Atop Mt. Hamilton 4/26

A cherry 1986 Fiero...and I thought Lotuses were cool.

Spider Dave is my F-ing Hero

What can I say? I'm one with the freaks.

Dave's Web Site

Creature From The Desk #9

Today’s Creature from the Desk is a packet of Easton Friction Paste. It looks suspiciously like a packet of Sriracha (Asian hot sauce) and I nearly put it on my Charlie Hong Kong rice bowl the other day. Though I’ve never tasted friction paste, I’m thinking it’s pretty nasty…and that would have forced me to use hot sauce on bike parts, which can't be right either.

Anyway, friction paste is a grease of sorts except that it’s not meant to lubricate. It has some magical grains of synthetic grit that help insure both corrosion resistance and impressive resistance—paradoxically preventing both the slippage and the seizing of clamped bicycle components (i.e. seatposts, bars and stem, etc.) at the same time.

I’ve heard it works really well, but haven’t gotten around to putting it on my bikes yet. I should though—I’ve always been a little wary about how tight I’ve cinched the carbon seatpost in my carbon frame…and this stuff is supposed to let you get away with 30 percent less torque on the fixing bolts.

So it sounds really good for my bike…but not so much for my lunch.

Heartbreak Sweet Heartbreak

When I think of the word heartbreak, it generally conjures up memories of getting dumped, images of a Cinderella basketball team losing by a point to the heavy favorite, or songs by Tom Petty and Elvis. Check that, Elvis first, then Tom Petty.

And while I wouldn't be as dramatic as to say my heart has been broken lately, it's definitely been rattled a couple times. And in a most unusual way.

Just over a year ago my co-worker and friend Bill Corliss was killed in a bike/car accident near his home in Utah. It was very difficult for all of us at work and, yes, truly heartbreaking to comprehend, especially when considering the unfathomable loss suffered by Bill's family, particularly his wife Deb and his newly adopted 12-year-old son Jordan.

A couple weeks ago Bill's brother Greg, who lives locally, called and told me his parents and Jordan would be spending spring break in Santa Cruz. He wondered if I might be able to give them a tour of our facilities so they could see the place Bill was always raving about. There was no hesitation in granting their request.

After introductions and pleasantries, I took the family around the building and showed them what we do and how we do it with an emphasis on the many projects Bill had a hand in. During the tour I was reminded of how utterly cool the people I work with are--everyone I introduced them to dropped whatever they were working on and gave our guests their complete attention and accommodation.

One of our designers took them to the shape shop, the House of the Holy of our company, where outside eyes rarely gaze and even inside eyes are very limited. From there it was all the way through R&D and sports marketing and graphics and to the test lab.

It was there, the test lab, where we intentionally break things that the first shot to my heart struck.

Bill's dad was in deep conversation with our lab technician about impact standards--one that illustrated the shared DNA of Bill and his dad--when I engaged Jordan in a side conversation as he gazed up at a poster of a mountain biker catching huge air.

ME: "Insane photo huh?"

JORDAN: "It's totally cool. I have a lot of freeride DVDs at home with stuff like that."

ME: "Sweet! A lot of those riders wear our helmets. Who's your favorite rider?"

JORDAN: "My favorite rider?" Pause. His voice between matter-of-fact and cheery. "My dad is my favorite rider."

According to government standards a bicycle helmet must limit the impact to less than 300 Gs in our lab tests in order to pass. I'm pretty sure my heart registered well above 10,000 Gs at that moment. How I did not cry, I cannot explain. The only thing I can figure is that Jordan projected some of his immense emotional strength upon me. For even now, it brings a tear to my eye to recall that conversation.
- - -
By the time the family left the building we had loaded them up with t-shirts and stickers and posters and as many choc skis as we could find. After some prodding, Jordan admitted that he'd had his eye on a couple of mountain bike helmets, which I offered to send him.

Last week, I got this thank you card from him:

That was the second shot.

And just for the record, you can break my heart with sweetness any time.

Gwen on Cloud Nine

Gwen--my mom--at the Stanford Sculpture Garden in 2003. She may have funny mollusks on her jacket, but her doctor says she's cancer free.

Sent: Thursday, April 12, 2007 10:25 AM
Subject: Oncology

To say I'm am floating on "cloud nine" would almost be an understatement. I was at the University of Chicago Hospitals last week for my annual CT and back today to see the Oncologist. He said "it is 5 years since your chemo, you do not have to come back". I still have to report once a year to the Urologist, but maybe that will cease too.

