The bad idea fairy

I first learned about this creature from pro racer and all-round good guy Brian McCulloch, who learned about it from his brother, a combat veteran. “The bad idea fairy,” Brian told me, “comes to you at night and instead of giving you money for a tooth, she gives you a really bad idea, which, the next day, you get up and try to execute. The top guy in a combat platoon spends a lot of time trying to chase those bad ideas away.”

I don’t know how often I’ve been visited by the BIF, but I do know that the staircase in my apartment building is narrow, twisting, and steep, and I do know that the complex itself is built into the side of a very steep hill. I call it the Escher Staircase. I also know that the average American finds walking an astonishing challenge.

I know this because piece by piece I’ve been selling off my furniture on Craigslist. Not that I had a lot of it, but you know, I did have the basics: Couch, bed, dresser, chest of drawers, dining table … Judging from my survey of people who’ve come to get the furniture, the single hardest thing they’ve done recently is walk up the hill and then climb the staircase.

We bicycle riders tend to judge our fitness by how fast we ride or by how many miles we go or by how many trinkets we get and etcetera, but we really are a breed apart. The average American judges itself by how many yards it can walk before gushing a Niagara Falls from ‘neath the armpits. I haven’t heard so much puffing, grunting, groaning, and labored breathing since my first child was born with Lamaze.

But back to the bad idea fairy.

It didn’t make the front page of the Los Angeles Times, but when Joe Yule packed up the trailer and moved back to Colorado, part of the South Bay died. He didn’t have a good-bye party, or if he did, the organizers had sense enough not to invite me. He certainly didn’t send out a good-bye message or a so long, it’s been good to know ya. By the time he left, I’d have to guess that the great majority of cyclists in the South Bay didn’t even know who he was, much less that he had gone.

I, however, did. Joe did a lot of things during his brief reign as King of the South Bay. Honorable mention was his years-long stint as chief designer for what started as the Garmin pro team, later morphing into a variety of other names but always starring the designs of Joe. It’s no exaggeration to say that his design sense, with its clean lines and remarkable beauty, infected the entire peloton in one way or another.

More impressive, though, was the way he killed the demon baby of ugly bicycle clothing and helped re-set the standard that had once ruled when bike clothes were woolen and not subject to the plastic and infinite design of lycra and Illustrator. Classic bike team and jersey designs from the 60s and 70s were pretty because everything had to be embroidered. It was expensive, it was slow, and because of the wool thread you couldn’t put thirty sponsors on a jersey pocket, much less a fish head on a top tube next to a steaming cup of coffee and a cute slogan that said, “Farts on Bikes.”

Joe was the first lycra designer who rejected the idea that more is better, or as he said it, “My mission is simple. I want to beautify the roadways.”

And he did. Using artistic skills honed in the pre-computer days with a pencil and a brush, Joe gradually showed people that although you would always look silly in lycra, you didn’t have to look like a circus clown.

None of that mattered to me, though. I was drawn to Joe because of his biting humor and his utter contempt of compromise. Anyone who ever worked with Joe quickly learned that their opinions about how a thing looked were secondary, if they were lucky. They also learned that time deadlines were relative, relative to Joe’s moods or his passion for the project.

Most of all, they learned to STFU when he sent them a “draft” design, because Joe didn’t do “drafts.” He didn’t crank something out and get it over to you as the first leg of a multi-step, iterative process. He thought long and hard and worked his ass off to get you a design, and if you didn’t like it pretty much as it was, you were a fucking idiot.

This business plan sat poorly with many, but for those of us who knew we had a real, live genius on our hands, two fucks gave we not. We asked, we patiently waited, and we took what we were given. I believe that the countless times Joe graced me with his work, the only corrections I ever made were spelling, and those I even made timidly. In return, Joe gave me the same thing he gave everyone: His best.

Embedded in his art, which is to say his mind, was a keen, wry, biting sense of humor that was every bit as funny as Mark Twain. He had a wit that was second to none, and this I appreciated most of all. His jokes and his humor were so rich and so hilarious that the laughter reawakened every time you saw it. For example, on a small jersey pocket for the Donut Ride, he included the immortal phrase, “Officer Knox Foundation.”

Knox, of course, was the South Bay sheriff’s deputy famed for citing, cuffing, and stuffing cyclists who failed to ride as far to the right as practicable.

About this time last year, Joe, who, like me, appeared to suffer frequent visitations of the Bad Idea Fairy, got the bad idea to take his dog off for a hike from the Canadian border down to Mexico on the Pacific Crest Trail. Many a friend advised him that a late summer start was impossible for such an undertaking.

Others wailed at his lack of training, preparation, and fitness that such a hike, which is foremost a logistical operation, required. Others bewailed the mortal dangers awaiting him at first snowfall in October or late September. Some few remarked that his dog, well accustomed to the fair weather and yummy treats of domestic life, would fare poorly on the rugged slopes of the Sierras. If any of this made an impression on Joe, it was not noticeable, other than in the way that catalyst in surfboard resin hardens the mix.

