So. While we here at Heavy Metal Monday were racing our bike out in the Otways in the Great Ocean Road Classic team time trial handicap (otherwise known as the alleycat for dentists), real cyclists were racing the Melbourne to Warnambool.
This happens every year after the Warny comes and goes. I look at all the photos, all the pain faces, listen to all the people who tell me it's shit, always resolving to give it a crack one year.
No money was received for the epic picture at the start of today's thread. In fact, Gene just tore that logo off his legwarmers, and then faithfully reconstructed it for my instagramming enjoyment. So, this installment of the Friday is brought to you not by the good folks at RaphaTM, but by Gene. Whose trademarks are not registered. Whose rights are not reserved.
Hey, first of all, this Saturday is the Warny! I reckon at least ten cyclists you know are having a crack at the 260ks, and about half of them are going to finish. The day after that is the Shipwreck Coast Classic, the famous race in which Gene allegedly once beat Nathan Haas. Sure, rumour has it that Haasy was drunk at the time, but you know, a win's a win.
My new favourite Melbourne band Ratsak are playing a bunch of shows in the next few months, starting with this one at the Old Bar. Yep, that's Grover singing again. I bet he's still just as intimidating to watch live as when he was in Paul of Blood. Jeez, it took some serious internetting to find any information on that particular band.
In other news, the day of the Fixed.Org Show N Shine is fast upon us, so if you've got a bike that looks a bit schmick, get out the WD40, polish that baby up, then bring it on down to the Electron Workshop to show off to all your friends. You could win some sweet prizes. More information, perhaps obviously, is available on Fixed.Org here.
And hey, before that, not this Sunday but the next, there's another edition of the Melbourne Gravel Grinders. You know, I might actually go on this one. A nice ride in the country would suit me right down to the ground at the moment. I guess it depends on whether or not I can convince the Revolution to loan me a sweet Yeti CX bike. Not that I'd need it - they're all roads, remember, so you could ride your road bike - but you know, a little extra comfort occasionally goes a long way.
In other racing related news, Northcote Cycling Club - who are actually pretty good at Facebook, with the results pretty much going up as they come in - are doing this crazy awesome Omnivember event throughout November, with ten events over five days. I have no idea what the ten events could be. I mean, I'm pretty good at imagining, but I only get to eight or nine. Eitherway, it promises to be shitloads of fun. Check it out here.
And, that's about all I've got for now. Have a good weekend!
Oh man, I really could not give a flying fuck about the whole Lance Armstrong doping case that everyone - even the mainstream media - is talking about right now. I mean, for one reason, Brynne: My Bedazzled Life is currently on TV, and that's more interesting. Paul Licuria is on it and hot damn that man is a babe. I can almost forgive him for playing for Collingwood he's so fucking handsome. No one - I repeat, no one - in the Reasoned Decision document is as good looking as him (even if Michael Barry comes close, in a rough night, overlook the hair kinda way), and as such, my interest is already on the wane.
And then, you know, I had to go to work. And today we had students for the first time this term. They were all uncertain and trying to get to know each other and a little silly and show-off-y. We were all flat out flat out. I didn't even have time to check fixed.org, let alone read two hundred and two pages of legal documents. Man, I even got bored typing out the number just then.
And also, I've been really clumsy lately. I always thought I was kinda graceful - at least, ever since Alanna Rudolf told me that I was when she saw me rollerblading in year 12. My hand-eye co-ordination is pretty good (if Super Mario Brothers is any indication); I can mark a footy ok and rip out one hell of a slapshot and learn any variety of dance move, if given enough time; I can use any variety of dining implements. But lately I've been all over the freaking shop - the other day, for instance, I was holding an open packet of icing sugar, and it simply slipped out of my hands. I have no idea how - one minute I was holding it, the next minute:
And that's just the most aesthetically hilarious example. The last few months I've been bumping into things, knocking things over, making messes everywhere. It's kinda ridiculous, and, furthermore, kinda embarrassing. I have no idea what the hell is going on, but whatever the hell is, it's way more interesting than Lance Armstrong doping case. Because, you know, even if it is embarrassing, it's kinda funny, if not to me, then definitely to everyone else around. Those USADA lawyers should really have included some jokes.
