Right for Failure

The Stuff (Unfulfilled) Dreams are Made of.

2010-12-02T20:04:00.000-08:00

This is what a 1966 BSA Lightning shouldn't look like. So beat I got it from a hardcore California biker for just fifty dollars about six years ago. While it has only continued to rot its decadence festers in my soul. It's beauty has tortured me as I am so enamored by its 650cc twin engine. It ranks just third in my engine-aesthetic behind a knuckle-head V-twin and Flathead V8. $3000 worth of new parts and a couple hundred man-hours of work later and maybe it could be a ride-able motorcycle again; with a little more maybe just maybe it could be the cafe racer I've always dreamed of having. The cafe racer I really wanted while throwing clubman bars on the 1978 Honda CB550 I loved dearly but I had to give up too when my life went to shit after college and even with two degrees I couldn't earn enough to keep up the insurance on it.

There's far too much resignation in my life these days...spent biking at night, broke and dispirited, wondering how in the folly of youth and in university I ever let myself dream it could be better than this; losing (slowly) my connection with the people, things and activities that I have loved.

Or my days spent trying to cobble together something useful from the mountains of accumulated trash that actually is my life now. And while I'd like to hope for better, something tells me one of these days I'll be pedaling a busted blue and red bmx bike down a Shreveport street still grumbling about my lot. Even then I probably won't be rid of my foolish dreams. I'll be on the look out for the smile of a pretty girl to melt my heart, solicited by the caricature of a bike rider I'll cut with my six foot frame on a 20" bike.

Grow My Love in Near Alliteration; The Girl Who Broke My Heart in Golden Gate Park (by Speaking Japanese).

2010-08-07T18:46:00.000-07:00

Fresh off a plane and a good night's rest I finally made my way into San Francisco proper; left on Broadway climbing into Chinatown I glance to the left and like magic the first landmark I see is City Lights Bookstore and I could not be more elated. I felt as if my initiation, my introduction to San Francisco, its acceptance of me was complete.

But there is another story more perfectly encompassing the whole of my experience there:

Quixote y Sancho

This is a self-portrait taken in Golden Gate Park; a picture of my head and heart. My heart is the taller more willful man burning to tilt the windmills of this world, raging against the mediocrity of this life. And my head... for all its pessimism, all its knowing-better it colludes in all my hearts foolish, optimistic desire for love and happiness. Indeed just moments before this portrait was taken my heart, in spite of my head, had been broken at the Tea Gardens by a Korean girl.

I had emerged from the shaded hiking path off Fulton Street into the beauty of a setting sun; quickly surveying what the park offered in the superficial way all tourists are condemned to see their destinations of interest by the duress of time. The trees were giant, the buildings austere and everywhere was a bustling distracting mass of human activity when out of the morass she caught my eye with her immense beauty stayed by a subdued sense of style (mostly middle gray) and understated radiance.

Contemplating the entrance fee of the Tea Gardens I turned to leave, saw her and smiled. She paused and replied in kind and my heart leapt. I desperately wanted to talk to her and used my roommate's curiosity about whether or not the trees we were standing under were cherry blossoms as an excuse. Telling him to hold on while I asked someone (she had forgone the fee as well) timing her perfectly in my peripheral vision I turned and asked idly, "Sumimasen, Nihon-jin desu ka?" She only seemed trouble for a moment before she replied in far superior Japanese, "Iie, Konkoku-jin desu." I froze. Here was my perfect-in to strike up a conversation and I don't know what I was expecting. I had asked a question and she was sure to respond in some way even if it had been just to blow me off.

That's the humorous juvenile tragedy of my adulthood, that even in my late twenties I can still be struck dumb by the prospect of conversing with a beautiful woman like some prepubescent teen too terrified for the attempt at his first awkward kiss. All I wanted was to talk to her, to share a little bit of this life in conversation, to find out how she spoke Japanese so well. She had learned in school no doubt, but what had that been like for her? What was it like to be a beautiful foreigner touring Golden Gate Park alone? Could I have been witty and winning, could I have made her laugh? I lost the opportunity to find out when in my silence she faded away into the mass flowing into the Botanical Gardens, lost to me forever.

I wondered if I could live like this; amidst this. Was this a livable city? Could I tolerate all the unpalatable coffee everywhere save for Cafe Trieste and that lame old stand-by, Starbucks? Could I live in a place that tolerates so obvious an evil as Pier 39? Which is everything ugly and wrong about American tourism: theme restaurants, extremely overpriced souvenirs like the pop-art postcards of Che. All authenticity, anything unique about a new place sacrificed on a dual altar to the Gods of convenience and familiarity.

The city was filled with such beautiful women, so many more than I was expecting...like when biking the Golden Gate I kicked it up to the 14 tooth gear and bombed the downhill into Sausalito at incredible speed; running into a New Zealand-er named Amelia in the country doing a work study in the hospitality industry. Sitting outside the bay side coffee shop, sharing a laugh with me (read: at me) when I choked on the glass bottle of beer I had bought and shotgunned worrying I was running out of time. Or the pretty little German girl visiting from Singapore who I met on the ferry back with her endearing accent and eyes begging me to save her from the family vacation she was on while subconsciously she thought of her and I. Could I stand this grinding daily monotony , the destruction of my heart at the hands of their beauty?

In the end I decided that I did want this life. I wanted to be worn down by the constant heartache of so many gorgeous women. I wanted to be weathered by the sun and spray, I wanted to spit in the (Pacific) Ocean and have a sandwich on the shore. I wanted this life always, for San Francisco to be my perpetual heartbreak. But, it wouldn't last. Because my mind knew that there will be no American Dream for me, not even an American life anywhere in this country. No matter how much I rage at the margins of it, no matter how often I charge at it my heart armed with a make-shift lance this country will never take me seriously or let me in. Still the collusive incorrigible optimism creeps in; knowing my life is a descending ladder of disappointment and every time I smash my fucking face on the next rung down (evey time my heart is wounded again) my mind thinks happily, "Finally, I've hit rock bottom."

Mounting the Saddle and Reminiscing.

2010-07-17T11:09:00.000-07:00

I got the Brooks installed on my Raleigh and I am absolutely thrilled with the results:

I have also installed some Fyxation brown tread white wall tires and some Wellgo bmx pedals (because I couldn't find any Odyssey's in an appropriate color). Unless it is brutally cold outside I only ever ride my bicycles in flip-flops and wanted a solid platform pedal to make that shoe choice more comfortable. The Wellgo(s) have conformed to that requirement quite well and were thankfully very inexpensive; only $11.

At 100+ miles the Brooks saddle is no where near broken in, but it was comfortable from day one. I did notice that to even begin breaking the leather into an ergonomic shape I had to ride at least 10 miles at a time and literally sweat my ass off on it. Hopefully I'll have several hundred miles on it by the end of summer and the process will be complete.

