A few things

...that don't deserve individual posts.

I made my vegan curry again tonight. The good news: I think I'm very close to getting it to the point of non-nasty (the point at which I'm no longer ashamed to be eating it). I'm not sure what I did differently, maybe adjusted the curry powder to cayenne ratio, more soymilk, and um....oh yeah, duh, the PCP. I laced it with PCP, that's it.

Speaking of things that are nasty, let's talk about old people. The other day, I was cycling back from school, fighting the southern wind (and my new PCP addiction), when I witnessed an older couple, slowly pedaling down the road, on what I assumed to be the bicycle equivalent of a stroll. Let me tell you, it was a-dor-ah-bleh. And, in that fleeting moment, I considered what it meant to age, and wondered whether or not I would find someone with whom I could cruise the blocks (on cruiser bikes, even), until that inevitable day when one of us would die, leaving the other to be concomitantly buried alive in a final gesture of committment.

But, in the next fleeting moment, I was cut off by a sorostitute in a Tahoe (because you can't spell Tahoe without a...), and soon returned to muttering expletives under the breath of the wind.

What a nice day that was.

Curse of the Aztecs

...pure evil. Manifest in a flat tire.

This curse, which stewed maliciously for hundreds of years, began with Abraham Lincoln.

More specifically, it began with today's Thinkin' Lincoln. A simple webcomic? I think not. Rather, I found that it was a harbinger of doom, or more specifically, a harbinger of sharp objects embedded in bike tires.

I got a flat, is what I'm trying to say.

Surely you know what it feels like to get ready for school, eagerly shoving books into your backpack/satchel, whistling a happy tune, eager for the learning which will soon take place, only to find that your only mode of transportation (other than the bus...or my car, I suppose) has been cruelly struck down by a wimpy, flaccid tire.



As you've probably guessed, I found myself in this very situation today. Investigating further, I found that the reason for the air-pressure-deficit was none other than two unnaturally sharp bits of rock.

Coincidence?! I think not!

Sure, the rocks weren't exactly obsidian, and probably not Aztec in origin. Also I wasn't decapitated, as I surely would have been, had the rocks been any more cursed.

So I replaced the tube, but not before making several human sacrifices upon it to the god of bicycles.

Yes, alright, I killed a couple of people, what was I supposed to do? Animal sacrifices are so immoral...

Efficiency

...I haz it.

So I came across an interesting graphic today; and because I love to shove statistics in your eager little faces, I'll share it with you.

Here it is. [Click here for the actual link, with full-sized image.]

Now, what I get out of the graph is this:

The bicycle, basically, is the most efficient form of transportation. EVAR. And though it might not be the fastest, apparently it would only cost me about 16 whoppers to travel 350 miles.

Wait a sec, let's figure this out. These numbers are based on the whopper with cheese, a fat-bomb which will provide you with about 770 calories of energy (and more, if you're into mayo, but you're reading a vegan blog, so I'll assume not). Now, I'm not going to be eating the whopper; if anything, I'll be chowing down on the infamous BK veggie (which I'm pretty sure isn't completely vegan, even sans fromage). But anyway. The Veg only has about 420 Cals, which means that I'm going to have to eat about 29-30 of them on my 350 mile journey.

The question I'm eventually going to ask is, is this worth it?

Given that the BK veggie retails at about $2.99, the total cost of the trip would come to about $87.61, which doesn't sound too bad, but let's compare that with the car.

On your drive, assuming that you don't stop (at a friendly neighborhood Burger King!) to eat, the cost of the trip is going to be about the price of 13 gallons of gas. At an average of $2.00 a gallon, that comes out to be $26....$61 dollars less than riding a bike...

Gasp! What have I done?!

Curses, I meant to rig the math so that it turned out that the bike truly is the best of all possible worlds. But nay, dear reader, it seems that gasoline is once again cheaper than junk food.

I guess the moral of this story would have to be that bikes are still far more practical for short trips. And even though the car is more cost and time efficient over long drives, it's still to be avoided at all costs for those spurious trips about town. Also, for health reasons, you probably shouldn't eat at Burger King, even though they do have a pretty slick website.