He packed his shit, hitched various rides to Washington, made his way to the border, and trekked for a few weeks before abandoning the whole enterprise and accepting a ride home from a concerned buddy. He had made his point, though, as he always did, and he made it without the edits, corrections, revisions, and design suggestions of others.

The point? Fuck y’all, I’m going.

Who is left in the South Bay like that? Better put, who in the South Bay ever was?

So the other day, after watching a lady and her husband lug a moderately heavy chest of drawers out the door the night before, I woke up with two little pin pricks on my neck. “Aw hell,” I thought. “I’ve been bitten by the bad idea fairy again.”

And indeed I had been, because the first thing I did that morning was send Boozy P. a text message: “Can you fit my ‘cross bike with a rack that will hold panniers?”

He immediately texted back. “Send a photo of the seat post and seat stays.”

I did.

“Yeah,” he said, “should be no problem.”

Bad Ideaville, here I come.

END


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27 thoughts on “The bad idea fairy”

    1. I fear to even dare google “Bob YAK.” I canceled my subscriptions to those webcams back in Feb.

  1. To me it appeared as if Joe had fared pretty damn well on the PCT. He was organized as hell, and if he hadn’t lost his damn phone, I could have tracked his accomplishments more. I was hoping he would continue this year, but then COVid has kept everyone off the PCT, the CDT and the AT. His sketch book was pretty neat, and I imagine he left some nice artwork in many of the trail registers along the way.

    Panniers and a bike, are a great adventure in the making. Last time I used them (39 years ago) they took me across the continent. I look forward to seeing where this bad idea takes you.

  2. A cross bike is designed to ride ripping fast in short technical laps amidst thousands of drunken roaring spectators. And you are going to send it out to pasture to average 5 miles per hour under a heavy load? Thats not retirement. Your bike has feelings too, you know? Ok todays blog title does describe your decision best…

    1. Any hopes my ‘cross bike ever had of ripping fast were harpooned the day it was first ridden by me.

  3. You’ve already done lawyering, parenting, and bike commuting. How many bad ideas are left?

  4. I just wanna point out that continued feedings of the BIF might well engender a full-on ragin’ entourage/peloton/pedal-fest- are you prepared to ride several dozen CitSB readers off your wheel in every locality? Also, will you be travelin’ east through the desert to Awe-stin?

  5. As long as we’re being helpful,

    No need to buy stuff unless you’re into it.

    http://ultralightcycling.blogspot.com/

    Not actually bike-packing, but bicycle touring at its weirdest and best.

    He is now down to what fits in a stuff sack and a cut-down water bottle. He lashes it all onto his racing bike with a couple of ski straps. I think he claims under 10Kg including his clothes and his bike. Don’t forget the Crocs and a budgie smuggler.

    Basically:
    1 Ride what brung ‘ya,
    2. Wear what’chu got,
    3. Use what you have, and
    4. Resist the proliferation of “necessities.”

    You have:
    i. a bike
    ii. a sense of adventure

    You may need to obtain (or borrow)*:
    a. Industrial Bubble Wrap
    b. a section of Tyvek
    c. a sleeping bag,
    d. bug repellent, and
    e. a full-size BIC lighter.

    Don’t die, decide what you really needed (or really didn’t) with a few practice runs. The rest is in the details, paring of needless frippery, and skill/knowledge development combined with experience. Those can be done by anybody with suitable motivation and possibly a library card.

    Best Regards,

    Will

    *I cannot score this low on the dirtbag scale, having failed at the keys to low-fi adventure cycling.

  6. Well, as long as we’re actually being helpful,

    You don’t need to buy much/anything if you:
    1. Ride what brung ‘ya
    2. Wear what you brought
    3. Use what you have with you
    4. Resist needless frippery*

    For example: not bikepacking, but cycle touring at its best (and weirdest).

    http://ultralightcycling.blogspot.com/

    The author rides across continents with a racing bike, a stuff sack, a cut-down water bottle tool holder, and some ski straps. Total weight, including his bike and whatever he wears, is apparently under 22 lb. Holds some kind of euro professional job, too.

    You already have a bike.

    I assume you have clothes and a pocket knife. If not, I recommend, at minimum, a budgie smuggler, Crocs, and an Opinel no. 8. (Local standards of dress and legal requirements may vary.)

    You will want to borrow or otherwise obtain:
    i. industrial bubble wrap,
    ii. a section of tyvek (home wrap),
    iii. a sleeping bag,
    iv. bug repellent, and
    v. a full-size BIC lighter.

    It will be easier to carry the above if you have a stuff sack and some voile straps. a short piece of PVC will keep the stuff sack off of the back of your legs.

    Very nearly everything else will be first defined then refined by your research, planning, and experience. Anyone with a sense of intellectual curiosity and a library card can do that, let alone a world-famous subscription-based blogger and multilingual reciter of Middle English.

    Get out for a few overnight runs to refine your methods and pare down your kit, and go big while the weather shines on you.

    Best Regards,

    Will
    William M. deRosset
    Fort Collins, CO USA

    *I fail this necessary condition, which is why I’m not pointing you to all my beautifully-documented and sensitively-written adventures across the world on my vacations, but my closet is clogged with Ti bits and UL backpacking gear.

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