But you know, the real reason that the Lance Armstrong doping case holds about as much interest for me as an impassioned debate in a 1994 issue of HeartattaCk zine about Jawbreaker selling out is that it just doesn't fucking make any difference to me whatsoever. There's about fifty people in the entire world whose lives will be in some way different after this case is all done and dusted, and they have every right to be all up in arms, feel angry or betrayed or upset. But surely for the rest of us the interest is purely academic - any emotional reaction seems weird and a little misplaced. The guy may have cheated, and he might get busted for it, but so what? There are babes on TV, work is busy, and lately I've been tripping over my own feet as if I'm Buster fucking Keaton. Spend your time checking that shit out instead.
I was probably fourteen or fifteen when Petie Hyde handed me a tape with White Trash, Two Heebs and a Bean on one side and How To Clean Everything on the other. Up to that point I'd been wasting my time listening to Nirvana and Pearl Jam and other terrible remnants of the grunge era, probably moping around and thinking how much life was, you know, like, a total bummer. But as soon as I put that tape into the deck, things were different.
I mean, all of a sudden I was confronted with music that I could run around and dance like an idiot to, but that also reflected my nascent politics. Indeed, I'm pretty sure that on more than one occasion I jumped around the year 11 form room to the song above, having been asked to leave the classroom by some teacher who was totally trying to oppress me.
Jamie Delley once pulled up into the driveway of my parents' house with this song absolutely blasting at definite-earbleed level from his car. I was late for school, and didn't hesitate to jump in, my head right next to the speaker in the backseat. The last few days my ears have been ringing uncontrollably. You do the math.
Lest you think I only listened to the "cool" punk pop from the "good" folks at Fat Wreck Chords, I'm confessing to not minding this song at all. In fact, I definitely remember being at parties and scowling in the corner at the terrible music and country bogans until someone left the stereo unattended long enough for me or someone else to sneak a tape into the deck, already cued up to blast this song out.
And, you know, this one too.
Contrary to popular belief, punk pop didn't die out altogether. I saw this band when I lived in Montreal. I'd gone along to see the Ste Catherines play, but were way more impressed by the support band. Only the other day did I discover that the singer used to be in Kid Dynamite. Then it all made sense.
I don't think I'm the only one who grew up with punk pop, and I definitely don't think I'm the only one who occasionally feels nostalgic about it now, so it makes sense that fucking rad people are starting to make it again. The above is one of the better examples, but I also can't let a conversation about punk pop go by without mentioning bringing up this band:
Sure, both the audio and video are terrible in this clip, but this more than any other song has shaped all of my present day ideas about living and how to best do it. So if you want a proper listen sometime, come over for a cup of tea and we'll listen to the seven inch until the damn thing wears out. Or, you know, make your own cup of tea and listen to it on myspace. Hey, apparently that's still a thing! Good for you, myspace.
Before, when I was really fucking serious about riding my bike, I was all about improving my body, both in terms of what it can do and how it does it. But now all I have to do is make sure I don't get unhealthily fat. That's liberating alright. I guess what's most emancipating about it is that I don't have to constantly evaluate how I'm doing, if I'm doing things correctly, if my legs are feeling sore or tired or a bit flat. I don't have to think about breathing through my diaphragm, don't have to take my heart rate every morning, don't have to weigh myself ever. Hell, I don't even have to really think about what I'm eating, beyond considering the aforementioned requirement to not put on a shit-ton of weight. Oh man, I could go on like this all day. This whole year I didn't have to go to bed early on a Friday night in order to be ready to race on Saturday morning. I didn't have to set my alarm for 6.30 in order to fit an ergo in before work. I didn't have to stretch, ever, and I didn't even look at the foam roller. That fucking bastard shitbreath asshat foam roller stayed under my bed the whole time.