Though I love bicycling I have begun to long once more for the other means of conveyance from my youth, when all of my failure seemed short term and I could view my future with at least a margin of optimism. I am speaking of horse back riding and sailing. I lived in Del Rio, Texas until I was eight years old and while there I frequently rode horses and when I was six, my dad bought a beat up Vanguard Sunfish from a sailing school for $200 and taught me how to lay fiberglass and sail it on Lake Amistad part of the Rio Grande (his former profession being boat building/ repair in Cocoa Beach, FL). While in Louisiana I bought a 16' Hobie Catamaran for $400 and sailed that until college when I joined LSU's poorly supported Recreational Sports Sailing Team where I raced Vanguard 420s. Though I am a poor sailor I have always dearly loved it and am now, after 4 years off the water, dying to return to it. While in San Francisco a few months ago I fell in love with a seemingly popular local boat design from there, The San Francisco Bay Pelican:

It has a bowsprit and lug-rig that recalls, for me, a boat of much older design than the 1950s and I aspire to and consider myself capable of one day building it. However at this point the expense of it would be prohibitively expensive so I set out to find a more approachable design (I am badly in need of a win). While searching the internet for free boat plans I happened upon a cheap, race-able, home built, one design class boat called The Puddle Duck Racer:

It may be a little bit ugly, but I am attracted to the egalitarian ethos of it as well as the freedom above the bottom ten inches of the hull and ability to run any rig you want. I could put a bowsprit and lug-rig on it to be an ersatz Pelican until I am in a position in life to build that much more sea-worthy vessel.

Tanned Hides and The Cold Shoulder.

2010-06-09T19:02:00.000-07:00

I spent Memorial Day in New Orleans celebrating our servicemen by almost going to the D-Day Museum only turned away literally mere feet away when an NPR report came on about how busy the place was with a "record-breaking crowd." Instead I indulged in some pure old fashioned American consumerism which is probably just as good an homage to our brave heroes and the American way of life.

I started it off on Oak St., now a beautiful example of post Katrina resurgence. In my pre-hurricane memories it was a sparsely business-ed street book-ended by the great Rue De La Course built in the marble husk of a bank on the corner of Carrollton and a (word of mouth) popular Asian restaurant, Ninja on the levee end. I would spend beautiful Saturday mornings there with an easily bored LSU med-student girlfriend that, in spite of everything, I still cherish today. A good Saturday morning, a cheap one held in the afterglow filled with (beignets which are not offered at Rue De La Course and) good coffee is a far sweeter and more romantic thing than any expensive hotel or exotic vacation. The street is better paved now, it's roughness gone the way of the high water mark lost to reconstruction; new drywall and hot asphalt. It feels like there are more businesses there now: a comic book shop, another cool new coffee shop (Zotz), a dollar store, a bicycle shop, etc. There are even new condos; and many of these things could pre-date the storm they just aren't in my memory of it. The street is now in possession of its very own Brooks Saddle dealer, Wallingford Bicycle Parts.

I had never been to the store in my past wanderings on this street, but had tried before on two previous trips. It is a small unassuming white storefront with an oval sign you have to be on the look out for. I was reluctantly received and shown B17 specials in Honey, Racing Green and Black. I adored both the Honey and Racing Green colors but thought the green ill suited to the light blue of my Raleigh. If I owned a Surly Pacer however there would have been no question of my preference. I looked at some Swifts and Swallows too but found them prohibitively expensive. While I was there I could not help but feel I had inconvenienced them by walking in; it is obvious by the minuscule counter front customer space that most of their business is done online and the sole associate I had interaction with seemed pressed for time. I bought a B17 special in Honey to support them anyway. It must be said of the Brooks Saddle that it does come stylishly packaged.

Supplied with its own spanner

and a rain cover.

The Wages of Underemployment; herramientas nuevas.

2010-06-08T21:35:00.001-07:00

Recently, I was lucky enough to finally be able to afford some long desired bicycle tools. I had wanted a cable-puller for sometime but was never able to find one in a bicycle shop. I shopped around online and though I would like to have purchased the Park Tools brand cable puller (it is made in the U.S.A.) it was more than double the price of other options; so I settled on the Pedro's brand probably out of an affinity for its vibrant yellow color.

No longer satisfied with my universal coin shaped spoke wrench I also found a pro set of spoke wrenches (that contact the spoke nipple on all four sides) also made by Pedro's on close-out and got those along with the cable-puller for less than thirty dollars before shipping. I was very impressed with this set that came clustered on a carabiner and included a star shaped wrench for some strange breed of Mavic nipple that I doubt I will ever lay eyes on.

They each have both the more traditional, less secure nipple opening that contacts just three sides of the spoke nipple as well as the four sided contact opening...

and I got four of them plus a carabiner for less than the price of one Park Tools (four sided) spoke wrench; and while I don't have the satisfaction of supporting American manufacturing jobs I still received a quality tools at an affordable price and I'll just have to make my peace with their foreign origins (and with the fact that none of the four are anywhere near large enough to accommodate the enormous, industrial sized spoke nipples of my Atlas cruiser).

Painful Regression

2010-05-11T14:44:00.000-07:00

I've been back from San Francisco nearly a month now and am slowly easing out of the doldrums. The city was fantastic and were I a man of means I probably would never have come back. I hope to write more about my experiences there but have not yet invested the effort.

Back in Shreveport I began working on another vintage Peugeot.

This one is a 1986 Peugeot Corbier and it is in much better shape than the last one I was involved with. I did a very minor tune-up on it and de-cluttered it of its light generator and other superfluous objects. The only major stumbling block was the rear derailleur which was fouled up to the point that the spring in it would not snap the pulleys back into tension against the chain; if you pedaled it backward the chain would come off. While pulling that apart I notice its brand:

It made me wonder if it were manufactured by the same Sachs that used to manufacture mopeds in Germany (and now again in China).

I also found this front page for an old Peugeot catalog which was for me at least immensely amusing:

I don't know if it's the castle or the hideous bike but something is screaming bad fantasy novel. I found this cover as well as the vintage of this Peugeot here.

Injured Vanity and Chapped Lips.

2010-03-25T00:29:00.000-07:00

I have been in San Francisco this week.

Using Bikes and the City as an informal guide I have found my way to several coffee venues and a group ride, The Butter Lap.

college roommate

The group was small enough and reasonably friendly; reassuring me that the ride would be "relaxed" and "casual." After a twenty minute wait we were off.

We began to fall back very early on.

the last we saw of the group

This is what happens, you come out West trying to help your friend mend a broken heart and end up getting dropped like an old lady a mile in on the first hill at Fort Mason.

My friend was struggling more, but he's no cyclist. My second excuse would be to try and blame the hybrid bikes we had rented (hybrids are the bane of my aesthetic existence within bicycling). Maybe my eyes were so sore from looking at the ugly things that I just couldn't pedal fast enough. It was simply a pathetic display on our part. We embarrassed ourselves and our community and in the end all I could do was take these (tourist-y) dusk photos:

and roll over to Safeway for some Chapstick to balm my heart now broken by these latest failures...or at least my lips anyway.

Unseasonably Cool New Bike Parts.

2010-03-05T14:01:00.000-08:00

After recovering from resent illness and waiting for some latent winter weather to subside I finally got to work putting new parts on my new old stock Raleigh.

Before.

After.

I ordered the braided steel brake cables/housing at Scooter's Bike Shop on Shreveport-Barksdale Highway. The Freewheel mentioned in an earlier post I bought at Bikes Etc. in Bossier City. The housing clips and grey cloth bartape I had to order online; I bought both of them from Velo-Orange:

Before.

After.

I am very pleased with the results. I am tempted to try shellac-ing this cloth tape in the future to water-proof it. However, I am reluctant to do it so far as the tape overlaps the porous wound steel gear cable housing that the shellac might gum up.

