Living Fierce: Unleashing your Personal Best

As much as I enjoyed my visit to Gothenburg, there is nothing quite as comforting as familiarity. I take solace in the predictable, and my life here in Uh-merica is just that. For example, I know that when I wake up in the morning, the sun will rise. I also know that this sun will shine on monkey feces, since my helper monkey, Vito, likes to relieve himself on my bedspread in the middle of the night. Mostly, though, I know that people in Portland, OR will continue to love beer and bikes, which is why this article on BikePortland should come as no surprise whatsoever:

Yes, it's well-known that putting a bunch of frames in any Portland establishment can double business overnight. This is not limited to bars, either. Even the Multnomah County Health Department is embracing the "put a bike on it" approach. Did you know that, because of low screening rates, less than 40% of colorectal cancers are found early? Well, by installing bike-themed colonoscopy stations all over the city they expect Portlanders will flock to have their colons examined with endoscopic tools fabricated by the city's top framebuilders. These stations will be staffed by United Bicycle Institute student volunteers:

(A UBI student inspects a patient's "bottom bracket" for polyps.)

When it comes to cancer, early (and artisanal) detection is they key to prevention.

Also, apparently Portlanders can't even get through a pint of organic beer or an order of organic french fries without being tempted to perform bike maintenance, which is why the BikeBar has "loaner tools:"

"Hold that thought--I really should service my hub bearings. Can you watch my organic seven-grain stout?"

But clearly the most important amenities are the "'Plug Out' exer-cycles that you can spin and generate electricity while you wait for your order." This is a stroke of genius on the part of the owners, since it simultaneously preys on Portlanders' compulsion to pedal bicycles at all times as well as their borderline pathological need to feel good about themselves, thereby ensuring that the establishment never has to pay a single utility bill. Now that's how you harness the power of smugness.

Meanwhile, when it comes to bicycle-themed entrepreneurship we New Yorkers are woefully behind. However, there is the odd flicker of brilliance, such as this Kickstarter pitch from a Brooklyn man for a bicycle "break" light:


Unfortunately, there are a few problems with this device. For one thing, as far as I can tell, the light only works when you use your brake, which means you're still cloaked in darkness in a non-braking situation. This dovetails into the second problem, which is that nobody uses brakes anymore anyway. If he invented some sort of tire that shoots sparks when you skid then perhaps he'd be on to something. As a bonus, such a tire would open the door for brakeless riders to immolate themselves should they attempt to skid in the vicinity of a fuel spill.

Still, I was inspired by his somewhat disjointed story about how he was inspired to invent the brake light, which is basically that he got into an altercation with a cyclist after nearly running the cyclist over. This reminds me of the Festivus origin story in its sheer negativity. Also, it should go without saying that the kid in the tie-dye is awesome:


His thumbs don't go down for two and a half minutes:


His visage is also nothing short of mezmerizing:

In fact, I haven't been so entranced since my encounter with the Nonplussed Journalist:


His gaze was so persuasive that, despite my initial skepticism, I'd somehow ended up pledging $20,000:

We also now have the exact same haircut, though for the life of me I can't remember going to the barber.

Speaking of brakelessness, a reader recently forwarded me this video of a "midnite crit" in our notion's carpital:

DC Midnite Crit from In The Crosshairs on Vimeo.

I'm always excited to watch a Nü-Fred on-the-bike slapfight, and I knew the competition was going to be fierce when I saw how much trouble some of the participants have with putting on their helmets:


While others forego helmets altogether and opt for the time-honored "windblown butt-cut" look:


The riders tear through corners at a moderate clip, making sure not to use their drops lest they inadvertently pick up speed:


As for the course, "It's about a 10-mile, 10-lap course...crit style, no one gets dropped:"

This explanation puzzled me for two reasons. Firstly, since when does "crit-style" mean no one gets dropped? I can assure you that people do get dropped in crits, and in fact I've been dropped in every single crit I've ever entered. Secondly, at almost no point in the video are any two riders anywhere near each other, which technically means that everybody got dropped--except for the winner, of course. Really, this is less a "crit" than it is a "hipster ITT."

