...for the American Chemical Society's 233rd National Meeting & Exposition.
Imagine: 15,000 chemists milling about for 5 days.
The three days that I will be there are probably too much already, and I'm cutting out before Wednesday and Thursday. Pity the poor schlub speaking at 4.30pm Thursday afternoon to an empty room (not me, thankfully).
Friday, March 23, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Big wheels keep on turning
“Any idiot can face a crisis, it is this day-to-day living that wears you out.” --Anton Chekov
When you bike commute, no matter how long, tiring, frustrating, draining, complex, irritating, infuriating, boring, meaningless, or vexing your day has been, and no matter how tired, drained, and limp your legs and body feel, you've gotta suck it up and get on the bike to get home.
And more likely than not, at some point in the ride home that same day, you'll find yourself cruising along in the big ring at 30+ kph just like you did the day before.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Succor
No riveting race reports or road rage to report here, just a little hum-diddly from 'round home...
-----
Last last weekend, I needed a lock. Thinking I had one, I dug around in the drawers through all the Presta valve nuts and indeed uncovered my old combination lock on my old bike cable.
I've had the black lock a long time. I'm pretty sure my mom bought me two locks for my locker when I started high school (which in BC was grades 8-12; we don't speak freshman-soph-junior-senior up north), the blue lock and the black lock. By the end of high school, the blue one didn't work so well: if it was pushed closed and you didn't turn the dial, you could just pull it back open again. Actually, I think you could turn the dial a fair amount and still just pull it back open. Still, I mostly used the blue lock in my last year of high school due to the convenience of not really having to lock it, and neither was anything stolen nor was my locker booby-trapped--hm, it's making me think I might've had some measure of respect. Occasionally a friend would flip through my notes to get their homework done, but no harm.
Anyway, the blue lock died, but the black lock lives on, and still works just fine. Which is to say, I can't just pull on it to open it: one actually needs to remember the combination.
Oh.
I tried. I turned, and turned back, and tried to feel tumblers clicking into place, and racked my brain for inspiration. After a good half-hour, I decided it was no good, and walked to the corner store to get a new lock. It wasn't much money, but I was regretting that not only was the old lock wasted because I couldn't remember the combination, but it was going to take the bike cable with it unless/until I scrounged a bolt cutter from somewhere.
Later that evening, I got the old black lock out again and tried some more. Ah, inspiration! I could feel the numbers floating in front of me, see them, and tried again and again, but no luck. I threw it back in the drawer and went to double-check the combination for the new lock--ah, the exact numbers I thought would've opened the old lock. Argh. I tossed it back in the closet and turned away to face the workweek.
Now the following weekend, this just-past weekend, was absuh-puh-lutely gorgeous. I spent a lot of Saturday in my office trying to sort out a presentation--didn't get very far--but at least my office has windows so I could see the sunshine. I got out for a long bike ride Sunday morning, a far better way to use the weather, and didn't expect myself to have any good work thoughts afterwards, just a real breather of an afternoon. After getting back, eating, and showering, I played around with Slow in the back a bit, got the basket back on the front, and sat down on the stoop to take a long look.
I've been uncertain of Slow's future, as my bike stable is getting largish and I don't know when Slow would get ridden. There's no space for Slow inside, meaning a parking spot outside under a tree to get covered pitch and to be rained on or to be baked in the sun, leading to general deterioration. I could sell Slow, but the paint is old and dull and mechanically things are and will always be, uh, idiosyncratic. I could give Slow away to Goodwill or the like, but you just don't give things to Goodwill that are close to being trash--or idiosyncratic (tires not available in stores, non-standard bolts, questionable shifting, and is that brake rubbing?). Or I could put Slow on the sidewalk with a "Free" sign, destining the wheels to be tacoed and the frame to be bent by hooligans outside some dive bar.
