I Wish I Could Peel Away Your Humid Human Skin.

My nephew Oskar, who is seven, has this friend called Isabelle, also seven.  Isabelle has down syndrome.

Isabelle had a couple of guinea pigs that she loved more than anything in the world, spending a lot of her time talking to them, hugging them, chasing them, and generally having a great time.

The other day Gillian, Isabelle's mum, heard a strange sound coming from the garden.  She ran outside, and there was Isabelle.  She was covered in fur, and looked a bit concerned.  On the ground next to Isabelle was one of the guinea pigs.  It was limping a bit, and making an awful squeaking sound.

Turns out Isabelle had hugged the poor thing so tight that its ribs cracked.  It died.

Isabelle had literally loved the animal to death.

Isabelle learnt a lot about death that day.  She did something bad, to be sure, but there was none of the usual fanfare.  No tears, no scolding, nothing broken.

But one of her friends was dead, because of a mistake she didn't know she was making.

As life lessons go, that's a fairly morbid one to go through at seven, especially when you have other uncertainties about the world around you.

I mean, Oskar just lost his dad, and he's obviously coming to grips with it as any seven year old should.  By shouting a lot, followed by occasional moments of vivd introspection.  But he's a switched on kid.  He knows what's up.  As hard as the next few months and years are going to be in some sense, he's going to be ok.

But Isabelle is another story.  Isabelle has to work harder to make sense of the world around her.  Sometimes she makes mistakes.  That's ok, we all do.  The difference is that Isabelle doesn't know what to make of the end result.  Her mate is gone, and it's because she did something wrong.  But what was it?  All she did was love the animal with all her might.

I feel like the worst thing that could come out of this situation is Isabelle coming to believe that you can kill something by loving it too much.


 

Radio, Radio, Sing Me Something I Know.

Whoa! I know, right? It's been two whole weeks! But that's right, it's once again time for another Friday Roundup. Lots of advice about what to do when you're stuck indoors this time around, because I know that I'm sure as hell not going out in this weather.

Ok, ok, maybe I will make one exception. The Melburn-Roobaix is on Sunday! But really, chances are that if you're reading this blog, you already knew that. I'll be down there helping out at the Brunswick Cycling Club tent. FJ will be there trying to sell Masis. And, even though you've just met him, and it is crazy, you should give him your number, then call him Jamesy.

Dirty Deeds (and I) got a sweet write up in CX Magazine the other day, but the presentation sessions really highlighted the need for folks to read this blog post on podium etiquette by friend of The New Timer Monique Hanley. She's one of the good ones, that Monique. I wonder what kind of music she listens to. Maybe I'll see if she wants to do a Music Wednesday. 

Award for best new tumblr of the day goes to When In Melbourne, which rings disturbingly true.

But it's also good to see Liam posting again in his most excellent Swine! Before Pearls blog. This entry about the use of X-Code imagery led me through the internet rabbitwarrens for hours, and is especially pertinent because it uses Sime's logo for Dirty Deeds as an example. This ain't no diss of the logo - I think it's brilliant - but it's always interesting to suggest where inspiration has come from, and if it was deliberate or not.

Ok, so KO is out of town, and Rolly just texted me suggesting that when she's out of town everyone just stays inside and watches DVDs all weekend. Which, incidentally, was already exactly my plan for tonight. To make us seem less dependent, however, both FJ and I will be heading to the FOA pre-Roobaix mixer at 99 Problems on Saturday night. Kicks off around 9.

And after that, some time around 12, we're going to Charltons to do Karaoke. You should definitely come to that. Someone has to save me from myself.

They Keep Calling Me.

Petie Hyde and Mark “Parko” Muscat had a fistfight. It was at a party out at James “Gibbo” Gibson’s farm outside of Stawell. Some words were spoken, Parko swung his fist around a bit, but there wasn’t much in it. It seemed like the damage was probably more emotional than physical. So when Petie stormed off into the night, I figured I should probably go with him. We didn’t really talk about much. The walk was about five miles.