Speaking of the winner, he gets a trophy, and then scowls like a man who knows just how badass it is to beat a bunch of people who don't know how to put on their helmets:

Like tying your own shoes or doing your own laundry, winning trophies is impressive when you're a young child but becomes less so with each passing year. However, in the hipster community all of these feats are sources of great pride until you're well into your 30s. In fact, some say winning a trophy in no-drop crit is the first step to becoming a GNC fixie model, as forwarded to me by a fellow Tweeterer:


Fixie crits may be the new triathlon.

Creation Myth: Where do Hipsters Come From?

As I mentioned yesterday, I have officially shifted my consciousness to Portland, Oregon, and I couldn't be happier. Not only am I no longer forced to discuss any subject more profound than coffee, but I also garnered some attention in my now-local media. For example, something called "The Oregonian" (I think it's some kind of newsletter for oregano enthusiasts) asks:

Yes. Yes, I have.

BikePortland also reported on my move, presumably because there was a rare two-hour window yesterday in which nobody had organized any sort of naked theme ride, thus resulting in something of a slow news day:


I'm also pleased to report that BikePortland's commenters were almost universally nonplussed:

Mike March 29, 2011 at 6:21 am

I use to pay attention to this guy's blog....not anymore. Seems to me he is more negative than anything, for Christ sake it's just an F'ing bike lighten up. Myself, I don't care what kind of bike it is, how lame-o it is if it's being rode then I'm happy.

Sure, I realize my blog is deadly serious, though his comment still stung me somewhat. After all, like Mike, I also love all bikes--except for his, which is hopelessly lame.

Anyway, after reading about myself I browsed on over to Craigslist to see if I'd scored any "missed connections." I hadn't, but I did find this:

You: Pleather. Me: Lace. - w4w - 27 (The Blow of the Pony)
Date: 2011-03-28, 12:02AM PDT

My first time at "the BlowPony". You in white pleather (hopefully? I'm vegan) chaps drinking an MGD on the first level... Is strutted past you in my neon-teal snap-crotch lace onesie, hoping you'd pick up on the contextual irony. Alas, you turned towards a friend and squawked incoherently about (the music? the D.J.? the color of the walls?)

In spite of your obtusiveness, I'd really like to take you out in my Mustang (c'est la vie chalet? ring a bell?) and show you a good time... I'll buy the MGD this round.

Peace, love, and downward dog....

I totally thought it was for me at first though, since I just happened to be wearing white pleather chaps yesterday too. However, I wasn't drinking MGD and was actually quaffing a fermented beverage my organic farming roommates and I "curate" from fluid expressed from the anal glands of our chickens. (Fortunately the bar had a liberal BYOFEFTAGOC policy.) Nevertheless, I've extended an invitation to the poster to come join us at the homestead for a little soirée in which we can exchange observations of contextual irony over glasses of fermented chicken ass juice, and I'm hoping she'll accept.

I'd be lying though if I said I didn't occassionally miss my old life in New York City. The truth is that no other city boasts New York's diversity, or its rich pastiche of interesting characters. Each one of my neighbors alone could have been the starring character in a movie. For example, one of my next-door neighbors was an irascible actor living hand-to-mouth until he--get this--dressed up in drag and landed himself a starring role on a soap opera:

While my other next-door neighbor was an irascible huckster with severe respiratory problems who always hung around with a guy dressed as a cowboy:

Really, by far my most normal neighbor was the young guy who lived across the hall. He was a graduate student at Columbia who was also a pretty serious runner:

Oddly though I haven't seen him since his last dental appointment. ("Is it safe?," asked the dentist menacingly as he rolled up on his Serotta.)

Seriously, you can't make this stuff up. Only in New York, and so forth.

Of course, the most important part of living in New York is constantly lamenting about how much better it was "back in the day"--you know, before Times Square was Disney-ified and you could still go see the Talking Heads play CBGB without listening to David Byrne read from his stupid book about bikes, after which you could go to an after-hours club where you'd contract hepatitis from ingesting hard drugs off a toilet seat, and then finally enjoy a nightcap of being beaten and robbed.

I also fondly remember the days when New York's streets were teeming with erudite pedestrians who alternately cracked wise and held forth on philosophy, literature, and cinema:

At least until they almost got run over by cars.