I still need to buy a new saddle for it. Currently I am debating between my beloved Selle San Marco Concor Super Corsa in white suede or a Kashimax Five Gold 4p in patent gold. I will also be buying it some new tires colored either brown or blue and some new pedals (most likely MKS Sylvan Touring pedals).

I'm not Always This Sad; But I'm Never This Happy.

2010-02-07T09:01:00.000-08:00

I wish I still smiled like that.

Cruising old comic books recently I came across these advertisements for bicycles.

It seems Sears had discovered the streamline school of design about 50 years later than the automotive and motorcycling industries and (appropriately?) applied it the bicycle. "It looks like it's moving even when it's standing still." The kids seem thrilled with it though.

This next one came out of an issue of Barbie's comic book autographed by the cover artist. A friend of mine told me she earned it modeling as a Barbie for F-A-O Swarz in the third grade. I believe there may have been some gender confusion with regards to this ad's placement as it is obviously a boy's bike.

It is my sincere opinion that this particular model, Dr. Shock, may very well qualify for the worst fenders ever put on a bicycle. In this same issue Barbie herself rode down from her ivory tower of class and refinement, displaying all of her equestrian prowess and talent for high-living, to confront a lowly bicyclist and interrogate him about the location of a lost horse.

I think the subtext of class warfare is absolutely overt here, especially in Barbie's accusatory tone. The message is clear Barbie, the baroness of industry, cannot pedal a bicycle like the rest of the rabble so she must die. She must lose all of the symbols of her materialism: like her pink Corvette and Jeep, her Mansion, and that kept house-boy Ken. All of Barbie's writers and artists were obviously communists and I hope there subversive work was exposed in time to save the minds of our darling daughters.

I also found a bit of nostalgia in an Archie comic. One of those old child-labor fund-raising scams where you were supposed to sell crap for cool stuff.

This looks suspiciously like my elementary school bike which makes me think it must have been completely worthless if they were giving it to kids for peddling their trash.

This skateboard looks like a hot ticket though.

Later that day after giving me these comic books my friend, the Barbie doll model, accompanied me to a tool store. Wandering through the store she informed me that a childhood friend of hers had died at 13 inflating a bicycle tire when a air compressor tank blew up. She is apparently full of strange stories.

I purchased a new grease gun to re-pack hubs with:

On the left next to the cone wrench.

It was $5 and it works great so long as you hold it upside down.

Old Lives and New (Old Stock) Beginnings.

2010-02-05T09:22:00.000-08:00

I drove down to Baton Rouge this past weekend hoping to get to ride in Critical Mass but it was rained out; such is my luck. While I was there I did get to have dinner with friends from my old life that I am gradually being disintegrated from by distance and time; a depressing reminder of how much I cared for South Louisiana which has only ever broken my heart for loving it so much. On the upside I did buy a new bike there. It is a NOS Raleigh Super Grand Prix from the 70's.

I found its soft blue quite beautiful and can now rely on the ease and in-expense of its clincher rims the next time the Franklin blows a tubular. The Raleigh actually only cost the equivalent of 6.6 tubular tires ($200). I have only test rode it so far. I will be doing some serious work to it before I take it out on the road. The wheel bearings are grinding like a couple of dry-humping teenagers so I will be overhauling both hubs. It came geared for Alpine inclinations not the humble hills of Highland so I purchased a smaller 5-speed freewheel.

New 14-28 on the left stock 14-38 on the right.

I had intended to buy a small IRD freewheel geared 13-24 but none of the shops in town carried or could order one so I settled for the SunRace pictured above. I am also no fan of exposed brake cables so I ordered some new Jagwire braded steel casing to run like a backbone down the top-tube to the rear brake with the help of these beauties:

Campagnolo brake housing clips.

I found these and the braided steel casing at Scooter's bike shop on Shreveport-Barksdale highway. I'll also be changing the bar-tape to a lighter color and eventually ordering a new saddle when I can afford it. It should be a wonderful bike.

Antiques Road(bike)show; Old Beat-Up Saddle Edition.

2010-01-24T20:57:00.000-08:00

At an estate sale a week ago in the Spring Lake neighborhood of Shreveport I happened upon a bike saddle who's brand, Vetta, I was previously unfamiliar with. It had a pretty good shape and seemed reasonably cushioned so I decided to part with the two dollars listed on its price tag just in case I needed it for a later bike project.

The model is Carrera I've done no research as to its pedigree online, but I tried it out today and I was impressed. It is remarkably similar to the expensive ($100, but worth it) Selle San Marco Concor Super Corsa that I normally ride and adore.

I wish I could have seen the bike that it came off but there were no bikes at the sale; I may have gotten there too late. Now all I need is another road bike to put it on. On a side note, I haven't been lax; I am still hard at work on my bicycle helmet:

The Unbearable Whiteness of Being, Why I Can't Leave (a) Well-Enough (helmet) Alone.

2010-01-19T08:02:00.000-08:00

As an individual I thrive on motion (which may very well be why I ride bikes). I cannot sleep in silence, dislike swimming in still water, and I cannot read/study without the boisterous activity and noise of a coffee shop around me. I think that it is these attributes that have left me with an aversion to monochromatic color schemes as well. Throughout the years whenever I obtain something new, if it has a solid uni-color surface on it, I have stenciled it: motorcycle helmets, cell-phones, a decorative wheelchair, skateboards, etc. Recently, as a gift, I received a bicycle helmet. I do not normally ride with a bicycle helmet, but many charity rides require that one wear them for insurance purposes and I've never seen fit to spend what little money I have on a helmet. So, for the sake of my inclusion in these rides it was a good gift but far too plain for my taste. It was all white and I set out almost instantly searching for stencils to my taste that I could deface it with. Almost immediately, while google searching for a Virgin de Guadalupe stencil, I somehow found this treasure:

Leatherface of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre fame. Though, I had been looking for a classic icon of The Virgin, I knew immediately that there was to be no better stencil for the back of my helmet than Leatherface's intimidating visage. I got to work.

And here was the end result:

I have been well pleased with the outcome. The painter's tape bled here and there a little but the overall effect was perfect. I do also have two other rather large areas to cover on the helmet (the temple areas of the head round about) before it is completely street ready. I spent over an hour trying to make a stencil of my own out of a photograph of the face of the Predator, but failed miserably. I also recommend Stencilry.org as a good resource for stencils of famous faces, various animals, and movies, etc as well as providing excellent how-to tutorials.

Ringing in the New Year in Glorious Monaural Sound.

2010-01-14T10:05:00.000-08:00

I have not confessed this here before but I am a dedicated NPR listener. And somewhere buried deep amongst my life goals is the desire to one day have a story on This American Life; which is my favorite radio show (though I do also greatly enjoy Car Talk). I had been enjoying this pastime either listening in my truck or on a small digital Sony radio I had originally bought for the gym (it was also my sole means of news gathering in the days following hurricane Katrina which was a unique experience to share another day). Like all newer digital pocket radios it used the headphone wire as its antenna. Which for the TV FM-transmitters at the gym was just fine. For indoor talk radio listening, however, it was often too staticky and needed to be set at an unbearable volume to make any channel's speech intelligible. In search of better reception I spent an entire day researching antiquated radio technology and learned: that dipole antennas have the best FM reception but are apparently unavailable for pocket radios; that monaural radios are much better at reproducing speech than stereophonic ones; and also that I needed to invest either in a very expensive Sangean digital pocket radio or get a pocket radio with a better antenna (which in hind-site seems rather elementary). Then, I went shopping and found this amazing monoaural analog pocket radio still being made by Sony.