When we got into town he’d calmed down a bit. I left him at the taxi rank down the bottom of the mall and began to walk back out to Gibbo’s place. At the top of the mall, across from the Commercial Hotel, I saw three or four guys run out of a basement flat. I’d been in that flat before – it used to belong to a friend’s older sister, and we’d go there when we wanted her to buy us beer.

A girl stepped out of the flat. I stopped and watched her for a while. There was something not quite right. She started swaying. I asked her if she was alright. When she didn’t reply I walked a bit closer. She was bleeding.

I lay her down on the concrete. She was trying to say something. I looked at her wounds. They didn’t seem too bad. She was clutching at her stomach. I lifted her shirt a little, just to reveal the area around her hip, and saw the great gaping hole in her flesh. A couple of inches higher was her tattoo – a lightly drawn outline of a horse’s head.

I talked to her a little bit, held her hand and stuff. Before too long the guys came back. They’d called an ambulance. There was a guy still down in the flat, waving a kitchen knife around. No one knew what to do if he came out. We waited for the ambulance to come. The station was about seventy metres away, further up the hill.

About half an hour later I left her with one of the guys to go get a cold cloth from inside the Commercial. When I came back the ambulance guys were picking her up. I sat down on the kerb and watched. One of her friends went with her.

The cops came and took my name. Melissa Wilmott came out from the pub and put her arm around me. Before too long I remembered that I’d left all of my stuff out at the farm. So I walked out to the edge of town, then started running. I was a bit healthier then than I am now, and used to run in and out of town pretty often. It wasn’t such a big deal.

When I got back I saw Gibbo’s mum, Nan. She asked me what was wrong. I can’t remember what I said. Somehow she hooked me up with Kimmy Muscat and Lynley Hoiles, who were catching a cab back into town. They dropped me off near home.

It was mid afternoon when I woke up. I told my parents I had to go to police station, but wouldn’t tell them why. They’d heard some talk already, and had a vague idea of what was going on. They offered to drive me, but I decided to walk. It was a nice day outside.

Her friend from the ambulance was inside the station, waiting to be interviewed. She recognized me from the night before. She had followed the girl all the way into the surgery. The hospital was understaffed. They didn’t have enough hands. The doctor kept asking her to press down in different places, to hold together different parts of her friend. There was so much blood, she said.

We let the conversation lapse.

The doctor came in. It was my doctor. He looked at us, and shifted awkwardly. There was nothing we could’ve done, he told the noticeboard behind us. Her injuries were just too serious.

Her name was Kim, which was the name of my Canadian girlfriend. I can’t remember her last name.

The next day I went to school. It was a stupid decision. Aside from a cursory hug from Lynley, no one acknowledged what had happened. It was hot. When the end of the day came I walked up towards the mall, stopping to take my shoes off on the way.

My teacher Jeff Cameron must’ve seen me out of the staffroom window. He stormed out the front doors.

       Where are your shoes.

       They’re in my bag.

       Put them back on.

       It’s after school hours, and I’m off school premises. I don’t have to put them back on.

       Put them back on.

       I’m sorry Mr Cameron, but no.

I continued on my way. He said something triumphant, then stormed back inside.

When I got home that night my parents told me I’d been suspended. Deliberate disobedience. My punishment was a day. I took a week.

The next fortnight was school holidays. I rode my bike in the mountains, wrote, slept.

Two weeks later, just as school was about to go back, my grandmother died. My dad asked me to be a pallbearer. I declined. I took another week off.

Do You Have Any Idea How Many Songs They Wrote About You?