Peace, and thank all of you for all of your prayers,
Gwen

So it goes.

Author Kurt Vonnegut left us today. His death the result of a head injury sustained last week in a household accident.

So it goes.

Thank you for everything.

Creature from the Desk #8

This week’s Creature from the Desk is a photograph I bought at Architectural Artifacts, a building salvage operation that I think obtained the picture from a discarded exhibit at the Chicago Historical Society. Written in grease pencil on the back of the photo is “Social Security Building & Gerald Lee.” The photo is signed artist-style by Ron Gordon and dated 1982. And while I think it’s a fairly thought-provoking photo for the casual viewer, it has a cascading effect on me.

The subject of the photo is an apparently homeless man—whom I assume to be the Gerald Lee from the inscription—in an empty lot on the outskirts of the Chicago Loop. Gerald, with a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard is looking up from a book he’s reading, his eyes barely a sliver either trying to adjust to the difference of light intensity or from some ailment or exhaustion or all of the above. It’s a bright day, but probably cold, given all the layers he’s wearing. He has a half-pound bag of Lay’s potato chips at his feet and is wearing a ‘Mack Trucks’ knit cap.

In the background you can see the Social Security Administration Building, a glistening post-modernist glass-and-steel box amongst old and crumbling brick buildings. On the right hand side of the photo there is a sign on a lamp post that reads “End Blasting”—something I always found interesting given the bombed-out landscape.

Just behind the man is a sign for the Polk Brothers outlet store. Polk Brothers was fairly large regional appliance and electronics chain that folded in the early ‘90’s. I witnessed the symbolic end to Polk Brothers in 1987 when their headquarters, warehouse and largest retail store burned to the ground in a spectacular fire just across the street from the community college I attended.

In front of the Social Security Building is a giant baseball bat—a 100-foot-tall sculpture that was installed in the late ‘70’s with great fanfare. I remember arguing with a friend that it was a White Sox bat, not a Cubs bat.

In the early ‘80’s a guy who went by the name of Spider Dan scaled the bat wearing a Spider Man costume. He went on to scale the Sears Tower and the John Hancock Building—respectively the world’s tallest and second-tallest buildings at the time—then went to New York and climbed the World Trade Center, and on to Toronto to climb the CN Tower. He was a bit of a nutter and attention seeker, to be sure, but he had his reasons and they were noble.

So you see there’s all this going on in this photograph for me, but it’s simple too. It’s the look in Gerald’s eye, his right eye, the good one. On one hand sad, but somehow content—I think…or hope, anyway.

PS - If you click on the photo the pop-up is larger than usual, to see the detail.

Opening Day

Now THAT'S bad.

Pop Music, Advertising, and the Saving Grace of Irony

I don't know what it is that so abrades me about companies repurposing popular music into their advertising. When a commercial with a song I like comes on, I can literally feel my blood pressure rise as I hurl profanities at the TV in dialogue generally reserved for bad umpires. To my chagrin the TV is indefatigably stoic, refusing to even acknowledge, let alone engage me in emotional banter. Let me tell you friend, that Hitachi is one cold blooded mother fucker.


Brown goes Postal in the latest run of UPS ads.

I suppose I feel that, at a minimum, using pop songs—good pop songs—in commercials debases the art. Which is to say that I could give a shit if they use a Carrie Underwood song to sell tampons or rechargeable drills or Crystal Lite drink mix—have at it. That’s not art, it’s Pop Rocks.

But when they use the Ramones or Johnny Cash or Modern English even, well, that there is straight-up aggression on my personal aesthetic sensibilities. Especially when it catches me by surprise.

I was at a somewhat bland party a couple years ago and I earnestly mentioned to the host that the music they had on was good. And when I say good, I mean OK/good—definitely not great or even above average/good—I was expecting Celine Dion and was pretty happy when I didn’t have to throw myself off their balcony at the sounds of her shrill saccharine. Anyway, the host was quite proud that I’d noticed the music and even more proud to let me know that all the songs came from a mix he’d found on iTunes called “Songs from Commercials.” Suffice it to say that I had a new reason to not venture to the second floor for the rest of the night.

I should interject here that I know and acknowledge that there are lots of people out there who actually LIKE hearing their favorite songs in commercials.

Who actually LIKE hearing the soundtrack of their deflowering being played while they contemplate, oh, I dunno, the number of cup holders in that new SUV they’ve been eyeing.