So why do the young and hopeful continue to move to New York City? Is it because they're in search of that romantic, pedantic, hepatitis-infected past? Or, to put it another way, who are hipsters, where do they come from, and how are they made? Well, the following short film about bicycle messengers (forwarded to me by the filmmaker) may at least partially answer these questions:

Zebra 022 from T. Leonardo on Vimeo.

First, the film establishes the typical hipster's mental state as the main character browses an art gallery a metaphor for creativity:

"Sometimes I think New York is a cage and I'm trapped in it. My head becomes swollen with ideas and I can't think anymore. Sometimes I wonder how free I really am."

I totally "feel you" on that one. That's why I left and moved to Portland. My head was also swollen with ideas when I lived in New York. Just a few ideas I might have at any given moment included:

--Wrap the cat in cellophane;

--Take up beekeeping;

--See if Skittles would be good on a BLT;

--Turn my coat closet into a sauna;

--Change the color scheme on my "fixie."

In retrospect though there might have been other factors contributing to these ideas as well, and I'd advise the young lady in the glasses to lay off the "Wednesday weed" and see if the mental swelling persists.

Next, we see a messenger metaphor for freedom weaving through traffic:

Unlike the young lady with the glasses, his head is completely devoid of ideas. This is because, apparently, nothing matters on a bike:

"I always wanted to move fast. I wanted to get away, but I didn't know where I was going. But it doesn't matter on a bike. Nothing matters on a bike but speed and freedom."

I think the victim memorialized by that ghost bike might have a different opinion. Nothing matters when you're sitting on the couch smoking "Wednesday weed" and eating a BLT with Skittles. Everything matters when you're on a bike in the city and you're eternally one wrong move away from getting flattened by a bus.

In any case, by now we understand that hipsters are essentially people who are overwhelmed by simply being alive and are constantly looking to escape the unpleasant business of thinking for themselves that the rest of us generally refer to as "adulthood." But where do they come from? Well, Iowa apparently:

"Ever since I was a kid I always wanted to go fast, you know? I just like, I love the action and I love the adrenaline and I just--I just needed to get out of Iowa."

Wait, she loves action and adrenaline and she left Iowa? Has she never heard of RAGBRAI?!?

RAGBRAI is action and adrenaline--I think that's actually what the two "A"s stand for:

I may have to ditch Portland for Iowa.

Nevertheless, every person undergoes his or her own journey to self-discovery, which is what these train tracks mean:


"Portaging" her bike along railroad tracks means the bike is an integral part of her personal journey, and when she shifts the bicycle onto the rail it means things are going more smoothly. Or something:

And obviously, the rain symbolizes Portland.

Incidentally, railroads are a popular device in cinema, though they usually symbolize "doing it," as in the old "train entering the tunnel" metaphor:



Which is generally followed by some variation on the orgasmic "erupting geyser:"



Next, nine months later, the avian symbol arrives:

Finally, after 22 years, $150,000 in tuition, and a Bard diploma, your child moves to New York City to deliver paperwork on a color-coordinated bicycle with no brakes and you wonder where you went wrong:

Up until now, most of the film has consisted of riding footage and voice-overs, but at 5:09 the acting kicks in with a single line delivered with all the passion and enthusiasm of a surly teenager making an obligatory phone call to a grandparent:

"Picking up at 150 Varick?"

She deserves an Acada-meh Award.

Having thoroughly exhausted all the acting reserves, the film then goes back to riding footage and voice-overs, though now it's a male voice speaking in an almost indecipherable disinterested hipster patois:

"I dunno, I was just cruisin' to the city the other day, I saw some dude layin' down on the road. Like, everyone was surrounding him, definitely got hit. [mumblemumblemumble] by riding harder, by being more aggressive. You know, keep on the streets in a safe manner. I think it's definitely [mumblemumblemumble] cars come out of nowhere. You know, be a close call...car overtakes you... You know, you just gotta keep moving forward on that path [mumblemumblemumble]...."

I don't know how people make it through four years of Bard without having to completely form their mouths around words, but then again I suppose when you pay all that tuition you shouldn't be expected to have to go through the trouble of actually speaking.

