I Was A Teenage Anarchist.

It is with trepidation that we here at Heavy Metal Monday sit down to pen (type) this post.  Following our nightly training ride, wherein no training was done, but a lot of shit talking was, it has come to our attention that crit season is approaching.

Some know that criteriums are around the corner from the delicate blossom on the still Winter strangled trees, others know it when they find a hole in the shammy of their longs.  Most of us, on the other hand, can tell the circuit racing we love so much is fast on the way by the reappearance of that strange and elusive creature: the crit specialist.

The crit specialist in truly a sight to behold.  Here you are, having buried yourself on the cold, dead roads that is the road season all winter, when suddenly, these loud and chipper fellows appear, as if from nowhere.  Conversation's between crit specialist range from choice of deep section wheels this season, to what beer they are currently sinking (crit specialists are always sinking beers).  Please note that if you ask a crit specialist what racing they did over winter, you will receive a blank look.  This is not because the crit specialist is embarrassed he did not race over winter, it is because he is not aware that there is any racing over winter.  To the crit specialist, bike racing consists of criteriums, and criteriums only.  The only other racing he will accept is sinking beers, but that happens in the arvo, after criteriums.

As a skinny, gutless roadie, who happens to like crits, I have made it my duty to come to recognise the criterium specialist from afar, so that I can suck his wheel and then win.  Please note that I never win, because I am a skinny, gutless roadie.  It is with pleasure, then, that I put to you the most recognisable characteristics of our beloved crit specialist.  Long may you hold his wheel.

1. Size.  Crit specialists are always, how should we put this, of the larger variety.  They tend to hold to the old training moniker of 'saturated fat for saturated power'.  Witnessing a crit specialist come out of hibernation is akin to witnessing a bear stagger out of an all-you-can-eat diner.  Only they are wearing lycra.  Of course, the crit specialist will get down to 'race weight' by the middle of the season, but don't be fooled.  If he takes you down, you won't get back up.

2.  Cankles.  Crit specialists always have cankles.  This is related, it is assumed by this author/journalist/hack, to the girth issue discussed above.  The crit specialist will attempt to hide the cankle issue by either adhering to the track fashion of very short socks, thereby signalling a distinct fashion faux pas, or the roadie fashion of very high socks, which is perhaps even more obscene, given the total lack of roadie ribs showing through the jersey.

3. Bike creaks.  The crit specialist puts down some serious watts.  This is the guy that, when he inevitably attacks three laps in, you are chewing bar tape just to hold this suckers wheel.  As you manage to sit in, you will hear that rhythmic creak, as this strange specimen lays it all out on the road.  That is his carbon frame/un-torqued crank bolts/bar-stem combo literally groaning under the force of this animal.  As you sit there, wondering how this functioning booze hound is thumping you so hard, despite you training all winter when he was literally knee deep in pies, you will have that creaking to keep you company.  It will haunt you.

4. Can't stop/don't wanna attitude.  The crit specialist stops for no one.  Barely even the finish line.  When in a race, this guy will be the bloke who is yelling from the back of the bunch to 'close that gap' even though you are on the front, literally puking up a lung to get that U17 prodigy to please, you know please, come back.  He is also, it should be noted, the only kind of cyclist who can take on the Beach Road Clam (note:   the Beach Road Clam is a driver who swings their car door open, gets out of their car, realises a bunch is coming at them flat chat, and attempts to fit themselves back into their car, closing the car door, without actually sitting back down in their seat).  Such is the power and girth of the crit specialist, they would knock clear through this car door, then curse the headwind which is, 'arking up a bit at the moment'.  Meanwhile, you the roadie, will be sitting on his wheel, wondering which fucking planet this guy was born on.

5. Laughing in the face of danger.  Face it.  Most of the time in crits, you're shitting yourself.  Nothing says shitstorm more than a scenario where a bunch of amateurs race very fast in tight s trying to cross a line before everyone else.  If you are a normal, sane, human being, each crit race will have at least one moment where you are sure, nay convinced, that you are about to die.  It's just racing.  If you are normal, you will probably yell something like 'woah, hold your line mate!' then discreetly shit yourself. The crit specialist, on the other hand, will merely snort, then tell the offending person to 'pull a fucking turn you cvnt', before he dives into a corner on the inside of the bunch, proverbial, or literal, moustache, billowing in the breeze.  

