BSNYC Friday Attack Rabbit!

Firstly, I'd like to thank all 9,382 people (and counting) who took the time to comment yesterday in order to point out that the accent of the narrator of the Bicyclebungee video was in fact New Zealandish (New Zealandesque? New Zealous?), and not Scottish as I indicated. However, for purposes of my own credibility, I would like to point out that I was well aware of this, and that my referring to the accent as Scottish was what in pro blogging jargon is sometimes referred to as an "ironical joke." This is why, if you clicked on the word "Scottish" in yesterday's post, you saw this:

Of course, the fact that this did not come across as a joke is proof of two things: 1) I'm a clumsy joke-maker; and 2) People really do think Americans are that clueless. With regard to that second point, I feel it incumbent on me as an American to explain and clarify our unique brand of cluelessness. The truth is that, while most of us cannot find either Scotland or New Zealand (or our home states for that matter) on a map, we are well-versed in the Scottish accent, thanks mostly to our rich popular culture, which has provided us with two excellent templates. There's this one:

And of course this one:



Between these to characters and the movie "Trainspotting," even the densest American can readily identify a Scottish accent.

The New Zealand accent is a different matter, and admittedly most of us can't distinguish it from an Australian accent--with which we're all familiar, thanks to Australia's current Prime Minister, Mick "Crocodile" Dundee:

Furthermore, recently we've also learned that, in addition to the Australian accent, there's also "the other one," thanks to people like this guy:

And, to a lesser extent, these guys:

Therefore, the more discerning and culturally sensitive among us will, when we hear an accent like the one in the Bicyclebungee video, take a moment to consider whether it's indeed Australian or "the other one," in the same way some of us might take an extra moment to read the ingredients on a bottle of Starbucks Frappuccino before buying it.

Admittedly, though, most of us just declare it Australian and call it good, just like most of us prefer to buy now and ask questions later. And as far as our knowledge of the rest of the world goes, sure there are a few blanks we could stand to fill in, but on the whole I think we've got a pretty good handle on it:

A fair number of us even know it's round, and that over 70% is covered by the stuff James Cameron makes movies about and that Al Gore says polar bears are drowning in. We also know from science that it was created in seven days, and that dinosaurs and fossils are pagan superstitions. So say what you want about our educational system, but you can't say that we don't have one, or that our schools aren't great places to score drugs.

Plus, no country produces true visionaries like America (think great Americans like Einstein, Bono, and Winston Churchill), and when it comes to modern visionaries the "57 things" guy ranks right up there with the best of them. Indeed, "57 things" guy "Tweets" the sorts of thoughts that are sure to change the world:

Oh, sure, I see that happening. In fact, your fellow visionary American George Lucas is already on it:

And here's the President of that cloud government, his name is Lando Calrissian:

I can't wait until we're all fellow citizens of the Earth, living in a decentralized cloud-based Wiki-Minimalistocracy, voting for the next Supreme Ruler and World Yoga Instructor with our iPads.

Until that day comes, I'm pleased to present you with a quiz, which will most likely be the penultimate (that means "second to last," and not "ultimate penis") quiz before the end of 2010. As always, study the item, think, and click on your answer. If you're right the Almighty Lobster will not kill a kitten with his Pincers of Justice, and if you're wrong you'll learn how to ride your bike in Fukuoka.

Thanks very much for reading, ride safe, and may your Bicyclebungee be long and resilient.

--BSNYC/RTMS

(Eric "The Chamferer" Murray)

1) Eric "The Chamferer" Murray says:

--"Thanks for the mention."
--"Thanks for all the attention."
--"Thanks for all the hipster pussy."
--"Go fuck yourself."

2) Money manager Martin Erzinger, who just received probation and a suspended sentence, claims he hit a cyclist and fled the scene in part because:

--He was drunk

--He was overwhelmed by the "new-car smell" of his Mercedes

--His new tires were not properly balanced

--He was all "hopped up" on Twinkies and money

3) Andy Hampsten killed and ate teammate Bob Roll during his historic ascent of the Gavia Pass in the 1988 Giro d'Italia.

