Ma Petite, Comment Ca Va?

Helmets Are Hot, Handsignals Are Hotter is my new favourite blog. So sassy!

You Wanna Party With The Lights On.

Madison at DISC on Tuesday night, for those of you who have forgotten. Hipster Nascar at its best. Coffee, yelling, hilarity and perhaps even some bike riding. Get there.

Not Even A Cliche To Say.

On A Crooked Highway.

The other day, after racing at DISC, I was getting changed in the infield. I was pretty wrecked - some VIS kids had come down and made life difficult for us - and couldn't really be bothered heading up to the bathrooms to strip out of my knicks. There weren't many people around, so I ducked behind the the motorbike cage and had a good look around. One of the VIS kids - Alex Smyth - didn't seem to know what I was doing. "I'm getting changed," I told him. "Oh," he answered. "You wanna borrow a towel?" I did.

But this was no ordinary towel. Long have I dealt with the need to change outfits for cycling with extreme difficulty. A long-promised article will soon be forthcoming about the different places I have now been naked and applying chamois creme. These problems could have been solved months ago if only someone had given me a towel with elastic and velcro at the top. Genius.

"Wow!" I said to Alex, "That's awesome!"
"I know," he replied. "Leigh Howard's mum gave it to me. I think she made it herself."
"Well, she would know."
"Yeah, I reckon she would."

I fastened the towel, removed my knicks, then continued on my way.

Get Out The Way, Move!

Cold Water.

I've spoken at length - to anyone who would listen - about how much I don't like Northcote (the suburb, not the cycling club), but I rarely follow this vitriol with what perhaps is a paradoxical truth: I'm quite fond of Thornbury. Sitting in the appallingly named Tart N Round with Jen and Grant the other day, way up on High St I see a parade of punks drop by, which is always a good sign. Up a block or so further up are two punk / DIY venues in Loophole and El Joyero. Across Bell St, just a little into Preston, is La Panella bakery, which, like Tart N Round, is specifically vegetarian and vegan. Across from High St a bit, a few kilometres along Darebin Rd, is DISC, where I spend a lot of time these days. It's quiet, leafy and lacks the bohemian bourgeoisie that ruin Northcote. I'd move there, sure, but I have a longstanding selfmade rule that states I must live within walking distance of the city. Like most of my longstanding selfmade rules, the older I get the stupider this one seems.

Treated Like A Goddamn Step-Child.

Skid comp was this arvo, and the weather held out. I yelled and heckled and talked to folks and even squirted my Team Handsome teammate's crotch with water while he was trying to win his first ever game of foot down, but didn't ride. Sure, I copped some flack about that, and was seriously tempted to join in the Circle of Attrition (which was an elimination race with a fancy name), but fuck, I've been hurt and sick and out of form enough lately not to want to risk a stupid injury having dumb fun.

And there certainly were stupid injuries on display - some hipster slid along his face in the skid comp, with only his dreadlocks for protection; Matty B got taken out of the elimination when some girl pulled out of the race without looking; and Lane seriously split his fucking head open in the skid comp final. While still lying on the ground he reached for his beer and refused all offers of a trip to emergency. I think I saw his brain.

It turned out to be a fucking fun day nonetheless. Nik Cee won a Schwinn Madison in the raffle, and someone produced three boxes of bananas late in the day, which I almost enjoyed more than Nik enjoyed his new whip. Thanks to Dimos and all the sponsors for getting on board.

My Aim Is True.

I will be racing this once again, hopefully this time in full health. Team Handsome will be in the Swiss colours, assuming Pretty Boy Ladner recovers from his nail gun incident in time. The boys who brought the ruckus last time - Hamish Taylor and Pete Trigar - will be there in the blue, which I think is meant to be French. More teams to come.



Either way, it'll be another fun night of heckling, shenanigans and - hopefully - onsite espresso shots for racers from the good folks at Padre Coffee. Another one for the diary!

Measuring Time In Blooms.

Around this time last year my friend McNabb started going down to DISC on Sunday mornings. There was a skills session there, she said, where you get to ride on the Velodrome. I was kinda interested, but was more interested in racing road, so wasn't in much of a hurry to head down there.

Eventually, though, I set my alarm and wandered down. Nath was there, and we had a bit of a chat. Somehow he convinced me to give it a go. I borrowed one of the club bikes and followed him around for the next fifteen minutes, rolling first on to the straights, then all the way up the banks, until we were doing entire laps along the fence. By the time we rolled off I was hooked.

I started racing in September. Before then the only competitive cycling I'd done was in alleycats. It was only E grade, but I remember being pretty nervous. I figured sitting in the bunch would do me just fine in the first race, but by the time the bell rang the red mist had settled in and I sprinted away.

When the weather turned warm I started training with Brunswick Cycling Club legend Alf Walker on Monday nights. We trained at the Harrison Street Velodrome, where the cracks are significant and the graffiti fresh. I'd stick around for Madison training immediately afterwards, slinging and being slung around the oddly shaped track as the sun came down.

After a couple of months of needling on my part Nath eventually outlined a training program for me, consisting of two months of base training, then blocks of endurance, strength and speed. By the time the last block came around I'd made my way into A grade, bought a fancy carbon track bike and was riding for The Fitzroy Revolution. I'd also ridden quite a few road races, and while I'd done ok, they didn't have the buzz, the frantic ADHD fun of the track. So I let the dreams of a year ago and started looking for a track coach, eventually settling on Rick Leonard.