Then we see breakdancers metaphors for urban creativity:

"I don't know when I'll leave New York. I kinda wanna get something done here which is obtain this dream I've had of being an artist."

Frank Sinatra famously sang of New York, "If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere." Decades later, I guess it's now a place you come to from Iowa if you "kinda wanna get something done." In terms of ambition, hipsters clearly skew towards the "If it rains takes the bus" end of the spectrum.

Fortunately though the acting in the film suddenly gets a second wind, for at 8:19 the young lady has a total "bike-gasm," complete with contended sigh:

I suppose this means she has finally attained complete communion with the rhythms of New York City traffic, and by extension the universe, and it's a testament to the director's restraint that he doesn't follow it with an obvious symbol:



So there you have it. Hipsters come from Iowa, they don't like to think, they do like to ride bikes, and they ultimately want to be artists or something. Really, though, I can't think of many places less conducive to artistic endeavors than New York City, which essentially consists of wealthy financiers and the people who serve them. And speaking of financiers, a reader informs me that the time-traveling t-shirt-wearing retro-Fred from the planet Tridork is now in the business of market forecasting:

Given his ability to time travel, this may qualify as insider trading.

Virtual Reality: Smugness is a State of Mind

As an anonymous blogger whose identity is a closely guarded secret, I endeavor to share as little personal information as possible on this blog. In fact, apart from the basics such as my social security number, my bank account numbers, and all my PINs and passwords (all of which you can see by clicking here), I make it something of a de facto policy not to bore you with the minutiae of my everyday life.

For this reason, you may not have picked up of the fact that for the past few months I've actually been living in Portland, OR. Yes, the truth is I've been "burnt out" on New York for quite some time and not too long ago I finally "hit the wall" as they say. The the ludicrous cost of living, the constant kvetching about bike lanes, and the wily talking raccoons who fleece you in games of three-card monty at every turn all conspired to precipitate my move.

To put it another way, I could no longer hack it in The Big Arple, and so I've finally been "spit out the back" like a Cat 5 on a group ride. (Or, if you prefer, I pulled a "Prolly.")

I should point out though that I haven't physically moved. Indeed, my body remains in Brooklyn, and as you know since you have access to all my banking information, I live in "hardcore luxury" in a million-dollar Williamsburg loft:

(That's actually me with the lady sideburns.)

However, given the stagnant real estate market, I've been having quite a difficult time finding a buyer who possesses just the right combination of douchiness, financial solvency, and general naïveté to meet my stratospherically high asking price for my smallish drywall box.

So instead, while my corporeal self still resides in "hardcore luxury," I've transported my consciousness to the soggy utopia that is Portland. I've done this by transcending the material plane and by realizing that physical existence is merely a state of mind--or by completely deluding myself, depending on how you look at it. It was surprisingly easy, too. First, I created an artificial Portland habitat in my home by purchasing a humidifier which I fill with Stumptown coffee instead of water. Then, I set all my clocks back by three and a half hours. (Portland is an additional half hour behind the rest of the western United States.) Finally, I completed my microenvironment by making Bikeportland my homepage and pretending it was the local news. So instead of waking up to stories about how restaurants are now using the bike lanes for valet parking, I now awake to delightful morsels of smugness like this:

"Yaaah, that's aaahsome!," I exclaim as I take another pull from the humidifier. "Another win for bikes...?" (People west of the Rockies seem to draw out their vowels and phrase statements as questions, and so I've adopted this manner of speech as well.)

Once I became acclimated to my Portland biodome, I then decided to "take it to the next level" by finding a full-time job. Sure, working can interfere with your process of self-discovery, but keep in mind a full Portland work week is only 15 hours long, which leaves us Portlanders plenty of free time for extracurricular smugness.

Obviously the most coveted employer in Portland is Chris King Precision Components, which is why they're widely referred to as the "G*ogle of the Willamette." However, when I told the Animatronic Chris Kingbot 9000 who conducts their interviews that I wanted to work on the "espresso tampon" line he showed me the door. (It was anodized pink, said "King" all over it, and had a 10-year warranty.) So I picked myself up off the floor, brushed the metal shavings off my Cane Creek t-shirt (which has a 110 year warranty), and resolved to press on.