EDIT: Wait! Wait! I've done it! Alright, here we go. If you repeat that calculation, but this time using ramen noodle packets (the oriental is the only flavor that's vegan and appealing, btw), it turns out that you'd only have to eat 65 packets at about 12 cents apiece. Bringing you, my hungry hungry cyclist, to a grand total of only $7.78 for the entire 350 miles. Haha! We win again!

EDIT: Apparently my favorite brand of Oriental Ramen Noodles are no longer vegan either...you'll have to find another food to power your vegan-biking adventures.

Remember when movies used to be good?

...the high water mark in bicycle boogie.

Lucy's lost some weight

...(alternate, more pervy title: Lucy's been stripped down)

About a week ago, I noticed that on my many death-defying adventures about town, I was feeling a bit bogged down. First I thought to blame my level of PHYSICAL FITNESS, which probably isn't the greatest, considering the lack of time spent on the bike in these few winter months. But when my egoistic instincts kicked in, I felt that the blame needed to be placed elsewhere. I looked to my bike, Lucy, instead.

I found that I had fallen into the treacherous and self-perpetuating trap which befalls many cyclist - triathletes, most notably. Namely, this: I had too much crap on my bike.

Now I'm (hopefully) not going to become one of those guys who cares about weight over style or function, nor am I going to start measuring my burden in tenths of grams. However, I took it upon myself to do a little bit of weight management, taking everything unnecessary off of the bike.


When I finished I found a pile at my feet, comprised of all of those things which fall into the "well, that might someday be useful" category. As you can see in the following photo, these are the things which have been, at some point, strapped, bolted, or duct-taped to my bike.


The list includes: Steel/Teflon cable lock, LED head/tail light set, emergency flat repair kit, spare reflectors (front, rear, and wheel-mounted), adjustable bottle holder, high-PSI hand-pump, multitool, spare tube, handlebar-mounted horn (for comedic effect), and, that's right, a GPS speedometer/navigation system.

Granted, all of these things are useful for their purposes. But the trap to which I previously alluded was the fallacious thinking that I needed all of them for every ride. For example, if I'm just popping down to the coffee shop at midday, I only need exactly one of these items - and not even that if I'm taking my bike into the shop with me. So I've simply done away with them until I know I'll be requiring their services. Now, Lucy is looking slimmer than ever, riding very well after a bit of a tune-up and some new chain oil, and we're off to the races (figuratively).

Simplify, simplify, simplify. That's my motto. (also Thoreau, coincidentally, who I can only presume got it from me)

However.

The punchline to this particular story, and also the take-home message is this. Check the basic functioning of the bike before you start forcibly removing items from your bike. It turns out, that the underlying reason for Lucy's sluggish responsiveness was nothing more than a maladjusted rear brake set, which had picked up some tension and was (apparently) constantly rubbing the back rim. I was, in effect, pedaling and braking at the same time, all the time.

So there you have it. Simplify. But also, don't be dumb.

Training for the Oklahoma Freewheel

...so that the week-long ride doesn't murder me.

Every summer, around mid-June, over 1,000 crazy people line up at the southern border of Oklahoma, and prepare themselves to trek northward across the state. This is a 7-day affair, which means that you're pulling 50-70 miles per day. Rough.

So I've gotten up the nerve to try this, which means that I need to be in PRIME PHYSICAL CONDITION when I attempt this ride. It's the tour de oklahoma, if you will, and I need to be able to finish without dying.

So yesterday I went running. That's right, I had the gall to leave Lucy at home and exercise without her. Down at the local park/running trail/lake, I ran an easy 2.5 miles. Which brings up an important question:

When did running get so hard?!

I guess that I'm used to being on the bike, but, holy crap do my legs hurt today. I really don't get it. I can go 60 miles on a bike and be tired the next day, yes. But I try and go 2.5 - that's less than a 5k, mind you - and it seems that the fires of hell have taken up residence in my quads.

This tells me two things:

1.) That the bicycle is a wonder of human achievement and a marvelous example of efficiency.