Lest people start to think it's all bangers and thrash around these parts, today I'm presenting a series of total bummer tunes. Not because I'm depressed or anything - though I appreciated all the concern yesterday, when I called myself a dick all over the internet, I'm totally fine - but rather because I'm quite fond of melancholy, and sometimes a well written dirge can be just as inspiring as a straight up banger. The trouble with bummer tunes, however, is that they don't lend themselves to raving on and on after the song has ended. It's probably better for me not to say anything at all, but rather to let you sit back and click through the songs on your own time, without me steering the ship. Perhaps go look at photos of your former lovers on facebook while you listen, or look up all the places you used to live on google streetview, or find your old livejournal and read about all the crushes you never acted on.

Tomorrow's No Burden.

My boss told me earlier that I seem dopier than usual today. He was worried about me, concerned I was unwell. I blamed not much sleep and the current moratorium I'm having on all of my supplements, in anticipation of a complete blood workup. Both of those things are true, but probably not completely the reason for me seeming a bit out of it. Missing out some of the key facts, or lying by omission, as we've taught the kids to say.

I've gotta rush this post a little bit, as there's only about twenty minutes before we all have to sit down and discuss how each kid has gone on their goal. Each week each of my students gets a goal based specifically on their behaviour. Some of them have "Do as asked," some of them have, "Handle difficult situations better," some of them have, "Answer questions honestly." At the end of each day we sit down and discuss with them if they have achieved that goal. If they have, they get a tick in their goal book. If they haven't, they get a cross. If they were somewhere in between, they get a 50/50. And, here's the clincher, if at the end of the week they have more ticks than anything else, they get to leave at 12.30 on a Friday afternoon. If they don't, they have to stay til 2.50, like a normal day.

Sometimes, particularly lippy kids will suggest that they should also be able to give the teachers goals. And we always encourage them to do so. Eventually, if they do follow through, they'll come up with pretty superficial stuff, like "Mick should tell better jokes," or "Brendan should stop dancing in class" (we do tell them that goals should be phrased in a positive manner, but sometimes that's a bridge too far for our kids, who usually struggle with language). I always wonder why they don't pull us up on more serious stuff, but I guess we're teachers, and these are kids who have been yelled at by teachers a thousand times, so they're probably still wary of the power relationship involved. If they were a little more trusting they might write about me that I should "arrive at the Unit ready to work," in response to my constant fatigue, both training related and latenight related. Or maybe even "treat the work more seriously," in response to my tendency to joke through serious situations, like important meetings, or kids whose parents are a little too messed up.

If they knew me socially, however, my current goal might be "don't be a dick." And today, sitting down in the couch area we call the airport lounge (because that's where you sit when you arrive and when you depart), they'd probably give me a cross. Man, I've burnt some fucking bridges since January. That's when I stopped riding my bike, and since then I seem to have reverted to an attitude typical of the Seinfeld generation, treating flippant things with the utmost seriousness, and treating serious things with a callous flippancy. Like Seinfeld, it's an entertaining way to live, but also like Seinfeld, when you get to the last episode, you realize that the people involved are just dicks. And that's where I'm at right now.

The worst thing about behaving in this manner is that the habit becomes a compulsion, and you end up sending the wrong message entirely, distancing yourself using flippancy and nonchalance when you should be drawing closer using honesty and passion. I should, of course, be truthful with people, tell that not being able to race my bike totally fucks me up, that I fucking miss it like a limb, that every Tuesday I go down to the track because I wish like all fucking hell that I could still do it, and if I can't, I still want to be involved somehow. And fuck it, instead of that stupid play on words, instead of answering your question with a question, I should just fucking cry.

But I don't. Because it's too heavy, and without those jokes and puns and questions, the weight could well crush me. That's ok, but when the flippant reply becomes the constant, when the protective layer of humour becomes the whole, that's a problem. And that's why I do deserve a cross. Because I'm being a dick.

My Wicked Way.

Given my antics during Friday's Dirty Deeds prologue, during which a sizeable but not quite wizard status staff was built, you will have to forgive me if today's post is a little scattered.

