Greetings, Sioux Fallers and Biker/Sailors

I’m back from vacation, all inspired and proud of the 14 new curse words I learned in Japanese, thanks to a friend from Japan. That’s one gruff language! Take that, cabrones!

But I’ll keep this G-rated, so as not to offend the toddlers out there.

So:

ZPG sponsored an alleycat in Sioux Falls a few weeks ago. Check it:

ZPG is also a big fan of this take on the “one less car” shirt, courtesy of Josh.

Thanks, amigos!

All you naysayers can spend $6 and read my riotous words

That’s me! That’s me! I’ve written an awesome interview with Evan P. Schneider, the awesome editor of the awesome “Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac.”

Buy a copy now and save it for your great grandkids! Send it to me for a real live autograph! Or just read it, cause it’s great.

Here’s another teaser (without the vowels removed):

…Is a symbol enough? No way. It’s just a symbol. I mean, I can’t eat the word CHEERIOS for breakfast. For god sakes, I’d much rather live in a world in which everybody rides bikes and nobody buys my stickers because they’re just so damned obvious. I’d love to see the day when, riding hands-free, some girl checks her email on her iPhone, clicks on a link her grandma emailed to her, ends up on ZeroPerGallon.com, and is like, “Geez, grandma, the symbolic gesture here is so L-A-M-E,” and then watches the latest Justin Timberlake Jr. video and is like, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” and then puts her hands back on the bars to take some wicked tight turns on a crazy descent.

But thanks for calling it powerful, ubiquitous, and semiotically-interesting. I appreciate that. To take a Kindergartener’s approach, “If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?”

But really: the numbers do speak for themselves. That’s why my stickers keep selling. The loading of anger/contempt/etc. is only done by my words, on my website, and intended as sort of a comfort — a soft welcome mat, or a clean, dry bench in a heavy rain — for bicyclists who visit my website. “Aha,” I hope they’ll say. “This guy understands my situation. He feels like I do. He’s just like me. Except hairier, and taller, and better looking, and more awesome.” (Just kidding about that last part.)

the BFF is my new BFF

The Bicycle Film Festival is always awesome, but I was really excited about it this year. A week before the event, an email from Brendt, the big papa of the BFF, mentioned that, to kick off the festival, Blonde Redhead would be playing at the Independent. Sweet! A little NYC goodness in SF! The email included a link for those unfamiliar with the band… and that’s when I knew my excitement was warranted.

Say what you want about the performance art, or the music, or the temperature of your coffee this morning, but that’s Miranda July doing those poses, and that’s Blonde Redhead making that music, and the thing that brought it all together, or at least to my attention, was bikes. Serendipity doesn’t get any better than that. Huzzah! As Brendt likes to chant wherever he goes, BIKES ROCK!

So I spent the last 143 hours watching bike porn non-stop, and now I can barely feel my fingertips or blink my left eye. I saw a dozen short movies, including”Anima D’ Acciaio” (“Soul of steel”), a crisp profile of Framebuilder and mechanical poet Giovanni “Ciocc” Pelizzoli.

Anima D’Acciaio Trailer Ver5.1 from Cinecycle on Vimeo.

There was also “Made in Queens,” a short, funny window on some New York teenagers turning bikes into 300 lb music machines that topped out at maybe 2mph. But by far the best movie was called “Where are you go,” and it was directed by the illustrious Benny Zenga, who oversees the BFF in Toronto, and made the fantastic short movie “Ski Boys.”

Here’s the really cool part: Benny was in SF for the festival this year, and I couldn’t help noticing that he was riding one of my ZPG Anti Hero skateboards. I’m a fan of him, he’s a fan of me, and while the movies were showing, we made out in the back on a big squishy couch. It was friggin awesome.

Actually, that’s a lie. The couch was very firm. But anyway, “Where are you go,” features some spectacular moments. One subject of the film, a Dutch rider named Jos Kaal, summed up the time on his bike this way: “Sit, stand, drink, eat. You know, look around.” That, to him, was the essence of the 12,000 km Tour d’ Afrique, from Cairo to Cape Town. It was a 4-month endeavor, and another guy compared it to a time warp. There was talk of how such a ride makes you redefine your basic needs, and how, eventually, what was once really exotic can become routine. Another rider summed up the race this way: “It would be great to be home, but there’s a lot i enjoy: the company, the serenity, the riding.” Aint that the truth. My hat is off to you, Benny, for again making the finest movie of the festival.

Hotter in a helmet?

Attention Bikers: Ride your bike to the brothel in Berlin and get 7% off all kinds of sex acts!