6. Not winning.  The crit specialist rarely wins.  This is not because, as you the roadies suspect, because of his lifestyle habits off the bike, bur rather because 'all these young kids don't know how to race or show respect'  That is in fact true.  All these young kids are very, very fast, and don't give a shit if some fat bloke with cankles is demanding they respect their elders.

Love or hate them, the re-emergence of the crit specialist signals one thing for sure: crits are coming!  And really, what else are crits, other than a celebration of summer, and riding in the good weather.

Bring on the cankles.

I'm Certainly Not Pleased With My Options For The Future.

Ok, Friday roundup. I got a bunch of stuff this week, and a decent amount of time to write about it. So here goes.

First of all, the second edition of DISC-O track is on Saturday night. I missed the first and will definitely be missing the second. Why? Because the footy team I have chosen to support through the finals is playing, and I'm going to go. Deciding which team was tough. My favorite team, Essendon, didn't make it. Everyone's second favorite team, Footscray, didn't make it. So eventually I settled on Nic Natanui. I don't care much about the rest of the Eagles (although they do seem to do an excellent line in hipster beards, and I did live in Perth for a little bit, and I have a soft spot for Daniel Kerr, and... and... ), but fuck I love that big bloke with the weird dreads. Anyways, if you can't bring yourself to barrack for a non-Victorian team, you should go down to Thornbury and check out DISC-O Track. Because barracking for Collingwood is obviously not an option.

Speaking of track racing, the good people at Northcote Cycling Club are doing a bunch of different and interesting things on Thursday nights throughout September. This Thursday coming there's a sweet teams events, where points are awarded for placings through the four different events. Blackburn have entered a team that looks unbeatable, but, all going to plan, Team SOP will be there to cast the cat among the pigeons. They're worth befriending on Facebook, Northcote, because the stuff they have coming up sounds like a lot of fun - including a 100km Madison. That's 400 laps!

And, in non-track related news, the Victorian Cyclocross Championships are on next week. More information seems to be leaking out about this every day, including start times and a map. Man, that's a sweet location. I thought about it for Dirty Deeds, back in the day, but figured it was probably a bit out of town for our particular demographic (you know, hipsters). But hell, Cycling Victoria are used to running races in far-flung, weird-ass places like Gippsland or Mildura or Geelong, so this is pretty much right next door for them. And in their infinite foolishness, they indulged my ever increasing vanity, told me I was 'the voice of Victorian Cyclocross', and asked me to do the commentary. So I'll be there pretending I know all sorts of things, hopefully with Hamish (who actually knows all sorts of things*) by my side.

And that's about it. Man, wasn't it awesome to have a taste of spring this week? I even wore shorts for a little bit. Strange that even though I'm not racing my bike much any more, I still shave my legs. A life with hairy legs is incomprehensible to me at this point.


* SWEET BABY JESUS HAMISH HAS WON TWO WALKLEY AWARDS. Fuck, that's a big deal.

In Fact, I'm Pioneering New Emotions.

I've just started re-reading Jeanette Winterson's Written On The Body. Inside the cover, the exgirlfriend who gave me the book has written a note telling me she loves me. The novel begins with the sentence, "Why is the measure of love loss?", the refrain repeated throughout the book. It seems strange that she should've missed the irony there. She was so analytical, could pierce through to the heart of a novel or poem or text while I was still floundering at the edges. And yet, when I tell stories about my time with her now, I often leave her out. I tell people that I lived in Montreal, without mentioning that I was living with her for three quarters of that time. I tell people about riding around Cuba, always using the first person singular. I tell people that I had a friend who worked at Williamstown High. And I'm absolutely certain she does the same. It's not that I'm attempting to rewrite history or change the past. It's just that things that seemed significant then are insignificant now. Because the things that are happening now make everything else seem insignificant.

Fuck it's a brilliant book:

"Love demands expression. It will not stay still, stay silent, be good, be modest, be seen and not heard, no. It will break out in tongues of praise, the high note that smashes the glass and spills the liquid. It is no conservationist, love. It is a big game hunter and you are the game."

