Tanned Hides and The Cold Shoulder.

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.

In the fall the bicycle was always there...

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.

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

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.