It was only $10 and with it's excellent reception, built in speaker and throwback style I have become quite enamored of it. I have not even bothered to listening to it by earphone yet as the built in speaker works so incredibly well. I just throw it in my shirt pocket and get on with my business. I have to also admit that even for music stations the monaural sound is wonderful, and for me a bit nostalgic. It reminds me of the radio in my first car a 1964 Mercury Comet, that was all mid-range. I do know that in many audiophile circles, where people still bother to listen to music on vinyl, monaural musical recordings are sworn by and I think now I know why. I was so taken with this radio that I wanted to protect it like the great consumers of old in our country. So I sought to make a carrying case for it like I had seen on transistor radios from many decades ago when they were so expensive they were expected to and needed to last. I bought some heavy vinyl fabric, made a template, and got down to it. Here is the end result:

I am not too ashamed of it as it is only my first try. I hope to improve upon it by switching to fabric snaps to fasten it rather than stitching it together and fastening it with a sewn on button as in this prototype. I also hope to fabricate more than one so that I may have some color/style to choose from. I will post any further accomplishment.

The Slow Boat to China; the long decline of the American small business.

2010-01-10T10:48:00.000-08:00

This once proud edifice,

this eviscerated facade is but the latest casualty in America's century old psychomachia; the struggle between old wealth and small business ownership.

It was implied in the struggle of World War I. Most anyone fighting or losing a family in that struggle believing we only entered into it for economic reasons; to secure the return on loans that wealthy New York bankers (the House of Morgan) had made in Western Europe. It was on the lips of nearly everyone Jon Dos Passos interviewed on the home front during World War II for State of the Nation. Everyone at home in factories amping-up war production knew that the government, in its legislation of the day, was colluding to kill private business ownership. It was built into the very design of the interstate system; to bypass small towns and dry them up, to restrict gasoline sales to adjacent large corporate-owned fuel stations, to concentrate wealth and main-line it back to a well established hierarchy (the 1% of our population who are obscenely rich). It is the contradictory truth to the deceit of Reaganonomics; that rather than the rich paying it back down when they get richer they merely consolidate it into larger estates and pass it on in trust funds to their descendants. It is the enormous unstopped drain known as Wal Mart preying on our rural communities and sending all their money in a flood back to Arkansas. It is within the bull-shit we're sold everyday on the news when we're shown the Wall Street indexes as the best indicator of the nation's economic health, rather than median income and employment rates. And within the self denial that let all of the middle class believe this past decade that since Wall Street was making a killing their standard of living must be going up in parallel (when in reality their income remained the same and they had only fictitiously increased their standard of living with credit). Our nation is (probably) irrevocably stratified economically and it is a structure only reinforced by our laws and government.

I have been friends for a long time with the family that owned Nanking. Their story is not completely tragic, as both of the family's daughters are grown and embarked on careers of their own and the parents have been ready to retire for a while. It had been managed by two generations already, but the daughters were not encouraged to carry it on. Which I believe is strongly indicative of the state of private business ownership in this country. I'm sure had it seemed like a healthy financial future one of the daughters would have ended up running the restaurant for several more decades. Still I can't help looking at the remnants of that building (which is supposed to be gone entirely by next week) and know that one more of our last, great hold outs against fast food chains and Big Business has died and I'll never have its delicious home-made bread again. And with that thought our community grows a little colder, a little more corporate.

The monster eating.

The School of Hard Knocks; Don't Drift on Dented Rims

2009-11-28T19:01:00.000-08:00

Impressed by some youtube videos, the other day I set out to teach myself to drift and do doughnuts on my bicycle. Drifting was easy. Doing doughnuts proved impossible for me, at least on the bicycles I had at my disposal: a wal-mart moutain bike-ish hybrid, and my Franklin road bike. I drifted through turns for a few days and without realizing it I wore through the millimeter-or-so of rubber bonded to the case of my tubular that passes for tire tread. There is a defect in my rear rim (earned from the unforgiving edge of a pothole on the outskirts of Querbes Golf Course) that causes my caliper brake to stop it always in the same spot when braking heavily. Jump ahead a week or so and a friend and I decide to bike to our local (corporate) video store which is seven-or-so miles away; I on my Franklin and he on my yellow Goodwill cruiser. We had covered probably five miles of that distance when we had to stop for a small family of five: mom, dad, and three children to cross the street to a Catholic Church. As I decelerated there was a loud bang and hiss from my rear tire that frightened both my fellow rider and this God fearing family (the children ran for it). Instantly I knew what had happened; I'd had a blow-out at 100 psi.

This was way louder than it looks.

I walked my wounded road bike a block to Broadmoor Library and chained it up. I put my friend on the handlebars of the yellow cruiser and pedaled him the rest of the way to the video store. Riding together we laughed at how funny a picture we must have been striking and bemoaned not having a camera to capture it. I described to him how I am often struck by such humor when realizing I am an unemployed twenty-eight year old loser still living with his parents and riding a bike to his local comic book store. Then he and I marveled that I had ever managed to have a girlfriend at all. At the video store we rented Maximum Overdrive and then went to grocery store next door and bought some 1 liter Tecates so I could drown the dissappointment of my life. When we returned to the library another friend was kind enough to give us and my bicycles a ride back home in her VW van, saving the day ($30 mistake with tubular tire excepted).

The day after this debacle I got the MKS dust caps in for my Campagnolo pedals.

All in all I consider them a very good replacement; and the monicker they bare has proven not to bother me so much. They are quite beautiful for $4.

The New Weird.

2009-11-18T20:07:00.000-08:00

I went to River City Cycling on Youree drive today and was able to order the MKS dust caps that I need for the Franklin (they were $1 more than online, but better to give that business to someone local). While there I got to test ride a Cannondale that is $980 worth of bad-ass, the Cannondale Hooligan 3. Cursing my poverty I marveled at its absolutely beautiful and bizare lines; it's built like a folding bike but does not collapse. It has twenty inch wheels but could accommodate someone well larger than my 6' frame. Completely weird and completely my kind of bike except that it's aluminum; though if I had a thousand dollars I could just throw away I'd probably be willing to buy its novelty anyway. Here's a picture from the Cannondale website:

The one at River City was matte black with grey/white reflective lettering and details. I prefer this white, red and black color scheme; it looks like a communist propaganda bike. With an aesthetic like this maybe the Reds could have ideologically defeated capitalism (by turning heads).

Just Another Saturday Morning.

2009-11-18T11:09:00.000-08:00

I had joyous reason to wake up and ride again this past Saturday morning, The Highland Blues and Jazz Festival. A group of friends and I took off from Starbucks on Line Avenue and headed for the show at Columbia Park.

Trading bikes for a bit.

I'm ashamed to admit that I did not listen to that much of the music. I mostly just socialized. Had a few beers and kicked around a bit; ate some excellent Caribbean food (which I did not know anyone in Shreveport cooked). There was also reputed to be very good Indian food provided by India's (Youree Drive), though I did not get to try any of that. Then we walked to Columbia Cafe for more beer.

This is Highland's memorial.

Later, one down, we rode for home.

I have to say it was a fun day. Though I think the rides (to and from the festival) were my favorite parts.