I may never race my bike again. That's ok. Because the things that are happening right now, the things I'm doing with the twenty hours a week I used to spend on my bike, the worlds opening up before me, make everything else seem insignificant. Or, as someone else might put it:

"This is kinda exciting. Even if you don't end up doing it, it's exciting just thinking about doing something different, knowing there's other possibilities. "

We're Gonna Break Even

After going out with FJ on Saturday night, Cam McKenzie has earned a right of reply.

I very much enjoyed Jamesy's recollection of our Saturday night. Since I've had far too many coffees today and can't sleep, I have put together a collection of songs I wish we'd found playing somewhere. Rugs would have been cut. If you open a club that plays this kind of stuff, I'm pretty sure I will move back to Melbs permanently and you will have the entire New Timer crew on your doorstep as you open, every Saturday. Would that be good for business? Unclear.

For each song, I have extracted a relevant youtube comment and commented on the comment.


Ginuine - Pony [Timbaland Remix]

atlpeach93: "a tight dance routine can be made to this song"

Cam: Good point ATL Peach. I just made a tight dance routine to this song in my pyjama pants. It isn't even hard.







Beyonce feat. Jay Z - Crazy in Love

WhiteTigerLeon: "I feel old as hell listening to this lol I remember when it first came out waaaay back when I was like 10 o.0 lol I'm 18 now, where the hell did time go :(("

Cam: Fuck you White Tiger Leon lol. Your name sounds vaguely racist and you are making me feel old. o.0 Go to Billboards or some shit. Stop commenting on songs I like. :((






Jay-Z feat. Beyonce - Bonnie and Clyde

eminemsbitch01: "shes stunning like holy shit her body is incredible, her voice is sexy af, the gurl can MOVE! her face is perfect i mean.... beyonce is amazing. never seen anything like her"

Cam: Good point, eminemsbitch01.






J-Kwon - Tipsy

gibbsisawesome: "How could anyone NOT know this song before they saw Project X?! I remember this song being HUGE when it came out, and I was nine! If you didn't know this song when it came out, you gotta be like, 12 or some shit."

Cam: I don't know what project X is but I appreciate gibssisawesome's enthusiasm for this, one of the true party jams. And yeah, if you didn't know this song when it came out, you gotta be like, 12 or some shit.






Britney Spears - Toxic

QueenGodneySpears [1]:
"
Q
U
E
E
N
"

QueenGodneySpears [2]:
"
B
R
I
T
N
E
Y
"

Cam: fkyeahbro.

Vulnerability Is Power.

"I try to keep Heavy Metal Monday a bit lighthearted," James tells me, "because, you know, the rest of the blog can be, uhh, a bit introspective, at the moment."

I laugh awkwardly, recognizing the obvious truth. Later in the evening, looking over other entries, I also realize that it's been some time since I've really written about cycling. Instead I've been focusing on my illness, my own constantly changing existence, myself. This latter truth was a bit more difficult to come to, symbolizing, as it possibly does, a change in interest on my part. I still love cycling - I think I always will - but these days other things are more important.

What this means for the blog I'm not quite sure. It's already undergone a series of significant changes - it's certainly not about punk rock very often these days - and the byline (Melbourne Cycling At Its Best And/Or Worst) is often definitionally bent to my whimsical will. I'll keep writing, sure, but aside from the major events that I love to report on - like the Austral, the Bendigo Madison, the Tour, the Worlds - I'm certain that as I'm riding less, I'll be less interested in writing about the day-to-day experience of riding.

In the meantime, I'll keep asking notable local cyclists to do Music Wednesday for me, James will keep doing Heavy Metal Monday, and I'll keep listing interesting events (sometimes cycling related) in the Friday Roundup. But I'm making no promises about the Tuesday and Thursday posts. Who the hell knows what those are going to be about? Probably mostly about bikes still, because I do love them, but not always.

Things are changing. These are exciting times.

Vastness and Sorrow.

On Saturday night,  the staff here at Heavy Metal Monday engaged in partying with Sean the Man and sometimes contributor of this blog, Cam Mckenzie, of "if you don't like The Bronx, you won't like crits" fame.*

In what was perhaps a continuation of the style wars sparked on this very blog last week (written while we here at HMM were in fact half cut) various fines were handed out to gentlemen wearing v-knecks.  I'd like to say it's because we were doing our civic duty, but really it's because we weren't allowed into Billboards for being too old and were, thus, pissed off.