Probably the question I was asked the most on Friday night was why I wasn't racing.  At the time I think I brandished my beer wizard staff and said something about other priorities, but maybe it's time to reflect a little closer as to why I chose not to race the first cross race of the season.

I mean, the main reason is because I'm pretty unfit right about now, and the last thing I felt like doing after work on Friday was wearing lycra in the cold, feeling like a vom.  I like pain as much as the next cyclist, but I'm not stupid, despite what anyone might say.

But there's also a big loss of confidence playing a part as well.  It's at about this point that Sean the Man would scoff, tell me to run a 94'', and just fucking back myself.  Which is totally true, but it doesn't take away from the fact that racing, and to a lesser degree training, requires a certain tactical suspension of disbelief.

Simply put, you have to believe that you can do better, get fitter, improve and, eventually, win races.  Otherwise what's the point?  Sure you can ride your bike and have a ball, no one is denying that, but then why race if that's all you want to do?

Right now I simply have no real urge to trick myself into thinking I could race like a mad dog.  When people ask me when I'm going to start racing again, I just shrug my shoulders and say: "when I feel like it."

Brendan wrote something similar the other day, mentioning that you have to have total faith in yourself, mentally and physically, to consider it worthwhile flogging yourself out on the road and on the ergo.  Right now, a bit like Brendan, I'm pretty happy going to shows, listening to records, and reading books that, up until a month ago, I've been too tired to read.  Not going to lie, it's been a rad time.

I've been on my bike, and I've had a ball.  But every time I put it in the big dog, I'm reminded of how much work I have to do, if I want to achieve any of the goals I've been aiming for.

At this stage I'm pretty happy taking my time. 

Rain Down Some Change On Me.

         
         There’s been a lot of talk about the movie Sliding Doors in these parts of late, mostly because the movie seemed to really speak to FJ, and last night, out to dinner with a friend from highschool, I was reminded of my own Sliding Doors moment.

Some time in year ten I was sitting in front of this girl Bec on the bus back from Horsham. We’d been on a German excursion, and had just recited some German poetry and learnt about Black Forest Cake. I was dating a different girl at the time, but I had just met this girl in Horsham, whom I would – unbeknownst to anyone at this point – go to visit and hook up with a week later. So I was feeling pretty good. Bec, however, was having another of the crises of confidence that regularly beset 15-year-old girls, and was talking about how ugly she was. Doing what I thought was the right thing, I told her that she was indeed far from ugly, and if she hadn’t had been dating my best friend Richie at the time, I would’ve considered making out with her. So much for doing the right thing. The next day at school Richie accused me of trying to kiss his girlfriend. This was, of course, utter shit, but he and I were never real friends again, which kinda sucked.

I told you that story so I could tell you another one. About three years later I was at another party, and was dancing around with a different Bec – for clarity, and because google means I shouldn’t use last names, let’s call her Bec #2. She too had been dating Richie – who, in hindsight, perhaps had a thing for Becs - but their relationship had been faltering, and I wasn’t sure of her status. So, remembering the debacle with Bec #1, I decided that I would make out with Bec #2’s friend Kate instead. It was okay. As I was leaving the party, though, I overheard Bec #2 yelling at Kate, telling her that she had stolen her man. I figured that this situation was pretty sweet – there was another party on the next night, and now there was no doubt as to Bec #2’s relationship status. For some reason, however, I arrived at that party quite late, and upon entry found her making out with this other guy. I’m still not sure why I was late, or what I was doing, but they have continued dating ever since, got married, and recently became the proud parents of twins. If it wasn’t for Bec #1, I tell you, those twins would’ve been mine. I would’ve stayed in Stawell, worked in the mine, played footy for the Warriors and spent the weekends drunk at The Gift hotel.

