Local Manufacturing

On Becoming "That Guy"

Housekeeping note first. In "Heretic Homer," (season 4, for the true junkies) Homer Simpson decides he's had enough of church on Sunday. His effort to start his own religion (with virtually every form of sloth you could imagine) fails, but God tells him as the credits roll, "It's ok, Homer, 9 out of 10 religions fail in their first year." I suspect you could say the same about blogs.

As a blogger, I'm not particularly reliable. The six month gap since my last post here makes that clear enough. Alas, as I read regarding the demise (after far more than a year) of one of my favorite blogs, life always wins. So it has for me for a while. But I'm back. At least tonight. And probably not again for a while.

So I'll cross the first of 22 topics I have jotted down off my list: Lycra.

It's "that guy's" uniform. Up on Canada Road, Skyline, over in Sausalito, and especially on CalTrain. Always with the lycra.

I resisted. At some level I agree with the good people at Rivendell who suggest that the implicit snobbery of requiring a uniform to mount a bike ruins the experience -- or at least cheapens it -- for everyone else.

Up to December, I didn't own any. But I'd gone on a couple of rides where, frankly, I felt out of uniform, and a handful of friends I respect sport it from time to time. Lo and behold, Christmas left me with a nice pair of riding shorts from velowear.

So I waited for the rain to clear and hopped on the road bike to head to work. It was as though karma was after me for my hypocrisy (karma seems to figure heavily in my experiences here). Less than a mile into my ride, I had a flat. I walked home, changed, grabbed the commute bike, and headed to the train (not wearing lycra shorts for the first time on the train. Not. Gonna. Do. It.)

Undeterred, I tried again the next day. And here's the thing: I really liked the shorts. Really. A big improvement over my shorts. That was it. I'm officially that guy.

Jersey? Check.
Clipless pedals? Check.
Lycra shorts? Check.
"That guy?" Check.

Any sense of moral superiority is gone. I've become what I mock. And sure, I'll point out that nothing I wear has any big, fancy team logo, or psychedelic colors, or what have you, but if you see me out there on my road bike (still won't wear that stuff on the train in the morning), I'm him and he is me. And it's gotten worse, but that's a topic for another day.

And I'm ok with it. Turns out there's a reason for all the lycra. It's really quite comfortable. What's a guy to do?

Tailwind!

This morning I had a good push from mother nature, resulting in my fastest ride to work (52 minutes) and highest average speed yet (something I haven't worked at much lately). But I think the Olympic records committee would strike it from the books based on the tailwind. Still, it was fun!

Funny how your legs just feel stronger when you have a stiff wind at your back.

Not the Wicked Witch

I don't melt in water.

It's officially Fall in San Francisco; today the rain arrived. People often ask me, "what do you do when it rains?" The easy answer I typically give? "I get wet."

This isn't a big deal for me. I shower and change at work, so as long as the contents of my backpack stay dry (a simple garbage bad does the trick), getting wet in the morning isn't a big deal.

On the other hand, the water coming up from the road is pretty nasty. Full of grit, oil, whatever, it's not fun when that stuff sprays you. Fenders are a must. My road bike doesn't fit fenders, which pretty well rules out riding in from Burlingame on days like today.

Moreover, like the first snowfall of the season in places that get it, the first rain of the season wreaks havoc with drivers around here. The roads get slicker and the drivers stupider. Not the kind of day you want to be on a long commute with degraded braking power. Add to that the blocked drains with the resulting large puddles to ford (also because it's the first real rain of the season), and the big, lumbering, mountain bike felt like the right call.

Not all rainy days are created the same. Today's rain is pretty heavy, but some days a light little shower may not corral the road bike.

I remember one day in particular a couple of years ago when I still lived in San Francisco. The wind blew something fierce and the rain came down in sheets. Awful. The strong wind made any riding tough, but additional gusts nearly blew me to a stop. Add the pelting rain, and it was pretty ugly. So bad that I started laughing on my way home because riding in it was so ridiculous. edit: sounds like I might be in for more of the same tonight . . .