--True

--False

4) This device is called:

--The Buddy Hitch

--The Bicyclebungee

--The Wheelsucker's Helper

--The Umbilidork Cord

5) Why is this woman smiling?

--Because she is examining an artisanal axe

--Because she's reading her minimalist son's blog on the iPad he got her for Christmas (using her money)

--Because she's trying desperately to mask the despair that consumes her soul

--Because she is hungry for her husband's meat

(Puh-leeze. Axes are sooo 2010.)

6) Via a reader, artisanal axes are out; artisanal ______ are in.

--Arrows

--Flensing knives

--Snowblowers

--Fish hooks

(This man wants to analyze your bodily fluid...but which bodily fluid?)

7) Power meters are out; ______________ is in.

--Blood analysis

--Sweat analysis

--Tears analysis

--Semen analysis

(Correct answer via Revolution Wheelworks.)

***Special Alternative Framebuilding Materials-Themed Bonus Question***

Good news for pandas! (Sort of.) Bamboo bikes are out; _________________ bikes are in.

--Rubber

--Partially bamboo

--Dead panda

--Recycled beverage container

Merry Minimalistmas: You'll Get Nothing and Like It

(Via a reader, be sure to affix this to all your gifts this holiday season.)

While the Hanukkahpus with its eight tentacles of terror has finally been slain, Christmas looms like an amorous eggnog-soused mall Santa waiting to dry-hump us into oblivion. All over America (Canada's ruffled tuxedo shirt), the smell of mistletoe is in the air, people are slaughtering any turkeys still left alive after Thanksgiving, and lovers everywhere kiss beneath the cameltoe. (Or maybe they kiss each other on the cameltoe beneath the mistletoe, I was never quite sure how that tradition worked.) Also, the less avaricious among us perform acts of charity and goodwill, and both Fat Cyclist and Andy Hampsten would like you to know you can help someone in his fight against cancer by entering the latest Fat Cyclist contest:

By the way, if for some reason you don't know who Andy Hampsten is, he is a legend because back in 1988 he "portaged" himself and a very large pair of glasses over the Gavia pass during the Giro d'Italia:

(Cycling Fun Fact #36: Separated from his team car, Andy Hampsten was forced to kill and eat teammate Bob Roll during his brutal ascent.)

This was so epic they didn't even have to put sarcastic quotation marks around the word "epic" (though I just did, but only because I was referencing the word "epic," not because I was being sarcastic). This also ultimately netted him the overall victory, making him the first and still only American ever to win the Giro, as well as making every "traditional Fred" who puts on insulated bib tights as soon as the temperature dips below 60 degrees look like a total "woosie."

In any case, if you win the contest you get to tour either Italy or France with Andy Hampsten himself. My understanding is that you get to choose the country, and if you're unsure and/or confused because you're American and know little of the world beyond your front yard, just remember that Italy is the one with the lechers and the pasta, whereas France is the one with the race riots and the snails. (Rest assured, however that both are equally likely to be crippled by strikes during your visit.) So visit Fatty's site in order to enter, or just click this sophisticated embeddable virtual button:

Do not, however, under any circumstances, click on this:

(This.)

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Speaking of holiday shopping, yesterday you may have seen the following potential Christmas gift on the Twitter feed I lazily "curate:"



This video was forwarded to me by a reader, and it is highly amusing for a number of reasons, among them:

1) The narrator has an amusingly thick Scottish accent (I had no idea the Highlands were so arid);

2) The product itself is a retractable dog leash with a handle of crabon fribé that retails for multiple hundreds of Scottish dollars;

3) The male cyclist is a complete dork whose annoyed "Oh ceen't buh-leeeve oh have to woyt for moh geeerlfreeend" face:

(Implussed and nonpatient.)

Is almost as humorous as his giddy "Oh've heeetched moh geeerlfreeend to moh saddlepost and am speeening wohldly in moh granny geeeh!" face:

(Almost as happy as his jersey is oversized.)

4) Anyone who actually tries to use the Bicyclebungee repurposed retractable dog leash on a cliffside mountain bike trail is almost certainly going to slingshot his or her riding partner to his or her death.