I have no idea how I managed to do it all. Sure, lately I have quite a bit of spare time, and have been known to sprawl out a little bit more than usual, to relax and unravel in all the time I suddenly have available, but as the days click over I can't help but wonder where I fit it all in. And when that question comes, you know that right behind it is another question: why? The only answer I have is this - that endorphins are a hell of a drug. Yep. A hell of a drug.
We here at Heavy Metal Monday should apologise, first off, for our absence last week. If it's any consolation to you, dear readers, in place of sitting here at the couch, hunched over a computer screen, I was out on the town with chums. The we saw 'On The Road' at the cinema, and things took a turn for the worse. Anyway.
Brendan, as you may have noted from his monday post, didn't really know where I was last weekend. The photographic evidence he provided of me at the cycling cross, however, does indeed tell most of the story. Here is my report from the weekends racing.
A contingent of some riders from Melbourne (I think there were less then ten, but I can't really remember) made the trip up to Sydney on Friday. A delayed flight could not sway us from our chipper mood, in part helped by my getting delay vouchers off the check in lady. A whopping eight dollars was spent at Hudson's on a jumbo soy latte, the lack of real money change made up for, by my emptying the chocolate sprinkly jar onto the top of my coffee. Fearing that Nikcee and Blakey might start talking about cantilevers I wandered around with Steve and Clare, ate a foot long subway, and some sushi, and some gatorade, until I felt ill.
Then the flight occurred, wherein I remembered I get extremely motion sick at even the hint of motion sickness. Fortunately I had my Sydney CX trip mix tape all ready to go, and I tried to zone out to the blissful tunes of Carly Rae Jepsen and Bolt Thrower.
On arriving at the hostel, somewhere forsaken on the Northern Beaches, I discovered they were playing Wolfmother. Like. The first album. The one every dickhead was listening to in 2006. Instantly transported to year 11, I cried a savage's cry, and ran from the room, only to return when someone opened the corn chip packet.
In the interest of brevity, I'll skip to the following morning. The Melbourne contingent arrived at the location of cycling cross at approximately sometime in the AM, Saturday morning. The Sydney CX mixtape had hit upon a spot of Venom and, to the sound off '1000 days in Sodom', we heralded our arrival as best we could. On opening the car door, I tripped on my seatbelt, and was sent sprawling.
Excellent start.
Given I had elected B grade for my cycling cross escapades, I was due to start shortly after out arrival. I donned the stretchy clothing, did a quick tour of the course, in which I nearly ate shit multiple time, after which time it was time to wander over to the start line.
Some minutes later I was thundering across the tundra, I mean grass, in about fifth wheel. I was kinda surprised I was that far up to be honest, not having raced at all since May, and not having ridden a cross race since September last year. Anyway, so that quiet sense of confidence slowly gave way to a sense of severe illness and the the strong desire to vomit up a lung. As Steve's heckling became louder, and the urge to ride into Nikcee a little too tempting, the race was over. I sat down, spent, and coughed up what looked like a bloody lump of something.
"How good was that?!" asked Steve.
"Fuck. That was the shittest thing I have done for a long time" I replied.
General attitude toward cycling cross notwithstanding, I then spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out with the rest of the dudes, heckled a bunch, drank some beers, and waxed lyrical about No Doubt making so much more sense in NSW. Seriously, it does.
That night I was super stoked to get blind, but by seven I was exhausted and suffering from mild heat stroke. Not only that, but we had celebrated Kate's birthday at the local Indian joint, the patron's of which had stared bemused at the bunch of skinny people all wearing party hats. It was at this particular dinner that CX rad-man Jeremy referred to the Ultimate Frisbee World Championships as, and I quote, "basically God camp", as the rest of the contingent choked on our garlic naan.