For me now, and probably for you reading it, that sounds like a totally lame time. But I bet that if I had taken that path, if I had’ve rocked up to that party at nine instead of eleven, I’d still be pretty happy with things. I’d still have a bunch of mates who I crack jokes with in the evenings. I’d still have people around who deliver hugs when they’re needed. I’d still read books and listen to music and have an intense hunger for stories, narratives, historical gossip. And, on a more pragmatic level, I’d still have a house, a job, a family. Some things might even be more exciting that they are for me now, though I can’t think of any off the top of my head. That’s where the movie kinda lies to us. That other life wouldn’t be better or worse. It’d just be different.

Officer.

Ok, in light of FJ's incredible obsession with this song, I present to you a series of guilty pop pleasures. Totally more top ten than Music Wednesday usually is, but that might mean more people actually enjoy it.



Fucken Beyonce has so many straight up bangers, it's difficult to narrow it down, but the addition of Jay Z to this one makes it the obvious choice. Me and Tarquin once did this at a karaoke party, and didn't know any of the words other than the "uh-oh" bit, but it still totally went off.



I believe Leith made the mistake of buying this whole record, when everyone knows that with pop songs only the singles matter. Maybe it wasn't a mistake, but him enjoying the shit out of the flawless production, the cluttered beats, the sheer fun of it.



I'm also going to throw this one in, even though it's probably a bit too jazzy to be considered pop. Still, that girl got a hell of a set of lungs. Easily my favourite Xtina phase.



But really, when it comes to flawless pop, it's difficult to go past this:



Or maybe that's just me showing my age again.

Ring A Ring A Rosie, As The Light Declines.

I won't lie to you. Lately the idea of being a bike racer, of doing the prerequisite hours of training, of spending long hours driving out to bike races, of suffering for uncertain reward, is losing some of its lustre. Taking advantage of a long period off the bike, I've been going out on the town, seeing bands, catching up with people who I love, loved, will love. It's been pretty pleasant.

Sure, I've been back on the ergo, I'm doing the road miles, and am still rocking up to help with racing every week. But, unlike any other time in my short career as a racer, right now I'm uncertain if this is how I want to spend the next few years.

I suppose if I could depend on my body things would be different. I'd just blast back into it and not give a damn, take no prisoners, burn baby burn. But this caution leaves me looking elsewhere. Every time I have to sit up on a climb, because I feel like I shouldn't be pushing too hard just yet, I start to think about giving it all away.

I've said in the past that in this game - or any other competitive endeavour, really - uncertainty equals failure. There's simply no room for doubt, for questioning, for thinking too much. That's why I fell in love with it. But now, with so many doubts, I can't help but wonder if I'd be happier doing other things.

I guess it's the exgirlfriend analogy again. At the moment, cycling feels like someone I used to hang out with. Right now we're circling each other again, seeing if we still fit together, holding each other all night and hoping things won't feel weird when we wake up next to each other. Trying to find the spark.

To Meet Every Train.

Hey! Welcome to another Friday Roundup! I'm writing this from school again. The internet connection is good and all the kids have already gone home. The weather looks clear and there's a three day weekend ahead. Things are definitely on the up and up.

And while things are on the up and up, why don't you take advantage of a grave misfortune suffered by the good people of Adelaide. If you set this up in your backyard, I will definitely come over every day. And I'll bring chips.

I've been flying the flag for teachers a bit in the last day and a half, and now I get to fly the flag for cyclists too. Melbourne Bicycle Users Group are organizing a rally to remind the Ballieu government that they need to provide funding aimed at cyclists as well as (or instead of?) motorists. They seem to have forgotten altogether, the silly buggers. There's a rally on the 21st, and you should go. More info here.

After the rally was all done and dusted yesterday I went and had a coffee with my former fiancee, who now lives in Melbourne and teaches at a school in the western suburbs. It was pretty rad, actually. I remembered all the reasons why I wanted to marry her - she's gregarious and funny, endlessly optimistic and independent as all hell - without actually wanting to do so. Similarly, I'm only now starting to get excited about Cyclocross season again. Which is handy, given I'll be rocking the mic at the Prologue next Friday night. Heh heh heh, I have some seriously witty insults in the bank, and can't wait to bust them out. Check out details here, and also check out the sweet pics of an article I wrote about CX for Treadlie here.

