Break ’em on down
August 20, 2019 § 8 Comments
Music brings people together, that’s one of life’s unifying truths. But sometimes it’s easy to forget the truth, and it takes musicians to remind us of it.
I don’t remember the exact sequence of events that led to the creation of the Average Biker Band, but suddenly there they were doing a sound check at the All Clubs BBQ and 7th Annual South Bay Cycling Awards, and if it hadn’t been outdoors they would have blown the roof off.
The organic creation of the group was much like the organic creation of a group ride. Somebody said, “Let’s play,” and voila–Ellen Shinogle, Gary Cziko, Sly Joseph, Don Sachs, Jaycee Cary, Todd Bernhardt, Tony Johnson, Thomas Ward, Harry McQueen, Dasha Orlova, and Yasuko Davidson had formed a band, rehearsed religiously, and showed up polished and ready to play.
Play they did, with blindingly good renditions of Superstition, New Sensation, Brick House, Play that Funky Music, Sex Machine, and a loaded set of other killer tunes.
But … even though you can’t pick out the best, I can sure as hell pick out my favorite, and it was Harry McQueen owning the stage with Muddy Waters’s Hoochie Coochie Man. I’ve seen lots of live blues performances in my life, heard lots of the greats, but have rarely been treated to such a tremendous foot-stomping, hand-clapping display of musical genius. Not only did Harry turn his harp into something living, but the rest of band sank their teeth into it with cutting, slicing, professional abandon.
The musicianship of the entourage was an intense punctuation mark to the event because it showcased band members helping each other out, making space for each other, putting egos aside to get the hard work done of making great music. And make no mistake, it was incredibly hard work, whether judging from the rivers of sweat pouring off the players, or from the sheer physical labor of setting up the stage.
And of course it was worth it, worth it in the extreme because it brought a level of entertainment, excitement, and unity to an event whose entire reason for being is to highlight unity.
Nor was the Average Biker Band the only sound in town. Before they took the stage there was a major eruption of percussion. Dave Worthington and David Pulliam on the box cajon and bongos, Rahsaan Bahati on the bongos, Queen Bahati on the congo drum, Al Shorts on the bass drum with wood mallets and Congo, and the ace ringer percussionist and Prince of the Polyrhythm, Orlando Hutcherson himself on congo, Will Holloway on djembe conga, with Jaycee Carey drummer Tony Johnson, both of the Average Biker Band, pitching into the drum circle. Other cool rando peeps rotated on the egg-shakers, blocks, maracas, sticks, and tambourine, and all of this incredible sound was BEFORE the main musical event.
Drawing people together, initiating friendships, sharing common bonds, that’s all yet another outgrowth of this event that was dreamed up by our very own Ken Vinson. And draw people together it did.
Don’t worry if you missed this tight and righteous performance–Facebag is breaking with the videos floating around, and guess what? Plans are already underway for even more music in 2020. Stay, as they say, tuned!
END

Break ’em on down
August 20, 2019 § 8 Comments
Music brings people together, that’s one of life’s unifying truths. But sometimes it’s easy to forget the truth, and it takes musicians to remind us of it.
I don’t remember the exact sequence of events that led to the creation of the Average Biker Band, but suddenly there they were doing a sound check at the All Clubs BBQ and 7th Annual South Bay Cycling Awards, and if it hadn’t been outdoors they would have blown the roof off.
The organic creation of the group was much like the organic creation of a group ride. Somebody said, “Let’s play,” and voila–Ellen Shinogle, Gary Cziko, Sly Joseph, Don Sachs, Jaycee Cary, Todd Bernhardt, Tony Johnson, Thomas Ward, Harry McQueen, Dasha Orlova, and Yasuko Davidson had formed a band, rehearsed religiously, and showed up polished and ready to play.
Play they did, with blindingly good renditions of Superstition, New Sensation, Brick House, Play that Funky Music, Sex Machine, and a loaded set of other killer tunes.
But … even though you can’t pick out the best, I can sure as hell pick out my favorite, and it was Harry McQueen owning the stage with Muddy Waters’s Hoochie Coochie Man. I’ve seen lots of live blues performances in my life, heard lots of the greats, but have rarely been treated to such a tremendous foot-stomping, hand-clapping display of musical genius. Not only did Harry turn his harp into something living, but the rest of band sank their teeth into it with cutting, slicing, professional abandon.
The musicianship of the entourage was an intense punctuation mark to the event because it showcased band members helping each other out, making space for each other, putting egos aside to get the hard work done of making great music. And make no mistake, it was incredibly hard work, whether judging from the rivers of sweat pouring off the players, or from the sheer physical labor of setting up the stage.
And of course it was worth it, worth it in the extreme because it brought a level of entertainment, excitement, and unity to an event whose entire reason for being is to highlight unity.
Nor was the Average Biker Band the only sound in town. Before they took the stage there was a major eruption of percussion. Dave Worthington and David Pulliam on the box cajon and bongos, Rahsaan Bahati on the bongos, Queen Bahati on the congo drum, Al Shorts on the bass drum with wood mallets and Congo, and the ace ringer percussionist and Prince of the Polyrhythm, Orlando Hutcherson himself on congo, Will Holloway on djembe conga, with Jaycee Carey drummer Tony Johnson, both of the Average Biker Band, pitching into the drum circle. Other cool rando peeps rotated on the egg-shakers, blocks, maracas, sticks, and tambourine, and all of this incredible sound was BEFORE the main musical event.