Still, I got home. And the rain soaked the folks who were walking just as much as it did me.

Added bonus? The rain clears out the fair-weather bike commuters from the train car, so I don't have to worry about getting a spot. So I've got that going for me, which is nice.

Pride

You know that scene in Pulp Fiction where Marcellus is talking Butch through the dive he'll take in the fifth round?* (I would link it, but it appears Mirimax takes their copyright seriously.)

"you may feel a slight sting. That's pride f__ing with you. F__ pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps."

Maybe pride hurts when you're taking a bribe to fix a fight, but when you're on your morning commute?

The pain drives you.

When "that guy" passes you -- or you pass him -- it's time to dig deep. You can't let him get the better of you, right? Drive the legs, keep the rpms up, stay strong.

The other day I passed "that guy" on Terry Francois. He was moving along ok, but I was a little faster. Now, I played hockey the night before, so my legs weren't in tip-top shape to scream the rest of the way to work (or they would really scream at me), but I was doing alright. It wounded his pride though, and he hopped on my wheel. No time for mercy . . . or tired legs.

On the turn to the Embarcadero I observed traffic laws and followed the cars in front of me turning right. That was his opportunity as he bolted around them on the left, then weaved back through them back to the bike lane on the right. But it only gained him one car length and I made it up quickly as we approached the light at 2nd. Then he did something strange: he slowed to a stop.

Why is that strange? 2nd terminates at the Embarcadero, so there's no cross traffic. I've literally never seen a cyclist stop there without pedestrians in the cross walk.

He made a complete stop and I told him, "I'm a bad person, I run this one." He smiled, chuckled, and replied, "Got ticketed for it just a little while back." Ouch. He might have been this guy (same place, pretty close to the same time).

To his credit, he learned his lesson from that ticket. Not me; on I went, and thus ended the race. Though I kept motoring just to make sure. Plus, the sprint down the Embarcadero in the morning is a fun one.

Light or no light, he didn't stand a chance.

And, yes, I realize this is further evidence I'm becoming "that guy." Still no lycra pants or team jersey on the commute, though. That's where I'm drawing the line. For now.

* For you non-Tarantino fans, Marcellus is an organized crime boss, and Butch is the boxer he's paid to rig a fight.

Hetchins On Parade: A Guest Post

A guest entry from that serious-biker brother of mine. Thanks Josh!

The pedals haven’t hit yet. No scratches can yet be found on the new bike – a custom built Hetchins frame decorated with Phil and Schmidt hubs, a chromed lugged Nitto stem, a green Brooks swallow, Miche cranks with a TA chainring, and shiny black fenders. That one spill taken while trying to maintain a trackstand with the other foot forward merely bruised the ego, not the bike.

Commuting on a fixie is a blast. Every corner has a certain thrill, and the off camber traffic circles are better than coffee in the morning. Speed is easy to precisely regulate on the mixed use path to the boat house, and track stands are easier (with the accustomed foot forward). Brakes are a must when dealing with unpredictable traffic (like pedestrians running lights, cars backing blind out of parking spaces, off leash dogs, and cell phone obsessed teenagers), and it’s simply cool to be able to slow down no-handed. Riding one of the area’s most beautiful bikes stokes the ego too.

One of today’s highlights was trading smiles with the lady crossing (with the light) an intersection where I was balanced and awaiting a green light. Riding the fixie makes me smile, and smiles are best when shared.

Ed. Note: I'm not sure why it took me 30-some odd years to figure out what my dad and my brother were onto with this biking thing. I'm still not likely to ever become the biker my brother is (or has been, as he might point out), but it really is a superior form of transportation.

P.S. The Hetchins in question is Beeeautiful:

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies . . .

Grow up to ride motorcycles.

On my way into work this morning I rode past a gruesome cleanup effort by SFPD. Suffice it to say, stay safe out there, people.