Speaking of Treadlie, Editor Faith linked to this cool site on the internet this morning. I have been annoying students with it all day.

And hey, while I remember, here's the facebook page for Global Gutz next weekend.

But let's not get too ahead of ourselves. We still have to make it through the weekend. And it's going to be tough, because CONATION ARE PLAYING!

That'll do for this week New Timers. See you Monday!

Born To Break Even.

It's good to be back.

I'm On Point.

Sweet baby Jesus, am I actually going to get a music Wednesday to myself? Oh man, this rules.

I had a couple of days off sick the other week. On the second day of snot and sleeping I woke up with Dicey Reilly in my head.




When folks think of Irish influenced-punk, they go immediately to The Pogues, which is fair enough, and who we'll talk about later, but really, it all began with The Dubliners. They were among the first to use traditional music to talk about alcoholism, female desire (and infidelity!), and gambling your days away. Their lyrics read like a Bukowski novel. Definitely not to be written off just because your parents like them.

And then, of course, a good Irish lad by the name of Shane MacGowan fell in with some London punks, got drunk, and figured he could meld the music of his childhood with the music he was surrounded by.

Incidentally, though not chronologically consistent, this is probably where Melbourne band Mutiny stylistically fits best. Man, I saw these guys play so often in the late 90s. Though they're still allegedly an ongoing concern, they aren't the same band these days. Still, this rules.

As time went on, the punk became more prevalent in folk-punk, even if the bands in question were covering traditional songs.


The Dropkick Murphys, unquestionably a terrible band, whose lyrics were largely summed up by Little Sean as "Let's drink beer and we'll be mates, and solidarity is really great", were also singlehandedly responsible for me knowing all the words to The Wild Rover. This knowledge was inevitably called into use in any pub throughout Ireland, minutes after I'd already offended all and sundry by refusing a pint.

Once I went to see this traditional Irish band play on St Patrick's day, because it seemed like the thing to do. Folks were wearing green hair and badges that said "Kiss Me, I'm Irish." I kinda thought the whole scene was pretty naff, until the band launched into a version of this song, played on the bodhran, tin whistle, mandolin and fiddle. Then I threw down like it was 1999. Oh, wait, I think it was.

Catch The Train Home And Watch Eastenders.

Our correspondent from Stanford, Cam McKenzie, chimes in with some thoughts...


The prototypical BMXer is a 14 year old with torn jeans and a penchant for whatever music their parents don't like, some jacky D mixed up in a coke bottle and a doobie between their lips. You wouldn't think there is a lot of overlap between them and the strava-segment-racing, power-meter-having roadies that ride crits, is what I'm saying. You'd be wrong. We can learn from these kids. How to win crits, as told by BMX videos...


1. Finesse

It's a hard race, but not a stupid hard race. Just annoying hard. Little breaks have been forming and getting swallowed back but nothing goes anywhere. Forty-seven minutes in, one sneaks away and this time it takes a little longer to come back. And then it's still not back. And now it's out at 12 seconds. It sits there and sits there and then slowly pulls away. People are still chasing. Some guy has snuck in there who hasn't really pulled hard all day, but he's pulling now. Two laps to go, he rides away from everyone else with a litttle acceleration. Still in the saddle, not even really a full blown attack. Next thing you know, you see him receiving a cash-filled envelope as you cross the finish line in 14th place. How can it be so effortless?





2. Creativity

You didn't even think to jump that traffic island and pull 4 seconds out in the corner. You especially wouldn't think to do it while the biggest team in the race is leading out. But this guy would. He knows it's kinda silly. But he also knows how to confuse people. And once they think too hard, they look at each other and slow down. And once they slow down, he notches up another race win, even though you always beat him in training. He's not better than you. He's just way more interesting.