I fell asleep by ten.
The following day the B grade race was at some ungodly hour. Something like 9.30. Suffice to say it took a great deal of coffee and asthma pump to even get me to the start line. I won't bore you with the details, but I did a lot better, finishing in the top ten, jumped some barriers, and didn't bin it. Win win. Following that, I watched everyone else get rad, Nikcee and Blakey get lapped, Steve roll a tub and snap a chain, and Syd (the winner) ride the toughest uphill section with multiple jumps necessary, that every other ride struggled to run. Holy shit.
I was so tired and sun fatigued by the end of the day, I virtually threw my bike into my collapsing bike box, sliding anything I didn't have a place for into the seat tube. Genius.
To top off a cracking weekend, most of us then went to eat some delicious Lebanese food where I consumed by body weight in chickpeas and chips, while watching at least one passer by get roughed up by a motorcycle cop.
On the plane home, I listened to No Doubt, read a mag that Nikcee had leant me, and tried not to be too distracted by this one hostess lady.
In Melbourne, the taxi driver refused to take my bike, under the guise of it not fitting, the reality being that I didn't live in Dandenong and, thus, wasn't worth enough to him.
Cyclocross. It isn't great. But it's not bad either.
I've been guilty, in the not-so-distant past, of telling the same stories over and over again. Of rehashing the same stories, teasing out the details, asking more and more questions about intentions and motivations and meaning. Sometimes this makes me a little self-conscious, and I wonder if I'm being boring, repeating myself over and over and over again.
But then, reading through The God Of Small Things the other day, I come across this:
"The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don't deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don't surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover's skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don't. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won't. In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn't. And yet you want to know again.
That is their mystery and their magic."
I started today re-reading my old zine. My brain wasn't working so great and I felt like I needed some old stories to ground me a little. It struck me that lying around reading zines was still a perfectly legitimate way to spend my time. So perhaps this weekend you should wander down to Sticky zine store and pick up a couple of random issues of someone's handiwork. Stay away from the poetry though.
That could work out pretty well, actually, because the weather is supposed to turn to shit tomorrow, raining and windy all day. I'd complain more about it, perhaps even trot out one of my dad's favourite jokes (What do you call the day after two rainy days? Monday), but really, I've been blessed by two whole weeks in the sunshine, so I got nothing bad to say.
However, there ain't much else going this weekend, the last weekend of spring break. Right now I'm jetting off to see McNabb, who I've known for ages but hardly get to see any more. I'm pretty happy with that. Enjoy your weekend!
I'm supposed to be going down to Harrison Street in half an hour or so, in order to do a little motorpacing, which will hopefully in turn keep my fitness up enough to occasionally still win a race on a Tuesday night. But again, enthusiasm is lacking somewhat. I've been floating around town on my bike all day, lingering long over lunch, eating icecream on the street, dropping in on friends. Eventually I head over the river to Shifter Bikes - yeah, see that link to the right just there - in order to have a chat with Dan, and pick up a part that we have finally decided to call the Cone Lock Nut, which doesn't sound dirty at all. In the time I was talking to Dan folks came and went, mostly on bikes, but some on foot, some in their cars. They were generally in a pretty good mood, even the guy who had just had his bike stolen. The first warm, really warm day of the year will do that to people. Folks take a little time out of their daily grind and take note of the sun, the wind, the sky. And that's always a good thing.
Actually, I reckon I've been doing this all Spring Break. And I can't think of a better way to have spent it.
Welcome to another Music Wednesday - or, as I like to call it, self-indulgence Wednesday. Rest assured, however, that today all north-of-the-river pretension and deliberate obscurity have been abandoned, and instead I present to you a bunch of songs that I knew all the words to when I was eleven.
By the late stages of Primary School I was already beginning to bristle against, you know, authority, man... And Betty Boo's seeming anti-school sentiments really resonated with me. Even if, during her Melbourne show, she was busted miming when she dropped the microphone and the lyrics kept spilling out.