2.) I'm out of shape.

That's all for today. I'm going to ice my calves for a while, maybe do some yoga. My hamstrings are also obviously very angry with me.

A series of adventures

...which ultimately led me back to where I began.

This tale begins a few days ago--monday, to be precise--when I felt coming upon me a bit of wanderlust. Knowing that time was precious, I immediately set out to satiate my desire for adventure by sleeping for several more hours, following that with a short lunch, downloading weather software to check the outside temperature, after which I had another snack before stepping outside to confirm the internet's report of the weather, finally putting some shoes on, taking a short afternoon nap, and finally--nearly 4 o'clock by this point--hopping on Lucy, ready for a journey.

For my first stop, I headed to campus to return a few books, both of which were tragically overdue. I used a special route I planned for just this very occasion, a route which took me far around the fraternaties and sporting fields. You may ask the reason for this odd detour, and the answer is simple: I would have surely been pummeled into dust by any "jock" or "frastard" (frat+bastard, it's the best I could come up with) catching me with both An Introduction to Tensor Calculus and Astrophysics of the Sun tucked in my satchel. Nevertheless, the campus was sufficiently emptied by the holiday break such that I was able to steal away to the library drop slot unnoticed by any heavy-knuckled mouth-breathers. (I know, I'm currently in a program to deal with my long suppressed nerd-rage) On my way off campus, I noticed that I wasn't the only one taking advantage of the nearly empty campus. I found these two bikes in the midst of a highly inappropriate act, in broad daylight, mind you.

Bike pr0n after the jump.


With my duties fulfilled, it was off to have some fun. I strapped on my satchel and braved a bit of traffic to bike down to the local park, the only park in town to have actual trees, rather than just a tangle of brightly colored plastic and metal placed in the middle of a giant hampster's enclosure. I leaned Lucy against a tree and sat to read. I brought a Dostoevsky with me, because in my spare time I enjoy looking pretentious. I sat down to read, in a spot carefully chosen so as to be as maximally distant from the incessancy of the noisily frolicking children about. (In addition to my nerd-rage, I also hate children. *The more you know...*) Anyway, I had a very pleasant time in the park, something I blogged about in more detail on my sister blog--check it out, won't you?


Thus, with the sun slowly setting, I ended my journey, as I often do, with a trip to the hipster coffee shop. I was engrossed in the reading, and found that I couldn't pass up the opportunity to be simultaneously ironic, aloof, and pretentious. Also, at this point I'd love to present a photo of the overweight woman I spied there, sitting asleep at one of the front tables, apparently taking a nap while knitting. It was a scene worthy of tableaux, but I was too camera-shy in the crowded room to take advantage of this poor woman. You'll just have to take my word for it.

I've just realized that this will mark the first post of 2009. Happy New Year, if you care for things like that.

The last day of Festivus

...how I single-handedly saved Festivus.


Tonight I drove into the sinking sun on my way back to Stilly (that is, Stillwater, but only residents have the right to call it "Stilly"--same thing with Philidelphia). It was the end of a short stay at the Parents' house for some celebration of Christmas and commercialism, a stay during which I spent a lot of money, recieved some gifts, and spent zero hours on my bike, even though I had promised to get some cycling in. It was with a somber mood that I purposefully turned the radio off and prepared my mind for some musings.

Long drives are really great. They're a lot like long bike rides, except for the fact that you're never worried about the headwind, the next hill, or what gear you happen to be in. In other words, they're really great for some relaxing philosophical thought. With the spectre of economics news still fresh in my head (I had been listening to Marketplace, on NPR), I tried to think of something philosophical to ponder. I couldn't. Eventually I reverted back to my old ways and spent some time singing along with a Barry White tune.