Still, the time passed, with Hurley talking in a high pitched voice about anything that came to mind, and Cam telling everyone how sick it would be to grind a particular urban feature.  Other than confirming that cyclists, as a bunch of people, tend to really like partying, not much else was learnt.  Other than the slightly sordid lesson that, when Ollie Phillips says we're going to Southbank, we're actually going to Crown.  Lesson learned.

Gin influenced actions aside, I very much enjoyed getting to know Cam a bit better, and a night spent with Hurley is never a disappointment.

As is often the case with these kind of alcohol inspired moments, all this got me thinking.  Heaven knows there are enough misguided rants about 'community' on this blog, coming from both Brendan, and myself, but I feel the need to touch on it again, albeit briefly.

As stated above, I ushered in Sunday with a bunch of road racing mates, swapping funny crit stories, three day tour myths, and venting about certain personalities of the bunch (none of them seem to be offended that I am a total hack and thus have no right to make these rants).  Sunday evening I went to a birthday dinner with some of my, for want of a better term, punk mates.  It was all vegan food, track bikes in the hall with very low gear inches (though I spied a few beardo-in-training bikes) and general shit talking.

Even though these people are all very different, they all like bicycles in some guise or another, and i met them all through bicycles.  By the same token, I feel as if I have gotten to know all these different people much better this year, to the point where I don't reckon I would need a bike involved for me to feel comfortable around these people.

This is not a 'we are cyclists, we are one' critical mass-esque rant.  I'm not interested in cycling as one community, because it isn't, and never will be.  In the same way that 'motorists' make up no distinctive community, so too with cyclists.  The guy in the Honda Civic has no interest in sinking beers with the guy who is dropping the clutch of his Skyline.  Or, at least if he does, he shouldn't.  In cycling we have beardos and roadies, hipsters and triathletes, commuters and recumbent nerds.  These labels simultaneously mean nothing and everything.  On the one hand we are all just people, regardless of the bicycles we ride, on the other what we do choose to ride, tells us a lot about yourself.

So I'm not interested in cycling as some sort of bloated 'community'.  What I am interested in is meeting people as a result of riding bikes.  Bikes are a tool.  Whether they are a tool to race, to commute, or something with which to meet like minded people is irrelevant.  What's important is to swing the leg over, and see what happens.

Now I can have a quiet dinner mates I have met through fixies.  Or I can go to Crown with my road bike mates (though I probably won't go to Crown again unless Ollie Phillips guarantees we go back to Fusion).

In classic Heavy Metal Monday fashion, none of this is ground breaking stuff.  I've sat here for an hour and a half, desperately willing the words to come, with little luck (plz see above).  Still, it's kinda comforting to know this all came about due to a silly obsession with bikes.

With all this in mind, and a sense of wellbeing restored in the bike 'community', stay tuned next week for the next instalment of the style wars, wherein Heavy Metal Monday will address some other cycling sub category, and make fun of the cloths they wear, thereby hopefully removing any trace of this god awful attempt at emotive realism.










*Why not Hotsnakes Cam?  "Because I don't like 2002 pitchfork music.".  Touche.

Something About You, Girl.

Friday Roundup Time! I got about five minutes before I gotta go meet Jen Jen in Brunswick. I'm currently in Reservoir. This is not going to be a quality post. But hey, thanks for bearing with me when I was wrecked last night. It doesn't happen often these days, mostly because I'm not killing myself out on the bike any more, but every now and then I'm pretty much incapable of forming sentences. Poor FJ. I'd ask him some question, because that's what friends do, and then just stare blankly at him while he replied. It wasn't great. This is the worst thing that the fatigue does - it makes me unable to converse. That sucks.

Anyways, here's what's happening! Tonight Outright are playing. They are possibly my favorite current Melbourne live band. Check them out. And then tomorrow you should go and race in the Captain Planet Alleycat, because they have the best Alleycat trophy I've ever seen. And then, on Sunday, you're left to your own devices. Check out next Saturday night though, because another edition of Disco Track is coming your way. And that's it. See ya!

Every Little Thing Anticipates You.

Man, I was just about to go to sleep - yes, at 8:30 - when I remembered that I hadn't written in this blog yet. So by virtue of my tiredness this will be a short post.

Actually, fuck it. I am going to sleep. A good ten hours should nip this exhaustion nicely in the bud.