Next, I went to Rapha, which is an even better place to work than Chris King since you don't have to operate any machinery--unless you consider riding a bicycle and being photographed in black and white to be "operating a machine." I was certain I'd nail this interview, and I even went so far as to don my bespoke cycling suit:

Unfortunately, I totally failed the "epic" portion of the interview when I finished dead last in the "Rapha Prospective Employee Gentleman's Soup Cook-Off." I also managed to catch a glimpse of their HR person's notes, and I distinctly saw the words "mustache not insouciant enough."

After Rapha, I headed over to Vanilla Bicycles to see if celebrity builder Sacha White could use an assistant, but it turns out there's even a five year wait list over there to clean the toilets--which, I might add, are absolutely filthy as a result.

Since it was clear I wasn't going to land an A-list Portland cycling job, I figured I'd have to dip my metaphorical ladle into the decidedly non-epic soup that is the Bikeportland job listings, and fortunately I was able to land something in short order:
This is Portland's equivalent of a "Midnight Cowboy" scenario, as bicycle food vending is the male prostitution of the Pacific Northwest, but it's still totally "aaahsome" since they observe Cross Crusade races as religious holidays and so I don't have to work on those days. (I do have to prove I raced though by presenting my boss with a pair of muddy "shants.")

Anyway, now that I was a real-life (in my imagination) Portland food vendor, I knew it was time to find "digs" befitting someone of my stature. So I turned to Craigslist, which is known as the "New York Times real estate section of the Willamette." Fortunately, it didn't take me long to find the perfect home:


A new home in an old house, on SE 52nd Ave north of Powell. Available in the beginning of April (officially), if you've contacted us before and are still interested, please email us again.

We're looking for someone or a couple that is interested in being part of a little start-up urban farm community. We don't own this house, but treat it as if we do, and are looking for someone that will do the same. We're looking for a housemate that is as interested in the "community" aspect of living here. We don't have to be best friends, but friendly conversation over a beer or tea on the porch is what we're after. A good candidate will be as into the gardening, helping with the fowl, building, and bettering our community as we are. We want this to be a light-hearted sanctuary. A place where you feel good about having a friend over, you feel good about coming home to, and feel good about taking care of. We sure do.

Neo-Hippies? Yes, probably.

(now if that didn't scare you)

It is about a 1,530 sq ft house, two stories plus dirt (not-so-dry) basement and attic. (A good amount of storage space in the attic, and bonus, it's dry)

A total of 3 bedrooms, all upstairs.

The room for rent looks east out over the back yard, and is 11'x13.5' About 148sqft which will rent for $450 or $550/month, depending if it's a single or couple. Room has average sized closet and large old double hung window. (It's the blue room pictured below, sorry for the low quality picture. The room is unfurnished. The rocking chair and dresser aren't included.

1 good sized bathroom (also upstairs) with full bath and shower with a great built-in for storage. Then the living room, dining room, entry way, small laundry/utility room (w/d included), and medium/large size walk-through kitchen with pantry are all down stairs.

It's a charming old farmhouse with front covered porch, back uncovered porch, old cherry tree in the back yard and a fenced garden with raised beds :) A somewhat wild yard (front and back) just waiting to be tamed into luscious Oregon gardens (which we hope to do). We have brought the farm back to the house in a sense. By raising chickens and ducks, building a coop and maintaining gardens, we're in the slow process of starting an urban farm. Hopefully we'll build a greenhouse by spring to start our years veggies, and the gardening potential is endless, really. We compost, have hopes to collect rainwater, and have dreams of solar panels.

Gas range/oven, gas furnace, and gas water heater. No dishwasher, so be comfortable doing them by hand.