Drawing people together, initiating friendships, sharing common bonds, that’s all yet another outgrowth of this event that was dreamed up by our very own Ken Vinson. And draw people together it did.
Don’t worry if you missed this tight and righteous performance–Facebag is breaking with the videos floating around, and guess what? Plans are already underway for even more music in 2020. Stay, as they say, tuned!
END

Wanker of the Year
October 18, 2017 § 13 Comments
The best moment of the 2017 South Bay Cycling Awards never happened. Greg Seyranian, winner(?) of the un-coveted Wanker of the Year award, prepared a lengthy acceptance speech prior to the ceremony in the event he won.
This alone qualified him for the honor.
But the speech was never given. He emailed me a copy and so I give it to you now. I hope he’s not too pissed.
Seth,
Per your request. Speech A. I was prepared to deliver it, but when I got to the Wankys I realized the audience only had a 10-15 second attention span, so I decided to go with an impromptu short and spicy version.
Greg
THE KING’S SPEECH
So when I was nominated for this award I went to Seth and I said, “Wow, I’m so honored to be nominated for this! King of Wankers! I’m not sure I’m worthy of the title.”
And Seth looked at me sideways and he said, “No, dude, this is supposed to be an insult more or less. Probably more.”
And I said, “Well how could that be? Aren’t we are all wankers?”
And he said, “Yes, but look around you. Some people out there still don’t think they’re wankers.”
“Come on!” I said. “Really? How could that be? Who out there prancing around in their clown suit underpants thinks they’re not a wanker?”
“Well, take a look at most of those Cat 3s and Cat 4s and masters profamateurs, not to mention the guys and gals who drink more coffee than race their bikes.”
“Well shit, shouldn’t we tell them?” I asked.
“No, no, most of them have pretty fragile egos that would crumble like a house of cards, it’d just be cruel. Let them have this award instead. Dog knows they’ll never win anything else.”
And I saw the wisdom and the humanity of this, so I agreed. But I was left to ponder what then did the award really mean? And I wondered whether or not I should be insulted.
I had a pretty good guess, since Seth was involved. It must mean that, as Wanker of the Year, you’re not as cool as the rest of us, which was a relief, because I already knew that. Because I’m a super dork. If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s cool. I mean, you can’t get a Ph.D. in the sciences without drinking heavily from the fountain of nerd. So it made sense, me being nominated for Wanker of Year, because I’m a nerd surrounded by a bunch of jocks. I must stick out like a sore thumb!
But then I thought, “Wait a minute, I was introduced to cycling by my fellow grad school nerds. And aren’t half the South Bay cyclists socially-challenged engineers and scientists employed by the AeroSpace Corporation or the DoD? These guys are ALL a bunch of nerds playing jock! So what’s up with a bunch of fellow nerds calling out another nerd?”
So I thought back to the previous winners: Brad House. Denis Faye. Seth Davidson.
And it dawned on me. All these guys are *loud mouthed* nerds! Aha! You see, being a loudmouthed nerd is a major violation of the agreement nerds strike when they participate in sport: thou shalt not call attention to thine nerdom, and therein lies the wankdom, because there’s nothing a nerd hates more than experiencing a modicum of coolness only have some idiot ruin it and drag them by the hair, kicking and screaming, back to nerd-town.
What’s more, all those guys I just mentioned aren’t simply loud, they are men of action. They are nerds who place themselves front and center. They are guys who stick their necks out to get things done. Guys who walk the walk when it comes to helping keep the sport of cycling alive, not through glorious podium shots sprinkled throughout Facebook and Instagram, but by risking shame and scrutiny in the menial task of promoting and supporting and fighting for cycling.
Look at Brad House. Twenty-five years of service to cyclists in the South Bay, host of dozens and dozens of racing events, and rabid advocate of cyclists’ rights, especially when you don’t want him to be. A guy who, despite his frayed shorts, open nut-sack air braking technique, and 2nd Amendment fanaticism, nevertheless races his bike week after week. And he’s a member of Big Orange.
Or Denis Faye, another Big Orange member. The man who launched the heart-wrenching, sentimental, and simultaneously idiotic Burrito Challenge to honor the memory of a dear, departed friend. The man who secured Big O’s largest cash sponsor. The man who formed the Big Orange Dirt Squad, which has brought nothing but fame, glory, and honor to Big Orange. Denis is the first guy to get in your face when he senses injustice, who won’t leave it alone until the wrong is righted. And he’s a guy who races his bike all year long, on the road, in the dirt, and through the beer-goggled haze of the cross course. He will probably be shouting and jumping onto the stage uninvited during this ceremony to make some sort of point or other.