I started training with Rick about a week into the Brunswick Track Omnium. I'd come second in the flying 200, and was pretty confident that I could land on the podium in enough of the coming events to win. Which is pretty much how it panned out - a win in the scratch, second in the points, third in the motorpace and a fifth in the three lap time trial. It wasn't a huge, important event or anything - we certainly weren't racing for sheep stations - but for a kid who was in E grade less than a year ago it felt like a pretty big deal.

I don't really know where I go from here. There are Opens on the horizon, Christmas track carnivals in both Victoria and Tasmania, crazy track racing circuses at Hisense Arena. It's a world that's opening out in front of me right now. Stay tuned, I guess.

The Sticks And Stones Around My Neck.

The title of this blog was taken from a Submission Hold song of the same name. The song is about women being seen as less than human, an idea that owes much to the concept of "Otherness". It was probably an ethically dubious move on my part - as a guy, claiming the name of a song about feminism as your own smacks of male privilege. But I claimed it nonetheless, because as guys I kinda think we have an obligation to constantly consider this stuff - how our thoughts, words and actions sideline women because of their gender. And plus, it's a kicking rad song.

The problem I'm currently considering spans both bikes and punk rock, which is nice. In terms of numbers, women are not majority participants in either scene. At the last alleycat I ran there were 48 participants. Two were women. At the last show I went to I saw two bands (I left early. I do that these days). Only one had a female member. I've spent a lot of time thinking about this, and will probably spend a lot more, because I have no idea what I can do to make more women show up to these events. I'm tired of feeling like the two communities I love aren't inclusive, are dominated by the same patriarchal bullshit we find in our working lives. The Ladies Who Leisure ride is an awesome start, but I'm supposed to be running another Alleycat in November, and I want to know what I can do.

Suggestion.

Melbourne: You rule.

Lip Service.

It was sunny out yesterday, the first Saturday it has been in weeks. I stopped by Shifterbikes on the way home from DISC and the phone barely stopped ringing. I wouldn't have been surprised if folks had started dropping by with flat tires. This happens every year, usually around the onset of spring. People drag out their long-neglected bikes, set off into the world and wonder what that noise is. Now, I'm not the most mechanically minded person, but I can sometimes be helpful. So here's Brendan's Totally Authentic Guide To The Weird Noises Your Bike Makes.

Squeak Squeak Squeak:

From the chain: A mouse is stuck in your derraileur and is slowly being crushed to death. Or you need to lube your chain.
From the bit where the cranks connect to the frame (aka the bottom bracket, a misnomer, as there is no top bracket): Another mouse, or perhaps a small bird. You should tighten your cranks eitherway. If this doesn't help, go to the bike shop.

Flub-flub-flub:

If you have stacked on the pounds over the winter, this is the sound of your new skin folds flapping in the breeze. Eat fewer pies. If it's not you, inflate your tires. If they go down again, you have a puncture. I'm not telling you how to fix this. It is beneath me.

VMMmmmmVMMmmmm:

If this sound is coming from your mouth, you are pretending to be a motorbike. Stop it. You are demeaning us all. If it is coming from your bike, your wheel and/or tire is rubbing on something. Find out what it is and move it, or the wheel.

Clunkadaclunkadaclunkada:

From the gears: Your rear derraileur is not in alignment. I suggest meditation, herbal teas and a biodynamic diet. Oh, wait, that's for chakras.

Grrrer. Grrrer. Grrrer:

Your front derraileur is not in alignment. See above.

Any Of These Noises:



Please just stop. Get off your bike, leave it on the side of the road and never, ever ride a bike ever again. This rule also applies to rapping.

For Actual Help:

Park Tool
Shedon Brown

Mayor's Income.

We Need A Different Point Of View.

I'm pretty picky about how I learn how to do things. Generally I read a lot, watch a few people do it, then attempt to figure it out from there. Occasionally I'll ask people for help, but the minute they get too didactic teenage Brendan steps in and stops listening altogether. I'm pretty picky, therefore, about who I ask for help. So trying to find a coach over the past few months has been difficult. I've come pretty far with my cycling over the past ten or so months - particularly on the track - and am keen to keep on improving at the same rate. But reading a lot, watching folks, then attempting to figure it out myself isn't going to cut it. I simply don't know enough, and the ridiculous deluge of information on the internet isn't specific enough to help. So I'm left in the situation I find myself in right now: still improving, but frustrated that I'm not improving faster. Thirty years of knee-jerk reaction, stubbornness and bloody-minded independence have brought me to this point. And I thought it would be my body that held me back.

I Like Your Old Stuff.

From Picaresque #1:

"At times, I know, the community can seem cliquey, can be as isolating and alienating as it is embracing. But when you’re ten thousand miles from home, don’t know where to get vegan food, have had to explain straight edge to drunk kids a thousand times, and been faking enjoyment while dancing to some indiscriminate boy band for the past three weeks, to rock up at a show and feel a part of something seems to me to be exactly what punk rock is about. Eventually knowing half the people at the shows you go to, corresponding with the people who make the records you listen to, singing along to the same bands every week. It’s not everything, but it makes you feel, if only for a moment, that everything else – starbucks, the fashion industry, bus travel and seasickness, just to name a few – has fucked off to some other place and left you standing here, feeling alright."