I didn't like my options, but I was liking sitting on the stoop. It faces north, so there's no worry about the sun shining in my eyes under the blue, blue sky. The grass is growing, the back-back yard is full of lush 2-ft high weeds, the birds were singing, and I could watch a crow bringing bits of grass and branches to build a nest in a neighbour's pine tree. There was a cool breeze and just the lightest hum from traffic. I could've sat there for hours. I did sit there for an hour. It was an hour well spent.
Then, the lock came back to mind, so I got it back out and sat back down on my stoop. Tried remembering the combination. xx-xx-xx? Nope, that's the new lock's combination again...12-36-4? Nope, that was the blue lock's combination. How odd that after all this time I can remember the blue lock's combination, which was really never used. Still, we all remember old, odd numbers, right? Parents' phone number is easy, as is parents' old mailing address. High school student number 88292, university student number 50198944, grad school student number 4620167. I know the numerical order of the alphabet by heart: K? 11. V? 22. O? 15. C'mon, try me.
The lock--there was a pattern.
Oh. Now we're getting somewhere. Flash back twenty years to me sitting on the couch downstairs and Mom handing me the locks and me comparing their combinations. The black lock's combination had a pattern, one that made me think at the time "gee, this will make it easy to remember." Not easy enough...
The blue lock's combination was low-high-low. New lock is high-low-high. Are you getting the new lock and the black lock confused because they're both high-low-high?
Try variations: 26-4-31, 28-12-34, 34-2-27...spinning a forgotten lock on a Sunday afternoon 'cuz there's nothing else I want or need to do. High-low-high isn't getting me anywhere.
There was a pattern.
The combination numbers all ended with the same digit.
Click.
Darn it if that didn't just make my day. And I sat on the stoop and unthreaded the lock from the bike cable and closed the lock, and opened it again, and closed it, and opened it again, and put it back on the bike cable and closed them together again.
And then I got my shoes on and got my helmet and got the bike cable and the lock and got on Slow and we went to the store. And my legs were tired from riding for hours that morning, but that was just fine 'cuz Slow doesn't hurry well. We rode to Trader Joe's, not because I really wanted or needed anything from TJ's, just because I hadn't been there in a while, and I locked Slow to the railing with the bike cable and the lock. I came out with the groceries and they fit into the basket perfectly, and we came home.
Slow is going to stay. I'll never have another bike like him. And now he even has his own lock.
-----
Last last weekend, I needed a lock. Thinking I had one, I dug around in the drawers through all the Presta valve nuts and indeed uncovered my old combination lock on my old bike cable.
I've had the black lock a long time. I'm pretty sure my mom bought me two locks for my locker when I started high school (which in BC was grades 8-12; we don't speak freshman-soph-junior-senior up north), the blue lock and the black lock. By the end of high school, the blue one didn't work so well: if it was pushed closed and you didn't turn the dial, you could just pull it back open again. Actually, I think you could turn the dial a fair amount and still just pull it back open. Still, I mostly used the blue lock in my last year of high school due to the convenience of not really having to lock it, and neither was anything stolen nor was my locker booby-trapped--hm, it's making me think I might've had some measure of respect. Occasionally a friend would flip through my notes to get their homework done, but no harm.
Anyway, the blue lock died, but the black lock lives on, and still works just fine. Which is to say, I can't just pull on it to open it: one actually needs to remember the combination.
Oh.
I tried. I turned, and turned back, and tried to feel tumblers clicking into place, and racked my brain for inspiration. After a good half-hour, I decided it was no good, and walked to the corner store to get a new lock. It wasn't much money, but I was regretting that not only was the old lock wasted because I couldn't remember the combination, but it was going to take the bike cable with it unless/until I scrounged a bolt cutter from somewhere.
Later that evening, I got the old black lock out again and tried some more. Ah, inspiration! I could feel the numbers floating in front of me, see them, and tried again and again, but no luck. I threw it back in the drawer and went to double-check the combination for the new lock--ah, the exact numbers I thought would've opened the old lock. Argh. I tossed it back in the closet and turned away to face the workweek.