On a more somber note, while joking in my last post about my bicycle crank boasting coffee stains I was horrified to realize from the photo that one of my pedals had lost its dust cap. I retraced my route but was unable to locate it and a replacement Campagnolo branded dust cap is nigh $30. To my salvation and to the shame of my Campagnolo pedals, they will now have to bare the brand MKS on their dust caps; as MKS's dust caps are only $3 and Campy compatible.

Good Times!

2009-11-07T20:09:00.000-08:00

Woke up this past Saturday morning to an enjoyable event. The Velo Dendro Tour of Shreveport. I was happy to attend and enlisted my dad and friend to ride as well.

Franklin's crank sporting appropriate early morning coffee stains.

My friend brought her father's shaft driven Dekra, which is the first shaft driven bike I've ever seen in person. She let me do some doughnuts on it to try it out before she jumped back on it for the tour.

The tour began at Columbia Cafe on Kings and Creswell. It staggered through a few tree related stops to downtown, then the river front, back into Highland for a SWEPCO demonstration, a look at a massive old live oak and the return to Columbia Cafe.

A church carnival.

A local broadcast journalist (in black) for channel six rode.

Awesome riding vest!

The Slattery Live Oak (it's famous).

All in all it was a pretty fun ride once it really got going. Some cool bikes showed up too.

Old school Huffy street cred. Respect!

A vintage univega.

A Peugeot mixte.

A Schwinn tandem.

It was inspiring. About 60 or 70 people showed up which gives me hope that someday a successful Critical Mass might be organized here.

Fail by Rail

2009-11-03T10:08:00.000-08:00

I tried to catch an Amtrak train into Dallas, TX in hopes of being able to write about the experience and its bicycle compatibilities (I do dream of one day owning a Brompton, Dahon or Moulton AR). However, upon my arrival at the station an hour away from home I found out that the train was delayed five hours away due to a freight derailment. So, I canceled the ticket and drove back home. I'll have to save that piece of reportage for a later date.

In the meantime, I've been marveling at all the wonderful pictures here, at a blog about broken carbon fiber. I have never planned on owning a carbon fiber frame as I don't race, value utility greatly and expect a relatively long usable life from the products I grudging spend what little money i have on; so chromoly steel is probably the most exotic frame material I'll ever consider. This blog and its pictures/horror stories did not enhance my opinion of the use of carbon in the bicycling industry (I live in Louisiana and need my bike to be able to withstand the rigorous trial of road kill), but they have been exceptionally entertaining. Here's to the need of others to own the latest and greatest and to suffer also fantastically new, never before seen catastrophes. May the wealthy always be so unwise with there money, we poor people need something to laugh at.

Divine Intervention.

2009-10-19T11:24:00.000-07:00

It's been a bit rainy here in Shreveport. Rainy enough to loosen the roots of two 100 year old red oak trees and down them into our and the neighbor's yards/house totaling two cars, damaging structure and taking electricity and cable with them in their downfall.

On top of all that madness, the rear wheel of my Franklin was severally dented in one of the obscenely large pot-holes that Louisiana roads are notorious for. On a seventeen mile ride through various neighborhoods and downtown Shreveport I did not see the gaping hole in the darkness until I was upon it. I knew immediately there was a problem as I could both feel and hear the back-wheel rubbing the pads on its caliper brake. I was able to true it back up but as of yet am unable to correct the dent that has it out of round.

It's a little hard to see, but the dent is directly above the middle spoke hole.

Looks small but it has a pronounced feel while riding.

I am still riding it while I plan on how to attack this. I was just planning on removing that individual spoke and hitting it with a hammer, but I believe that even a brass hammer is probably to much for the aluminum rim which means I would have to buy a plastic one.

To true the wheel I used a coin shaped universal spoke wrench which I have seen much maligned elsewhere on the internet.

It was my first time using it and I thought it performed quite well. It might not be up to the standards of someone accostomed to expensive precision tools, but I am used to making due with less.

The Ravages of Neglect and Poverty; beggars can't be choosers.

2009-10-06T21:22:00.000-07:00

I have a beautiful Franklin road bike. This bike is so beautiful that I would never have been able to afford it (I can barely afford to keep it on the road). The luck of my ownership of it I owe entirely to the laziness of a former roomate. In college I had a short lived roomate of about three months. He brought with him to my apartment his stepfather's old Franklin equipped with exotic, intimidating names like Cinelli and Campagnolo. It sat in our living room completely unused on flat tubular tires because he would always rather ride the racing Haro BMX bicycle he bought when we were in grade school. At the end of his tenure as my roomate (he dropped out of school) he moved to Dallas TX and told me I could have it because he didn't feel like moving it back with him. I let it go further neglected fearing it's exotic nature (it's components all bore the above mentioned brand names of refined Italian breeding), choosing instead the cheap safety of my yellow Goodwill cruiser.

Upon my depressing return to Shreveport Louisiana I found myself struggling to get around it's hilly neighborhoods on this same extremely heavy cruiser. I realized I needed something lighter in weight, something with gears for my coffee shop trips and I had this Franklin just laying around that was the lightest bike I had ever handled so I took to it and have only rarely, on flat roads, looked back to to my cruiser.

It's lightness and gears have liberated me here but I have found new struggles with it in trying to afford to keep it on the road. For all the neglect it has suffered it has paid me back in need of parts and maintenance. I am well aware of the debate between the impassioned riders of both clinchers and tubular tires but their arguments have rarely included price. The Franklin has had three flats since I brought it here and each has cost my sorry unemployed self thirty dollars apiece. All concern for ride quality or rolling resistance have gone out the window with the bitter knowledge that if I'd had clinchers these flats would only have cost me three dollars for new inner tubes.

Another recent potential financial burden came in the form of its brake hoods. The original gum hoods on its Campagnolo Record non-aero brake levers were UV damaged, dry rotted, and falling apart (as gum hoods are so apparently prone to do). The only thing I was keeping them on with was yellow electrical tape.

I searched for new replacement brake hoods. They were available by order at my LBS, in black rubber only, for nearly sixty dollars. Completely ignoring the expense I was unwilling to accept, I did not think black was a fitting color to compliment its navy frame and canary yellow tape and housing. I searched and found some NOS brown gum hoods but they were equally expensive. I was assured by the website that these NOS hoods were "show quality," but my bike is going to be ridden not be on display. These were unacceptably expensive solutions so instead I bought some cheap brown Cane Creek brake hoods:

They are obviously not a perfect fit, but they work. They are ridable and more aesthetically pleasing than the rot covered in electrical tape that they replaced. Plus, I saved fifty four dollars over the new or NOS alternatives. Now I only hope that its fantastic Benotto Cellotape holds up because I can accept no substitutions for it.

Apparently My Skills Still Need Work.

2009-09-30T09:50:00.000-07:00

Round two of NPR's 3 minut fiction contest is over. I entered but didn't place. Here's my entry:

The nurse left work at five o'clock. She stepped out into rain steaming up from the hot asphalt that reminded her of home. The last time she had been there was just like this, walking down Oak street trying to decide between its two coffee shops. The street had been alive with bicycles and prettier girls in light summer dresses waiting for the next trolley to stop down on Carrollton Avenue. As she had walked a conversation drifted over the wall of a private courtyard attached to some expensive new condos. She couldn't quite make it out, but they sounded happy. That was the comfortable existence she had hoped to have, carelessly drinking ice-cold beer with the neighbors on Saturday in the soft humidity of southern shade where you sweat and sweat and feel so healthy. Sundays she would have walked to Audubon Park with some handsome boyfriend and picnicked in the grass on a cheap thrift store bed sheet illustrated with cartoon characters. They'd have laughed together, listened to the radio, and kissed very sentimentally. She'd have cooked for him always and they'd have been in an effortless lazy kind of love.