Ah, yes, what better way to say to your loved one, "You're baggage," than with the gift of a Bicyclebungee? I'm pretty sure any relationship that involves one partner jiggling a leash in front of the other and saying, "Wanna go for a ride?" is going to be short-lived, unless that partner is actually a dog.

Meanwhile, in Canada, at the Urbane Cyclist bike shop in Toronto (a city now governed by lunatics that's either in Canada or Scotland, my geography is hazy since I'm American), one mechanic informs me he has fashioned a truly inspiring Festivus Pole, topped by what he calls a "Nativity Crank:"

However the "Nativity Crank" does appear to be an Octalink, and those eight splines would technically make it a Menorah.

In addition to the holidays, we're also getting dangerously close to that time of year when we look back and reflect, and I'm reasonably certain that, at least as far as pro cycling goes, 2010 will live forever in history as "The Year of Tainted Meat." Obviously Alberto Contador was the most famous rider to taste of the forbidden Clenbuterol steak, but Cyclingnews now reports that yet another rider has fallen victim to the meat that dare not speak its name:


Apparently, the positive test came after a wild Mexican meat binge:

“In Mexico we ate a lot of meat..."

Sounds like the opening line from something written by William S. Burroughs.

But while dog leashes and tainted meat may make disappointing Christmas gifts, perhaps no gift is more of a let-down than what you'll get from a minimalist, which is nothing at all. (Minimalists don't believe in giving, and instead prefer to borrow your gifts for Christmas.) As it happens, I recently checked in with my favorite minimalist, the "57 things" guy, to see what he was up to this holiday season, and it turns out he's honing his worldview into something that's starting to resemble Naziism:

First, though, he'd like you to know he does what is technically referred to as "fuck-all" all day. He likes to refer to this as complete autonomy, though I like to refer to this as being single and unemployed.

However, you shouldn't take him for a "trust fund baby:"

Some people look at me and assume that someone else must be paying my bills for me. I used to look at people who live this way and assume the same thing: “He must be a trust fund baby.” I assure you, this is not the case.

My parents both work very hard for their money, and while they’ve given me more than they ever needed to, they certainly didn’t give me a trust fund that pays out every month.

In other words, he opted for semi-annual Parental Support Plan instead of the monthly one.

Soon, though, he moves onto his twisted view of humanity. Friedrich Neitzsche (who I believe was a Classics specialist in the early days of professional cycling) wrote about the "Übermensch," (or "Super Fred") which was later co-opted by the Nazis for their whole "Master Race" concept. Similarly, "57 things" guy thinks the world consists of "Drones" and "Superhumans." Here's what "Drones" are:

Drones. Have you ever walked down the street in the financial district of any major city and look around you? Hordes of people that we call worker drones for a reason. Running back and forth from their desks to get a sandwich. I know about the drone hive cluster, because for a moment I bought into that illusion and I was one of them. Once you’re in, it’s difficult and/or impossible to un-assimilate yourself.

And here's what "Superhumans" are:

Superhumans. This metaphor that I’m going to start using for people who’ve escaped the system, who live on their own terms. There are many paths to becoming a superhuman, minimalism is one of the easiest ones. Yoga is another shortcut to becoming a superhuman.

Guess which one he is?

Only the most profoundly spoiled and self-absorbed person could possibly order people along these lines. Reducing a person to a "drone" because he or she goes to work at the same time as a lot of other people is like calling someone a failure because they don't drive a nice-enough car. You'd think someone who claims to make a living off the Internet would understand that, even in 2010, a bunch of people showing up at an agreed-upon place at an agreed-upon time is what actually keeps the Internet working, and is also what creates all the Apple products he buys. Does he think that WiFi signals just emanate from your head as you do yoga, and that if you do the right pose a brand-new MacBook Pro will fall out of your ass? Apparently he does. The way you know that he is in fact a "trust fund baby" is that "trust fund babies" resent people who go to work every day, whereas real self-employed people respect them.

And what the hell does this guy have against sandwiches? It's an entirely self-contained meal that doesn't even require utensils. What's more minimalist than that?