3. Being much better than you

I hate those racers who can jump higher, sprint faster and climb better. Sure, it's because they train hard, but it still doesn't seem fair. They don't really need to think. They just wait until they are bored and then ride away for the win. They probably have more success with the opposite sex than you or me. And more satisfying jobs. And better relationships with their parents. Whatever, I'm happy being me.




4. Being way fucking crazier

Like the jelly belly pro I saw riding the far right gutter on the hell ride, or the guy who got banned from racing at st kilda, or any of the gnarly sprinters who win without training. They eat deep fried food, they drink on weeknights. And race nights. They probably couldn't climb with a B grader unless you told them there was a prime at the top of the hill. When you crash going 40km/h you get in an ambulance. When they crash going 55km/h they take a lap out. And damned if they didn't just pick up $200 out at some industrial park in Mulgrave on Sunday morning. It isn't clear that you couldn't do what these guys do. It is clear that you wouldn't though.




5. The rest of us.

We put in as much effort as the next guy. Unfortunately, the result isn't always so good. Was the issue not working hard enough, or did we do the wrong thing? Maybe if the van pulled us in a little quicker it would have been a good idea.

To Give Memories Identity.

I didn't learn how to ride a bike until I was seven.  I'd spent time overseas as a kid, where no bike was available, and so on my return to Australia I discovered I was probably the only seven year old boy who couldn't ride a bike in the whole neighbourhood.

This led to a few awkward months where I would avoid the other kids because they would be busy riding bikes down stupidly steep hills, and boasting about how many gears they had (remember this was still when more gears were cool.  My mate Marcelo got a bike with 12 gears and me and my mates collectively lost our shit).  

Eventually, sick of my whinging, my mum took me outside with the bike.  It was a sixteen inch Huffy (I know, my folks clearly didn't love me much).  Mum then said she wasn't going to let me back inside until I had learnt how to ride.  This sounds unduly harsh but, really, it was exactly what I needed.  We made our way to a gentle downward incline, she pushed me gently, and did the ol' pretend to be holding the back of the saddle but in fact she was not and I was riding a bike trick.  I was totally duped and ended up learning how to ride the stupid thing in about an hour.

I can't really accurately describe how fucking stoked I was to realise this machine was being propelled forward by my puny little legs and that, even though mum was yelling to turn around, I was far enough away, and fast enough with my new machine, to ignore her if I wanted to.  Of course, being the total coward that I was, I turned the fuck around.  

I knew I wasn't ready to hang out with the other kids yet, so I partook in the most serious 'secret training' I would involve myself with up until I decided to do the Baw Baw Classic this year.  I got up real early every morning, rode to the end of my street (which was about a kay) then rode back.  My first real incident was when I tried to counter steer around a cicada on the footpath.  The cicada lived, and I ate shit.  It wouldn't be the last time.

Then there was the first introduction to pure terror when, riding down a big hill, I realised that I had totally lost control of the bike, and that I couldn't stop.  I can't actually remember if I crashed or not, but I do remember the two or three seconds of pure unadulterated fear that gripped me as I watched the tree come closer.

The above memories are how I remember the first few weeks of my life as a bike rider.  It might not be the exact way it panned out.  It certainly wasn't as linear as it's described, and I have no idea whether it was Marcelo or Anthony who had the bike with twelve gears.  The real point here is that all the above memories were playing through my head as I got back on the bike on Saturday to do 'training'.  It's been about a month since I last rode and, to be honest, I haven't missed it.  But as I trudged up Plenty Rd, taking a left down Donnybrook, I played these little anecdotes out in my head, trying to keep my mind from my stupidly elevated heart rate, and my ragged breathing.  I listened to a lot of Wolves In The Throne Room, tried to forget about sucking at racing, and just rode my bike in the (albeit cold) sun.  