The worst thing is, I'm in a really good mood. Things are going really well - incredibly well, in fact. But I guess I haven't quite shaken this illness just yet. This news isn't quite as devastating as it once was. I've passed the point of devastation and have become philosophical about this cycle of hope and disappointment. I suppose it's easy to be philosophical, to accept the shitty things, when you feel like everything else is good, when the rest of life seems to be giving you a big ol' hug. Or, I guess, when you have stopped building your life around the one thing your body won't let you do. It's safe to say cycling doesn't mean the same to me as it did a year ago. That's probably a good thing.

Probably? Definitely.

I'm not making any sense.

I'm going to sleep now.

Night.

All Workers.

No post today. Never cross a picket line, folks.

As You Draw Near.

I've been wrestling with this post all morning, trying to sort it out in my head before I commit it to words. I like to have some kind of clarity before I start typing, but some days it just won't come.

As part of my job - working with kids who have behavioural issues -  I sometimes have to work with kids who have Asperger's Syndrome, which is sometimes also known as an Autism Spectrum Disorder. I like this latter name better, as it indicates that the severity of the disorder varies significantly from person to person. While folks on the spectrum all display similar symptoms - difficulty interpreting social cues, intense interest in a particular subject, a need to explicitly decipher situations that others intuitively understand, reliance on rules and structures, and considerable anxiety and anger when they are unable to figure out what is going on - some of them are all but incapacitated by the disorder, whereas some - like the kids we usually end up with - are quite social, can form and maintain friendships. These friendships usually occur in the computer room - Asperger's kids tend to love computer games, as those are worlds that are dependable - when they press a button, the gun will shoot, or their character will jump. If there's a bonus life behind a door today, it will be there again tomorrow. That's the kind of consistency that just doesn't occur in real life.

But I gotta say, the more I learn about Asperger's, the more I think that the spectrum isn't broad enough, that by drawing a defining line at one end of the spectrum folks are missing out on the chance to understand better the way all of our brains work. At the far end of the spectrum, with people who are social and communicate well and can get by, the distinction between those who have it and those who don't seems at best arbitrary and at worst false. Put bluntly, we all seem to have Asperger tendencies, and the diagnostic tests seem to only be a matter of measuring its severity rather than discovering its existence.

With this in mind, the techniques used to help folks manage Asperger's - mostly Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) - are probably techniques that would help most of us, in one way or another. Mostly CBT is just about taking charge of your thoughts, recognizing when you are thinking something damaging or false and working to, in a way, control those thoughts, then consequently alter the behaviour accompanying those thoughts.

And this is where I start to wonder about myself. When I first started dealing with this fatigue, and doctors started ruling things out left right and centre, it wasn't long before they started recommending I go see a sports psychologist. I resisted the idea at first, because I don't have a great history with psychologists - I have this tendency to turn my sessions into intellectual contests, chess games that I have to win, which probably isn't the point. I was also really fucking angry that they were suggesting that the problem was psychological rather than physical, that it was somehow within the nexus of my control. I kept going to different doctors, more niche specialists, kept ruling out increasingly esoteric options. Just last week, on the day that the photo above was taken, I was able to rule out any immune disorders, coeliac disease, and a whole assortment of cancers.

While this seems like a good thing, it still leaves a bunch of questions unanswered. The worst thing about this fatigue has been the uncertainty, of not knowing how or when it would crop up again. All I need is to know that if there's a bonus life behind a door today, it will be there tomorrow. Then I'd be able to put in place some training, some coping strategies, work around it. But because it comes and goes, because I'll be able to string together a few months of solid training before it recurs out of no where, this can't be the case. What I'm capable of doing changes from day to day. And occasionally that freaks me out. I can't figure out what's going on, and I get the anger and anxiety and fear.

Aww, hell, I still can't figure this out now. Last week at the track my body completely deserted me and I got rolled by a bunch of folks who usually ride B grade. I was pissed and frustrated and looking for answers. When I couldn't find any I started freaking the fuck out, thinking that the fatigue was back, that I'd need to take another six months off, that perhaps I should just give it away altogether. It didn't make any sense, and I couldn't figure it out. After pulling out of the last race I sat down and didn't move, didn't talk to anyone, didn't do anything, just sat and silently contemplated the end of everything. I was fucking ropeable. Eventually, though, folks started coming up to me. And I eventually started talking again. And they started talking to me. And somewhere, in the midst of that discussion, I started to recognize that I was thinking about things in way that was damaging or false, and in turn began to turn it around. At least a little bit. An hour after the race had finished - when the fatigue usually hits hardest - I was ok, still awake and talking. And the next day - the litmus test of this weird disorder - my body was alright. I even rode my bike over to the doctors. As the photo above shows, the sun was shining.