I probably should have been thinking about how I would spend this, the last day of Festivus. It's a made-up holiday (though, aren't they all?) which is usually attributed to the writers of Seinfeld. I celebrate my own version of the holiday, which sticks with Festivus tradition, but has a few extra tweaks. The main attraction, instead of the menorah or decorated tree, is an unadorned, lusterless aluminum pole. Why? It's got a high strength to weight ratio. It also represents the heart of Festivus, the stripping down of the commercial holiday which Christmas in particular has become. There aren't any presents in my version of Festivus, which begins on December 21st, the birthday of my lord and savior, Samuel L. Jackson, and ends on December 26th, so I get to celebrate for one day after the Christmas festivities proper are done. There really aren't many other facets to this celebration, other than maintaining a healthy distain for Christmas throughout these six days.

But wait, you may rightly ask me, didn't you say in your first paragraph that you bought and recieved presents? That sounds a whole lot like Christmas commercialism to me.

Okay, you got me. I do celebrate Christmas, loosely, even though I believe the "reason for the season" is as fake as Santa himself. I partake in the gift giving aspects of the holiday because, well, I like presents. Sue me.

Speaking of which, Lucy got a really sweet LED head and tail light set today, with which I braved the darkness of mid-afternoon to pedal down to the Yuppie Coffee Shop (much closer than the Hipster Coffee Shop, but much less ironic) and purchased a really nasty soy-latte. Side Note: Never go to the Yuppie Coffee Shop. It's very consistently nasty.

Anyway, I'm sitting here, ignoring my brimstone-tasting drink, writing this post, and keeping Festivus alive. You see, because the miracle of Festivus is that it exists solely in the minds and hearts of those who practice it, and by nurturing its little flame of non-denominational holiday-like goodness, I have, as I attested in my subtitle, saved festivus. Is that kind of a let-down? I try to write big lead ups to the conclusions in my posts, but I guess they just never come out right.

Oh well, here it is.

Happy Festivus! Screw you, Christmas!

Not much doing...Part II

...or, why I had to drive to the coffee shop.

Here I am, dejected and ashamed, riding the velvety wings of a soy latte all the way to my latest post (this one). I must tell you, the weather here has been, and still is, terrible. For the last three days it's been nothing but a nightmarish parade of bike-endangering road conditions. Two of the days in question were marred by the combination of ice, snow, and subfreezing conditions, covering the road in a thin film of "throw-your-bike-out-from-under-your-feet" and "slam-your-head-against-the-road-in-incoming-traffic". Today, although the weather seems to be getting slightly more tolerable, was still covered in "rain-slick-pavement-of-death" and "oh-I'm-sorry-were-you-planning-on-seeing-for-more-than-three-feet-in-front-of-you?" fog. It's getting bad; I haven't seen the sun in four days.

So, here I am, midway through my caffeine and soy-based dairy-facsimile beverage, writing to you in desperation. I haven't biked for three days, dear reader, and it's tearing me up inside. For FSM's sake, I had to drive to the local hipster coffee shop (in which I happen to be writing). Drive. It's because I was so ashamed of this that I to parked about a block down the road, around the corner, coasted for the last block with my lights off, threw the camo-netting over the top of the car, dove for cover behind a lamppost when a hipster-looking person glanced my way, and crept, MGS style, around the corner, and into the safety of the shop. I considered even rolling up my pant legs, and walking in as if out of breath, but my subterfuge would be too quickly found out, and the hipster shunning which would ensue would be epic in its sadness.

Therefore, here I am. I don't even have anything especially vegan to say, other than maybe, "Soy latte's are pretty good," or, "you probably shouldn't eat animals, it's not good for the planet." But we all know that, by now.

Here I am. There you are. We're all here. Together.

Have fun. I'll try to get back on the bike soon.

Not much doing.

...so here's a nice video to watch.

I love the winter, but I'm beginning to hate the snow. It's keeping me inside.

In the meantime, enjoy this sunny video of a NYC Bike Messenger race, I'll expect you to be taking notes.



It's a funny thing, though, riding in traffic. I've been thinking a lot about it recently, mainly about how agile bikes can be in these kinds of situations. Sure, in a flat stretch, the cars will win hands down, but it's when things really start to get gritty that rolling on two wheels and a few pounds of aluminum can really give you the edge. If, for instance, I need to hop onto the sidewalk to bypass an obstacle--I will--if I need to slip past several cars on a busy road--you bet I will--and the best part is that I can do all of these things with the grace and finesse that only a bike will allow.