Now you know about the house, here's some info on the house mates:

We're two active males who live a leisurely, but very busy, lifestyle (not to be confused with lazy) looking to share this SE house with a like minded individual or couple. We're into hiking, biking, camping and backpacking, road trips and day trips, cross country skiing, white water rafting and canoeing. We enjoy preparing home cooked meals and barbecues. We're friendly to people and animals, and sometimes find humor in their (and our) silly behavior. People watching entertains us; we enjoy spending time with friends, and making new ones. Thrift shopping excites us. Gardening, plants, and trees strengthen our collective spirit. We consider our selves open minded with the ability to empathize with others. Sunday conversations with a pot of coffee keep us grounded. One of us is self employed as a people and dog trainer. The other is a Cafe Manager at a popular eatery. We're queer, hetero, omnivore, and 420 friendly. We occasionally enjoy a cocktail after work, but rarely more than 2. We travel with an 11yo canine, who is often described by friends and strangers as a very good dog, a 2 year old canine who is clean, mostly well mannered, enjoyable to interact with and loves to play, and a 2 year old, very chill, indoor feline who manages the family. (additional animals considered on a case-by-case basis, though adding another dog to the house is pretty unlikely) We take great pride in the manners, habits, and cleanliness of our companions, as well as ourselves. Neither of us are neat freaks, but do appreciate a tidy household.

We're not into a scene; we enjoy DIY projects, occasional gatherings of friends, and generally a healthy well balanced enjoyment of life and its experiences.

Happy to enjoy interviews over a beer or tea.

Admittedly, as much as I ply him with artisanal craft ales and Stumptown coffee, the residual cynical New Yorker in me still pipes up now and again, and so a few items in this ad did give me pause. For example:

We compost, have hopes to collect rainwater...

How do you aspire to collect rainwater in Portland? This seems less like a goal than like something that's almost unavoidable. It's like saying you have hopes to collect mosquitos in summer, or you have hopes to acquire a bullet in your leg at a rap concert. Have they not managed to muster up the funds to purchase a bucket and leave it outside for a few days?

We're queer, hetero, omnivore, and 420 friendly.

Thank smugness I can seek refuge from the judgements of society in their idyllic urban farm community that has not yet "gotten it together" to stick a bucket outside. As soon as I move in I plan to take up permanent residence on the couch where I will proceed to test every limit of their politically correct tolerance by perusing heterosexual pornography, watching RuPaul's Drag Race on Logo, devouring spare ribs and vegan barley scones by the bucketful, and taking massive bong hits off of a 5 foot bong in the shape of a phallus while dressed in drag. (None of this behavior will seem odd to anybody who's attended a Cross Crusade race.)

Clearly, in Portland, tolerance has doubled over on itself like a sexually omnivorous yoga instructor performing oral sex on shimself.

I also enjoyed this:

We travel with an 11yo canine, who is often described by friends and strangers as a very good dog, a 2 year old canine who is clean, mostly well mannered, enjoyable to interact with and loves to play, and a 2 year old, very chill, indoor feline who manages the family.

I always enjoy prospective roommates who provide far too much information about their pets who, they don't seem to realize, are not people. Just say you have a couple of dogs and a cat, it's enough. Maybe specify the breed. Otherwise, most of us "get" how dogs and cats operate. Anyway, none of it matters, because if any of them bugs me while I'm "getting down" on the sofa with my ribs and my dong bong then they're going outside with the rainwater bucket.

By the way, notice that despite including a complete personality profile on both the dog and the cat they don't actually mention the sex. I suppose it would be very un-Portland to start assigning gender roles to them.

Finally though I managed to quell the knee-jerk sarcasm that they injected into me when I was born (standard practice in New York hospitals back in the 1940s when the stork "portaged" me into existence), and I'm pleased to say our urban farming community is coming along splendidly. I even procured a politically correct bamboo bucket which is collecting water (and possibly some urine) as I type this. I've also come to appreciate my roommates' painfully overbearing political correctness, which is much better than the sort of racial insensitivity you'll find up in Seattle:

I spotted this "ethnic care" section in a drugstore while I was there for the Bike Expo, and I must say I found it rather offensive--though their prices on "ethnic cleanser" were positively unbeatable.

But you know what they say: "You're not a real Portlander until you've had a case of beard lice gotten yourself a bicycle," and thanks to Craigslist I've picked up a real beaut:

Chopper bike / clown bike - $50 (North Portland)

Date: 2011-03-26, 8:57PM PDT

Reply to: [deleted]

Handmade Chopper bike

It is in overall ridable shape. It has back brakes (the kind that engage when you push back on the peddles)

I do not know the maker of this bike, so I cannot guarantee the structural integrity of it, but everything seems to be in good shape. Currently the tires need air and I don't have a pump to fill them up.