That life she had wanted now felt thousands of miles away and hundreds of thousands of dollars beyond her reach. Where had it all gone? After college she had tried so desperately to find work there, until there was nothing left. Until, after so many rejections, all her feelings of home and loyalty were worn away by bitterness and disappointment. It certainly didn't feel the same anymore. The realization had been sadly humorous, that she wouldn't be the New Orleans yuppie she'd hoped to end up. Like all of her friends became so easily. She had started to hate them a little. She was still polite, still chatted and joked with them, but she had started to resent them and the complacency that had slowly taken over all of their lives. Their lives became so stable and middle-class. She was the odd one out still struggling to find her place. She wondered if it could ever be the same. If she got a job there now would it all come back? Would all the pain and anger in her heart roll back and give her the feeling of safety she once had? Or would her job security be too fragile, a thin veneer over the certainty that it would all just fall apart again? She sighed. She was sure she couldn't go back home.

Now she was here, stuck in the town she hated most of all. Where she had grown up so miserable. Where she had run out on her parents so defiantly to go to school hours away down south. And where she had returned, having no other choice, back to her parent's house which she loathed even more now for being her last resort. Thinking about her parent's house made her walk slower. She wanted somewhere else to go. Maybe she could go out to dinner to put off going back there. She wanted to walk to some other life, but there was nothing else and there wouldn't be for many more years.

Life isn't always about bicycles.

2009-09-27T14:59:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's about getting your 30 year old motorcycle running again so you can gun-it and pray for death.

corroded old point.

new points.

lubricant.

After all that they just had to be re-gapped and it ran like a champ. Honda engines from the 70's are incredibly long lived. This one has been kicking ass since '78. I got it for free after it had rotted in neglect under a pecan tree for two years losing all its paint (hence the spray painted gas tank). I love it though it burdens me with perpetual need of maintenance and fear of its decaying old carburetor boots and air box. I worry that soon one of the boots' many cracks will open up wide enough to let air flood in and run it lean to the point of scorching the rings of a cylinder; and it will die in my arms at interstate speed, screaming out in blue oil smoke pain before losing all power in a rapid deceleration death rattle.

Maybe I'll get lucky (for once) and that will be a few years off yet.

The Shreveport Triangle (a Bermuda-esque mystery).

2009-09-25T09:53:00.000-07:00

I posted a little earlier about finding a Schwinn Collegiate 3 frame in the trash:

and while its having drop bars was certainly curious it did not spark my interest like finding a sister frame to it has. On Wednesday I found another wheel-less Schwinn women's frame in the trash that someone had done a horrible hack-job of painting on.

Which left me wondering why always Schwinns? Why only women's frames? And why always sans wheels? What cultural phenomenon, what bizarre sexual fetish could account for some pervs hoarding the wheels of women's bicycles and discarding the rest of the bike like so much refuse? Or maybe it's a hobby. Maybe someone is constructing a bicycle based multi-wheel monstrosity of transportation and for some reason only favors the wheels of women's bikes, believing them to have some totem power lacking in those wheels belonging to men's frames.

I also found this anomaly of a bottom bracket in the trash:

I cannot rationalize the need to cut a hanger away like this, as it would leave the rest of the frame almost certainly completely useless. I cannot fathom what the person who did this was thinking. I should probably quit rifling through people's trash for bicycle parts before it schews my view of humanity.

Reunited!

2009-09-21T08:58:00.000-07:00

I gave to Peugeot back to its rightful owner Sunday night and he seemed happy with the end results.

An almost new Peugeot.

2009-09-18T18:17:00.000-07:00

Finally finished the Peugeot up today and it has been a good learning experience. It's nice to have something constructive to do. The test ride was quite fun and I hope to return it to it's rightful owner on Sunday.

The Cane Creek hoods fit the Mafac "Racer" cantilever brakes well enough.

Though, I did have a problem with one of the old cable guides. One of the two original brass cable guides from the old hoods was broken. I bought two barrel adjusters and filed them down and thread-locked them to fit.

I just hope that the aluminum is strong enough not to break after being filed down so much.

Here are some of the shots of the end product:

The brake cables come up a little high. I cut them to the original length and may shorten them later. This might just be a feature of older bikes because the cables on my father's vintage Raleigh look to be up at a similar height.

I hope that it will be kept out of the weather now.

New Parts!

2009-09-17T09:29:00.000-07:00

I received the parts to finish up on the Peugeot and got back to work on it. I am impressed with the quality of the Simplex derailleurs and would use them on a future bike of my own if I were in need. Here are some pics of the new derailleurs and the old ones they are replacing:

This rear derailleur was $26. It only shifts wide enough for a 5speed freewheel.

I cut the smashed threads off the old axle and put the cones, washers, locknuts and spacer on the new axle. The new axle had to be trimmed 6mm which was easily accomplished with a hacksaw and bastard file. (I should thank Old Bike Blog for verifying my suspicions about its axle size.)

The drive-side cone had a little pitting but still rolls smoothly.

Cleaned the freewheel up a bit.

filing down a cable end to fit the Peugeot's small friction shifters.

Just need to reassemble it all and cut new cable housings and figure out a creative way to redress the brakes.

I thought that the hoods had rotted away but a period photograph of the bike showed that they originally only covered half the brake. They have some metal running throught them which I suppose is the equivalent of a more modern barrel adjuster so I cannot get rid of them. I am hoping that a new set of Cane Creek non-aero hoods will cover both the brake and the old rotten rubber.

Have Literacy Will Travel

2009-09-12T12:55:00.000-07:00

Centenary Gold Dome

Friday I biked over to the Centenary Book Bazaar. It didn't open until 4 o'clock but by 2 p.m. a line was already forming.

It was a mad house and I didn't find much to read. I try not to buy books new anymore, but I meet hard luck at used book stores here. I apparently share little taste in literature with the people who trade and donate books in Shreveport. I did manage to score some Kafka, Haruki Murakami, Eudora Welty, an AP style guide and this gem from 1973:

It is a very good shop manual for bicycles though I'd never heard of it. I was searching for a copy of Jobst Brandt's The Bicycle Wheel (and have been for months) but I settled for this. It was a bargain at $1. It even has a guide to overhauling internally geared hubs; which I've never been able to read about before and might now be brave enough to try.

Afterward, I rode over to Strawn's to take some pictures and wish I could get some strawberry pie and coffee.

self-portrait

Saturday I went back to the sale. It was raining so I didn't bike there. Thankfully it was not as packed and this time I found a nonfiction book by Steinbeck (It was about traveling with his dog. I've never read his novels, but I highly recommend a short story he wrote about his first car; A Model T Named "It").

I was also able to make it to Strawn's for a BLT, coffee and pie.

Everything Old is New Again; The Art of Staying Young

2009-09-09T16:37:00.000-07:00

What do I aspire to really?

Is it two-car garage suburban comfort and safety, or something more? Do I always have to look so relentlessly to securing my future, or can I take a weekend off and bring back a little of the old me?