People who actually LIKE being manipulated and having their emotional connection to a time, place, people and song switched and co-opted into objectified consumerist impulses.

All I can say is that these people are very wrong. And disturbed. And wrong.

The only thing that keeps me sane on this whole thing is what I believe to be the unintentional irony of many of these spots. Secretly, I hope there’s some clever subversive working at each ad agency who insures that holier-than-thou music snobs like myself will be able to poke holes in this shit.

I have to say I was fairly sickened by the American Association of Retired Persons' recent misappropriation of the Buzzcocks' “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays” for their latest spot. While the commercial tries to convey a hip and happy take on aging and retirement, the song itself is really a sarcastic and quite UNhappy commentary, the fullness of which is evident when you actually listen to the lyrics and best summed up in the line “life’s an illusion, love is a dream.”

Or perhaps it’s not ironic at all. Most old people I know seem preoccupied with healthcare costs and incontinence and memory loss and hearing loss. What? HEARING LOSS! So perhaps the unhappy original intent of “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays” is relevant to the real, unglamorized, arthritis-riddled, rank-and-file AARP member, and not so much for the fountain-of-youthers in their commercials.

I saw another commercial last night that was ironic in a different sort of way. UPS has launched a series of spots themed “Whiteboard” that feature a trying-to-hard-to-be-hipster-business-guy doodling all this shit on the wall about shipping logistics. The spot culminates with him connecting the doodles to make the UPS logo (pictured above). So very clever.

The music playing in the background? A song called “Such Great Heights.”

The band? The Postal Service.

Creature from the Desk #7

Today’s Creature from the Desk is again, technically speaking, from above my desk. It’s a plastic insert map of the Green Line from the Chicago Transit Authority’s rapid transit system. It actually snaps into a curved, backlit marquee above the door of each car and is a reference for the riders as to which stop is next, where to transfer, etc.

I’d like to say I was cool enough to have stolen it from an actual train, but I’m not—I would surely have gotten caught. Overriding that, however, was my preordained guilt over the poor woman who, in a panic, gets off the train at the wrong stop in the bad part of town—erroneous in her judgment because she has no map to reference—and is beset upon by railroad marauders who steal her purse and throw her from the platform to her death. Unable to bear such a thing, I bought the sign from the CTA online store a few years back, the $10 cost being far less a burden than my conscience.

When I look at it, I recall fondly walking to the Harlem/Lake stop from my house in Oak Park. I’d make up imaginary stories about the people on the train until I got to Clinton where I got off and hoofed it—or trudged or splashed, as the weather dictated—to the office where I worked; Magnani & Associates Advertising in the old cold storage building at 345 N. Canal—across the river from the bridge that’s always up.

Somedays I'm just a loquacious ramble.

Shitfire Lucky Charms Agent Orange-O-Rama

It's funny what goes through your head when you're stumbling home solo from a rock show while shoveling the Lucky Charms you bought at 7-11 into your mouth. I went to see Agent Orange at the Blank Club...a band I've never been nuts about or anything but I saw them back in the day and thought they did it right. I guess it's telling that though I went to the show, I bailed before they even played a note. They were supposed to be on at midnight and I got a 25 minute walk home from there....and shitfire I'm getting old! That's what I was thinking when I was walking home. Shitfire better get me some Lucky Charms. Shitfire I'm tired. Shitfire I gotta take a shitfire (I know TMI).

I mean I did ride for like five hours today and climbed 6000 feet on the new bike, so that will expend some energy...and I haven't slept worth a crap for the last week, but dammit if I didn't used to be a trooper when it came to shows. Not tonight though.

I justified my early departure by really liking the middle band--The Razorburns (pictured above)--they had these two crazy chicks on guitar and vocals that just railed it. And the openers, a band called Bad Samaritans, seemed pretty good too, though I didn't see much of their set. Both bands just seemed to be having a ton of fun on stage and that counts for alot in my book. I like the fun.

Anyway, about the Lucky Charms...I'm not backing the magic crystal ball marshmallows. I'm a traditionalist.

Creature from the Desk #6

Today's Creature from the Desk is this Dwight Schrute bobblehead. He is on temporary loan from Stacy, so if you want to see him shake his brain thang, you better come by soon because he is likely to disappear without notice. Dwight has his own web log, which is substantially more entertaining than this one.

Rock Lobstah!