Now the following weekend, this just-past weekend, was absuh-puh-lutely gorgeous. I spent a lot of Saturday in my office trying to sort out a presentation--didn't get very far--but at least my office has windows so I could see the sunshine. I got out for a long bike ride Sunday morning, a far better way to use the weather, and didn't expect myself to have any good work thoughts afterwards, just a real breather of an afternoon. After getting back, eating, and showering, I played around with Slow in the back a bit, got the basket back on the front, and sat down on the stoop to take a long look.
I've been uncertain of Slow's future, as my bike stable is getting largish and I don't know when Slow would get ridden. There's no space for Slow inside, meaning a parking spot outside under a tree to get covered pitch and to be rained on or to be baked in the sun, leading to general deterioration. I could sell Slow, but the paint is old and dull and mechanically things are and will always be, uh, idiosyncratic. I could give Slow away to Goodwill or the like, but you just don't give things to Goodwill that are close to being trash--or idiosyncratic (tires not available in stores, non-standard bolts, questionable shifting, and is that brake rubbing?). Or I could put Slow on the sidewalk with a "Free" sign, destining the wheels to be tacoed and the frame to be bent by hooligans outside some dive bar.
I didn't like my options, but I was liking sitting on the stoop. It faces north, so there's no worry about the sun shining in my eyes under the blue, blue sky. The grass is growing, the back-back yard is full of lush 2-ft high weeds, the birds were singing, and I could watch a crow bringing bits of grass and branches to build a nest in a neighbour's pine tree. There was a cool breeze and just the lightest hum from traffic. I could've sat there for hours. I did sit there for an hour. It was an hour well spent.
Then, the lock came back to mind, so I got it back out and sat back down on my stoop. Tried remembering the combination. xx-xx-xx? Nope, that's the new lock's combination again...12-36-4? Nope, that was the blue lock's combination. How odd that after all this time I can remember the blue lock's combination, which was really never used. Still, we all remember old, odd numbers, right? Parents' phone number is easy, as is parents' old mailing address. High school student number 88292, university student number 50198944, grad school student number 4620167. I know the numerical order of the alphabet by heart: K? 11. V? 22. O? 15. C'mon, try me.
The lock--there was a pattern.
Oh. Now we're getting somewhere. Flash back twenty years to me sitting on the couch downstairs and Mom handing me the locks and me comparing their combinations. The black lock's combination had a pattern, one that made me think at the time "gee, this will make it easy to remember." Not easy enough...
The blue lock's combination was low-high-low. New lock is high-low-high. Are you getting the new lock and the black lock confused because they're both high-low-high?
Try variations: 26-4-31, 28-12-34, 34-2-27...spinning a forgotten lock on a Sunday afternoon 'cuz there's nothing else I want or need to do. High-low-high isn't getting me anywhere.
There was a pattern.
The combination numbers all ended with the same digit.
Click.
Darn it if that didn't just make my day. And I sat on the stoop and unthreaded the lock from the bike cable and closed the lock, and opened it again, and closed it, and opened it again, and put it back on the bike cable and closed them together again.
And then I got my shoes on and got my helmet and got the bike cable and the lock and got on Slow and we went to the store. And my legs were tired from riding for hours that morning, but that was just fine 'cuz Slow doesn't hurry well. We rode to Trader Joe's, not because I really wanted or needed anything from TJ's, just because I hadn't been there in a while, and I locked Slow to the railing with the bike cable and the lock. I came out with the groceries and they fit into the basket perfectly, and we came home.
Slow is going to stay. I'll never have another bike like him. And now he even has his own lock.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Yay for me
Five days, five bike commutes.
In part, because gas is over $3/gal and it feels good to save the money, though I probably saved $15 for the week and spent $35 in the cafeteria because I don't want to lug my lunch on my back to work.
In part, because I can get back on the bike after taking February off and get some base miles, though calling them base miles implies that I have some sort of training plan, which is not the case.
