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!

Hitler, on the frustrations of owning a car

This week in goat/bike news

After my brush with catastrophe three weeks ago, a lot of friends wrote to me to help me metaphorically lick my wounds. Thad suggested I was immortal. Jon sent me some music. Julie said she’d send cookies and whiskey. Ethan told me to hang in there, Lydia wrote me a poem, Ben expressed consolation for my pants, Nick invited me on some good rides, and Erin suggested that healing could best be attained by making a big pot of soup and then jerking off. Such great friends, huh? In any case, I’m fine, and so is my bike — though apparently I was riding on a broken rear axle for at least 10 days. Yikes!

Since I still haven’t heard anything from the Emeryville Police Department, I figured I’d speed things up a bit and post the license plate numbers (all from California) of the potential culprits:

6R23535

3U28991

4J14124

6Y76547

In other, Slightly-Less-Cathartic (SLC) news: Wes sent me a photo of a dead goat, which warms my heart. It’s from Arlington, VA — and the crazy part is nobody’s rated it yet. I give it a 10 out of 10.

Speaking of dead goats, I’ve noted that it’s possible to hunt for rare Russian goats by helicopter. The method is so successful that only 200 of them are left, which only makes those last 200 goats all the more exciting to shoot. Unfortunately, it’s expensive ($2,000 per hour) and risky (helicopter crashes, criminal investigations, public scorn.) But true goat haters are so focused and determined they don’t care what price they have to pay.

Justin pointed me to a hilarious blog that’s ostensibly about bike racing at a girls college.

Beau wrote to me from Idaho, and asked me to donate stuff for an upcoming alleycat/fundraiser for the Boise Bicycle Project. A ZPG donation is headed their way.

Brandon sent me a photo of his ZPG bag on mushrooms, and Roland, from ReLoad Bags, sent me a photo of a related bag. Right on, brothas.

Oh – and ZPG stuff is now available at a few more shops:

Manitou Bikes, in CO

Lee’s Cyclery, also in CO

The Recyclery, in PDX

Slippery Pig Bikes, in Phoenix

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.

The Industry That Keeps On Spinning…

Remember that scene in Total Recall where Arnold Schwarzenegger realizes he’s been (or being) brainwashed?

Well, this is sort of like that, except instead of Martian spies, it’s the Auto Industry. They’re brainwashing us yet again.

Apparently, the EcoDrivingUSA campaign has been around for a few months now, but I missed it. (I’d been checking out EcoDriving.com, but my Finnish isn’t so good.) So when I saw a banner ad on the NYTimes yesterday, all environmentally-friendly green and sans-serifed-out, I figured I’d check it out.

First thing at the site, the Governator delivers a rousing video spiel. He tells us that simple things, like that proper tire pressure, avoiding rapid starts, and keeping your engine tuned can (if you drive a gas-guzzler) make your car 15% more efficient. He then connects the dots, saying that we hear a lot of ideas from politicians… but none of them will affect gas prices right now. That’s the first time I laughed, because the non-sequitur is sly: using, and hence purchasing, less gas is not the same as affecting gas prices. But whatever. I get the point.

For good measure, the Governator closes by denigrating politicians once again, saying, “But we don’t have to wait for the politicians to take action…” He continues: “Power to the people! Get to the choppah! Do it now!” Just kidding.

Elsewhere on the site, there’s a video that features Colorado Governor Bill Ritter (a dem) delivering my second favorite quote: “Part of this is to demonstrate that a republican governor and a democratic governor really do together understand the power of this.”

Huh? Does the demonstration of your understanding of the program’s alleged power thereby make it powerful? Or does the power of “this” matter far less than the fact that Ritter and the Governator are, at least, demonstrating something together? Does it even matter what they’re demonstrating? Or are we just supposed to let them talk, and not actually pay attention to their words?

Soon, the narrator delivers my favorite quote. He’s urging us to give “EcoDriving” a chance while “The nation’s auto makers continue developing in research and development at a record setting pace… because technology takes time…while auto engineers continue their work.”

Their work? Like inventing tank-sized vehicles named after remote parts of North America? Like not improving fuel efficiency for thirty years while pretending that minivans with built-in TV screens are the perfect thing for the age of Peak Oil?

It’s a great excuse for yet another break for an industry in tough times.

But I don’t want to rant, so instead, I’ll resort to my marketing 101 primer: Calling a product something doesn’t make it so. Duh. GoreTex isn’t waterproof or breathable, coal isn’t clean, and Ecodriving isn’t eco. It’s a way to make the way things are continue to be OK. At least we’re trying, right? Here’s a pat on the back, old chum.

