s from my home state, tried to deposit a one million dollar bill in a local bank. When the teller refused to open an account for him, he became abusive and they called the cops.

The United States has never issued a one million dollar bill, just for the blog record.

The two largest bills ever offered by the Bureau of Engraving and Printing were the hundred thousand dollar bill and the ten thousand dollar bill. The B.E.P. should not, by the by, not be confused with the Mint. The Mint does the coins. And has a lame gift shop.

Here’s a picture of the 10K bill:

Know who’s on that bill? What, you don’t recognize him? Come on! Salmon P. Chase is a household name. Still not ringing a bell? He was one of the leaders of the Free Soil movement, Lincoln’s Secretary of the Treasury, and later Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. While I’m sure you’re now all thinking, “oh, right HIM” here’s another factoid. Chase Bank. Hokay.

You may do better with the 100K:

Wilson. As in Woodrow. It wasn’t really a circulating bill, so much as it was a gold certificate, though William Jennings Bryan would have me note that it was issued (in 1934) after the gold standard was repealed. It was used for interagency exchanges of money and was orange on the reverse. Roosevelt (as in Franklin) was the man behind the 100K bill.

The 10k, really, was the biggest bill ever in circulation and featured pilgrims disembarking from the Mayflower on the reverse. The 5K bill featured James Madison and Washington resigning his Army commission. History on the money!

Nixon did away with all bills larger that $100 in 1969 to try to better control organized crime. That worked out really well for him (and us). I’ve long been a proponent of doing away with the $1 bill. We should use $1 coins. Oh and we should also eliminate the penny. I should stop mixing Mint issues and Engraving and Printing issues. Still, those are my money opinions and I’m standing by them. Also, we should go back to the silver standard.

Ok, maybe not, but I do like the idea of being able to go and demand silver somewhere. Hey–here’s a five, gimme some silver!

When I was in college, I was friends with a number of economics majors. They contended, usually when a little drunk, that the great tragedy of my life would be not taking economics in college. (My dad sometimes contends I should have taken HOME economics in middle school. I wish I had taken typing.) My usual counter argument to the econ majors was that the tragedy of their lives was not taking philosophy. I still think I’m right, but I do wish I knew a little more about economics. Oh and there have been other tragedies more significant than my lack of economic understanding. Plus, I’ve read Marx and Engels. Doesn’t that count for something?

I’ll settle, for the moment, I guess, with knowing that there is no such thing as a million dollar bill. I wish I had a real one so I could but people I love the things they want. Lately, I’ve been wanting to exchange bills for another metal. Why wasn’t there ever a titanium standard? I’d love to trade a slip of paper for two of these (one for me and one for my honey):

The problem is, people who sell the above want those plastic card things. I learned about that once, but have forgotten most of what I know. I seem to recall you have to use the regular money to pay back what you spent on the plastic dohickeys at some point. Like in graduate school, when I took out student loans, and was required to go to a meeting wherein the main message was “YOU HAVE TO PAY BACK YOUR LOANS.” I sometimes misunderstand messages. For example, Honey and I went to see No Country for Old Men this weekend. As we were walking out of the theater, she said, “so the message of that movie is that everything is going to be ok.” It was not the message I got. Maybe my college friends were right. I just reread the “Cross of Gold” speech and Bryan says nothing about titanium. I’m going to have to think on this. In the meantime, if anyone has any deep thoughts on economics or moving toward a titanium standard, please let me know.

When Honey got home last night, she saw the box in the garage. “Don’t I get to say goodbye to it?” I tried not to cry.

A year ago my life changed and I became a permanent member of the faculty at a fine institution. The weekend after I interviewed and before I got the job, Honey and I went to NorCal and I bought a bicycle. It was an impulsive decision.

Since then, I have ridden it, but not very much. I am, as some of you know, not an insubstantial person size-wise. In my brain, both consciously and subconsciously, I always kind of thought I might break the damn thing. It didn’t help that the reviews of it on Roadbikereview cited a tendency for the carbon on the seat stay (that’s the tube that runs at an angle from the bottom of the seat to the rear wheel) to break for no really good reason. And there I was giving it a reason to break.

I finally, with some help from Honey, who is wiser about me than I am, realized that my ongoing tweaking of the bike (saddles, stems, seatpost, etc.) was really a way to make myself feel better about the bike. I loved it, but I did not trust it. So, I strayed. I bought an all steel urban assault machine. No carbon weenie parts to break, no worries. That thing is a tank compared to the old one. Here it is. The color is called “bean green.”