In part, because I got bike number five on Sunday and need to ride more to have some credibility as a guy who owns five bicycles. Someday I should take a group shot of the bunch.
This was my first 5/5 week since 2002 I'd guess, and certainly the first since moving to the south Bay. The extra time on the bike gave me time to think about the Four Horsemen of Bike Commuting (Cold, Dark, Rain, and Wind) as well as things that make bike commuting more pleasant (good route, good weather, late sunset, low traffic). On Monday, I know I'll drive because I have an eye appointment. The forecast for Tuesday is iffy for now; we'll see if I can suck it up and get back on the bike. But before then, it's time for a weekend long ride!
Ah, living in California is so tough...
In part, because gas is over $3/gal and it feels good to save the money, though I probably saved $15 for the week and spent $35 in the cafeteria because I don't want to lug my lunch on my back to work.
In part, because I can get back on the bike after taking February off and get some base miles, though calling them base miles implies that I have some sort of training plan, which is not the case.
In part, because I got bike number five on Sunday and need to ride more to have some credibility as a guy who owns five bicycles. Someday I should take a group shot of the bunch.
This was my first 5/5 week since 2002 I'd guess, and certainly the first since moving to the south Bay. The extra time on the bike gave me time to think about the Four Horsemen of Bike Commuting (Cold, Dark, Rain, and Wind) as well as things that make bike commuting more pleasant (good route, good weather, late sunset, low traffic). On Monday, I know I'll drive because I have an eye appointment. The forecast for Tuesday is iffy for now; we'll see if I can suck it up and get back on the bike. But before then, it's time for a weekend long ride!
Ah, living in California is so tough...
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
Bikin' Bacon
So a few weeks ago I wrote about various bike movies, and Quicksilver was mentioned. Having not seen it and disregarding various less-than-stellar comments made about it, I got it from Netflix and watched.
Synopsis: Kevin Bacon, staple of '80s cinema, loses all in the stockmarket and for some reason becomes a bike messenger to compensate/recuperate. Kevin Bacon rides a bike, Kevin Bacon dodges traffic, Kevin Bacon wears a silly purple beret, Kevin Bacon rides a bike some more. There are plots involving a coworker trying to start a hot dog stand as a way out of "the life" and a bad-tempered gangster in a Pontiac.
After watching those few weeks ago, my summary: whether you ride a bike or not, there's no need to watch the film unless you feel the need to spend two hours uninspired and unproductive.
Moving forward in time to last Saturday: the Velogirls crit was on in Menlo Park, giving me a chance to track down Lauren and buy some Girl Scout cookies (hopefully in exchange for reduced on-line discussion of her neighbor, Percy the Naked Carpenter). It was great to see the Queen Bella too! But, I had to skedaddle down to Mountain View to catch up with a friend before he left to fly back to Germany--apologies if I disappeared inexplicably. The cookies were loaded into a small pack I had brought, and off I went.
In a car, it would've been a simple jaunt down Hwy 101 to Shoreline. Off the freeway, there are fewer lines for a bike to take: Alma St doesn't have shoulders, and the Bryant St bike boulevard is fine for a dawdling pace but not for going fast. I ended up on Middlefield, which is shoulderless but has a 25 mph speed limit, doable on my road bike.
So I found myself making a delivery while drafting off of cars, weaving off to the side at a hint of their brake lights, doing my best to stand clipped in at intersections so as to hit the green light ASAP, floating over the dips and rises of the city streets, and generally going as fast as was reasonable. And it struck me: I was riding--wait for it--
like a Canadian Bacon.
Happy work week, everyone...
Synopsis: Kevin Bacon, staple of '80s cinema, loses all in the stockmarket and for some reason becomes a bike messenger to compensate/recuperate. Kevin Bacon rides a bike, Kevin Bacon dodges traffic, Kevin Bacon wears a silly purple beret, Kevin Bacon rides a bike some more. There are plots involving a coworker trying to start a hot dog stand as a way out of "the life" and a bad-tempered gangster in a Pontiac.