Sean and I played hookey for a half hour after lunch and went to Rock Lobster, a two-man shop where they handmake bikes in Santa Cruz. Paul was affixing water bottle bosses to a road frame and Simon was applying decals to a deep root beer-colored mountain bike frame. Sean and I scratched our asses. Our own asses, to be clear.

Creature from the Desk #5

This week's CFD is a special, temporary desk item. Given that I wasn't able to infiltrate Barack Obama's office to shoot what was on his desk when I was in DC last week, I thought I would go big...what you see before you is the BMC SLC01-Pro Machine frameset. It will only be on my desk (file cabinet actually) today as I will be taking it home to build up this evening.

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While it lacks the romanticism and Italianess of my beloved (now broken) Pinarello, it is resplendent in high tech construction and Swiss/German engineering. And it weighs 2 pounds. Seriously light unidirectional carbon fiber nanotubular dreaminess.

1993 Buick Estate Wagon Taxi

408,000 miles and seats that melt into the floor. Sweet.

Lil Faith

Lil baby Faith.

Museum of Native American Art 1 of 2

Floating guns...

(Not sure how they qualify as Native American Art, unless the tools of exterminating indigenous peoples are considered artful).

Museum of Native American Art 2/2

Floating bibles. Displayed on the wall opposite of the floating guns. Guns. God. Extermination. A coincidence or just a reflection of the current administration?

Artchitecture in DC

Smithsonian Museum of Native American Art

DO NOT ENTER

Even all dressed up and they still won't let me in.

The White House white squirrel

And I thought they were only in Olney.

Runnin' the Train

Navy Yard subway stop, Washington, DC.

So just as the doors closed on this train, three girls ran into my car. And when I say ran, I mean seriously running ran. Like technical shorts and tops and Asics and Nikes and Reeboks and even a heart rate monitor. They were sweating profusely and lauging hysterically...and not so bad to look at, actually.

Anywho, when they sensed my "what the fuck are you three doing" look, one of them kindly explained that they were 'Running the Trains.' Every Tuesday they take the subway to three different stops, get off at each stop and run a loop of approximately 5k. The train rides between each loop is a de facto rest interval. When they're done they run to an ice cream place by their house and chow down.

I told them that is one of the best ideas I have ever heard. And I meant it. And I love the train.

The Capitol Skyline

This luxury palace is my home for the next three days. I'm not really complaining...it'll do fine. But when a place is subtitled "Capitol Skyline" and it's in Washington, DC, to me, that signifies a view of sorts. And technically you can see bits of the Capitol, but you gotta look hard...and through some smoke stacks and housing projects to glimpse it.

There's an Expedia commercial about this, me thinks.

70 Degrees in DC right now

Flying saucers in DC.

I'm about to take the Metro to dinner. I love the train!

Randomly Good

It was a good drive in with the iPod on shuffle today:

American Analog Set - JR
Karaoke Hits - Just Like Heaven (Cure)
John Vanderslice - Mansion
Echo & The Bunnymen - Bring on the Dancing Horses
The Ramones - Sheena is a Punk Rocker
Liz Phair - Stratford-On-Guy
The Lemonheads - I Don't Wanna
Johnny Cash - When the Man Comes Around
Chad VanGalen - Echo Train
Death Cab for Cutie - Lightness (Live KEXP Bootleg)
Pixies - Here Comes Your Man (Live)
A Tribe Called Quest - I Left My Wallet in El Segundo
The Wedding Present - No

Creature from the Desk #4

This week's CFD is my shaker of Redmond RealSalt. Though I bought this particular jar at New Leaf in Santa Cruz, I discovered real salt in Utah on vacation this year. The natural sea salt is extracted from an ancient, dry salt lake in south central Utah and contains all kinds of crazy nutrients and minerals. The salt is bespeckled with brown and not-quite white grains and is--strange as this may sound--a very tasty salt. I keep it on my desk for fresh produce--celery, cucumbers and tomatoes. And yes, I ocassionally freebase it, taking a shake or two directly on my tounge. I know it's not good for the blood pressure, but if my helmet straps are any indication, I burn off more salt than the average bear on an average day.

Note: Next week's CFD will be from somone else's desk. I'm off to Washington, DC to lobby on Capitol Hill and my aim is to find something interesting in the House or Senate to include. I may sneak in with the Illinois contingent and see what's on Barack Obama's desk. Stay tuned.