Two-wheeled perspective - Alleyway AHT

There are certain things you just can't see from a car. This latest gallery comes from the alley behind the hipster coffee shop; and I'm frankly not surprised to see such a high AHT-density next to the building in which the most highly-caffeinated art-history majors seem to dwell. I know that it sounds as though I'm making fun (because I am), but I did just spend the night there reading philosophy and inhaling soy-latte. Actually, I may just be bitter because thusfar I've failed in my attempts to fully assimilate into their herd. Anyway.

Enjoy.

Mr. T. Owns You

Live for the Moment.
And, if you weren't aware, this is a fact.

Hilary [sic] is a BAMF
For more information, see this clip.

American Flag
Very reminiscent of Jasper Johns
(Actually, while I was looking up that image, this one doesn't look anything like my mental picture of the Johns Painting. Oh well, you get the point.)

every ONE Need a Hobby.

Untitled
I'm very impressed by this one, so I saved it for last.

Weekend Bike Excursion!

...well, maybe not.

Let me set the mood. Open this in a new tab, so the music can soothe you into a reading mood.

Alright, now that we're in that happy place together, let's discuss the day.

The weekends usually give the perfect opportunity for me to conduct one of my weekly cycle excursions to parts unknown (within the Stillwater city limits), but when I woke up, bright and early this afternoon I noticed that winter had finally found me. The temperature outside was barely pushing thirty degrees and dark gray clouds hung low in the frigid air...no good.

So, being the coward that I am, I chose to stay inside. But rather than hang you out to dry, I thought I'd better at least write a post about my own cowardice, and maybe even end it with a nice picture of some of the snow/sleet which fell later in the evening.

















Hey, look at that. I guess I'm done.

A lovely trip to Yale

...which turned into a five-hour, 65-mile, spoonful of pain.

Here are some of the photos from my recent bike excursion to Yale, OK. The scenery in Oklahoma is fairly homogeneous, but some of it is okay, I guess.

A good example of the desolate roads which are perfect for distance cycling.

No, it's not just a cliche, this is 99% of Oklahoma scenery.

...and this...

Photographic proof that I actually made it there.

Bonus: Nonplussed cows staring directly at me.

Critical Mass-querade!

...do you see what I did there?

I was very exited about this month's critical mass. Not just because it was promised to have the highest turnout of this year, or even because I didn't have any homework to worry about that night. No, I was excited about this particular critical mass because it happened to fall on October 31. That's right, it was going to be the halloween edition of critical mass. Because there's nothing hipsters like to do more than dress up and annoy cars. Let's get going.







About half of us showed up in costume, I was there dressed as a creative writing teacher because this year I had the scraggly-man-ponytail to properly pull it off. But there were some pretty impressive costumes, which were then made more impressive by the fact that the people in them were able to cycle with, for example, ninja turtle hands and mask on.

Again, nothing too special about the ride, we had enough people this time to storm Perkins road, probably the busiest and most car-choked roadway in Stillwater. Tons of appreciative honks, a few a-hole frat boys yelling obscenities (that's what they're here for, it seems), and no major accidents.

Well, we lost two people. But we're assuming that they're okay.

Lucy's got a new pair of shoes'

...also, the worst toe-stubbing in the world.

Rejoice, dear reader, for I have a tale for your enjoyment. But first, I'm afraid that you must mourn--mourn for the loss of my battery charger, for without it's electric nourishment, my camera has died. So it has come to this. A tale without visual aid, but a tale nonetheless.

But let me assure you, what this particular post may lack in flair and shine, shall be compensated ten-fold in the flourishes of my language, and soon the rhythmic clack of fingertip striking key shall fill the air like sweet music.

My tale begins long ago, with the unexpected puncture of Lucy's innocent rear tire. The layers of rubber were cruelly rent asunder by an unknown obstacle, allowing the pressurized lifeblood within to quickly and forcefully escape. I was able to act quickly, and a replacement, yes, a replacement tube was soon inserted and the lifeblood replaced, but it sadly would not be the same. No, for the gaping chasm, the unhealing wound, the gap through which the tube could burst at any moment, was still menacingly present.