After watching those few weeks ago, my summary: whether you ride a bike or not, there's no need to watch the film unless you feel the need to spend two hours uninspired and unproductive.
Moving forward in time to last Saturday: the Velogirls crit was on in Menlo Park, giving me a chance to track down Lauren and buy some Girl Scout cookies (hopefully in exchange for reduced on-line discussion of her neighbor, Percy the Naked Carpenter). It was great to see the Queen Bella too! But, I had to skedaddle down to Mountain View to catch up with a friend before he left to fly back to Germany--apologies if I disappeared inexplicably. The cookies were loaded into a small pack I had brought, and off I went.
In a car, it would've been a simple jaunt down Hwy 101 to Shoreline. Off the freeway, there are fewer lines for a bike to take: Alma St doesn't have shoulders, and the Bryant St bike boulevard is fine for a dawdling pace but not for going fast. I ended up on Middlefield, which is shoulderless but has a 25 mph speed limit, doable on my road bike.
So I found myself making a delivery while drafting off of cars, weaving off to the side at a hint of their brake lights, doing my best to stand clipped in at intersections so as to hit the green light ASAP, floating over the dips and rises of the city streets, and generally going as fast as was reasonable. And it struck me: I was riding--wait for it--
like a Canadian Bacon.
Happy work week, everyone...
Friday, March 9, 2007
What a fruit
Cherries I understand. They blossom in the spring, work up their little fruits, then ripen in the full summer sunshine to bright red or red-black. Kids are out of school and can climb up, eat cherries, and spit the seeds on the ground (or at the nearest other kid) in a little slice of summer heaven.
Apples I understand. They too blossom in the spring (after the cherries), and then take longer to fill out--they're larger after all. In September the green unripe apples start taking on the red and gold hues that tell you they're ready for picking. Over Thanksgiving weekend (Columbus Day south of the border), you can pick the trees out. For a few months, you get a fresh apple in your lunch every day. By February or March, they're getting a bit old and wrinkly for eating as is, and they all get turned into applesauce, apple pie, apple cake...
Oranges I do not understand. They ripen in December, January, and February, the darkest, coldest, dreariest months of the year. Nobody wants to be outside then any longer than necessary. Not only that, right beside the oranges ripening on the trees beside the driveway are the blossoms for the next crop of oranges that will ripen the next miserable winter--nope, no waiting around for those other oranges to go away, gotta blossom...
Silly fruit.
Apples I understand. They too blossom in the spring (after the cherries), and then take longer to fill out--they're larger after all. In September the green unripe apples start taking on the red and gold hues that tell you they're ready for picking. Over Thanksgiving weekend (Columbus Day south of the border), you can pick the trees out. For a few months, you get a fresh apple in your lunch every day. By February or March, they're getting a bit old and wrinkly for eating as is, and they all get turned into applesauce, apple pie, apple cake...
Oranges I do not understand. They ripen in December, January, and February, the darkest, coldest, dreariest months of the year. Nobody wants to be outside then any longer than necessary. Not only that, right beside the oranges ripening on the trees beside the driveway are the blossoms for the next crop of oranges that will ripen the next miserable winter--nope, no waiting around for those other oranges to go away, gotta blossom...
Silly fruit.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Bring it back
Slow is nice and all...but the time has come to do some real riding.
New shoes, new pedals, new eyes. And wow, skinny tires and not-rusted-out hubs make a bike go way fast...'specially downhill.
Once I get a few lunch rides back in the legs, and can somehow get away for 2 hours at lunch, I may have to go Bella hunting.
IF I can keep up...
New shoes, new pedals, new eyes. And wow, skinny tires and not-rusted-out hubs make a bike go way fast...'specially downhill.
Once I get a few lunch rides back in the legs, and can somehow get away for 2 hours at lunch, I may have to go Bella hunting.