I know, I know, I too I was under the impression that the demand for sex (and alcohol) was inelastic. Apparently some idiot/genius named Thomas Goetz, who probably didn’t go to a liberal arts college and instead got a far more valuable education running a brothel, decided to offer a discount, and screw up the whole damn theory.

And I know, I know, I was once under the impression that Reuters actually reported news, but that’s only because I went to journalism school and had a whole bunch of purist old-timey crap shoved down my throat. Most of you probably know way better than to believe that tomfoolery, which is why you’re reading some jackass biking blog instead of your local newspaper. Ha! That was a joke! You probably don’t even have a local newspaper anymore, and hence have nothing to wipe your ass with! Ha! Now it’s sad and funny, like so many things in life…

And I know, I know, the headline of the story — “Take off your bicycle helmet, big boy!” — couldn’t be more flame retardant. The least the Reuters editor could have done is made some dumb pun about riding hard or coming as fast as you can or the village bicycle or any number of other PG-13 sleezeball lines. But no, instead we get hard-hitting neutral verbs like “negate,” “arrive,” and “alleviate.” Shakespeare had the cajones to say it like it is, or at least allude to it. Shit, the spam I get is raunchier, and it’s in Russian!

That’s it. The current “media climate” depresses me too much. I’m going back to putting “everything” in quotes and looking for a life-sized inflatable goat. What, is that weird?

Hit and Run

I was hit by a car at 8:20 this evening on the 3300 block of Powell St., in Emeryville. I’m OK. No, I’m not OK. I’m not hurt — just scrapes and bruises — but I feel like I want to simultaneously cry and scream and vomit and shit myself.

It was a white truck with a camper top, off-white, pearly perhaps, and boxier than any new model. Maybe a Toyota. We were both on Powell street, heading west. It was drizzling, and almost dark. He hit me from behind, and didn’t stop, even when I screamed. I never saw the driver.

For a split second, flying through the air, I wondered how it was going to turn out.

My glasses flew off my face. My water bottle launched into the road. My bike lay sideways, the chain all jangled up in the wheel. By the time I looked up, which was pretty damn fast, the truck was 100 feet away, and I couldn’t make out a license plate. I was angry before I was in pain.

Because Powell st. is a dead-end road, I knew I had a chance of catching the hit-and-runner.

I yelled HELP, hoping that I’d find a witness. Nothing. I limped to my feet, and stood in the middle of the road, and flagged down the first car to come by. The driver didn’t speak English. No help.

I called 911, mildly astonished that I was able to move my arms, hands, fingers, and wrists with such fluidity. A broken wrist is the injury I dread most. Broken wrists would mean no biking, no climbing, no writing, no banjo playing, and no jerking off. I’d probably figure out a way to jerk off, but still, it terrifies me that someone could take such a simple, basic pleasure away from me. Life is that delicate.

A few minutes later, when the police officer arrived and asked if I needed an ambulance, I wasn’t sure, because you still can’t really assess how it turned out, even though that instant of flying through the air is long since gone. You’re up on your feet, sure, but you’re shivering, frantic, hyped-up, and all rubbery. You don’t trust your faculties.

The officer asked me to move my bike off the road, then asked me questions and took notes. He asked for my ID and my phone number. I paced back and forth, wincing in pain. My left knee was stiff, and swelling up. My left hip bone and left elbow seared. “Any other injuries?” he asked. “My elbow. I can tell because it’s wet. I can feel the blood in my sleeve.” He asked me to roll up my sleeve, which I did, slowly. After that, he asked about my bike, and whether it was damaged. It seemed such an unusual question, like things were proceeding too fast. I put the chain back on, and flipped it over, to see if the wheels still spun. I felt drugged, sluggish. I was in no condition to focus on logic, mechanics, or machinery. But the bike seemed OK. I had to spell out P-I-N-A-R-E-L-L-O for the officer. “A ten speed?” he asked. “Twelve speeds, actually,” I said. Why’d I correct him?

Two more officers showed up, and drove to the parking lots at the end of Powell street, looking for a white truck with a camper top. I locked up my bike on the nearest pole, then got in the officer’s car, to go ID the truck that had hit me.

It was hopeless, and frustrating, and confusing. Short term memory is a bitch. There were two suspect trucks — one far too curvy and shiny and bright white, and one with a big silver and red stripe across the back. It’s a toss up, I said. “It’s gotta be one hundred percent,” the officer said.