Finally, there’s Seth Davidson, the Mack Daddy of Wankers and perhaps the loudest mouth concerning all things cycling in the South Bay. The guy who refuses to kowtow to the status quo. The guy least afraid to speak his mind, especially in the service of justice and safety for his fellow cyclists. And Seth is the first guy to put his money where his mouth is in the service of this great sport. Yet he is the guy who has literally defined cycling wankerdom by being a giant, in your face, loud-mouthed nerd who constantly kills the cool buzz. But he is nevertheless the champion of all things cycling and racing, and he goes out and races his bike week after week, despite breaking his nutsack every off-season and diametrically reconfiguring his training and racing philosophy every other year. Finally, like Brad and Denis, he’s a proud member of Big Orange Cycling and was one of its founding members back in 2009.
So the question is: am I a loudmouthed, nerdy, man of action, still willing to race his bike, who supports the sport of cycling and is a member of Big Orange? You’re damned right I am!
So I’m honored to receive this award on behalf of all my fellow friends who wanted this award secretly but didn’t get it, on behalf of Big Orange Cycling, clearly the king when it comes to wankers, and on behalf of all you poor souls out there who still don’t understand that you too are nothing but wankers. One day you shall know the truth and it shall set you free, but not today. Thank you!
END
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The good times rolled
October 16, 2017 § 14 Comments
The 2017 South Bay Cycling Awards are in the books. The Academy voted on a slate of incredibly worthy nominees with the following results:
2017 Greatest Advocate, Lynn Ingram
2017 Best Bike Shop, ShiftMobile and Jason Morin
2017 Best Young Rider, Makayla MacPherson
2017 Best Old Rider, Keith Ketterer
2017 Most Improved, Thomas David Rennier
2017 Best Club, Velo Club LaGrange and Patrick Barrett
2017 Best Event, Belgian Waffle Ride and Michael Marckx
2017 Wanker of the Year, Greg Seyranian
2017 Belgian Award, Dan Cobley
2017 Group Ride Champion, Eric Anderson
2017 Best Sponsor, BonkBreaker and Greg Leibert
2017 Best Male Racer, Jay Williams
2017 Best Female Racer, Megan Jastrab
2017 GC Award, Rahsaan Bahati
2017 Greatest Recovery, Debra Banks
2017 Strava KOM, Meagan Jones
2017 Most Happy to Help Others, Pablo Maida
2017 Most Fun, Michelle Landes
2017 Best Spouse/SO, Sarah Butler
2017 Steve Tilford South Bay Rider of the Year, Charon Smith
This year’s award ceremony was dedicated to the life of Steve Tilford. Steve’s wife Trudi Rebsamen and her sister, Susan Ohlman, traveled from Chicago to attend the awards, along with a contingent of Midwestern friends of Steve. Steve was posthumously inducted into the South Bay Cycling Hall of Fame and Trudi was presented with the induction statuette, hand made and hand painted by an artist in England. It was an emotional evening for everyone who had known Steve, and his presence was strongly felt.
But the fact is that these were also the Wanky Awards, and like the event from 2015 when Steve attended and gave the keynote speech, it was a night of celebration mixed in with a healthy dose of silliness and a massive dose of good times. Those good times weren’t immediately apparent to Academy member Derek Brauch and his teammate John Abate, who found themselves feverishly assembling the famed Wanky backdrop with broken pieces of PVC piping, missing nuts/bolts, all with a few minutes to showtime. A quick trip to Lowe’s and some more feverish duct-tape engineering resulted in a shoddy backdrop perfectly appropriate for the proceedings that never collapsed on the stage or the crowd but at all times appeared as if it might.
Academy member Dan Martin pulled off another stunning year of twenty hand-made Wanky plaques, beautifully painted and mounted horseshoes to signify the incredible stroke of luck and confluence of astrological alignments that it takes to win an award. Winners fought like vicious dogs to keep people from pilfering their hard won trophies and swag bags, but it was only when Jon Paris slit the throat of the pinata baby seal, spilling out hundreds of dollars in swag from Performance Bicycles that things went berserk. No one died, thankfully.
The event continued with Rahsaan Bahati co-hosting the awards, and he actually carried the day with witty commentary and impeccable delivery. One of the most important things to deliver, of course, were words of thanks for the numerous people and organizations who prevented the award ceremony from being a complete failure. In no particular order:
- Strand Brewing, via Joel Elliott and Rich Marcello, who made the best brewery in the South Bay our home for the third year in a row.
- Yasuko Davidson, who baked the most prestigious awards of the entire night … the magical loaves of bread! Recipients James Cowan and Greg Leibert looked pretty stoked!
- Patrick Barrett came to the awards with pounds and pounds of smoked brisket, making himself a true champion of the people.
- Velo Club LaGrange donated $1,500.00 to defray expenses, and believe me, otherwise we would have been quite frayed.
- Big Orange Cycling kicked in $1,000.00 to further defray the frayees, and it was awesome.
- Long Beach Freddies gave $1,000.00 to this august event, meaning that with a bit of creative accounting and skulduggery and cooking-of-the-books, we would almost end up in the red, instead of being drowned in red ink.
- South Bay Wheelmen gave $300.00 to buy flowers for the wives of the Academy members.
- Pedal Industries, via Todd Brown, donated custom race-day bike gear bags to three lucky recipients. The bags were custom-designed with the Wanky logo for 2017.