I still don't think this sickness is all in my head, but I also don't think that the way I think about it is separate from the way it feels. There's a false dichotomy for you. Like the Asperger's kid who freaks out when they can't figure out what is happening in the playground, I've been freaking out every time I can't figure out what's happening with my body. Perhaps it's the same thing. Perhaps I'm a little Asperger's too. And perhaps it's time for me to work on how I think about that.

Settle For Nothing.

Although distinctly un-metal, the weather in Melbourne for the past few days has been, to quote the bard, "fucking excellent".  The Heavy Metal Monday staff engaged in a bicycle ride of epic proportions (compared to current riding levels) on Saturday.  Short knicks were worn, and long socks were donned.  The fluro brikos were brought out, and an outrageously good time was had.

But we rode with triathletes.  So short were the ankle socks, and so long were the aero bars, it's all we here at Heavy Metal Monday could do to take to the obscene bicycle antlers with a hack saw.  They would thank us eventually.

Motorists lump us into the same category, but I was struck by how different the mentality, the riding, and the general attitude was between roadies like me, and my new triathlete friends.  

Which brings us to roadie chic.  Just as the inner city is currently overwhelmed with young beardos in training, Beach Rd is literally groaning under the weight of embrocation and Oakely Jawbones.

As far as I can tell, these are the rules of roadie chic:

1. Socks.  Must be long.  Six inch cuff seems to be the current trend.  Last season seemed to be all about white, but black definitely seems to be making back ground.  I've been asked as to why the trend is skewed toward the longer socks.  As a former (and it pains me to admit this) fan of the ankle sock, I can't explain my current obsession with tall socks.  I could probably come up with some clever reason, but the real reason is because I'm an outrageous fashion victim.  Why is it the fashion though?  Calf definition?  

2.Knicks.  Short if Frech and a climber.  Long if a time trialer.  Why?  Cos.

3,  Shoes.  White.  Road grime you say?  Booties mate.

4.  Sunnies.  Here things get tricky.  If you wear Oakely Jawbones, you are a jock.  This is non-negotiable.  If you wear Brikos (current generation) you are probably a hipster, or some kind of stupid trendy.  If you wera old-style Brikos, you are either a mad dog, or a FYXO fashion victim.  Anything else?  You're probably sponsored.  Please note that the minute you take off your helmet, your sunnies go on the top of your head.  Nothing says triathlete like fluro sunnies on your actual face.

5. Wheels.  If you don't race, it is cool to run your Zipp 404's on Beach Road as you ride to Mordialloc.  If you race, 32 hole wheels with some stupid heavy hub are super chic for training.  Racing?  Run your ENVE's.  Bonus points for winning.  Bonus bonus points for rolling a tub.

6. There is a lot of talk about loft re. cycling caps.  Loft entails putting your cap on the top of your head, like an absolute fuckwit, simply because Eddy wore it like that one time, probably when half-cut.  Heavy Metal Monday fully endorses loft.

Critics will note that none of the above is related to actually riding.  That is as it should be.  Roadie chic has nothing to do with riding.  It is about the projection of image.  If you can look good and smash it, you are probably not interested in cycling blogs.  For the rest of us, we can either look bad, or look good.  Winning is an added bonus.  In the case of the staff from Heavy Metal Monday, perhaps the most inept bike racers ever to emerge from the suburbs of Melbourne, any chance to shine on the bike is welcome.  If that glimmer comes from our glistening legs, or the reflection of our Brikos, rather than the sparkle of victory, so be it.

Ladies and Gentleman.  Summer awaits.

Set Your Flag On Fire.

Welcome to another Friday Roundup. Before I get too far into this one, I have something to confess. Last week I banged on and on about finally getting to see Premium Rush, but like most of my predictions, I was wrong. All illegal downloads seem to be flawed or password protected. If anyone out there wants to provide me with links, burnt copies or even full USBs, well, that's my email address listed under "Contact".