I wanted to press pause. I wanted to consult a lawyer and cry and rest and breathe and drink something and come back to the scene more focused. I had the officer write down both license plates because I didn’t know what else to do.

I asked for advice. He told me he’d seen cases like this where the driver had gotten off. “If he plays his cards right,” the officer began. I couldn’t believe it.

I jumped out of the car, and touched the hood of the second truck, hoping it’d be warm, so that I could make up my mind. Detective Waldman was frantically searching for clues.

The hood was cold, and slick with raindrops. There were no marks on the font fender. No smashed light, or bent side mirror. I gave up, deflated.

The officer reminded me that I was pretty lucky. He’d seen bikers sent to the emergency room after collisions involving windshields. He was right. I couldn’t really complain. I hadn’t been wearing a helmet, and I’d gotten away with cuts, scrapes, and bruises. My bike was fine. My jacket was ripped at the elbow, my sweatshirt a little bloody, and my cell phone a little scratched – but that’s all. Even the groceries I’d been carrying in my bag were OK. Not one of the two dozen eggs was broken, and the loaf of bread was not squished, and the jars of tomato sauce were not broken, and the quart of milk was not punctured. Only three cans of soup were dented, which makes me wonder if they somehow saved me further injury. What if the side mirror collided with my giant grocery-laden bag, and the cans absorbed the sudden impact, so that I was launched, somewhat more softly, ass over teakettle? Is that possible?

Years ago, a good friend sustained a terrible climbing fall that would have killed him if not for the helmet he had been wearing. Another friend, taking a stroll on a dirt road, nearly died when a truck slipped out of gear, rolled down a slight incline, and trapped him beneath it. I just don’t understand risk.

I know I ought to wear a helmet, and I almost always do. Sometimes, though, like when it’s just a short ride on one mellow road to the grocery store, I don’t bother, as if I’m relieving myself of some sort of burden. I didn’t feel like it. I got complacent. So much for that privilege.

The officer dropped me off at my bike, gave me his card, told me I’d have a report in seven to ten days, and drove off.  I sat down, called a friend, and tried to calm myself. It didn’t work. The officer hadn’t let me down, or neglected his duties in any way, but I didn’t feel like I’d been helped. I felt like I’d been served, and no more. Like a transaction had taken place, something robotic, inhuman.

I unlocked my bike and walked through the parking lots. I wrote down the license plate numbers for myself. I also discovered a 3rd truck — a white Toyota with a camper top — that I hadn’t seen before. I wrote that license plate number down, too, and called the officer to tell him. I felt a surge of determination and hope, and also of fruitlessness and despair. How had the cops missed that car — the very thing I had described — in their search? What must the officer think of that biker now? Awfully meddling, no?

I spent an hour sitting in the shower. The hot water stung my wounds at first, but that didn’t bother me as much as my bruised knee, which refused to bend beyond 90 degrees. Afterwards, I had a hard time put my socks back on.

I thought about sticking a note on the three trucks: “A bicyclist was hit at 8:20pm on Friday, May 1 while riding westbound on the 3300 block of Powell street by a white truck like this one. Please contact the Emeryville Police Department.”

Would that help? Is that legal? And what do I want? I want to find the driver, and…I don’t know.

I wouldn’t mind a new jacket. But that’s not it. I’m not eager to capitalize on my position.

I wouldn’t mind pressing charges, but what for? I’m sure the hassle isn’t worth it.

I think I just want the driver to see me. I want the driver to see me cry, and scream, and vomit, and shit myself at the same time, and for him to know that’s what he did to me. That’s what he’s done to me. I won’t be the same out there for a while.

ZPG: all up in cars’ grilles

Josh, at Carectomy.com, digs the ZPG vibe.

put that analogy in your nalgene bottle and drink it

For all you excellent drivers out there, a little awareness test.

man-powered transportation

a bike, some snow, and bunch of cheapass beer. what more is there?

brakeless and helmetless in SF, the really really ridiculous way

Ted Shred rides the old-fashioned, Fred Flintstone way; as he puts it, “I trust my feet more than anything else.” Um, yeah. At least he’s sponsored by Vans. He’s not lying when he says the way he rides is like “doing trapeze with no safety net.” Enjoy…

wake up, race bike. repeat daily.

My buddy Page, in DC, sent me this little gem a month ago:

I have a bike race every morning I ride to work. I write down my times and distances and compute the speeds using an equation I learned in 7th grade. Life is such a thrill that way. Coming in to work today I had raced 126 times in the past 13 months and my bestest of the best time was 19.5 mph on the 26th of June. I have no memory of that day in particular, but I’d imagine I was down-wind and made some stoplights because it’s pretty far ahead — 0.45mph — of the next fastest. Most days are around 17-18mph.