And so it remained, living in an unsteady balance, until just yesterday, when the air once again found a way to burst forth, leaving me stranded, and without transportation. Do not be alarmed, dear readers, for I was fortuitously near a bus stop, where I soon boarded the massive vehicle, with crippled companion in tow. It was then, on that fateful ride, that I knew precisely what I must do.

Shortly after waking this morning, I shamefully drove myself to the cycling shop, in search of the replacement which would save Lucy's very life. Thankfully, the replacement tire which I was in such desperate need was quickly forthcoming, and I dashed home, to prepare for the surgery. The flash of the wrench, the groan of stretched rubber, and the erratic symphony of metal scraping metal filled the room to it's capacity. Soon, though, air was replaced and repressurized, bolts were firmly fastened, and the deed was done.

There she stood, restored and renewed, gleaming before me like a beacon. The new tire existing in stark contrast with the rest of the machine. Slick, clean, black rubber stood out against dusty, worn, and duct-taped, and she was whole once more. Success hung tangibly in the air, like a fine mist of happiness permeating the room with pure joy.

So let us halt the story here, so that we may have a chance to rest, and meditate on what we have heard today. Picture for yourselves, because as previously stated, I am sorrowfully unable to do so for you--picture the beauty of the machine, now fully formed and repaired beyond it's previous state. It is truly a beautiful thing, dear readers.


Oh, I almost forgot. So I stubbed my toe sooo freakin bad today. It was nuts. I was walking through my room, right? and my big toe totally nailed my piano. Let me tell you, hurt like a dicken, several dickens actually. So anyway, I look down at the thing, and it's bleeding like ka-razy, man! Totally split open. That's how hard I hit the thing. So I'm running around my apartment, trying to find a band-aid, but of course, I don't have any, so I just had to let the toe bleed itself out. Totally gnarly.

Laterz.

Flying downhill at the speed of AWESOME!!

while actually going about 15-20 miles per hour.

Recently (wink, this isn't actually a week old story, wink), Sand Springs held it's first ever (to my knowledge) downhill soapbox race! (Actually a series of many one-on-one time trial events) and I was there to capture all of the action.

Although, saying that I was there capturing the action would be like saying that Hunter S. Thompson was capturing the action of the Mint 400 in Fear and Loathing. But I was physically there, taking pictures, which you'll see dispersed throughout the text, and that's what I'm trying to say.

It was a very interesting affair, and for the entire hour I was present, I was captivated. Every few minutes, the horn would blow and you'd see two kids in hastily manufactured, wheeled, death-chariots, careening down the road at relatively slow speeds until they finally anti-climaxed by plowing into either a bale of hay, a pile of sand, or each other. It was awesome.





I also realized that Sand Springs was now home to it's very own cycling shop. It happened to be on the same street as the sweet racing action, so during one of the breaks, I went in to take a look. As much as it pains me to say this...I was very disappointed. It appeared as though what they were calling a cycling shop was nothing more than two racks of tiny, tiny mountain/bmx bikes and a catalog. The people there, while coming off as slightly needy, were nice, and shoved one of their business cards into my hands as soon as they ascertained that I was horrified, as the hardcore road biker that I am, at the limited nature of their shop.

But the feeling of horror soon subsided as I entered the real world once again and was immersed in the world of juvenile street racing. Looking around at the proceedings, I was amazed to see that, in the distance, an entire section of downtown which was devoted to the gastronomic impulses of the lookers-on. There were, across the street, improvised stands selling the likes of funnel-cakes, fried [insert any item here], and cotton-candy. Of course, because whenever you've got loads of people standing around staring at asphalt, you're going to sell loads of unhealthy food.

But all good things must eventually come to an end, dear reader, and after my sister was content in buying a ridiculously overpriced bag of spun, molten sugar, we left the scene behind, which was still buzzing with activity long after we were gone.

Oh, and I'm pretty sure that I spotted Rocco from Boondock Saints while I was there.