I think I must've liked this song first and foremost because of the funny filmclip, because there's no way that I realized, in grade five, that the "Things that make you go hmmm" of the title referred to infidelity. In fact, I think at that point in my life I was pretty sure that infidelity was when you couldn't have babies.
And, as my neighbours will now attest, apparently I still know most of the words.
As a result of loving the shit out of "Things that make you..." I remember actively sitting down and attempting to learn the words to this one, which was actually released first, and was probably more successful, despite being considerably less rad. However, in the odd, extraordinary situation where I'm forced to make up a rap, I always just bust out the second verse, and no one is any the wiser. Because hey, in this world I'm just a squirrel, trying to get a nut to move your butt.
Ok, every person you've ever danced with at a party knows at least some of the words to this song. And if you were unfortunate enough to be wearing yellow at that party, every other person there pointed at you and said, "hello", even though that's not how the narrative works out in the song. I'd go round correcting everybody, but I already get run out of parties often enough, thanks.
If I'm going to be honest here, I only really knew the "Hey, how you doing?" bit of this song, but that tiny section of this song has made such an indelible impression on my brain that whenever it's my turn to change the answering machine message at work, I have to fight the inclination to bust it out.
Here are two interesting facts about Snow: 1) The name of his record, "12 Inches of Snow", is that all-too-rare beast, the triple entendre. If you can figure out all three interpretations leave a message in the comments and I'll send you an imaginary prize. 2) When I lived in Kingston, Ontario, Snow was playing a show in one of the local bars. I was going to go, because I actually do know all the words to the chorus, and was keen to sing along, but I eventually decided the price of entry was not worth it. The price of entry was five dollars.
I loved it when I was eleven, and I still love it now.
Jen Jen is back from China and I'm supposed to be meeting her for lunch in an hour or so. Facebook tells me she's at the hairdresser, though, so I figure I have a little time. I continue to do what I've been doing all morning - listen to records, browse through the internet, look outside at the blue skies and occasionally read. I was also able to chat briefly to Jamesy, who arrived home sometime late last night, but who was really only able to mutter something about Anna Meares' skinsuits before jetting off to his modelling gig. Yeah, it's a strange world we're living in.
Hot damn it's a beautiful day outside though. People have been asking me how I've been spending my Spring Break, and I've developed a singular answer: the same way as I spend my time normally, just slower. I've been running the same errands I run during schooltime, but I've been riding my bike instead of driving, listening to music, taking it easy, stopping for lights, not smashing it up hills or belting it through traffic. When I stop for coffee in the city I can linger a little longer than usual, lean back on the grass, look at the sky. When I have bills to pay or letters to post or clothes to repair I can take my time getting to the bank / post office / tailor, and use the trip as an excuse to meet up with friends in the neighbourhood. When people I know are busy with work or school or study I can bring them lunch. The combination of not training on the bike and not working (at least for a couple of weeks) has meant that I have a whole heap of time to spare, so much that it feels luxurious, like I can indulge myself in it like a cat eating cream.
I got a short little span of attention, though, and lately I've rediscovered that I'm interested in things other that cycling. Currently I'm less grumpy and cynical than I've been in years. Instead of thinking things like, "Why would I want to go to that new cafe? I can get everything I want at Wide Open Road." I'm now looking up new places online and checking out their menus. Instead of thinking, "Why the hell would I want new books when I can just reread The Rider for the eleventy millionth time?" I'm stopping in bookstores and browsing, trying to remember names of interesting writers that I vaguely remember from years and years ago. Writers that don't even mention bikes! Two years ago I wouldn't have understood, would've felt like I was wasting my time, would've signed up for extra pilates classes or done my core strength exercises or stretched instead. But now, for a number of reasons, I'm enjoying the hell out of the rest of life.