And that’s my beef with Ecodriving: it’s the wrong “solution” to the right problem (which is either gas supplies or gas prices).

There are, of course, three basic ways to attack the problem:

1) From the top (somehow subsidize the creation of 200mpg hybrids for everyone prontospeed)
2) From the bottom (try to improve the efficiency of the nation’s crappiest 8mpg vehicles)
3) From the side (maybe we drive too much; might we encourage/promote/facilitate other behavior?)

Obviously, it’s not in the Auto Alliance’s interest to promote option #3. The manufacturers are in the business of selling cars (and have a long history of scuttling other transportation options.) And, depressingly, it’s not within the Auto Alliance’s technological abilities to promote #1. So we’re stuck with option #2.

Now, option #2 wouldn’t be so terrible were it not presented as so much more than the band-aid that it is. And that’s my beef with it. It is not “a groundbreaking initiative,” and it is not a “grassroots” movement, and it is not addressing the root of (or even most of) the problem.

Alas.

It would be nice if the Environmental Defense Fund — which, sadly, signed on to the “campaign” — said something to the effect of: “Hey, doing something is better than nothing,” or, “It’s a start.”

It would be nice — honorable, even — for the Auto Alliance to admit that we’re in this mess (and I say we because we’re now looking at bailing them out) largely because of the SUV’s they went berserk producing and marketing and selling.

And it would also be nice if we — us American drivers — repented our sultry, intoxicated, high-speed affair with the SUV and moved on, really changed, rather than pretending to change, and in so doing, started to laugh at PR stunts like this.

Preaching the good word at Tour de Fat

After a few liters of beer at Tour de Fat yesterday afternoon, I caught up with Reverend Ballyhoo, aka the Deacon of Freakin’, aka Oscar the Gashole, aka the Big Cheese In Charge Of The Whole Damn Festival (BCICOTWDF), aka Chris. He was wearing, a la Tom Wolfe, a white suit with a white top-hat and a black tie (made from an inner tube), and he carried in his right hand a silver cane that, unbeknownst to most, housed a slender bike pump. He was a prepared preacher.

Earlier, he’d spoken the good bike gospel as eloquently as its been spoken in these parts, invoking velo-related deities while forseeing the carpolcalypse and eulogizing the death of our institutionalized car culture. At the microphone in front of a huge crowd, he’d introduced the Louisiana-style funeral procession of a child-sized black plastic Cadillac Escalade, which was carried on a platform on the shoulders of six men and women in formal, buttoned-up red uniforms, led by a solemn marching band, and trailed by a crowd of mourners in black veils. There was much sobbing. And then much cheering. It was, as the New Belgium folks like to say, spoketacular.

Yesterday’s festival in San Francisco was this year’s second coming of Tour de Fat, which kicked off in Chicago on June 21st. Yet to come are Truckee (July 26), Seattle (August 2), Portland (August 16), Boise (August 23), Ft. Collins (September 6), Denver (September 13), Durango (September 20), Tempe (October 11), and Austin (October 18). I hope I make it to another.

I’m a huge fan of Tour de Fat, obviously, because it’s a big bike party with costumes and girls and beer and music, because the Reverend Ballyhoo speaks the truth, because the Sprockettes (of Portland) and Paperbird and Mucca Pazza (of Chicago) put on great shows, because they’re selling my recycled-tire ZPG belts at the festivals, and because the Ten Commandments of Tour de Fat make so much sense to me. The first is my favorite:

“Put no means of transport before thy bike: Come by bike because not only are bikes fun, but they help stave off some of our most wicked ills: Traffic, obesity, and pollution. Tour de Fat has a solution: ride this day, every day, and definitely when Tour de Fat heads your way.”

Also noteworthy are #2 (“Thou shall honor all other bikes”), #4 (“Come as a participant …when everybody’s weird, no one is”), #7 (“Sacrifice all goats because they are evil”), and of course, #10 (“Thou shalt not steal thy neighbors’ bike”).

Noteworthier still, they remind me of a famous saying by a brilliant but relatively unknown 21st-century bicycle scholar:

“Blessed is the man or woman that endureth on two wheels the wind and rain and grime and grit and hills and cold and heat and those great, cumbersome, weighty vehicles that infest this land.”

(-Pope Jonny the Fifth, MMVIII)

Anyway, I caught up with the Reverend, and took a walk with him. I can tell he’s a fan of the way we have fun in San Francisco. Before leaving, we swapped merch; I gave him a bumongous ZPG patch, and he hooked me up with a slick Fat Tire bike jersey, which I plan to wear with much pride.