IF I can keep up...
Sunday, March 4, 2007
NAHBS redux
I went, I gawked, I asked questions that totally exposed my ignorance of the finer points of framebuilding. Go to cyclingnews.com, check their galleries, as my camera doesn't come even close to doing justice to the lines and luminosity of those machines.
BUT...
I walked out of the convention hall at about 3.30pm Saturday afternoon, and had a good think while sitting and waiting for the light rail to show up. And I was a bit surprised to find that after looking at all those custom handbuilt bikes for 5 hours, I had no desire to ride any of them.
They cost thousands of dollars. Their paint jobs are more suitable for hanging on a wall than riding around town--let alone being locked to a parking meter. Replacing components would cost thousands of dollars; many of the fiddly bits couldn't be fixed without sending it back to a builder. All that time, I was walking through an art gallery, and while original paintings by Titian or Rembrandt or Monet may look good in a gallery, I wouldn't want to hang them in my living room.
The train showed up, and Slow and I made our way back via rail and trail to Los Gatos. And today, I put a deposit down on the Bianchi, and I'm looking forward to riding it in a couple weeks.
Also, thanks for the chat at the train stop and good luck to the amateur builder from Seattle. I hope he's lucky enough as other builders to have a significant other with a "real job" to pay the bills.
They cost thousands of dollars. Their paint jobs are more suitable for hanging on a wall than riding around town--let alone being locked to a parking meter. Replacing components would cost thousands of dollars; many of the fiddly bits couldn't be fixed without sending it back to a builder. All that time, I was walking through an art gallery, and while original paintings by Titian or Rembrandt or Monet may look good in a gallery, I wouldn't want to hang them in my living room.
The train showed up, and Slow and I made our way back via rail and trail to Los Gatos. And today, I put a deposit down on the Bianchi, and I'm looking forward to riding it in a couple weeks.
Also, thanks for the chat at the train stop and good luck to the amateur builder from Seattle. I hope he's lucky enough as other builders to have a significant other with a "real job" to pay the bills.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Hypocrite
The plan for Saturday: after breakfast (probably organic granola), hop on Slow and get to the nearest VTA station. Take the train to downtown SJ and drool, drool, drool over shiny handmade beatiful custom bicycles for a few hours. Machines that bridge the utilitarian and the profound, vehicles that will translate every single muscle twitch into forward motion, lines of strength and grace. Once satiated, take transit and Slow to get back home, as visions of bicycles dance in my head. It's all about being environmentally friendly and supporting small and local business and being willing to pay a premium for top quality.The plan for Sunday: sometime, most likely hop in a car to go to the not-so-local bike shop tohave them order me a Bianchi San Jose. It's mass-produced in Taiwan and fitted out with an almost random set of often non-branded parts (unless you consider Bianchi a component manufacturer). Also, it's the cheapest way to get a single-speed cross bike under my feet. Burn some gas, fork some cash over to a multinational bicycle behemoth, and keep it as cheap as possible, please.
Cognitive dissonance?
So why not go to Rock Lobster or Hunter Cycles and lay down the cash for custom? Facts are: I haven't had a single speed since the one with a banana seat. I already have four bikes that aren't being ridden enough. I may not take to the single speed trend, in which case I'd be eating a lot of money to own another underused bike. So I'm hedging. In a couple years, we'll see if I've beaten the poor Bianchi into a heap of slag, in which case the wallet will come out.OK, now after bad-mouthing the Bianchi for rhetorical effect, on the bright side: a) it is an easy way to get on a single speed, b) it has pretty much the same shape as my current 'cross bike, which I'm pretty happy with, and c) it looks good in blue, dammit. Just gotta do something about the leopard-print seat, the waffly tires, and the super-relaxo stem.
Lauren is rambling on her single speed. Hernando is getting hankerings for new 'cross machinery. Forsoothly I will soon join the inmates with bike number five.
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