The idea of reaching 20 mph has been sort of like the fake bunny at a dog race: trying to catch it takes care of any would-be existential angst. Lots of things work that way: the prospect of striving leaves our identity in its wake, so it doesn’t matter that it’s a fake plastic bunny and we wouldn’t want it even if we caught it. The challenge then becomes perpetually finding something to be the fake plastic bunny even when we know what it is.

I caught it today. 20.3 mph. And here is how I caught it: my front wheel was on backwards, so the little magnet that plugs into the speedometer was on the wrong side, so for the whole ride it said 0.0mph, and I never knew my speed. So it was mental! And now I search for another decoy.

trickster treat 07

last night i raced around town with 50 other riders, and along the way trampled through a dark pet cemetery, pulled a dead (plastic) baby from a lake, ogled at a haunted house, ran through a spooky cave, and ended up at the top of mt. davidson, in a cold, eerie fog.

the result: I came in second place (right behind devin), and won a KHS track frame. I also fell on my ass while descending the hill at 2mph. go figure.
*results*

1 – devin
2 – jonny5 (me)
3 – christina
## paul, charles, chris, and craig (missed some checkpoints)
4 – judah
5 – tommy
6 – jenny
7 – Antwon
8 – Ben Joaquin
9 – Daniel
10 – Daryll
11 – Igor
12 – Caleb
13 – Jonathan B
14 – Tony
15 – Steve
16 – Seth
17 – Dennis
18 – Miles
19 – Emil
20 – Jeremy
21 – Jonathan
22 – Ted
23 – Mike B
24 – Sarah V
25 – Levi
26 – Winford
27 – Chris P
28 – Phil

Fun bike stuff invades regular news. Wahoo!

A bunch of great pieces about bikes, biking, bike culture, and bike safety have landed in my lap in the last two days.

1) Wired Mag is showing off 10 amazingly modified art bikes, including the rocket bike, seen here (not quite) launching over Islais Creek, down the hill here in SF.

2) The NY Times features a nice travel piece on a the latest, greatest way to get around by bike in paris: on a Velib. There are more than 15,000 of the bikes at more than 1,000 spots around town, open 24/7, and all you need to unlock one is a credit card. Better yet: the first half-hour is free; after that its 1 euro for the next half hour, 2 euros for the half hour after that, and 4 euros for each half hour after that. Sounds like an awesome way to promote biking for short trips around town.

3) The NY Times also has a blog post not quite summarizing some of the latest conflicting data on bike safety and the risks of cycling…Speaking of which, here’s a classic film about a bunch of kids monkeying around on their bikes. (The 1963 pace is kinda slow; for the summary, jump to 12:45)

SF Bicycle Film Festival = overstimulation

Just recovered from 48 hours of bike-infused goodness, courtesy of the Bicycle Film Festival and a couple of alleycat races.

First, there were lyrical movies like Macaframa, in which Phil and Colin roll up/down/around town struttin’ their smooth tricks:

There were two AMAZING shorts — Street Fighter and Skiboys — by Benny Zenga; I’m gonna do whatever must be done to get my paws on those. But the highlight of the show, at least judging by the racuousness of the crowd at the Victoria Theater, was when the East Bay Scraper Bike Boiz got on stage with their scraper bikes:

There were also a couple of alleycats that I raced with Devin. Not sure why, but partner races have been a theme for the last month around here. Four weeks ago, we rode a race in honor of the anniversary of two messengers, and, after riding around for an hour, I shoved a delicate pastry into Devin’s mouth and he read me a sweet poem at the finish, and we ended up in 4th place. So last week, when I heard that Demarco was putting on SF Scavengers as a partner race, I called up Devin… a frantic, sweaty hour later, we cruised in to Gestalt in 1st place (my first alleycat win!). Yesterday, Demarco hosted another partner race, called Best Friends Forever — so I called Devin an hour before the start and he boogied down to the Ferry Building just in time. I was in within view of the first and second-placed guys through the second checkpoint; but probably flubbed it when I chose to run up the Lyon street stairs with my bike over my shoulder rather than ride up through the Presidio. At any rate, Devin and I cruised down to the finish line on Capp st. in 3rd place — and took home some sweet Chrome bags with the Bicycle Film Festival logo on them.

So here’s to all those race sponsors, race organizers, awesome friends, and incredible film-makers who put so much energy and love into making it an awesome weekend.