The Stuff (Unfulfilled) Dreams are Made of.

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.

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

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

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.

Everything Old is New Again; The Art of Staying Young

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.

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.