I say yes! I say that sometimes you have to just indulge the undying boyish part of your soul that will forever love fun. Sometimes you just have to stake-up a papier-mâché turkey in your best friends front yard to (ersatz) burn in effigy to the real ones you and he used to put in other people's yards almost ten years ago in high school (and try not to even think about him and the rest of them owning homes now, having careers now, and being too old now for these pranks you still play).

But, maybe that's just because I've got nothing better to do...Maybe that's just because I have no faith in this future I am pursuing, whatever it may be.

Someone else's trash is this blog's treasure.

2009-09-08T12:50:00.000-07:00

I found this Schwinn Collegiate 3 speed frame in the trash last week. I am hoping to find a cruiser or something in another pile to donate wheels to it. The paint is in pretty good shape considering and I dig its skinny little fork legs. I look forward to making it road worthy for use as a loaner bike for friends or gift for somone I know who had her bike stolen recently.

In the fall the bicycle was always there...

2009-09-01T22:10:00.000-07:00

When I graduated from Louisiana State University and struggled for several months trying to stay in Baton Rouge the comfort of my bicycle was still there, helping me to smile through all the disappointment of dead end job interviews and the pathos of riding through all the same old places with a more distant, dejected point of view. And when I was finally forced to give up and move back to Shreveport there was no way I could leave it behind so I packed it up with the rest of my things and moved back up to the north end of the state.

I was raised in Bossier City which is only delineated from Shreveport by the Red River.

Practically speaking the two are a single city; a town that I grew up very unhappy in and given any other choice would never have returned to. In Shreveport I ride as much as I can, though mostly in the evening to avoid the stifling heat.

I commute to the local Starbucks and search in desperation for a job and then I just ride for my sanity. I ride to escape, to try and physically fight off the feelings of failure and depression slowly creeping over me. These rides are where I try to find a new way to see and relate to this town I used to find so alienating,

this town that has grown and grown commercially but not much more welcoming, not much more like a home; though my life in it is now much better on two-wheels.

I'm hoping that bicycling shall be the salvation of our relationship, this town's and mine.

I am acquainted with the many whys of others who choose to ride, such as: the high and mighty pedaling to save the earth, the über-competitive training to outshine their friends and neighbors in regional races, and the young and fashionable riding as an accessory to compliment their particular lifestyle and/or subculture. But, none of these describes or encompasses why I choose to.

I am not pedaling out of environmental concerns; I always aspire to do better, but environmental altruism is not my primary motivation for biking. I was beaten too consistently in competitive sports as a child to ever consider racing. And I've never been hip enough or lived anywhere at the forefront of anything to be able to partake in a fashion trend.

I ride because it is seriously fun. I'm talking a mad, psychotically addicting form of transportation. I bicycled in my youth of course (riding BMX and mountain bikes), but didn't really fall in love with it until college. There I happened upon a beautiful but weathered and neglected yellow cruiser in Goodwill.

I added the uncomfortable banana seat later.

I fixed it up, rode it to classes and my favorite coffee shop, and started going to Critical Mass; which was always one of the best nights of my many years there. I loved this cruiser dearly and thanks to the flat land built by hundreds of thousands of years of Mississippi silt I was able to take it on relatively long rides. I would ride it in solitude and en masse. I would ride it to lonely nights on the levee of the Mississippi, to a clearer head and a better perspective on my life; or to this same levee with a friend to eat cuttlefish jerky and drink 32 oz. beers in my salad days; to the farmer's market Saturday mornings, drinking fresh fruit smoothies in Arsenal Park with the nutria rats of the lake beside the Governor's Mansion. Or I'd put it in the bed of my truck and drive it to New Orleans so I could ride through Uptown, The Quarter, and The Marigny: to the coffee shops on Oak street, Freret Cafe, and the parks and campuses off Magazine street; to the roller-derby San Fermin, Cafe Du Monde, and the French Market, to various restaurants and the bike charity Plan-B. Over the whole rough ride of that city's beautiful but haggard, pot-holed and poorly patched streets. On a few of these trips I was lucky enough to have a pretty girl on the handlebars too. I knew superficial, intellectual things about riding: that it was healthy for me, better than driving a car, etc. But, what has married me to bicycling most of all is the enormous deeply personal feeling of fun I've had while riding.

Saturday Morning.

2009-09-01T14:17:00.000-07:00

A self portrait racing down Creswell Avenue.

My dad and I got up at 7 to try and beat the heat on a ride to Shreveport's Farmer's Market.

My dad on the vintage Raleigh I bought him for his birthday/father's day.

The ride was a lot of fun. The Farmer's Market turned out to be not that bad either. It was bigger than I expected though not so well attended.

I got a peach pie and a $3 smoothie made in a vintage Vita-mixer 3600 or 4000. The mixer was probably over 30 years old; my dad recognized what it was. Both of these food items were excellent. And there was a lot more to try but I'm a man of limited means. All in all it was a pretty good reminder that life here isn't always so murderous. The rest of the day I worked on the Peugeot, which is slowly winning me over.

Damaged axle.

Dirtiest freewheel ever soiled by man?

Rim before.

Rim after some steel wool and machine oil.

Just a few more hours and new parts...

I've made it!

2009-09-01T09:01:00.000-07:00

I got a cell phone photo onto super cute bicycle rider, Meligrosa's San Fransisco bicycle blog.

Not only is she easy on the eyes, but her blog is usually full of really great bicycling photographs.

Legacies...and whether or not they're worth it.

2009-08-28T11:44:00.000-07:00

A week ago a friend told me that he had a birthday gift of two hundred dollars he wanted to put towards a new bike. I had some recommendations, but he wasn't interested. Instead he told me about the "beautiful" Peugeot his father had bought years ago as an undergraduate in Southern California. He told me of his father's fondness for it and how he had kept it in the garage all these long years. He really wanted to get it back out on the road. I agreed to take a look at it believing in my hubris that I'd have no trouble getting a garage kept road bike back out on the street, even though it was a french one. So I picked it up yesterday.

I was a little taken aback at first, but got over it. I got my tetanus shot back in January so I am no longer afraid to fondle such rusty objects. The rust and the vines growing through the spokes were strong indication that this thing probably hadn't been kept indoors. I can still see that indeed it must surely have been a beautiful bike in it's prime. My best guess is that it is either a UO8 or a UE8 from the early to mid 70's. (This is a great site to research the Peugeot lineage at). I love its decals and the lugs that resemble a pyramid:

The rims had some cool textures on the braking surface; I have never seen anything like it.

As I stripped it of its superfluous accouterments (generator set-up with headlight/taillight, kickstand etc.) I began to worry about its road worthiness. In my most conservative estimate it would take one hundred and fifty dollars of parts to get it back on the road. It came originally equipped with two plastic Simplex derailleurs both of which now had cracked and rotted bodies. Even more troubling was assuming I would be able to salvage the rear wheel. Its axle's threads had been smashed flat from being too loose in the frame and rolling somewhat with the bearing and the wheel. I believe I could save the cones by grinding off both ends of the axle and placing them on a new axle. I wouldn't bother if it still worked but its bearings are barely still rolling because the grease in them has dried to a consistency near rubber. It's in dire need of over hauling (and I'm not just saying that because I want to), though strangely the front ones still roll freely. Thankfully the cranks and bottom bracket, though extremely rusty, seem fine. I would not want to deal with trying to pull its cottered cranks. The bent chain guard has to go.