- Wend Wax, via Ryan Dahl, donated Wend chain wax kits to every recipient. It’s the best lube for your chain; I won’t use anything else.
- Echelon Color, via Tony Manzella, donated the printing for our posters and for the memorial poster we presented to Trudi.
- Metadzn, via Joe Yule, donated design services for our logo and for the poster design.
- Law Office of Seth Davidson, via me, donated South Bay Cycling socks to every recipient, Steve Tilford memorial socks to every recipient, 20 signed copies of Phil Gaimon’s “Living the Cycling Dream,” and 12-oz. bags of Groundworks whole bean coffee to all winners.
- JoJeBars, via John Abate, donated awesome energy bars–fresh baked, delicious, and healthy food to fuel your ride.
- Methods II Winning, via Ken Vinson, donated killer pint glasses to every recipient.
- Mammoth Gran Fondo, via Caroline Casey, donated another set of killer pint glasses to every recipient.
- BeachBody Performance, via Denis Faye, donated recovery drink mix and energy drink mix to every recipient. Denis also showed off his French insults on stage, which were the best!
- Origin Clothing, via Marco Cubillos, donated clothing to every recipient and also provide models Bailey and Flint to work the room and be generally awesome.
- VeloFix, via Matt Brousseau, donated tire repair kits to all recipients.
- Special shout-out to Hint Water via Kevin Salk, for providing several hundred bottles of Hint Water which made a huge difference as the night wore on and thirsty cyclists began thinking about the next day’s ride and getting hydrated. Talk about saving the day!
- Extra-special shout-out to Jami Brauch for getting customized swag-bag stamps with the Wanky logo and hand-stamping all of the bags for that extra custom look.
Of course a ridiculous event like this could never have happened without lots of people flailing around and making stuff up at the last minute. Again, in no particular order …
- Chris Gregory, who’s been with us since the beginning and is the inventor of the world-famous hashtag, #ewaw, Everybody Wants a Wanky! Chris designed and made the necklaces for past winners, designed and sent out all of the finalist invitations, picked up all of the Charmin for butt-hurt runners-up, survived Costco to get water, and of course served as podium presenter for the fifth year in a row.
- Sherri Foxworthy, who’s also been on the podium from Year One, providing guidance laced with a bit of profanity, and lots of laughs on the stage. “Batteries.”
- Stephanie Lin, podium presenter who never misses a chance to dress up and make us all look better than we otherwise possibly could.
- Kristie Fox, who for the third year has done the hard work of ordering and designing and getting the cake, the cupcakes, the coffee vendor, organizing all of the e-invitations, completing the database, moving huge amounts of junk from pillar to post, serving as shipping terminus for things as varied as lamps, socks, and drink mix, and then of course dancing until the very end.
- Tara Unversagt, who managed all of the winner signatures on the poster and made sure that the right thing was in the right hands at just the right moment.
- Delia Park, who managed sign-in and traffic flow.
- Lynn Jaeger, who showed up as a guest but ended up getting conscripted to the sign-in table.
- Marc Spivey, Academy member who lined out the sound system and the killer playlist.
- Derek Brauch, Academy member who built the backdrop under great pressure.
- Dan Martin, Academy member who made the world-class trophies.
Additional thanks to Bjorn Snider for the great write up! I’m sure I’ve left lots of people off who donated time and money to make this event happen, but hopefully you’ll remind me so I can add them in! Already planning for 2018!
Awesome thank you to Jay Yoshizumi for the fantastic photos below!
END
Getting ready
October 11, 2017 § 18 Comments
In a few days we’re going to celebrate the 5th Annual South Bay Cycling Awards. This means many things to many people, but to me it only means one thing: Angst over tying my bow tie.
Every year I get on YouBoob and watch the 3:42 video showing me how to tie my tie. First problem is that it’s all backwards. They need to stand with their backs to the camera so I can exactly copy them. Second problem is that I know the video by heart. It’s been viewed 4,260,062 times, and 4,260,061are by me. Third problem is that tying a proper bow tie is like truing a wheel. You get good at it by doing it a bunch, preferably on other people’s wheels, not yours. But I don’t know how to suggest that other people let me tie their bow ties; it’s almost like asking a dude if you could help him with his zipper.
Many unhelpful people are always ready to offer unhelpful suggestions, the first and most obvious one being “Why don’t you use a clip-on bow tie?” followed by “Why don’t you use a pre-tied bow tie?” followed by “Why don’t you wear a t-shirt?” followed by “You look like an idiot.”
The reason I don’t use a clip-on tie is because when I was a kid I always used clip-on ties. I had six of them and I wore them all the time. When I dressed up for cowboys and Indians I would always get my holster and my gun and my cowboy hat and my cowboy sneakers and my clip-on tie. In other words, I associate clip-on neckwear with childhood, which is why I stopped wearing clip-ons shortly after I turned forty.
The next most obvious move is to use a pre-tied bow tie. Do I really need to go there? Pre-tied ties are lame. They mean you are lazy and incompetent beyond all reason. If you are too lazy to learn to tie a bow tie, then why are you even wearing pants? Pre-tied bow ties also look horrible. They are tied perfectly and don’t match your slovenly approach to everything else, and everyone knows at a glance that you are too lazy and inept to tie your own tie. Why did you spend all that money on the green tux and the orange shirt and the purple cummerbund and the white braces just to garf it all up with a pre-tied bow tie? Please.