And this is where you come in. It's been four years since I've been interested in anything other than cycling, and consequently I'm a bit out of the loop. Melbourne seems like a new city to me at the moment. And back when I was traveling around a lot, whenever I landed in new cities I'd make my friends draw me up a map. On the map would be the things I was interested in: vegan friendly cafes and restaurants; alternative record stores; underground bookstores and sunny parks (incidentally, when I first landed in Glasgow I bugged my friend KA so much about making me a map that she, a geography major, drew hers up all wrong - I still maintain deliberately - and I ended up in strange neighbourhoods with no Bane records or Tofutti Cuties in sight). Now, I don't think I need a map of Melbourne, because I'm pretty familiar with the streets and suburbs, but I am taking recommendations on the cafes, bookstores, record stores, parks and ways to waste time. The comments section is truly made for this.
Me and Hurley are sitting on the couch. "You know when Jamesy gets back?" He asks. I confess that I do not. He reaches for his phone and sends a text.
Hours later Jamesy still has not responded. We are beginning to wonder if something has happened. He was in Sydney for the Cyclocross, so there are perhaps three possibilities: he has gotten drunk and fallen asleep in a gutter in King's Cross; he is eternally trapped in a conversation about tyre pressure with Blakey and Nik Cee; or he has gotten drunk and fallen asleep in a gutter in King's Cross. Hurley is supposed to be picking him up from the airport. We don't know if he's flying back down or driving with the rest of the Melbourne contingent.
We're a little concerned, sure, but not enough to call anyone else, or stay at home waiting, or check Facebook. We go about the rest of our day without giving it much thought. The evening comes and we go our separate ways.
An entire day passes. Hurley is back in Shepparton and I'm riding my bike around town in the springtime sun. Eventually a text comes through from Jamesy. "Yo, I'm gonna be out till late. Do you wanna fill in for the blog," it says, "Soz, I totally forgot till now." It does not say where he has been, where he is, and if he is still either drunk or having the letters PSI tattooed on the back of his neck.
Fucking cyclocross.
Photographic evidence that Jamesy, wherever he was, was riding his cyclocross bike this weekend. And was fucking stoked about it. Or was drunk. Probably drunk.
I fucking love this city but sometimes I just want to get the fuck out. Right now is definitely one of those times. The entire city is grieving, crying, lashing out, apportioning blame, trying desperately to find a way to cope with being very suddenly, very noticeably different. None of us know what to do, and in our inability to articulate these feelings we fall back on our politics, our prejudices, our ineffective language. Our lines of communication turn into arguments and in our anger we focus again on our differences, ignoring - or perhaps avoiding mentioning - the one thing we have in common: that right now, we're all scared. Not just of randoms in the street, but of death, of dying, of losing those who we love. Of loving someone who is no longer there.
It's Friday and you're probably making plans for the weekend. You may even have come to this blog looking for ideas. But this weekend I don't have any ideas about how you spend your time. All I want to do this weekend is curl up in bed with a whole loaf of raisin toast and a pile of books taller than me. The only idea I do have is that this weekend, no matter how mawkish or awkward or uncomfortable you feel about doing it, you should explicitly appreciate the good things you implicitly feel about the people around you. I don't care how you do it. Just make sure they know. It won't change anything about what has happened, it won't make it safer to walk the streets at night, it won't stave off dying. But it might make that fear seem a little smaller. It might help us all cope with a little more reason, a little more compassion and a little more care. It might give us all the little bit of extra strength we need to work to reduce the chances of anything like this ever happening to anyone, in our city or in any city, ever again.
Jamesy and I are sitting in the living room. It is the first time we have seen each other in days, so of course we are spending this time our respective computers, trolling the internet for lolz. Well, actually, he's making a playlist for his impending trip to Sydney, and I'm looking up Jawbreaker lyrics. Both activities seem equally vital, but in an attempt to engage on some level, may I present to you the newest edition of XBBX and FJ talk pro cycling!