M Dot Strange at Cinequest

I shot the clip above at the South First Friday art event that coincided with the Cinequest Film Festival in San Jose last Friday. Animator M Dot Strange (aka Micheal Belmont) was the featured artist at Gallery Anno Domini, and the props, sets and apparati from his film We Are The Strange--which was playing at Cinequest as it had at Sundance earlier-- were on display along with the works of a few other artists. M Dot also had his PowerBook hooked up to a video camera and projector and encouraged people to make claymation shorts which all rolled up into the clip above. Using a $40 program called iStop Motion, M Dot would have the volunteer animators pose their creations and then digitized each movement frame-by-frame into the computer. It was quite fun to watch--especially the tipsy people.

I went to the Apple Store on Sunday and picked up iStop Motion. As if I needed another way to waste time!

Creature from the Desk # 3

This is a picture of my corkboard, which is attached to my desk and therefore eligible for inclusion in this feature. On the left is an art tile of two boys in a boat that I bought five or six years ago in Mexico by the whimsical artist Manuel Lepe. On the right is an old photo of my brother (right) and I in the bathtub. I thought it would be fun to get the photo mounted onto a tile of the same size and give them both to my mom. I haven’t quite gotten around to it yet.

Also, some great stuff happening in Downtown San Jose this weekend:

- South First Fridays - Tonight 3/2/07

Open galleries featuring the opening reception for "We Are The Strange" featuring M dot Strange with artwork by Sean Boyles, David Choe, Mitsy Ovalles and DeeJae Paeste at Anno Domini.

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- Cinequest Film Festival through March 11th.

Cool flicks and shorts from all over the word, plus Minnie Driver (Herself! Live! In-person!). Screenings at various venues all over downtown.

- North American Handmade Bicycle Show, March 2-4.

Gorgeous handmade bike porn and a bunch of guys in glasses debating optimal head tube angles.

Dogma Done Died

I knew there was something wrong as soon as I landed. And when I say landed, it’s not like I hucked a gap or anything, I’m talking a bunny hop of maybe four inches of vertical. I was smooth too—definitely less impact than hitting a speed bump at 20 mph, which is basically the other option.

But as soon as I touched down there was a funny rubbing noise. Naturally, I thought I knocked a wheel out of true, though even that would be strange considering the lightness of impact and the fact that I landed arrow straight.

Stopping to check it out, there was nothing wrong when I spun the wheel…but every time I started to ride again the rubbing noise would start up…and then that disconcerting wobble kicked in.

Then I noticed the crack. After two years and I’m not sure how many miles, my precious Pinarello Dogma is done. And it makes me sad. My best bike ever…well, road bike anyway.

At least I didn't crash and wasn’t hurt. And at least I could milk it back to the office.

I think it should be covered under warranty. I hope so anyway.

K-141: More than a snapshot

I'm not sure what it says about me, but I've always been captivated by those hopeless situations you see on the news—the boy that falls down the well…the miners trapped in the collapse…the people stuck for days in an elevator—that kind of thing. I'm sure it points to some deep psychological flaw or something, but it should be noted that I always root for a safe resolution, which seems, unfortunately, to be the exception.

Five or six years ago I was riveted to the developments in the Barents Sea where the Russian submarine Kursk exploded and sank to the ocean floor. Though most of the crew perished in the initial incident, 23 sailors survived in a stern compartment for a while and there were hopes for a rescue. Several attempts were made, but the sailors ultimately succumbed.

It wasn’t until after I came home from a trip to Italy last spring that I realized a picture I took of what I thought was interesting stencil graffiti was actually a tribute to the crew of the Kursk. If you look at the artwork you'll see the number "K-141," which is the Kursk’s number and the words “АПЛ Курск,” which is Kursk in Russian. The 12 men in the stencil are members of the crew that are actually from the town of Kursk.

When I first saw the image it kind of stunned me…I remember almost recoiling, then taking out my camera. Even without comprehending it, it makes a strong impression and after connecting the dots to the Kursk it takes on a chilling, indelible quality.

While some people would dismiss street graffiti as vandalism—which I, as a rule, detest, particularly in an old-world city like Venice—there’s something about this that rises above. For me anyway.

I even made a t-shirt about it.

Tuesday - 2.20.07 - 11 a.m.

As I reaffixed the pump to my bike in front of the Children's Discovery Museum...