Of course, this isn't to say that the so-called "rat race" isn't without its tribulations, which is why we all long to drop out of it at some point or another, and which is the impulse to which the "57 things" guy is pandering. But the key isn't "dropping out;" rather, it's taking pleasure in the everyday. This is why a lot of people ride their bikes to work--it can turn drudgery into fun. Sure, even that has its problems, and you might get cut off by a cab, but sometimes understanding that cabbies have their own problems can help temper your anger. In fact, so draconian has New York become for them that they can't even work in their underwear anymore:

Granted, I don't take cabs very often, but I had no idea that this was even a problem. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's the opposite, since a fair number of cab drivers get their dress code from something called "The Koran," which is probably way more strict than anything the Taxi and Limousine Commission ever laid down. Then again, I suppose if I get in a cab and the driver's wearing nothing but a thong I'll be forced to eat my words--though I may throw up my sandwich.

Chamfering at the Bit: Hard Times, Soft People

In yesterday's post, I mentioned that I was the grateful (if sarcastic) recipient of some lights and various tools for my Scattante. "Surely," I thought to myself as I punched giant holes in my earlobes with my new chain rivet plier, "the holiday season can't get any better." How wrong I was, for later that day I checked my mail and found an envelope from the Brooks saddle-making concern containing this actual autographed picture of Eric "The Chamferer" Murray:

It should go without saying that I was thrilled to receive the photograph--in fact if it hadn't arrived in an actual Brooks envelope from the actual country of England via something called the "Royal Mail" (everything has such cute names in England, the whole place is just adorable) I might have dismissed it as a hoax. Even better than the photograph itself though is learning that I helped Eric "The Chamferer" Murray enjoy some "hipster pussy," and that knowledge is the greatest gift of all. Rest assured I plan to have this image framed, where it will occupy pride of place alongside my "vintage" autograph from Grandmaster Flash:

We actually weren't friends at all since I was only about 11 at the time, but I'm hoping that the fact I have it in writing might still be sufficient grounds to convince him to lend me money.

Speaking of holiday cheer, if you're in the Boulder, CO area you can get some at Vecchio's Bicicletteria, where they'd like you to know they'll be having a holiday party this Friday, December 17th, starting around 5pm:

I mention this because I was asked by both Vecchio's and by Stevil Kinevil of All Hail The Black Market, and when people of that stature tell me to jump you better believe I don't refuse--instead, I only ask "How high?," or maybe "Into what?" if there's a vat of something smelly involved. Plus, Peter Chisholm's Internet treatises on the virtues of handbuilt wheels are legendary, so if they build parties at Vecchio's as well as they build wheels, then the party will be evenly-tensioned, have anywhere from 32 to 36 attendees, all of whom will be butted and have brass nipples, and it will last until the walls wear out. (This is the opposite of a Mavic R-Sys party, which has a $2,000 cover charge and which goes for about 20 minutes before the floor suddenly collapses.) In fact, I'd be there myself, if only I lived anywhere near Boulder, and if only they hadn't specifically asked me not to come.

Sadly, though, not all is well in the state of Colorado, and you may remember that doughy money manager who ran down a cyclist and fled the scene. Well, apparently he's engineered a cunning new defense, which is that he was overwhelmed by "new-car smell:"

It's becoming increasingly clear to me that if you were addicted to humanity's shortcomings, and in order to feed your addiction you were to to take 21st century America and freebase it so that only its worst elements were left, you'd wind up with the quivering little gooey blob that is Martin Erzinger, which you'd then proceed to smoke and inhale. In any case, the patent absurdity of the "new-car defense" aside, I must say I'm tremendously disappointed in the current state of our rich people. At least "back in the day" they were ruthless in an above-board way, like robber barons, Mr. Burns from "The Simpsons," and the people in "Boardwalk Empire." Now they're just a bunch of cowardly whiners who can't handle the smells of their own luxury cars. Frankly, I think that when a human has devolved to the point where even the richly-appointed interior of his new Mercedes is too much for him, he's really not qualified for life in the outside world and should spend the rest of his life in a small enclosed area like the milk-fed veal calf that he is.