Last week, I listed the NorCal bike on ebay and it sold yesterday. I got less than I wanted (really, I kinda got hosed), but when I got home, I packed it up right away and had the box taped shut and ready to go before Honey got home.

No, she didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. This morning I took it to UPS and sent it to its new home. Ironically, the buyer lives on NorCal, fairly close to where I bought it.

It’s just an object really. A pretty one, but an object nonetheless. Why, then, am I sad?

The new bike hangs where the old one did on my bike rack. It’s a blast to ride and on Sunday, I found myself jumping off little curbs on my tour de ducks. (Where I ride has a pond with ducks and geese at a great take-a-break point). I’ll fall for the new one. I like it a lot already. I’ll miss the idea of the old one. I hope its new owner loves it and rides it the way I never could.

I am not a particularly graceful person. I often sport bruises attesting to my lack of deftness at things. Every time I get on my mountain bike, now repainted a lovely pearly white (with blue undertones), I see the small splotches of green on the crank and the front tire from where I tried to touch up its previous paint color and failed. I tried to keep my hand and mind steady and clear.

While we were at the beach last week, I got my shoelace caught in a bike chain and down I went. As I was falling, I slowed the bike with the brakes and tried to will myself to put my left foot down first. (I always put my right foot down first in normal cycling contexts). “Left foot!” my conscious mind screamed, but my kinesthetic responses weren’t there. I have the scrapes and bruises (on my right knee) to prove it.

I try to be graceful. I try to be coordinated. I can catch a ball in a glove and hit one reasonably well with a bat, but ask me to do any higher order movement and I will fail.

Today, I was presented with a problem. It was more annoying than anything. I learned about the issue at noon. It took four phone calls and some persuading on my part, but I solved the problem by 4pm in such a way that everyone was happy and contented. No cross words were uttered. I was apologized to (by the creator of the problem) twice, thanked five or six times (by all involved) and am feeling satisfied.

Truth be told, it was a graceful.

I was just reading a piece my honey wrote about em dashes. It was a less boob titled version of this post from her blog. The grace with which she wrote this piece (and many other things) was really amazing.

It’s nice, I think, to occasionally rediscover small pleasures in life. Grace, it seems to me, comes in a variety of ways. When it comes, I want to spend a little more time appreciating it, if only for a moment.

If only my knees didn’t have to suffer my lack of grace otherwise.

Professional cyclists are like most athletes. Some are smart, some are corrupt, some are really daft. I like the sport nonetheless and, as usual, am enjoying the run-up to the Tour de France, despite the horrible coverage on Versus (nee OLN). Paris-Roubaix was another exciting CSC ride away (O’Grady this year, Cancellara last year). The Giro is shaping up to be a decent battle.

In the meantime, Ivan Basso has been let go by Discovery and admitted to “trying” to dope. Uh-huh. Jason Giambi also apologized for using that “stuff.” Baseball. Cycling. Doping sucks. My honey said so, so it is so.

Here’s the weird bit, that’s actually getting some national media play. Floyd Landis, the homophobic TdF winner from last year, who is accused of using synthetic testosterone, is the subject of a hearing right now by the U.S.A.D.A. (anti-doping agency).

Greg LeMond, the first American TdF champion, testified in the hearing last week. LeMond has been VERY outspoken against doping and has accused Lance Armstrong and now Landis of doping. He says he received a phone call from Landis in which Lemond urged Landis to come clean about doping. LeMond admitted in the course of that phone call that he had been sexually abused as a child and was trying to make the point that secrets can harm you in the long-run. LeMond contends that Landis tacitly admitted to doping in the conversation (a claim Landis denies).

Landis’ manager, the night before LeMond was to testify, called LeMond and threatened to expose his secret (the abuse) to the world.

It’s all just beyond bizarre.

The thing about any sport is that, however compelled by it I feel, I can choose to do it instead of watch it. My Gunnar mountain bike is off the be repainted and Honey is thinking about trading up her bike. There’s a lot to pay attention to that doesn’t involve Floyd Landis or Ivan Basso.

When I glance across my office to my road bike, which is my only bike at the moment (what with the Gunnar in parts in my garage and on the way to Wisconsin), I take some comfort in the name on the tubes. He may talk a little much, but right now, LeMond stands for integrity and fortitude and who can’t use a little of that?

I’m not a very good cyclist. I’m also not a good photographer.

But, and this will come as a shock to regular readers, I have a highly developed bicycle aesthetic. Honey and I are back from our annual pilgrimage to the Tour de Georgia. Despite the whole lesbian thing, I think biker boy legs are sexy. And bikes are sexy (which defies sexual categories).