She:
Four-ish with long black hair, pink pants and a Dora t-shirt.
“Get up! Here comes another one! Gnuuuuuuuuuuuuuew!” Arms outsrteched, spinning in circles, eyes up to the sky.

He:
A spikey blond boy in a pint-sized hoody.
“Yay, another one! WoWoWooWooWoWoooWoo!” Joining her in circles--one eye on each other, one in the sky.

It:
A 747 or some such, resplendent in sliver and booming.
“Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooosh!” Its fast moving shadow sweeps over the landscape.

They:
Collapse on the grass. And laugh. And laugh. And Laugh.

I:
Smile and laugh and wish I could join them.

This:
A snapshot of how simple it all should be.

Creature from the Desk #2

Being in marketing, I get all kinds of weird promotional items in the mail, most of which are just plain dumb. This one from a display company called Department of Energy (thus the DOE) is different. It's a wind-up penguin that waddles and poops little candy poo balls. I would have photographed the poo balls for you, but I ate them all already.

Best in Show

This Jesse Rooks custom at the Dunlop booth was my pick for bike of the show.

Ready for Bonneville

World's Fastest

Super Bitchin'

Roland Sands KR-V5

Multimedia message

Roland Sands

ElectroHooker

Workin' the streets of Indianapolis.

Old School Cool

One-of-a-kind Bell Moto-8 rockin it old school Bob Hanna style.
Posted live via camera phone from Dealer Expo 2007.

A Beautiful Curse

Wicked paint on a bike called 'Cursed.'
Posted live via camera phone from Dealer Expo 2007.

I won't lie, I love B-U-D-D-Y (why)?

Genuine's Buddy 125 with apologies to De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest.
Posted live via cell phone from Dealer Expo 2007.

Venitian Disconnect

TNG's Venice scooter was retrolicious, but there are no scooters in Venice!
Posted live via cell phone from Dealer Expo 2007.

Herbbie the Love Scoot

Diamo's sweet throwback scoot.
Posted live via cell phone from Dealer Expo 2007.

The Classic

When it comes to scooter style, Vespa is still in a class of its own.
Posted live via cell phone from Dealer Expo 2007.

Super Supermoto

Supermotarded

Posted live via cell phone from Dealer Expo 2007

Rolling Stone Bike

Built in seven days by Two Brothers Racing.

Posted live via cell phone from Dealer Expo 2007

Everything is indoors, even the outdoors

Rollin' in Indy with Pack and Sack.

Posted live via cell phone from Dealer Expo 2007

Skinny chick

On the snowy, windy, cold ass streets of Inaianapolis.

Posted live via cell phone from Dealer Expo 2007

Red Kross

Obligatory product shot.

Piss on Don

In Indiana, there are urinal puck holders named after me. Oh, and it's seven degrees.

Posted live via cell phone from Dealer Expo 2007

Creature from The Desk #1

In an effort to create more content, I’ve come up with the following ridiculous concept:

On a weekly basis I will take a photo of something on my desk and post it here.

In appropriately Valentinian style, today’s Creature from the Desk is a kiss bot:

Why would I have such a thing? It’s a prop from an old ad campaign that comes in handy when I get lonely working late into the night. The remnants of the campaign are still online at http://www.victorytested.com/.

Transcendent Thursday

I rode in the rain today. It was more-or-less just spitting when I left the office and actually pretty warm…almost tropical feeling. As I climbed towards the mountains, it got increasingly more wet, but I just told myself the spray going up my taint was therapeutic—a comforting road grit enema of sorts.

For as grim as it looked outside, I was pretty happy and comfortable, and only got a tiny bit cold descending Laurel Glen. Even my toes were warm, despite wet shoes and socks.

The reaction you get from people on a day like this is always funny to me. Behind their windshield wipers you could read it on their faces--“Kook!” “Poor guy!” “That looks SO dangerous!” “What’s the matter with those people?!”

They don’t get it—the perfect rhythm of the raindrops and the way you tick over the pedals to match it in time; the subtle, almost subconscious little body shifts that makes the bike magically hold traction in the curves; the way the scenery is transformed and the air is scrubbed clean.

So I guess I am a kook…and a perfectly content one at that.

Can I just say...

...I love California. I'm going to Indianapolis next week. As if the Colts fans aren't going to be annoying enough, IT'S MINUS SEVEN DEGREES there. At least there will be cool (if not downright frozen) motorcycles. I hope we have hot water this year.

PS - These are not complaints, just the facts. Afterall I once had antifreeze in my blood.