Of course, it's not just our rich people who are growing soft--it's all of us. That's why some people feel compelled to buy things like "artisanal axes" and other overpriced totems that evoke a life they'll never experience. In fact, a number of people inform me that Best Made Co., the very company that brought you the "bedazzled axe," is now selling a kit so self-conscious people suffering from feelings of inadequacy can make their own:

This is a very bad idea, in that the last person you want fashioning his own axe is the sort of person who would consider buying one from Best Made Co. in the first place. If I had to come up with a recipe for disaster, I don't think I could invent anything better than a bunch of fey hipsters with liberal arts degrees assembling sharp implements, and it should be quite a bloodbath when all those axe heads start flying off and embedding themselves in their friends' heads. I guess the Best Made guy missed the part in business school where they tell you not to kill your customers.

This is also why it's becoming increasingly difficult to live in New York City in general and Brooklyn in particular. You'd think it's the traditional trappings of urban life--overcrowding, pollution, crime--that would be the problem, but it's actually the opposite, and life here is becoming so bucolic that I'm beginning to feel as helpless and confused as Woody Allen on a dairy farm. Everywhere you turn now someone's fashioning an axe, or bee-keeping, or pickling something, or carrying a banjo, and it's hard not to want to cry "This isn't what I signed on for!" and ask for a refund. It's like Greenwich Village must have been during the height of the folk movement, only without all the talent. Really, if I wanted to live among a bunch of artisanal faux woodsmen I would have just moved to Portland. Even worse are all the New York Times articles about it, like this one:


Apparently people who moved to Brooklyn yesterday are upset about a Brooklyn-themed bar opening outside of Brooklyn today--as though marketing Brooklyn to the rest of the world were something new:


It's even traded on the NASDAQ.

Not only that, but they're also upset that non-Brooklyn corporations are selling their precious "craft Brooklyn" right back to them:

“The Gap’s mission right now is to be relevant to our target audience,” said Ivy Ross, executive vice president for marketing for the San Francisco-based retailer. “And this idea of supporting locally crafted products is very relevant.”

The shop carries not a single item of Gap clothing. Instead, it’s filled with the hip and the handmade: clever objects by local designers, upholstered skateboards and tattoo-brightening cream, an idiosyncratic selection of books.

I'm not at all surprised to learn there's a market in Brooklyn for tattoo-brightening cream. Until the late 1990s, tattooing was actually illegal in New York City; now, it's performed in storefronts that are indistinguishable from high-end cheese shops. However, I think the real growth is going to be in tattoo-distressing cream that will give fresh "hipster" ink that old, faded look for additional "street cred," and I expect it to be the next big thing by the time the first tramp stamps of spring emerge early next year.

Still, I can live with all the crafty stuff, and I can even live with the backlash to the crafty stuff, but where I really start to get annoyed is when people use it as an excuse to implicate cycling. As it happens, the Daily News recently ran a tongue-in-cheek article on the same subject, which prompted the following comment:

I've been living in Park Slope for more than 30 yrs. I witnessed the bad and the good. Mind you, gentrification renamed South Brooklyn to Park Slope back in the day which made property values soar. But, in the end we are approaching the downward slope in the bell curve which with all the attention is not necessarily all good. Can't find parking and tired of all the bicyclist who do not know much about public safety let alone their own.

I think bicyclists know a lot about public safety, which is why they want bike lanes. I also lament the "downward slope in the bell curve" of city driving--I miss the days when people didn't whine about how they "can't find parking," and when the measure of a driver was his ability to do so under any circumstances. (A real New York driver can always find parking.) Alas, there was a time when people took responsibility for themselves and their motor vehicles instead of complaining as they drive around yapping on their cellphones with Bumper Badgers (the top tube pads of the automotive world) hanging from their trunks to protect their dainty posteriors.

If this guy can't find a space in Park Slope for his Subaru then he's not looking hard enough.

BSNYC Product Retrospective: Scattante Empire State Courier and Sundries

("A Very Tarcky Christmas," spotted by Helen in Aspen, CO)

Further to yesterday's post, in which I mentioned Mario Cipollini's all-consuming fear of an increasingly androgynous professional peloton, one commenter has offered a compelling view of the future based on the shocking evidence that Cipollini has brought to light:

Anonymous said...