Also, pre-tied bow ties take away a lot of the formality of your special event, for example, your funeral. Special events are formal and therefore stressful. As they’re wheeling in the coffin you are likely to wonder “Is my formaldehyde okay?” or “Did they cover up the stab wounds on my face?” or “Gosh I hope they glued my eyes shut.” It’s that anxiety that forces you to take the time to tie your funeral bow tie right. Formal events are special in large part because they tell you know that if you screw up you’ll be embarrassed and feel bad and etc. So there you are getting all formally dressed up, carefully putting on your fancy clothes, and when the most stressful part comes you cave and stick on a fake bow tie. If you had prepared all year for your big bike race and gotten all nervous and then at the last minute rolled up with a secretly motorized bike, wouldn’t be anticlimactic? Oh. Never mind that example.
The next option is alt-Clothing, i.e. t-shirt and jeans. Well, you clearly don’t understand the Wanky Awards. It is a very prestigious and formal affair. From the very first iteration, when it was held in the luxury facilities of Naja’s dive bar (100 taps!), shoehorned between the pool table and the record machine, I insisted on wearing my tux and bow tie, not because any of the drunken slobs celebrating the inaugural Wankys would care, but because my vision was that eventually people would rise to the occasion and show respect for this august gathering by dressing appropriately.
So here we are in the fifth year, with a rented dance floor, a Brazilian DJ, free food and beer for the first 350 wankers and wankettes, held in a giant beer warehouse in which to swill tacos and munch IPAs. If you wouldn’t get all gussied up for that … what would you get gussied up for?
Now with regard to that “You look like an idiot” observation. Hmmm. Carry on.
END
For $2.99 per month you can subscribe to this blogcast, or podblog, and get none of the news that’s fit to print but all the news that’s fun to read. Click here and select the “subscribe” link in the upper right-hand corner. Thank you!
PS: Don’t forget the Wanky’s. As if you could. And I may have forgotten to mention that there is free food and beer for the first 350 guests, so get there early.
Your tiny niche is now a global plumber’s crack
September 28, 2017 § 25 Comments
The day you knew your weirdness was now mainstream? That’s the day that Men’s Journal came out with an article praising Strava as “The Only Fitness App That Matters.”
Notice I said “your.” Not “my.”
I remember the first day I heard about Strava. I was in Bull’s living room. We were talking about something bikish and he said, “Hey you gotta check out this really cool program, it’s called Strava.”
Notice he said “program.” Not “app.” And certainly not “fitness app.”
Bull walked me through it on his laptop. “See?” he said. “It records everything and has these segments where you can look at parts of a ride and a leaderboard. See?”
“Stupidest fucking thing ever,” I said.
“It’s super cool,” he added, unfazed. “You’re gonna love it.”
I think that was in 2012. I did Strava for a couple of years until it became as unbearable as my power meter had been, a relentless reminder of quantified suckage, and what was worse, accelerating suckage. One day I took it behind the outhouse and shot it. Then, a year or so ago, shortly after my nutsack-breaking-incident, I resuscitated it.
But Men’s Journal has now anointed Strava as the only fitness app that matters; the killer app. Before you go proudly clapping yourself on the ass, please check their home page and note that Men’s Journal features:
- A giant, inflatable Irish pub.
- Kelly Slater paddling his surfboard.
- Some tatted up dude tossing an exerball.
- How to break in raw denim.
- Killer indoor exercise machines.
In other words, the mag has zero cred unless you’re a drunk surfing tatty-poo fashionista who exercises in front of a giant mirror.
The article is long on words but short on substance, which is like Strava itself, robustly empty. Basically, Strava is a killer app, the writer says, because it has a slick interface, yo. And segments, yo. And everyone’s on it, yo. This last part is the thing that makes it most killer for the author and therefore the type of person likely to read Men’s Journal. It’s kind of like a restaurant review that says “The food is incredible because everybody likes it.” Ah, yes. I see.
What the article missed is that Strava succeeds because it’s the digital equivalent of the giant mirror in front of the free weights where you can stare forever at the tiny bumps between your shoulder and elbow masquerading as muscle. Every Men’s Journal subscriber will understand.
Strava lets you ogle, stare, admire, note tiny differences from the last workout (“See! A new vein! I think.”), and just as importantly gaze at the lifter next to you, the one whose arm is twice the diameter of your torso. A few more reps and you’ll be exactly like him because you both belong to the same gym.
The digital narcissism of Strava has perfectly melded with the desire to watch yourself in motion. Nextgen versions will integrate with the four personal drones that follow you on the ride, and it will also connect with Zwift riders who virtually challenge you in their basement on the live video feed while you pedal the actual street. The live feed on Facebag will show realtime power/HR/elevation/speed and a 3-D topographical map running along the bottom of the screen. After the ride you’ll relax with some diet water, eat some raw almonds, compare your performance with people who are similar enough to beat but not similar enough to beat you, and review the whole thing in a video podcast that you upload through your glasses. The world isn’t all about you. The world is you.