Sight-Cycling

I've had a very boring week. I've done nothing, up to this point, that could be considered "blog-worthy." This evening, I set out, and some may say I have succeeded in my attempt, to change that.

Craving adventure, as I am wont to do, I set out from the coffee shop at which I spent a large portion of my day, in search of something--this ephemeral something I could not yet put my finger on, but I set out, regardless, to find it.

So I left. Lucy (my bike) and I wandered through the streets and alleyways of Stillwater for a time, searching for that which is inherently unsearchable.

My first encounter with the extraordinary came abruptly, when I noticed a pile of what seemed to be junk on the side of the road. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the contents of this particular pile were not the ordinary sort of junk (bits of rusty metal, slowly rotting wood, stained couches, and what-have-you) but rather rusty, slowly rotting, and stained business signs, from every type of establishment conceivable. Among those that I recognized were Conoco and Holiday Inn (as seen in the photo), and many, many more. I was slightly disappointed, because being on a bike prohibited me from stealing any of these great pieces of unintentionally modern art.

Regardless, and with my appetite for the unusual whetted, I pressed on through more parts unknown. (Side note: If you've never experienced a city completely by bike or on foot, you're completely missing out. There is a myriad of sense experiences that you are missing out on by driving a boring car through your city. Try it out some time, and pay close attention to the sights, sounds, and smells of your particular parcel of the country. For instance, I noticed today that many parts of Stillwater smell a bit like poo, and that's all part of the experience.)

Anyway, the evening was wearing on, and I was determined to continue exploring while I still was able. Hearing the sounds of drunken collegiate revelry in the distance (foreshadowing!), I came upon a very strange sight. It was some sort of monument, I guess, probably to the rail lines which used to cut through Stillwater back in the day. I was more struck, however, by the fact that I had no earthly idea why there should be a train engine, on it's own tiny set of tracks to nowhere, sitting in front of a mock station, in the middle of downtown Stillwater. In a way, though, not knowing why that train was placed there made the scene more poignant and mysterious to me. There was someone out there, I thought to myself, who cared so much about this particular train, that they enshrined it here, so that I could later find it, and wonder at its origin.

But mysticism and determinism aside, I snapped a few poorly-lit photographs of the scene and carried on. By this time, it had gotten properly dark. Lucy, with no front or rear light to guide the way, was as blind as I, as we barreled down the ill-lit streets of our town, searching for another sign.

As you probably know, there is an inverse correlation between the effort put into finding something extraordinary, and the chances of finding something extraordinary. That is, the harder you look, the less likely you are to find such a thing. Knowing this principle full well, I charged on, into the night, telling myself that I only needed to find one more exciting thing before I could go home and report my findings. And it was at that moment (roughly) that I noticed something odd. By this time I was headed roughly towards campus, and I began to see that the car-density per parking lot was increasing sharply. Nothing made this point more clear when I noticed that a bank, located very close to campus, had it's lot packed with vehicles, well into the ATM lines. What could be the cause of this?

Of course! I thought in a sudden bout of Sherlock Holmesian insight, the football game!

The OSU whatevers were playing the Texas A&M whatevers at the manly-man's sport of college football tonight. Thus, as I pierced the heart of campus, my way was consistently and frustratingly blocked by drunken revelers, orange-clad alumni, desperate to relive former days of glory, frat boys and the ever-present sorostitutes, all of whom were shouting and stumbling and generally milling about. For several square blocks, an entire tent-city had sprung from the ground, orange and white canopies protecting wide screen tv's, beer (pronounced in typical Oklahoma fashion, BEHR) coolers, and lawnchairs filled with fans. The sense impressions, which I previously alluded to, were threatening to overwhelm me as I coasted through the heart of the madness, the sights: orange masses of people moving amorphously about, clutching BEHRs and trying to cross the road, the sounds: horns honking at random, shouts of "Go Pokes!" and in reply, "F**k you!" and the smells: a strange mix of the telltale scent of an impromptu wing stand and urine.