Selling for $50 (firm on the price). I live in North Portland near Lombard & I-5 (couple blocks from the MAX yellow line Kenton stop)

(503) 4 2 1 - [deleted]

I don't know about its integrity either, but as for my own, as a make-believe member of an urban farm community in the second-most bike friendly city in Canada's licey beard, I'm sure you'll agree its positively unimpeachable.

Grail Fiction: The Quest for the Holy Kludge

Webster's dictionary defines "portage" as follows:

por·tage verb \ˈpȯr-tij, pȯr-ˈtäzh\ : to carry an object in a smug fashion while riding a bicycle : to carry a bicycle in a smug fashion [I portage my children to Montessori school in a bakfiets.]

And when it comes to portaging, nobody portages like Portlanders, as we saw from yesterday's prehensile posterior shot:

Further to that post, a number of erudite readers were not only able to confirm that the cargo was a paperback book, but they were also able to identify the title and author of the befouled tome:

I was not familiar with this book, having received a paltry and culturally insensitive public education which focussed mostly on the so-called "literary canon," but I did look it up on a popular user-edited online encyclopedia and I learned that you can call it a "Grail fiction," but only if you're politically incorrect:

Ceremony has been called a Grail fiction, in that the hero overcomes a series of challenges to reach a specified goal, but this point of view has been criticized as Eurocentric.

I wonder if it's also "Eurocentric" to stick it down your pants. In any case, I was glad to learn this, for should I ever find myself in Portland again and encounter a paperback portager I would hate to inadvertently put my Sidi in my mouth while trying to be friendly:

"Hey, I see you've got a copy of 'Ceremony' in your ass--I love Grail fiction!"

This would surely result in some serious eye-rolling, if not actual arrest by Portland's famous Smugness Patrol. The Smugness Patrol are sort of like the Hell's Angels, only they're considerably more wan, and they won't hesitate to bind your hands with sustainable jute twine, throw you in a bakfiets, and "portage" you to one of their solar-powered safe houses for a little "reeducation." In fact, the only literary crime in Portland worse than calling "Ceremony" a work of Grail fiction is riding an Ikea bike while portaging a Tom Clancy novel in your crack. I wonder if we'll soon start seeing literary theme rides in Portland--I'm imagining hundreds of people riding artisanal porteur bikes, their pants brimming with post-modern criticism and landmark works of the Harlem Renaissance.

Meanwhile, here in New York, this May is gearing up to be the most Fred-tastic Bike Month the city has ever seen. Indeed, one scant week after the Five Boro Bike Tour, we will also play host to the "Gran Fondo New York:"

BACKGROUND: Gran Fondo is a challenging, 100+ mile bike race, a concept stemming from Italy. You can think of it as a marathon on bicycles. In NYC, there are long-course bike tours or short-course criterium races. Here is where Gran Fondo New York is different: it is a long-distance challenging ride that appeals to competitive racers and recreational cyclists alike...The Gran Fondo New York course will take the 8,000 cyclists from New York City to New Jersey across the iconic George Washington Bridge with stunning views of Manhattan.

When you take 8,000 "competitive racers and recreational cyclists alike" and send them all up to Bear Mountain on the same day, the result can only be an "epic" Fred orgy of Caligulan proportions, and future generations will surely marvel at the millions of empty CO2 cartridges that will be left behind. (The typical Fred expels an average of six C02 cartridges before managing to successfully inflate his tire.) By the way, in addition to being a qualifying event for the 2011 Amateur World Championship in Belgium, the Gran Fondo New York will also be part of the UCI's new Fred World Cup series, along with Levi's Gran Fondo and any amateur cycling event that incorporates the word "Roubaix" in its name. Here's some more information about the Fred competition from the Gran Fondo New York's FAQ:

Of course, the winner of the UCI Fred World Cup is distinct from the UCI Fred World Champion, who gets to wear this jersey:

Becoming a Fred World Champion is an emotional moment that will fog up the helmet mirror of even the steeliest and most hirsute-legged cyclist.