In 500 years time the genderway indifferent Shepollini will not so much be remembered as an ancient pro cyclist, but instead will be revered by the predominate sub species (Homo sapien shemaleien) as the Adam and Eve of their kind. Shepollini will also be regarded by history as the founding fathermother of the distant futures most popular sport: Cyclocrossdressing. Some historians will contend that the practice of cross dressing on bicycles began before the emergence of the Shepollini bloodline during the single speed mountain bike racing era, otherwise known by future academia as "The Second Dark Age" due to the stagnated and regressed state of cycling at this time, but popular mythology will attest otherwise.
When some smug person tells you that cycling is the transport of the future, don't listen. It will in fact be the tranny sport of the future. And I should mention, Shepollini says that wet chain lube is categorically better that dry chain lube, for hair styling. ce

December 14, 2010 7:31 AM

I have very little reason to doubt that pretty much all of this will ultimately come to pass, and if in 500 years "the genderway indifferent Shepollini" is in fact not lauded as the founding fathermother of not only a new cycling discipline but also a completely new form of humanity blessed with two sets of genitals, I will eat a Rapha hat.

(Founding Fathermother Mario Cipollini fertilizes a new Earth with his hair drippings.)

Speaking of intensely spiritual creation myths, the holidays are now upon us. This means people everywhere are begrudgingly exchanging gifts they can't afford, motivated entirely by the socially-imposed sense of responsibility that drives our retail economy. In fact, even I have just received a gift, which was packed in actual marshmallows:

This is certainly the most stomach-turning packing job I've ever seen (and that includes the time at an old job when someone accidentally mailed us his own trash), and had it spent another day at my mailbox the rats almost certainly would have gotten to it and I'd be posting this from the bubonic plague ward at Beth Israel Medical Center. (This is the only place left in town where you can still get a decent bloodletting.)

The package, as it turns out, was from online Fred supply dispensary Performance, and it contained the items you see below:

As well as a "LiveWrong" bracelet, which I immediately placed on my Edgar Allan Poe bobblehead:

(Enter discount code "NEVERMORE" for big, big savings on gothic poetry and half-shorts.)

I was especially pleased to receive the lights, which are USB rechargeable. I've already been using similar lights from "hipster cyst" pioneers Knog, and I don't mind saying that I highly recommend USB rechargeable lights from the manufacturer of your choice. Not only do they liberate you from the hated disposable battery, but they also give you an excuse to spend more time on the Internet while they charge, which means that browsing online pornography for hours on end has finally been transformed into an act of bicycle safety.

Also, Performance included this. I have no idea what it is, but I'm assuming it's a prototype for a new Forté-branded singlespeed conversion kit that's even more crappy than the one they already offer:

Either that, or it's a pizza cutter with ceramic bearings.

Most significantly, though, Performance packed a chain rivet plier and lockring tool to celebrate the second anniversary of my Scattante Empire State Courier--an occasion I had forgotten, and of which they reminded me when I emailed them in the spirit of the season to tell them to never, ever send me a box full of fucking marshmallows again.

It's amazing to think that when, way back in September of 2008, Performance "dropped" its line of "urban" fixed-gear-ready Scattante singlespeeds and, in the process, stole material from my blog for their marketing copy, the cycling world reeled with disbelief. "This is the end!," cried the "bike culture." "Performance selling 'fixies' and quoting some blogger whose 15 minutes ended months ago in order to do it? Surely, the shark has been jumped!" Little did we all know what would follow: the closing of the fixed-gear "culture;" the Urban Outfitters bike; the Walmart bike. (By the way, if you're wondering what happened to my ironic intern, the short version is that I told him he could keep the Walmart bike pending his analysis of it and I never heard from him again, which means he either decided not to follow through with his review, or else he's met with some sort of catastrophe. Either way, he can kiss that BSNYC letter of recommendation goodbye.) In retrospect, Performance's take on the trend seems positively sincere and "OG" in comparison.