B: So, Jamesy, what's happening in pro cycling these days? I have no idea. I don't even know the cyclingnews.com website any more.
FJ: Holy shit, I have no idea. I'm too busy riding in the sun to bother about professionals getting paid to take lots of red blood cells and wear tight cloths. I mean, Phillipe 'I wear nose strips at all times' Gilbert just won the world champs on a course which was, basically, made for the dude. Following his victory, the Italians made a lot of excuses, as they do every year, and Gerrans talked about being out of form and too short to do anything. I just read on cycling news that Contador won his first one day race. I've never heard of the race, but he looked happy in the photo of him crossing the line. I suppose he's back on the steaks. Not vegan.
B: It did look like the Italians handed Gilbert the world champs on a platter, which probably also carried some provolone and a delicious marscapone, therefore also deeming the entire world championships Not Vegan. That's a shame, because I was proper stoked with Marianne Vos' winning ride. What a mad dog. Folks blah blah blah on about Gilbert being the next Eddy Merckx, but hell, Vos has now won world champs on the track, road, and even in freaking cyclocross. I bet she'd even school folks in BMX, should she turn her ambitions that way.
FJ: Yeh it's a shame that she hasn't gotten more attention during her career hey? We don't need her though! Because our very own Anna Meares raced cross just the other week! Seeing a track sprinter race cross must be a bit like seeing a cheetah knee deep in some Belgian mud, trying to lick embro off it's paws. Read: never. And, as I say to anyone asks, cross is just as hard as crits, but you go very slow and are covered in mud. And people throw beer on you which, though it sounds hilarious, is distinctly un-funny when it happens eight times in a row. So Vos can have that if she likes.
B: On that topic, hipster target of affection Katie F'n Compton has announced she is going to ride the US National Madison Championships with friend of The New Timer Cari Higgins. I like this idea a lot. I can imagine muddy CX racers flipping out about having to put more than 50psi in their tyres, or realizing that they can wear their skinsuits non-ironically, or that there are races out there that are more spectator friendly than any cyclocross race anywhere. In fact, I like it so much, I may try to convince Lewis to come race the next Vic Madison Champs with me.
FJ: Well, first off, I had no idea who Katie Compton was, so I googled her. Looks like she races a lot of cycling cross. Good on her. In regards to her racing a madison, that should be pretty funny I reckon. It's funny you mention that track can be super spectator friendly. We hear all these stories about track cycling being real popular back in the day, especially in rural Australia. It was the kinda thing you went to watch on a Friday night, just like the footy. It's almost as if cross has filled that role here, in Melbourne at least. Which is kinda rad, but also kinda sad, because there's so much other racing that could have the same atmosphere and community, grass roots spirit. I mean, I can wax lyrical about the creation and fostering of community all I want but, really, cycling has always been a sport where a bunch of scum get blind. Whether it be at the track in the forties, at cross today, or on the high mountain passes at the Tour or Giro.
B: Not Edge.
FJ: No. Fuck, I love getting blind.
B: You're certainly better at it than you are racing the cycling cross.
FJ: If I had jumped a barrier for every time I have sunk a beer, I would probably be better than Lewis. Fortunately, we have an agreement. I am going to show him how to pick up girls if he shows me how to race a bike.
B: But Jamesy, Lewis is really good at racing cyclocross.
FJ: Yes. We are going to trade equivalent skills.
B: Uhhh, ok. Good luck with that. Anyways, transfer season is upon us, and your mate Mark Cavendish looks to be heading over to Omega-Pharma-Lotto. It'll be sad to see him and Wiggo go their separate ways, hey?