Eventually, not caring much for the madness and debauchery concomitant with collegiate sport, I left the mob scene behind, in favor of quieter territory. And this is, I'm afraid, where today's story has to end. I'd seen quite enough for one day, perhaps even one week. I silently pedaled home, where I then sat, with my laptop in the most literal of positions (on the top of my lap), to write it all down.

September Critical Mass

Finally. I was finally able to do one of these. And let me tell you, the wait was worth it.

Around 4:45pm on friday afternoon, there was a slowly growing number of cyclists gathering at what I will refer to as the "hipster trees", just west of the OSU student union. The gaunt, bearded figures mostly spent their time milling about, riding each other's bikes/longboards, and gawking at the few brave hippies deeply engaged in slacklining.

Not too much to say about the ride, really. We took a winding path through town, bothering cars and pedestrians (read: raising cycling awareness). There was a short break about half-way through, we stopped at the local coffee shop to have a drink and round up any slackers.

Another interesting turn (bike pun? wha?) of events is that we started with around 15 people, but by the time were were turning onto the final lap, there were only five of us on road bikes left. Most of the rest had either turned off along the way to go home, or were left behind (sorry, Cassandra, we didn't notice you go) Unencumbered as the last five of us were, we booked it back to campus, five brave cyclists taking up two lanes of traffic and generally having a blast of it.





We finished the ride, laid our bikes down to rest under the shade of the hipster trees, and the sound of nicotine and caffeine pumping through hipster veins could be heard throughout campus. All in all, a good day.


On a more serious note, though, before the ride got started, there came some news that a female cyclist had been hit by a truck pulling out of a parking lot. Details were slim, but bearers of the news reported seeing the girl, standing, but with quite a bit of blood on her forehead. The ride was declared in dedication to this girl. If I learn any more details about the situation, I'll post.

Construction Worries

Here's my beef with construction.

Even though you can't see anything in the photo due to its cool artsy nature, this is a blockage around one of the key intersections in Stillwater. It also happened to be directly on the route I ride to and from campus every day.

This has forced me into a pickle.

(Note the second food-based synonym used in this post already, I'm on a roll) (aah! that's number three! lookout!)

For the last week, I've been forced to find different routes to school, which, as a creature of habit such as myself can tell you, is a bit unnerving. I've nearly been killed twice, trying to cross 6th at strange places, and that's two times too many. Worse than being killed, though, is my other experience: being stuck for ten minutes behind a letch in a rusty car, going ten miles an hour around campus, failing miserably at trying to surreptitiously check out sorostitutes walking home from class. It was sickening, and worse yet, only served to shed light on my own surreptitious letching.

The construction and subsequent detours wouldn't bother me that much if I knew that the intersection was going to be better off when it's done. I pay my taxes, I'm all about building bridges and sidewalks and whatnot. But that's the thing. It looks like they're just tearing up concrete for the fun of it. (Although, to be fair, I would imagine that it would be a lot of fun) And you know as well as I, that even though they tore the place up in the space of an afternoon, it's going to take at least two years for them to fix the thing. Whatever the thing was that needed mending.

But for now, I'll continue to risk my life for the sake of my higher education--weaving in and out of rush hour traffic, dodging cars and pedestrians, riding my 25 pound piece of aluminum and rubber down the mean streets, waiting for fate to deliver up a delicious plate of destiny. (FOUR!) Or I'll just take the bus.

End of August (Sort of) Critical Mass!

Alright, here it is. Critical Mass is a week late, but it's worth the wait! Can you feel it?

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I can't. I missed the ride.

I thought it started at six, okay? Sue me.

So instead of riding my bike about town in a carefree manner with 16 other hipsters on fixies, I got to sit under a tree, and talk philosophy with my good (and shirtless on this occasion (yep, better not to ask)) buddy, Tim, until the rest of the hooligans returned.

Note that the only bike left upright is Lucy, featured in the foreground.

At which point we talked not of philosophy, but of old Pete and Pete episodes, and we laughed. And there was much merriment to be had. But alas! The merriment which I experienced, sitting there among the others, was nothing more than a pale mirror of its pure form.

But, there was a dude doing some fixie trixies...that made me feel a bit better.