After this assessment I wondered whether it was worth the parts and labor. I will do it all for free if he wants it on the street again; I can understand wanting to bond with your father, riding a bike he's passed down. Traditions are one of the most important parts of a family. But even with all those new parts it will still be just a decked out rusty old frame.

...unless he lets me paint it too.

Trying to hone my skills.

2009-08-25T16:31:00.000-07:00

I entered NPR's 3-minute fiction contest today.

The rules were simple: Submit a short story 600 words or less that must begin with the line "The nurse left work at 5 o'clock." Winner gets his or her story read on air by James Wood, literary critic for The New Yorker. And an autographed copy of his book, "How Fiction Works."

What I sent in was semi-autobiographical. If I win I'll link to it on the blog. If not I'll just post my entry here.

Fat Chance!

2009-08-24T10:54:00.000-07:00

I have recently taken notice of how much I subconciously expect my luck to change. I am so certain that things will turn around for me any day now; but they don't. I play the powerball (lottery). I go to the million dollar free pull at the casino everyday (I did win a free buffet here). I enter to win the red Six Three Zero Amstel Light cruiser at the super market. I mail off entries:

Entering to win the Miller High Life Lucy bicycle.

Somehow I expect for all the good I've tried to do in this life things will actually turn around for me one of these days, that something miraculous will happen to wrench my life out of the stagnant place it has fallen into. But, in the more rational part of my thought processes I know that it won't. I know that the world doesn't work quite so appropriately. And I know that my life will not be improved for some time to come, but still I go on with a perhaps ill fitting smile.

I'm a sucker for loose bearings.

2009-08-23T09:12:00.000-07:00

I consider myself very lucky for the relationship I've had with my father. My father was an aircraft mechanic (and an existential hero*) and I was a god-damn fool the day I thought I'd end up anything better through hard work and education. In my youth my father taught me tools and how to fix various engines and to do automotive repair. Apart from his nagging after me about my clothes (I could wear a pair of jeans so eaten up by brake fluid that my testicles were hanging out and my dad would still ask me why I was ruining “good clothes” changing my oil in them) learning these skills has proved invaluable in my personal life. I cannot begin to estimate how much money I've been able to save repairing things myself; which is good because I am perpetually unemployed and always flat broke.

When in adulthood I returned to riding bikes I was lucky enough to have the skills to maintain them myself. One of the ways in which I do that is by taking apart, cleaning, and repacking the bearings at least once a year. I have not, as of yet, owned a bike with sealed bearings and to be completely honest I think I would miss being able to do this. I read time and again about how much smoother and longer lived sealed bearings are but I wonder if that is not due to the laziness of owners grown lax in their maintenance, for if there is one thing in this life you can always count on it is the laziness of man. I also wonder if anyone actually keeps a bike long enough anymore for the life span of loose bearings to be worn-out. Personally I'm not convinced. On a long enough time line the survival rate for every bearing drops to zero. Even your fancy sealed bearings will die a raspy grinding kind of death and you won't have had the pleasure of knowing them intimately inside and out. That being said I wouldn't kick a bike out of bed just for being equipped with sealed ones.

Recently I was lucky enough to witness the ravages of neglect on an unsealed bearing firsthand. I was invited to the house of a friend who I knew biked but had never seen her ride. I asked to see her bike and was informed that it was no longer in working order. I wanted to see it anyway and offered to fix it if I was able. Lead into the garage I found a cruiser roughly thirty years old that had been rescued from a trash heap. On her last outing there had been a catastrophic failure in the drive train portion of the bike. I don't know what failed first and precipitated its other problems but the chain had come off, a spoke had been broken, the arm of the coaster brake had broken free and lost its bracket that connected it to the frame, and the cones had come so loose that the wheel had about a half inch of play back and forth on the rear axle. After picking up some parts from my house I got to work and was able to fix it after an hour or so. Then I went for a test ride to make sure the chain tension was right and that the coaster brake was operating correctly (I didn't want her to smash her pretty little face). All of that checked out and I was amazed to discover the thing was almost completely un-steerable. She was apparently oblivious to this and said it had always been that way. So I offered to take a look at the headset too. After I got the grocery basket off the front end I got the headset out. The top races and bearing were fine but the bottom cage was ground flat and had only one ball bearing left that promptly fell and rolled away to the dark recesses of the floor. Luckily she had another (donor) bike from the trash that I was able to take the races and bearings off of. I doubt it will fare any better in this application though. I also doubt the longevity of a sealed bearing suffering the same amount of neglect.

This is what passes for a headset bearing in North Louisiana.

* The crowning achievement of my philosophy career was a paper I wrote in college all about how my father had awakened the nausea of ultimate responsibility in me by berating me for knocking a charcoal grill and some steaks over. I got a B on it.

The State of Things (wherein I describe why I'm not the yuppie I'd hoped to be).

2009-08-22T08:53:00.000-07:00

It seems so funny realizing I'll not be the Baton Rouge or New Orleans yuppie I thought I'd end up; like all of my friends became so easily. Ten years ago I never would have thought of it. I was way too cool and Rock and Roll to ever consider earning a living at a professional job. Back when I was so insecure and eager to buy my individuality. Like most middle-American kids I lived my days waiting for the next trend to work its way in from one of the coasts and hoped desperately that I would be the first to catch on to it. I grew up in North Louisiana and loathed it. I was certain that when I grew up I would move away and start a bigger and better life somewhere exciting; I equated success and opportunity with leaving the state. Then I went to college at LSU and South Louisiana stole my heart.

South Louisiana became my home. I spent eight years in Baton Rouge getting two bachelors degrees and fell in love with the people and places. I was happy there and would have lived the rest of my days completely satisfied that just being there was as big and better a life as I'd ever need. But, absolutely no one would hire me. I spent my days crafting numerous Cover Letters, Letters of Interest, and Resumes for all manner of entry level jobs; jobs in: writing(as I continue this blog it will become obvious why I did not get a job in this.), building maintenance, advising foreign exchange students, logistics, etc. I applied to anything. I was not picky. All the while I was selling plasma to buy groceries and relying on my roommate letting me slide on my half of the rent until I got a job and could pay him back. Finally, I owed him way too much money and that was a life I no longer felt like I should lead. So here I am nearly two years later, having gone through nearly sixty job rejections and once again living with my parents in North Louisiana. Through all of that I only had one job offer for a position that required me to be on the road at what they tried to cap at 264 days out of the year; which I hardly considered living there and I expected other offers so I turned it down. And in the end it felt like South Louisiana had kicked me to the curb as hard as Edward Norton did that car thief in American History X.

I've become quite bitter about it. It is hard to live down that much rejection and feel any sort of optimism. I go back there occasionally for job interviews that lead nowhere. Those near sixty rejections wore away at my affection for the place until I'm no longer sure I have any feelings of home or loyalty left for it. How do feel at home in a place that throws you out? It's like asking someone to marry a girl that has refused to go out on a date with him over and over again. And those negative feelings have crept into my thoughts on the country at large as well. It is hard to believe I'd have better luck anywhere else. It is starting to feel like I'll have to leave the country when I didn't even want to leave this state. Sure, I could be a cop or school teacher here tomorrow, but those are hardly jobs after my own heart.