FJ: Well we can be sure the cornish pastie quota for Sky will halve. I like to think of Wiggo and Cavendish as this odd-couple, who really love each other, but can't get past each others differences. Wiggo probably walks into Cav's room, singing 'We Fell In Love In A Hopeless Place', this filthy smile on his face, while Cav just stares intently at replays of his victories on some i-pad like device. Likewise, by the same token, I see Cav as the kinda guy who would lie in wait in a cupboard for hours, wearing a fitted sheet and a shoebox on his head, just so he can spring out at the exact moment Wiggins is at his most relaxed, stretched out, listening to The Jam, and scare the shit out of him. The beef brought about by the 2008 Olympic madison has obviously settled but, obviously leading very skinny ankled men up the Alps isn't Cav's idea of fun. Perhaps, through distance, their love will grow strong again. I will miss seeing Wiggo in the yellow jersey, mixing it up in the bunch, to get Cav a good lead out though.
B: Yeah, me too. For me, that was one of the highlights of this year's Tour. And finally, Jamesy, I was just over at Velonews and stumbled upon this picture. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
FJ: No wonder they DNFed. Who the fuck wants to be seen in that kit? You can just tell the short guy looking into the middle distance is watching Cavendish re-arrange his wang.
Hey, have I mentioned recently that it's Spring Break?
Talking on the phone to Rahne just now I realize that while Spring Break is definitely a euphoric time of year, it's also a time where much evaluation and contemplation takes place. Houses are being put in order, seeds being planted, plans being made for the coming year. It's times like these I always think about returning to the ancestral homeland - not just where my parents live, but where my parents' parents lived, where their parents lived before them. I'm lucky enough that neither side of my family has been severed from the land where they first landed - even through the vicissitudes of droughts, floods, plagues and bank managers, sections of both my mum's family in Balmoral and my dad's family in Woomelang still live short stone's throws from where they were raised. I'm disappointed in the end of this song - "and then I woke up and discovered it was all a dream..." - but hey, until then, and despite all the god stuff, I totally understand the inclination to get in touch with one's roots any time the going gets a little uncertain.
This isn't, of course, to say that everything is up in the air. Contemplation and evaluation doesn't necessarily mean change. Sometimes you think about things and realize that you've probably never felt better, that the situation you're in is perfect, that you are straightup, flatout, deadset happy. That's when the soundtrack for Spring Break goes from being introspective to extroverted. Like Nas in this clip, you're still using the minor keys, but you've got your big gold chain on and you got your buddy behind the decks announcing your presence before you even arrive.
And then, all of a sudden, you're all about Kanye. Sean The Man approves.
It is still Spring Break and I continue to spend my time in an undisclosed location. Rest assured that in this location the weather is fine, people are often viewed riding their bicycles, and vegan rice paper rolls are available in abundance. Earlier this year the brake pads on my pub bike wore out, so instead of replacing them, I took the brakes off and flipped back to riding fixed on the street. I have a long history of making things more difficult due to my laziness, I believe beginning with the day I decided to keep a waterbottle in the shower for when I got dehydrated - you know, rather than simply getting out of the shower. And, currently, I need to put some oil in the car. I have the oil. I know how to put it in the car. But really, who could be bothered? So instead I'm riding my brakeless fixie everywhere all of a sudden, as if 2007 never ended.
Riding brakeless on the street demands more caution, which in turn means that I ride slower than I did when I rocked the freewheel. That's ok by me, because I have two weeks off, and don't need to be anywhere ever. I roll around, skip skid to a stop outside shops and cafes, use backwards pressure to slow down, practice monos, rarely bust out a proper skid. It took me a while, though, to remember the little tricks that make life a little easier - like, when you're stopped at lights and can't be bothered trackstanding, lifting the rear wheel up to position the pedals better; or taking corners a little wider to avoid striking the ground; or how to roll up to the cafe and dismount like a total pro. I gotta say, it's kind of fun. Like LAM says, however, riding a brakeless fixie is like picking a scab - it's interesting, and yeah, a pretty good time, but you know that nine times out of ten it's going to end in blood. For me that'll probably happen the day school goes back and I have to make it to Reservoir by eight thirts.
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