In honor of such a good time, I composed a little bike prayer:

—–

I beseech You, Lord of the Velorution,

Give us this day our daily burrito and restore our leg muscles, such that our godly bicycle riding can continue gracefully and safely under Thy protection, Amen.

May You not allow our rears not grow numb nor sore nor weary, nor allow our joints to become weak nor misaligned nor inflamed, nor allow our muscles to become hot nor achy nor spent nor any other condition but strong and limber;

May You provide clean, fresh air to pass through our mouths and throats and lungs, such that they not burn nor parch nor become otherwise weary;

May You protect our bicycles from squeaky brakes, broken chains, loose headsets, misaligned gears, and other pestilent mechanical troubles;

May You keep our wheels true and round, and our tires inflated;

May You keep the pavement, in its durable glory, smooth and dry and free of sand and leaves and pebbles and broken glass and puddles and potholes and other such vexations of the modern world, and keep our lanes sufficiently wide and well marked;

May You protect our bikes from thieves and villains; and forgive us our red-light running, stop-sign ignoring, and all other traffic infractions, minor and major;

May You remind us of those who have fallen, and encourage us to assist fellow riders in need;

May You not let us stray from steel nor let us be tempted by fancy shamncy carbon-fiber gizmos nor let us purchase bicycles from giant, soul-less chain stores;

May You forgive those drivers who know not yet the beauty of the bike and punish those drivers who swerve, honk, ignore, threaten, or otherwise beguile us;

May You give us grace and speed and agility; and illuminate our paths for us;

May You lend us tailwinds on our passages; and provide for us vast, sweeping, stunning terrain to traverse such that only a god like You could create;

May You provide smooth, delicious ale to soothe us once we have arrived at our destinations;

May You heed all of our humble requests, and take these evil sacrificial goats as evidence of our bodily devotion to the bicycle;

Amen.

——–

that’s what I’m talkin’ about!

a brilliant confluence of ZPG + bikes

-By Robert Ariail

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.

Tell it like it is

Tell Google to show bike routes

Tell yourself why you don’t need a car

Tell your friends they’d look hotter in a helmet

Speaking of which, Ruben could use one doing crazy jumps like these

“We’re becoming a nation of fatties… in part because if you want a quart of milk, you have to take the car.”

Randy Cohen, aka The Ethicist of the NY Times Magazine, goes off on hedonistic car culture, misallocation of public urban space for parking, and the bad rap that congestion taxes tend to get, in this shortened clip of an interview he did with Mark Gorton, of the Open Planning Project.

My favorite excerpts:

“We’re becoming a nation of fatties… in part because if you want a quart of milk, you have to take the car.”

Q: “What’s wrong with driving everywhere?”
A: “Everything…it’s selfish…they knock me down…they pollute the air…the fumes from their cars…it imposes a huge expense…there’s absolutely no need for the private car in manhattan.”

“The automibile undermines our ordinary daily happiness. That’s truly sad.”

“We’re in a moment in NY history … when there is reason to be hopeful about biking”

DumbCars not looking so good

Two articles on DumbCars recently caught my attention. First, on Nov 2, WSJ writer Jeff Sabatini told it like it is in a not-so-enthusiastic review of Lexus’s new $100,000 hybrid car:

“The biggest con running in the auto industry right now is the notion that hybrids represent some sort of quantum leap in green transportation. Not only is this patently untrue… but it shamelessly plays to the hypocrisy of our society. If we really wanted to save the planet, instead of buying hybrids we would start walking. Or riding bikes. Maybe a few more of us would try public transportation. How about starting with slowing down to the speed limit on the freeway? But let’s be honest: Most Americans aren’t willing to change to conserve energy. Even lifestyle choices like driving a small car, carpooling and living in the vicinity of where we work are largely anathema, which is why I’m not the least bit shocked by the Lexus LS 600h L.”

Sabatini calls the 17-foot, 2.5-ton sedan (which gets 21mpg) a “hybrid limousine,” and points out that it “deploys its technology as a badge of exclusivity rather than environmentalism.” He recognizes, of course, that the car is the “perfect way for a captain of industry to show the little people that he, too, will sacrifice nothing in his attempt to demonstrate to the world that he sort of cares about the environment.”

He signs off with a little note about how the Lexus-limo’s incongruity today isn’t so funny: “Would that we could save the planet while reposed in the back seat of a chauffeured limo, air-conditioned seats reclined, watching a Live Earth concert on DVD and writing a check for carbon offsets. Reality dictates otherwise.”