A couple of non-cycling things first off. If you happen to be wandering through the city at any point in the next few days, you should totally stop by the CFMEU picket and offer your support to the workers holding the line. Sure, unions are flawed institutions, and are never quite as revolutionary as you want them to be, but it's workers' rights by any means, folks. And if you're still wandering around on Wednesday, come say hi to me on the steps of Parliament House. I'll be the teacher wearing red.

Next up is my friend Adam's movie blog, Reel Important. He's got good taste in movies, is funny, and is very local. I'm always stoked to read about what he's been watching, even if I'm never going to get around to watching any of the movies mentioned. You've seen what it was like when I tried to watch Premium Rush.

Ok, I've mentioned this before, and I'll mention it again, because it's not this Saturday but the next... The Captain Planet Alleycat! I'm kinda keen to ride it, especially now that my bike once again reflects more innocent times. For those of you without Facebook, rego kicks off at 3pm at Edi Gardens on the 8th.

You know, speaking of folks I only know on the internet, some folks I know started this game up, and I initially thought it was totally dorky. But as the game wore on and folks started getting more and more into it, they kept revealing cool little parts of the city that I'd either forgotten, ignored, or wasn't aware of. And that's pretty rad. I reckon as the weather gets warmer the competition will also heat up, so you should totally just quit work and concentrate on bike tag.

And finally, more details have finally come out about this. These are exciting times, folks. Check it out.

And that's about it for this Friday, the last day of Winter. There's sunshine coming this weekend and I'm already making plans for summer. It's a good time to be alive.

I Stole All Of My Songs.

Earlier this term Deb was getting rid of a whole bunch of records, and I put my hand up. Actual records, not just CDs that I call records for slang and hipster points. Billy Bragg, The Violent Femmes, a whole bunch of country and jazz, it all went into the bag. I hadn't seen her for a while, and it was good to catch up, but it was even better to hear her reminisce about these records, where she had bought them, when she had first heard of them, how she felt about them now. She's a little older than me, so had a different perspective on music - one I really liked hearing about. So when she popped up on Facebook tonight I figured it would be worth asking her to do a guest post, even though she'd never read the blog before. She agreed, so here goes.

One of the original rock chicks. Hey I was her back then. Loved her. Wanted to be her. Was her in my 14 year old way. Saw her at the Corner in  the 80s. Came on with her back to the audience & asked “You all wanna go to Devil Gate Drive? Yeah? Well come on”

Love that bass man.

Rancheros just make me sooo happy.  They remind me of a night in Mexico DF: mariachi, tequila and men in pants with silver toggles hanging off the side.

Ok, It’s the Seekers but I love this song, good for my life at the moment, especially the line “If I never see you face again then it’s all the same to me” Good little riff.

Whilst I’m not a huge Enya fan, we sing this song in the Vic Trade Union Choir & it’s one of my favourites. I want it sung at my funeral. “How can I keep from singing?”

A song that always makes me sing out loud! Apparently one of the Violent Femmes lives in Tassie.

Stirring number this one. Gotta love a woman with a big voice!

The 415 Area Code Seems So Fucking Far From Mine.

I used to write all the race reports for Dirty Deeds. It was a pretty fun job, I gotta admit, even if it was time consuming. As well as getting to make any number of jokes about Lewis’ foot fetish, I got to tell the stories of the races, and that’s always the best bit. An added bonus I didn’t anticipate, however, was that I got to know a whole bunch of the folks I was sending these reports to.

One of these folks was Molly Hurford of Cyclocross Magazine – the Girl With The Cowbell Tattoo herself. After the Australian season was over we kept emailing back and forth, and eventually became pretty good friends. I sent her a shirt from this year’s DDCX and she asked me to review her new book – Mud, Snow and Cyclocross: How ‘Cross Took Over US Cycling.

I thought that perhaps I’d have to take off my friend hat and put on my cynical reviewer hat, and that that would cause some ructions. But there was no need – the friendly voice Hurford uses in her personal correspondence is exactly the same as the one she uses in her professional writing. It’s relaxed and breezy, and the fun tone makes the book incredibly easy to read. I sat in the back of an Italian class and knocked over fifty pages without taking an eye off students conjugating verbs.