And really, the author did get it right. Strava is the killer app. And the thing it killed? Fun.
END
For $2.99 per month you can subscribe to this blogcast, or podblog, and get none of the news that’s fit to print but all the news that’s fun to read. Click here and select the “subscribe” link in the upper right-hand corner. Thank you!
PS: Don’t forget the Wanky’s. As if you could. And I may have forgotten to mention that there is free food and beer for the first 300 guests, so get there early.
Just a fun ride
August 28, 2017 § 30 Comments
Have you ever wanted to do a gravel grinder? Have you ever wanted to know what one is? I did my first one on Saturday and it was different from what I expected. This ride was called the Chatsworth Chain Crusher and it was sponsored by Velofix, the mobile bicycle fixer-uppers. I should have known that anything with the word “crusher” in the title was going to be difficult, but it wasn’t difficult, it was brutal.
“How much dirt is there on this thing?” I asked before we started, sipping on a exceptional cup of covfefe brewed up by Matt Michaels of Gear Grinderz.
“About thirty percent,” said a fellow, thus teaching me a very important lesson about gravel grinders, which is that if you haven’t read, memorized, and Strava-checked the route you are going to be fucked, because when he said “thirty percent” he meant “eighty percent.”
“Everyone here looks pretty hard core for a fun ride,” I commented to another gentleman.
“Nah, it’s just a fun ride,” he said.
“Who is that fellow in the Giant kit riding the Giant bike who appears to be sponsored by Giant?”
“Him? That’s Ryan Steers.”
“The pro?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah, yes. Just a fun ride. Of course.”
The “just a fun ride” split up immediately as the just fun riders pedaled at a very just fun pace that smashed everyone into just fun pulverized bits. After some endless fun climbing we hit some nasty just fun dirt and then I was by myself because even though I am terrible in dirt I can go uphill pretty good and since it was just a fun ride why not murder myself?
On the descent all of the just fun riders I’d dropped came whipping by and I learned something else about off-road riding: Climbing has two parts, an uphill and a downhill, and unlike road riding, they are equally hard. It doesn’t matter how fast you go up if you are a granny with a hip replacement going down.
I rode along on some just fun single track for a long time, hoping that one day I would find the gravel grinder on wide fire roads that was just a fun ride, but instead all I found were technical, twisty, nasty roads whose every inch spelled potential calamity. After a while I encountered my friends Bjorn, Lauren, and Mathieu, who were walking. Bjorn’s right arm was hanging lifelessly at his side while Lauren and Mathieu pushed his bike. We were a thousand miles from anywhere.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I took a header and did something to my shoulder,” said Bjorn.
Another cyclist rode up. “Hey Seth, can you help me pop his arm back into the joint? I’ve seen people do it on TV.”
“Sure,” I said. “What could possibly go wrong? A couple of men pulling hard on a dislocated arm out in a dirt field. You know how to do this? You’ve seen it on TV, right?”
Bjorn shook his head. “I’ll wait for a doctor.”
Since he was in good hands I continued on. My rear disc brake was rubbing, which was annoying until I popped out of the endlessly fun dirt section to find a Velofix van waiting with food and a mechanic.
Jim popped my bike on the stand and fixed the brake while his wife Hilda proffered the world’s finest p.b. and banana sammich quarters, which I scarfed. I got back on my bike and got lost, returned to the van, but everyone had taken off. Jim pointed me onto the trail, which went up a midget Mt. Everest. I could see the riders far away clinging to its side in a cloud of dust like fleas on a white dog’s belly.
I rode just for fun until my guts spilled out my mouth, caught the other fun riders who were having so much fun they were pinned and gasping, passed them, got passed on the short downhill, then passed them all again, just for fun of course. After a long time I was having so much fun that there were only two riders still with me. They dropped me before the next-to-last sag stop. Then I had some more p.b. and rode on by myself, luckily missing the turn to the Millenium trail, which everyone said was the worst and hardest trail of the day.
I got lost some more and ended up doing an entire just fun section of dirt again before finally reaching the finish. I drank a lot of water and ate some delicious, fiery hot tacos that got my bowels quaking in a flash. As people arrived in bits and dribs and tatters and drabs, they all looked as horrible as I felt, but after a few minutes sipping fresh beer from the tap of Hand Brewed Beer, they started to come around.
Now that I’ve done a gravel grinder just for fun, below is a handy guide to this new and exciting type of fun bike ride.
Q: What is a gravel grinder?
A: It is endless pain smothered in dirt and perhaps blood.
Q: Do you need a special bike for a gravel grinder?
A: Yes. And a special brain (to disregard terror such as falling off cliff sides).
Q: When they say it is “just a fun ride” what does that mean?
A: It will be a just fun before the start and after the finish, but in between it will be a full-on race.
Q: I heard that gravel grinders are done on fire roads, which are unpaved, wide, not technical, and fun.
A: Yes, except the fire roads are disguised as single track that plunges down impossible lines with infinite chances to have a bicycle falling off incident.
Q: I heard that you don’t need a mountain bike or MTB skills to do a gravel grinder. Is this true?