At first, I hated it.  My back kind ached, my knicks chafed, and I seriously thought about just going to La Panella, eating a pie, and fucking off home to listen to records, closely followed by a listing of all my bikes on eBay.  But as the cars thinned out, and the air became a little cleaner, my cadence picked up, and my breathing steadied.  I thought about mum holding the back of my saddle as I quietly shat myself, pedalling as hard as I could.  I marvelled at the fact that I could get on this two wheeled machine and propel myself forward to where ever the fuck I wanted.  I thought about Marcelo (or was it Anthony?) having twelve gears, who this one time hit 35kmh (don't ask me how we knew the speed).      I marvelled at the fact that I could put this race bike in the big dog and fang it at 50kmh without too much trouble.

I thought about that Huffy, and then I looked at my carbon Scott and realised that they're the same machine.  A little different at first sight, perhaps, but essentially the same.  Both were letting me ride anywhere, go faster than a running mother, and both allowed me to see the world in a particular light.

I then realised that I loved them both, for the exact same reasons.

Can You Name, Name, Name, Name Them All Today

Alright, I know it's late (I said I know it's late), but regardless, here's the Friday Roundup. It's going to be a short one, because I'm at my sister's house in metropolitan Lockwood South, and their internet ain't the best. It feels funny, reporting on events happening in the city when I'm miles away from it, but I'll give it a go regardless.

So, DISC is open again, as of yesterday, and as such Brunswick racing will be back indoors next Tuesday. Dave Morgan has already got in my ear about bringing some sweet tunes and doing some commentary, so it's apparent that they're trying to make an event of it. Regardless, it'll be slightly warmer, and that's the main thing.

Hamish from the DDCX people's soviet hit me up today to see if I'd be prepared to do the commentary for the CX this year. Despite me feeling a lot like the CX is my exgirlfriend, I said yes. Hell, it's sometimes in our best interests to see our exgirlfriends around, to take them out for coffee, to stop and chat in the street. I spent two years with cyclocross, and those two years must count for something. And, like my exgirlfriends, I'm legitimately happy to see them doing well, in good hands, enjoying their new lives. I'm absolutely certain that when the prologue kicks off the season in two weeks, it'll be a total fucking blast.

The Global Gutz Alleycat is happening on the 16th of June this year. It's easily my favourite alleycat of the year, mostly because it's the kind of straight-up smashfest that appeals to roadie types like me. I've found and lost the facebook group a thousand times, can't find it at the moment, but the meetup is at Flagstaff Gardens at 9.30.

Local legend Shortsie is having an art show! Unfortunately if this is the first you're hearing about it, you've missed the opening, but I really like the guy's art, and you should head down to the exhibition regardless. Check it out here.

In pretty average news, one of the dudes from the Hard-Ons was assaulted the other day, and is in a pretty bad way. Some pretty awesome folks have taken it upon themselves to organize a benefit show, in order to help old mate cover his extensive medical expenses. And freaking Conation are playing! Check out the details here, then get on down there and open your wallets.

Finally, I don't often like to talk about work - although I do like to tell that story about that kid who liked to hump things - but sometimes work issues become so big that they spill into my cycling / blogging / personal life. Such is the case this Thursday, when we go on strike. Now, I love going on strike, but I know it's kind of a big deal, a last resort when no compromise can be reached. I also know that we do it to safeguard the profession, to ensure that this state attracts and keeps the best teachers in the country. I won't bore you with the statistics - you can get all of them here - but I do encourage you to join us on the march from Hisense to Parliament. More information on that here. Last time we went out into the streets one of the union organizers gave me a megaphone. "You know I'm not to be trusted with this," I said. They told me I'd be right. I spent the rest of the day singling out teachers and asking them on dates. It was totally a good time.

Yep, I reckon that's enough for today, folks.