The second story, a review in the New Yorker of two books on the history of DumbCars, was published 3 days later. In it, Elizabeth Kolbert (the author of last year’s great 3-part series on climate change) points out that Henry Ford’s Model T, when it went on the market 99 years ago, got more miles to the gallon than the average new car today (including the new Lexus LS 600h L). She seems to agree with historian Tom McCarthy. author of  “Auto Mania,” who doesn’t blame Detroit for Detoit’s ills so much as he blames us. And her conclusion echoes that by Sabatini: “The car of the future may be no car at all.”

Asphalt Nation

I finally got around to reading parts of Jane Holtz Kay’s Asphalt Nation, which came out in 1998 and seems as relevant as ever.

Kay says the problem is beyond gridlock; it’s “lifelock” — reliance on the automobile for everything.

She explains that commuting is not the big bad menace I had thought it was. No, the menace is far more insidious and intertwined… the menace is errands.

Nearly 80% of car trips Amerincans make are errands! Milk. Toothpaste. Little league. The doctor. The gym (talk about silly). The theater. A restaurant. As Kay writes, “the ministuff of life clogs the nation’s roads.” (And yet, what reasons — i.e excuses/justifications — do we come up with for buying big cars? We say it’s so we can take big, long-distance vacations.) When the book was written a decade ago, american households averaged 6 round trips per day.

Kay writes about kids losing their independence and freedom as a result of being transported everywhere they go, with no capacity to get anywhere on their own. She blames the automobile-way-of-life for removing neighborly interaction and eye-to-eye contact from kids’ lives, and for turning the elderly into “prisoners with no one to talk to and nowhere to go.” She calls it a social tragedy, and she’s right.

“Autonomy demands mobility and mobility demands a car,” she writes. Yet “we seem to forget that the “freedom” is reduced by the servitude of a car-bound society that denies movement any other way.”

If there’s any good news, it’s that these are lifestyle choices… and as we know, there is another way…

I TOLD you driving was no fun…

“News” (confirming what we already know) from the front page of today’s Chronicle:

“Bay Area traffic congestion isn’t getting any better. But the good news, if you can call it that, is that it’s getting worse at a slower pace than in most of the nation’s metropolises, according to a national transportation study released Tuesday.

Both the San Francisco and San Jose metropolitan areas ranked in the top 10 most-congested urban areas, according to the annual report from the Texas Transportation Institute at Texas A&M University. San Francisco ranked second in hours each driver spends sitting in traffic above and beyond normal driving time; San Jose ranked eighth.

Los Angeles led the way. Commuters there spend an extra 72 hours in traffic each year compared with 60 hours in San Francisco and 54 hours in San Jose. The national average for all U.S. urban areas was 38 hours of delay.”

* That “delay time” is in addition to “regular” commuting time. Ouch.

following your folly

An amazing convergence of coincidences here:

A few months ago I bumped into Andy Thornley, the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition’s awesome Program Director, on Market Street, just outside of a fine breakfast establishment called It’s Tops Coffee Shop. Apparently, Andy had seen a few ZPG stickers around, and was eager to get his hands on some — so of course I hooked him up.

Now, with the Tour de Fat, a philanthropic bicycle carnival/freakshow that travels the western lands to promote bicycling, nearly upon us, our friends at the New Belgium Brewery have teamed up with the SFBC and put together a rad little video of Andy riding around town with his huge bike trailer. Hence awesome coincidence number one: you’ll see one of my blue ZPG stickers proudly displayed on Andy’s bike, on the pink crate. “Bicycling in the city should be safe, dignified, and delightful — a routine, everyday way to get around,” Andy says, and he couldn’t have said it better. Also, New Belgium seems really devoted to out-of-car experiences, and, at last year’s Tour de Fat, raised $100,000 for local bike-advocacy orgs in Ft. Collins, CO. Superfrigginawesome.

Awesome coincidence number two: my buddy Jeff pointed me to New Belgium’s recent Fat Tire ad, which was shot in Paonia, Colorado, where I lived 5 years ago (after riding there from DC). You can see Mt. Lamborn and Lands End Peak, which loom above town, in a couple of the shots, and I swear i know the EXACT location of that big pile of junk, from which the red cruiser bike emerges, because I used to ride past it on the way back home from the Ridge of Doom/Valley of Death trail combo — one of my favorite mountain bike rides ever. Anyway…enjoy.