A: No.
Q: The idea of a chill bike ride with coffee, sag, tacos, and beer sounds great. Isn’t that what gravel grinders are all about?
A: Yes. But in between the coffee and the beer is about five hours of hell.
Q: How does a gravel grinder compare to a ‘cross race?
A: Harder. Longer. More technical. Instead of crashing and limping 200 yards to your team tent you will crash and hike five miles cross country with a broken femur.
Q: Will gravel grinding help my bike handling skills?
A: Yes, if you ride in war zones.
Q: Would you ever do another one?
A. Never again until September.
END
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Your covfefe
August 25, 2017 § 17 Comments
Got this email:
Hey Wanky,
Hope all is well. Life’s dandy here with two little kids. Things are very quiet and organized, no messes, and I have everything totally under control. Really.
However, I’m basically in dire need of covfefe on a regular basis. By “regular basis” I mean every thirty minutes or so. Who knew that herding two small children was like doing a Tour stage twice a day? I’m routinely dissatisfied with the usual whole roasted beans that are then ground up at home. They taste like unko and my coffee expenses now exceed my rent.
I’m curious about where you get your raw beans and what your technique for roasting them in a pan is. I’d be grateful for your fake news report. If the covfefe has enough kick, I might even be able to ride my bike once a month. Not that everything isn’t totally under control, of course.
Have a good evening,
Burnsy McBurnston
To which I replied:
Hi, Burnsy
Covfefe advice is highly personal, I’ve found, not unlike bedroom positions. And once you start roasting your own covfefe you kind of have to find your own way. As with cycling, the first best step is to ignore everyone and fail on your own. Only then can you find the failure method that is right for you. However, you’ve reached out, and like a lot of my cyclist friends, have reached out to the wrong person.
Nonetheless, here is my method:
- Buy from https://www.smokinbeans.com/. Usually I buy in 50-lb. quantities. This lasts forever x 1,000, even at your obvious desperation rate of consumption.
- I don’t care about quality of the green beans, only price. My palate and roasting technique are not sophisticated enough to discern the difference, but my wallet is.
- Green beans last for 20 years. So there are no spoilage issues if you “overbuy.” As if there were such a thing regarding covfefe.
- Use a large cast-iron frying pan. Costs $24 at Wal-Mart. This is a store that you, as a cyclist, have likely never heard of.
- Get a big wooden spoon.
- Set the fire on 5-6 if electric, low-medium if gas.
- Put 1 cup of beans in the big-ass dry skillet. Resist the temptation to put in more than a cup, because in a frying pan they will get on top of each other and roast even less consistently than they are already going to. Using a frying pan to make covfefe is like using a stick to make a fire when in your left pants pocket you have a giant box of Strike Wherever matches.
- Stir continually for 20 minutes until the covfefe is the color you want. This is highly personal/trial-and-error. No one can help you here, even a yogi or a pretty woman in LuLu Lemons. If you err on the side of too light the covfefe will be bitter and green tasting with overtones of battery acid. I kind of like this but normal people retch. If you err on the side of too dark, the covfefe will be burned at the stake and taste like Joan of Arc.
There are numerous YouTube videos showing how to fry your own beans in a pan. Most home roasters start with a pan and quickly graduate to popcorn poppers or actual countertop roasters. The reason for this is that pan roasting sucks. I’ve been pan roasting for a couple of years and have no intention of upgrading. Why? Because down that path likes madness, expertise, and no cost savings.
Pan covfefe is a Schwinn Varsity. Once you start dropping people on the group ride with flat pedals and downtube shifters, you will be bike-shamed until you upgrade, unless you have the fortitude of Shirtless Keith. I can only urge you to be a Shirtless Keith roaster. When you seek to achieve truly great covfefe home roasting, it is worse than home brewing. It will consume you.
The downside to pan beans is uneven roasting. Some beans will be perfect, some black, some not quite brown enough. Cognoscenti will scoff. “Where is your 100% carbon roaster made of carbon that is all carbon?” they will sneer.
However, your unko covfefe will taste better than any coffee you have ever bought. Why is an unko roast at home better than a super expensive, perfectly evenly roasted batch bought at a specialty coffee roaster for $18.00 per 12-oz. thievery bag?
Easy: Because your beans are freshly roasted and theirs have been on the shelf for a week or more. 90% of covfefe ‘staste depends on its freshness after being roasted. So in reality, bought covfefe , even when it has a maddeningly addictive name like “Intelligentsia” or “Handlebar” only has 10% of the overall taste that can be manipulated by type of bean, skill of roast, etc. The covfefe game is won and lost first in freshness. It’s like getting a 90-mile head start in a 100-mile road race. No matter how much excellent doping your competition does, you will win on your Schwinn Varsity.
After cooking, your beans are ready to grind and drink immediately, although experts say you should wait 2-3 days to let the flavor maximize. I say that you’re probably roasting beans because you ran out the night before and were too lazy to fry up a new batch, and if you have to wait another minute someone will be killed, so drink it immediately.