Herewith a few pictures I snapped of the pretty of it all. Oh and feel free to click on the pictures. That way you can see my bad photography REALLY big.

Thusly, the things enjoyed, though not excelled in, become one for a moment.

Janez Brajkovic, the eventual winner:

Ok, you’ve got to admit, this is a pretty leg. It’s Brajkovic’s.

David Canada, ultimately 3rd in the race. He was leading at the start of this stage.

Christian Vandevelde. He finished second, and like all American riders taking off from the Chickamauga stage was sent off with a blast from a rifle fired by a group of Confederate reenactors. I didn’t take a picture of them.

My bike is also pretty. So, here are some pictures of it. I wouldn’t want it to get jealous…

How fast do I ride? Here’s my sense enacted in bar plugs.

My snail and I are happy to go, slow, though. That way people can see how pretty the bike is a little better.

When it gets right down to it, I’m not very fond of my butt. I recognize that it serves a needed function. But were I to list my own favorite parts of the anatomical mess that is me, my butt wouldn’t make the top ten. And, no, I’m not going to list the ten I would choose. Shout out to my ears!

Bottom line (har!), my butt has been hurting me lately. I was blaming my newish chair, which is a mesh deal rip-off of a Herman Miller Aeron chair.

My very smart Honey pointed out that the chair was probably not to blame. Rather, the most likely culprit was the Gunnar. No, not the twin son of Rick Nelson. Nor is Gunnar Peterson, the work-out guru, to blame. Instead it’s my new-to-me Gunnar Rockhound.

What, you ask, is a Gunnar Rockhound? Why, it’s a bicycle. A fancy green bicycle.

I often use my mountain bike to get around campus. My old mountain bike, a Cannondale F400, was aluminium. Here’s the thing about aluminum. It’s light. It’s strong. It’s rigid. It makes your teeth fall out rigid. Plus, the C’dale was too big for me. So, after months of obsessing on ebay, I bought the Gunnar and sold the Cannondale.

The Gunnar? She’s steel. Flexy, comfy steel. And a blast to ride.

Since the picture above was taken, I’ve swapped out the seat to this:

My biggest change to the bike, though, courtesy of a conspiracy of the best kind–a birthday conspiracy–was an upgrade the the front fork. Forks are the shocks on the front of mountain bikes. They make riding more fun. I asked for high end in the fork department. I got it. Everybody say woo-whee.

So, now that my bike is everything I want to be and more, I’ve been riding it. And my butt hurts. Leave it to Honey to see the connection.

It’s a hardtail, which means it has no shock on the back end. I am not a hardtail, which means I do have cushioning. But not so much a swingarm or 100mm of travel (that’s about 4 inches). That and I’m not a good mountain biker. I gather I should ride out of the saddle more.

I have my bike with me today. My butt’s here, too. How much more sore can it get? Maybe I don’t want the answer to that question. I might get it anyway.

Post before last I mentioned, in a really off-hand way, a stretch of mountain bike path Honey calls, “thorn row.”

I haven’t been riding my mountain bike much lately. That’s because my road bike has a siren call.

I rode Tuesday (after posting). Wednesday morning I had a flat. From a thorn. From the paved bike path.

I changed my tube.

Today I went for a ride. I was 2/10 of a mile in. Front tire? Flat. Why? Thorn. Paved bike path.

I am sorry thorn row. I did not mean to mock you. I have sacrificed two tubes. I will never call your name again. I fear you and that is as it should be. Accept my penance for you are mighty and I am weak.

Confession: I think bad French is hilarious. Tonight in fact, Honey proposed that Biscuit wasn’t listening to me because she only speaks French. I then said to Biscuit, “Bisque, arrive le crate, Tourmalet, maillot jaune.” Biscuit seemed to get it and got in her crate.

My bad French isn’t nearly as funny to me as grrrlylibrarian’s bad French. GL majored in French Lit (at Berkeley) and can do a French accent and throw French words around in a way I find beyond hilarious. It’s bad to think bad French is funny. I have enormous respect for the French in culture, bicycling, opposition to stupid-ass American Presidents, etc. There are a few things French I don’t find as appealing. No need to list them, but they’re probably on your list of French negatives, too.

I was going write this blog entry tomorrow on Bastille Day proper. But, it’s already tomorrow in France, so happy BD, France. “La da da da da da da da da la da da da da ta da.” (That was my blog rendition of La Marseillaise).