It’s also obvious that Hurford loves the sport, and she brings an insider’s perspective to the writing. She’s obviously spent a lot of time with the people she’s interviewing, and her familiarity seems to put them at ease – her subjects are generally candid and honest, even if they are disagreeing with each other.

The emphasis on oral history means there are a good variety of voices, and Hurford has gone to considerable lengths to ensure that she has spoken to both a demographically representative sample and also the right voices from the early days of US CX.

Reading this from an Australian perspective gives a good picture of just how far behind we are. This is the first year Australia has had a national series; the States had the SuperCup in the late 90s. The States are hosting the World CX Champs this year; Victoria is hosting their first State CX Champs this year. But it also gives an excellent outline for how the sport can grow in this country. This is particularly true of the chapters outlining the various CX races and series across the states – it’s basically a blueprint for how to grow the sport.

Perhaps even more than other kinds of cycling, CX is about personalities, and Hurford doesn’t neglect this. The section on individual racers gives an excellent idea of who is who in the US CX scene, makes us care about the racers, lets us know the riders who until now were simply names on a results sheet.

My favourite section, however, was easily the CX hijinks chapter – perhaps the best thing about CX is the shenanigans, the willingness of even the elite riders to take the piss. And a chapter dealing with some of the best pranks in US CX is always going to be a highlight. I won’t give away any of the lolz here, but rest assured the book doesn’t shy away from the details.

All in all, it’s a pretty sweet book from a pretty sweet individual, and I enjoyed it a lot. I'm pretty sure you can get in on Amazon, or alternatively go bug Malachi at Northside Wheelers - if anyone could get it in, it's probably him.

I Think We're Dying.

The Heavy Metal Monday office is, for the first time in about four months, beginning to smell like sweat again.  This is, admittedly, partly due to my not having done any washing for about three weeks.  However some of the stench is being caused by having started to, for want of a better term, 'train' again.

Basically, I'm riding my bike a bit.  And it's pretty good.  Brendan's back racing and tapping out miles as well.  New Timer house is waking up from the winter slumber.  The slight scent of spring is in the wind that's blowing through the back door.  And with Hurley in my ear about racing this Saturday, it's all beginning to feel a bit fun again.  If I wasn't listening to so much Bongripper I'd almost feel energetic.

'Training' is probably a misleading term.  I trained a bit last year and it didn't really work for me.  I didn't like the regimented nature of it.  It got to the point where riding my bike became, not so much a chore, but at least something that I didn't have a choice in.  Which is of course obscene.  My new approach is more centred around the 'gonna ride pushies a bit'.  Because, you know, that's ultimately my favourite thing to do ever.  Regimented training is a good way to forget that.

Racing, on the other hand, is a different story.  I'm often asked by friends whether racing takes the fun out of riding due to it becoming 'more serious'.  If anything it does the opposite.  Racing has taught me lots of stuff.  How to ride in a bunch, how to ride a paceline or an echelon (though people at Footscray still yell at me when I do it wrong).  I've learnt about little faux-pas that non racers don't learn about, like half wheeling.  These are little benefits which, though meaningless ultimately, help you to become a fuller, more complete cyclist.

On a slightly more existential level, though, racing can deliver fairly amazing highs/lows.  Riding a bike fast can be, without hyperbole, the shittest thing you ever do.  That said it can also be the absolute pinnacle of your week/month/year.  That pendulum swing is what's addictive, and what creates that desire to keep putting stupid cloths on.  It's during these quasi chemical highs that one has these pivotal reminders that riding bikes, in its simplest form, is simply the most fun you can have outside of a Slayer concert.  

Riding lonely miles in the rain because you have to train is a good way to make you hate yourself and your bike.  Turning yourself inside out with a bunch of mates for a few hours, then retiring for avocado on toast and long blacks is one of the better ways to stay happy and engaged with life.  At least that's what I've discovered. 

Racing creates goals and direction which, though perhaps a little silly or overly ambitious, give you good cause to ride your pushie around with friends.  As a corner stone to life, frankly, you could do worse.

I'm kind of aware I sound like a broken record here, and perhaps for some of you this is so bleedingly obvious it hurts, but it's been fairly important to me. 

Riding pushies is fun.  Race them if you can.  Just so it gives you an excuse to spend time with friends, to eat avo on toast and drink coffee.

The crux of it for me, I suppose, is that bikes just mean good times with friends.  

Get amongst it.  But stay grim.