In any case, all of this made me pine for those bygone days of innocence, and to think fondly back to that day two years ago when I first opened that box from Performance and thought to myself, "Those dorks have a lot of nerve." I also thought it might be edifying to look at that Empire State Courier once again, and to see what's become of it today. Here's what it looked like in 2008, totally "stock" apart from the "hipster cyst" outbreak:

And here's what it looks like today:


Here's the view from the front:


And here's a disembodied hand:

As you can see, a mere two years in New York can make something look quite defeated and haggard, which goes a long way towards explaining the shattered appearance of all those recent Bard graduates in Williamsburg. For purposes of fit and comfort, I have replaced a number of components with stuff I had lying around--except for the fork, which I was forced to replace after encountering an obstacle in the bike lane and hurtling headlong into the back of a Bud Light truck. The bicycle also had both front and rear brakes until my cockpit was stolen some time ago, after which I only bothered to replace one, which is generally sufficient as the bicycle is fixed of gear. (The freewheel that came with the bike made a displeasing rumbling sound.) Speaking of theft, notice that in New York we actually have to chain our saddles to our bikes, which should give you a good idea of the sorry manner in which we're forced to live our lives. Also, here's what happens to a bike after repeated locking with a heavy chain:


This is a good thing, because it acts as camouflage--as you can see the bike begins to blend into the background.

If you're wondering why to this day so many "hipsters" and practitioners of "cycle chic" in New York seem to have such pristine bicycles, it's either because they don't really ride them very much, or because they've only had them for a few weeks and they haven't been stolen yet.

One development of note between the inception of the Empire State Courier and our present day is the proliferation of Velcro foot retention straps, arguably inspired by PowerGrips, pioneered in their current form by companies like Hold Fast, and fueled by the continuing growth of "fixed-gear freestyling," whose practitioners still refuse to simply ride BMX bikes even as their bicycles grow increasingly more BMX-like by the day. While most most fixed-gear freestyle by-products are mostly undesirable (endless videos of BMX-inspired tricks performed awkwardly), I thought that new forms of foot retention might be the exception, and so awhile back I bought a pair:

I've been using these on my Scattante for a little over a year now, and while I haven't exactly been thrilled with them they're also not so bad that I've bothered to take them off. On the plus side, they work well with smooth-soled, low-profile shoes such as sneakers when the weather is dry. On the negative side, they don't really accommodate the wider lug-soled winter shoes I prefer to wear when it's really crappy out, which was why I wanted to try them in the first place. Plus, they don't work particularly well in the rain, when even though they're synthetic they seem to get soggy and droopy which makes it hard to slide your foot in (though maybe that's just because my shoes get soggy, or because I'm generally a soggy and droopy person). In fairness to Hold Fast, they've changed the design somewhat since I've bought these so maybe they're better now, and I don't doubt that for fixed-gear freestyling they're the fixie-riding bee's blown knees, but I'm sorry to report that based on the ones I have they're not quite the "use them with every shoe you own" solution I'd hoped they'd be.

Anyway, I already had a gigantic USB rechargeable "hipster cyst" growing on the ironic crabon handlebars of my Scattante:

So I put the PerfAxiom lights on my enormous smugness flotilla:

As for which brand of light is brighter, I cannot say, since my method of determining whether or not a light is bright enough is to simply turn it on and look at it, and if doing so makes me wince in pain and see spots for the next 20 minutes then in my estimation it is bright enough. I'm happy to report that both the Knog and the PerfAxiom passed this test, and that lawsuits against both companies are pending. I also acknowledge that I am something of a "light whore" and would never turn away a free one. After all, lights are like condoms and tampons--necessities that we really shouldn't have to pay for:

Much less necessary is a headset spacer with an integrated bottle opener, but as a semi-professional bike blogger I need this to infiltrate "bike culture" events since most of them these days have a three bottle opener minimum:

(After 11 months I have yet to open a single bottle with this apparatus.)

In any case, while I enjoy the WiseCracker for its novelty value, I can't help thinking that if "bike culture" would promote lights half as much as it promotes bottle openers, then the Great Hipster Silk Route would not be thronged with totally invisible cyclists as it is now. (Though admittedly the "muffin tops" of the paler ones are eerily iridescent.)

And finally, here's the view of the Scattante Empire State Courier that the "Cat 6" racers get before they attack me and "drop" me:

Maybe I should cut back on the marshmallows.