Sometimes my Word program at work switches (for no reason that I can determine) into spell-check in French. I like to think it knows how funny I think that is.

Anyway…(blogging at night after taking Tylenol PM isn’t very coherent, is it?)…It’s really important to the French that the July 14th stage of the Tour de France be won by a Frenchman. And it’s preferable that the winning rider be on a French team. For those of you not following the race closely (ahem), here are the French teams:

Credit Agricole
Ag2R Provence
Cofidis
Francaise Des Jeux
Bougyes Telecom
Agritubel

The sponsors of the above represent: a bank, an insurance company, a credit company, the French National lottery, a telecommunications company, and fuck if I know. (Agritubel is a wildcard team with ugly kits and I’m not looking them up. Look them up if you want.)

David Moncoutie of Cofidis won the stage on 7/14/05. Richard Virenque (French!) won on 7/14/04 riding for the Belgian Quickstep (flooring) team. The French love Virenque, even though he’s an admitted doper. 7/14/03 didn’t see a Frenchman win. It was the rather famous (no snickering by sheds or others) day Lance Armstrong rode across the grass to avoid a crash and went on to cement his 5th overall win. Ok, enough tour history.

The French are probably unhappy today that Floyd Landis of Phonak, an American, is wearing the maillot jaune indicating he’s the overall leader. I can’t say I’m thrilled either. See my earlier post about Floyd’s homophobic stupidity. I’m now hoping for a Levi Leipheimer comeback, but would be happy with any of the big riders who are close to win, except Floyd. Cadel Evans, Denis Menchov, and Andreas Kloden seem the mostly likely guys at this point. Menchov won the Vuelta a Espana last year by default because Roberto Heras lost his win because of doping. Drugs are great for what drugs are supposed to do. Just leave them out of sports, ok? Ok.

Here’s Menchov celebrating his stage win today:

You’d be that pumped too if you had just won after climbing five mountains in 6 hours and 6 minutes on a bicycle.

Back to French–one of the ironies of my finding bad French so funny is that it would have horrified my grandmother. She was a French teacher and loved ALL things French. She even let her love for French seep over into a dislike and distrust of things Spanish. French wasn’t funny to her. It was serious business.

So, happy Bastille Day, Gran. I hope that a Frenchman wins the Tour stage today. And I hope that there’s a really nice version of Paris in heaven.

Vive la France. Oui. Alpe D’Huez.

A few things in the past few days I haven’t expected:

I didn’t expect to be able to ride 12 miles. I did on Sunday.

I didn’t expect that if I did ride 12 miles to avoid deep pain. I felt great on Monday.

I didn’t expect my spokes on my rear wheel to go “pling” and lose their spokey integrity on my follow-up “12 miles twice in three days” ride yesterday. Result: Three miles and some tears. Honey rode 19.

I didn’t expect to make a good peach cobbler. I did.

I didn’t expect that the guy at the local bike shop (LBS) where I had never been and to which I took my wheel today would be so nice. Me: “I push the limits of my bike.” Him: “No you don’t. You’re out there having fun and exercising. The new wheel will be fine.” $257 and a kind word. The latter made me feel a lot better about the former. I’ll go back to this bike shop. The new wheel will be ready on Friday. The old one will go up on ebay. Anybody need a 32 spoke Open Pro rear wheel with an Ultegra hub? I’m having it re-trued.

I didn’t expect the Angels to score 14 runs in one game this whole season. Yea Halos.

I didn’t expect to get out of last place in batting average in my fantasy baseball league. Oh wait, I didn’t.

I didn’t expect that an off-hand comment by my Honey would result in a new presidential candidate. Bailey in ‘08!

I didn’t expect Italy to beat Germany in the World Cup. I also didn’t expect the World Cup to be an area of conversation at the “lesbians in academia” barbecue we attended last night. They did and it was.

I didn’t expect Kenneth Lay to die. I wasn’t really thinking about him or anything, but I was surprised this morning when I heard he had.

I didn’t expect Biscuit to make it through the night with any aplomb. She was stressed when we got home. But she went to sleep and didn’t bark or whine at all. To celebrate, I’ve contracted with the Dog Patrol (shameless plug if anyone needs dog walking in L.A.) to walk her on Thursdays. She totally deserves it. She also deserves “total football access” but doesn’t get that because she can’t handle it.

I didn’t expect to so easily dissuade Wendy from calling me “Grits.” : ) Was it the reference to the CIA?

Mostly, despite the tears yesterday, I didn’t expect to feel so good today. Happy Wednesday everybody.

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