Speaking of the importance of equipment choice, no less a personage than CommieCanuck has alerted me to these heated road bike grips that will warm the heart and hands of any Fred:

As you can see from the accompanying photo, these are the ideal accessory for the cyclist who is quite comfortable riding in short sleeves, shorts, and dainty tri-style ankle socks in the dead of winter but who still finds his hands getting just a tiny bit chilly. Really, if they wanted their website to look ridiculous they should have just used the time-traveling t-shirt-wearing retro-Fred from the planet Tridork:

He's in a blizzard but his hands are toasty warm, thanks to the hand-thawing power of heated grips.

Even more vexing to me than riding in summer attire while employing heated grips is this "Quillinator" from Soma, which I "Tweeted" about yesterday but still can't get out of my mind:

Now, I love a good cockpit, but this is ridiculous. I can see wanting to take a somewhat kludgy yet inexpensive shortcut to using a threadless stem on an old bike by spending $10 on a threaded-to-threadless adaptor, but under what circumstances would you want to spend $120 to make your threadless fork accept a quill stem? Are people really that attached to their old stems that they're building new bikes around them? And if they are to the extent that they're ready to spend over $100 to do it, is it really that hard to find a threaded fork and headset? What's next, a p-far conversion kit so you can un-safety your safety bicycle? Then again, I guess it's very tempting to take your new frame and fork, hit Craigslist, and grace it with an elegant cockpit like this:


All it needs is a pair of heated grips to warm that disembodied hand. I wonder if it would be possible to equip a bicycle with a threaded-to-threadless adaptor and a Soma Quillinator--now that would be serious "Cockie" material.

But the Quillinator is positively straightforward compared with the philosophy behind Nonetheless clothes:

Nonetheless is a purpose-driven menswear line designed for the urban traveler. You can move from your daily travels and seamlessly live life without compromising mobility, performance, or tailoring. Every piece is environmentally sound with touch points that provide a fluid pathway of considered pieces based on the 'less is more' philosophy.

Just what cycling needs--another Outlier. Clearly the graphic designers of America's gentrified neighborhoods will not tire of spending lots of money on drab clothing anytime soon. What does "purpose-driven" mean with regard to clothing, and what is an "urban traveler?" Is that the same as a douchebag? Besides a straightjacket or a suit of armor, is there really that much clothing that doesn't allow you to "move from your daily travels and seamlessly live life?" Is "touch points" the same as "pants yabbies?" What is a "fluid pathway of considered pieces?" Does that mean all their clothes match because they're similarly bland? Honestly, the only part that makes sense is "less is more," since a single shirt will cost you $188. Then again, I suppose they need all the meaningless turns of phrase, since if you delete them you're left with the following:

Menswear. You can move.

Says it all, really.

Fortunately though the website also contained a testimonial that consisted of much more prosaic language:

“ I am wearing both the Dispatch Rider Pants and the Trench Shirt right now. Loving them immensely in this weather. The shirt sheds this rain like no ones business and the pants dry so fucking fast it’s ridiculous. I hate undeserved compliments but shit. Both are amazing."--Drew

So there you have it, the Dispatch Rider Pants "dry so fucking fast it's ridiculous." This is great news for anybody who's incontinent, so feel free to dispatch urine into your Dispatch Rider Pants with impunity.

Meanwhile, for those who prefer to "portage" a change of clothes to work, I recently received an email from the makers of the "SuitSak," and they wanted me to share this compelling video:



Apparently, the actor borrowed a bicycle from someone who was roughly two feet shorter than him:

His tights, on the other hand, must belong to someone who's at least two feet taller than him, judging by the "epic" crotch saggage:

Or maybe he just likes to have plenty of room for his pendulous "touch points," as well as at least six or seven books.

Finally, he borrowed David Byrne's (who doesn't have a car) giant suit for the closing scene:

Yes, corporate profits will go up, UP, UP!!! if you use the SuitSak.

Between environmentally sound, purpose-driven menswear with touchpoints that provide a fluid pathway of considered pieces, and the SuitSak, it's a wonder anybody manages to simply get on a bike and go to work at all.