Also, I’m too dull to tell the difference. Still, it cracks me up when people wax on about their favorite coffee and how it’s so much better than X brand. Once it’s roasted and bagged, the clock is ticking, and the bomb will go off long before you ever make your first cup, much less before you get to the bottom of the bag.
After the beans are roasted, let them cool. You’ll notice in the roasting process that a thin husk is cooked off the beans and remains as detritus. Don’t drink the husk.
Before you grind the beans, using two fine colanders, spoon out the amount of beans you want to grind. I grind four large tablespoons for about 2 cups of coffee. This makes a strong and bold taste, and I make it in a French press for more Euro-fakery and cheapness. Then, pour the beans into the other colander. You’ll see that this pour-back-and-forth action separates out the husks. At the very end you can pick the few husks that remain with your fingers. It sounds like a pain, but it isn’t; takes a minute at the most. Yasuko grinds up the husks and I can never tell the difference. I’m not OCD but the husks are shit. Why drink unko if you don’t have to?
The best way to test your covfefe is to serve it to people who come over to your house or shabby apartment. They will say it’s fantastic, the best they’ve ever had, wow, etc., and be embarrassed that they have a $10,000 Italian espresso machine whose coffee is worse than yours. Only then can you tell them it’s home roasted in a pan and watch their eyes bug out.
I will say that roasting your own covfefe in a pan is kind of magical. It takes time and forces you to take a time out from life. We need time outs. Not to the extent that we’re spinning our own yarn and weaving fabric on a hand loom, perhaps, but we need some connection between what we consume and how it’s prepared.
Second, it’s incredibly cheap. No explanation required on that one, right?
Third, it’s lights-out. If you can resist the temptation to become an expert and can be satisfied with the daily great grind you’re roasting and drinking, pan covfefe is an amazing addition to your life. The only down side is that the roasting process becomes very smoky at the end. You’ll need your kitchen vent and fan going full blast (or open tent flap if you live under one of LA’s scenic freeways), and a window or two open if you have it. The initial cooking smell is marvelous but it becomes less so the longer you roast. The smell quickly goes away, but there’s a reason that commercial roasters only roast after midnight and are located in sparsely inhabited or poor areas of town. Think refineries …
Now, go forth and roast.
END
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PS: Don’t forget the Wanky’s. As if you could.
2017 South Bay Cycling Award finalists
August 24, 2017 § 6 Comments
Our four-person steering committee, shattered rudder and all, sat down with the cat yesterday to make the agonizing decisions about who would be a finalist for the galactically renowned 2017 South Bay Cycling Awards.
Some choices were simple. How could we not pick Kayle LeoDoyle for Wanker of the Year finalist? How could Debbie Hoang Efthimos not be in the mix for best spouse? My dog, what she has endured!
Other choices were fiendishly complex and resulted in yelling, shouting, cursing, insinuations about one’s parentage, and repeated trips into Hoofixr Man’s garage for two of the committee members to work out their differences over giant glasses of home-brewed beer. When we were unable to agree, which was pretty much all the time, we left it up to the cat, Anaximander.
Since cats don’t talk much, and certainly don’t do so on command, Anaximander would break the tie by purring. Long purr meant yes, short purr meant no. And so it went.
Here are the finalists, culled from a garbage heap of worthy nominees, names legendary in the niche within an invisible crevice inside the microscopic crack of the non-sport of profamateur bicycle pretend racing. The criteria were of course rigorous. Unlike past years, not a single name was selected simply because all the other names sucked so badly. Okay, maybe one or two.
Each nominee was evaluated as follows:
- Suzy-Johnny come lately, or person who’s been around the block a few times?
- Past recipient of the same award? If so, your chance of getting it again is basically zero. Ish.
- Desperation. Was the nominee dying to get the award? Had the nominee politicked? Was the nominee the beneficiary of a 10-page, detailed nominee list submitted by a “friend” to “guide” the selection process?
- IDGAF factor. Does the nominee GAF? No award for you if you don’t show up, even though last year Elijah left early (no, we haven’t forgotten), and Joe Yule did too, with no excuse other than he “had somewhere else to go,” i.e. bed.
- Distance. Is the nominee coming into town from far away?
- Laughability. Will there be a good story to tell about the nominee? Or is the nominee a quiet, hard worker who blends into the background, never to be seen walking down the streets of Manhattan Beach late at night with a giant inflatable sex organ?
- Bro-ishness. Is the nominee part of the “in” crowd? Or does the nominee shun public association with such an obvious bunch of losers?
- Dues paying. Has the nominee slogged in the trenches for years, never to be recognized for her/his contributions, or is the nominee a glad-handing, publicity seeking wanker who has been twisting arms, bribing committee members, and hustling like a cheap whore on Christmas Eve?
- Disappointment factor. Would the nominee be emotionally crushed by being omitted? Or would the nominee be more crushed by being a finalist and not winning? No award ceremony is a success unless a majority of nominees feel like the whole thing was a cheap ripoff of a badly-done sham.
- Were we tired of arguing and ready to chuck the whole thing so we could go home and have dinner?
As you can see from the above, none of the above criteria was favorable or unfavorable. You could be a trench-laborer and ignored, or a trench-laborer and a finalist. You could be a contemptible showboater and not selected, or a contemptible showboater and a shoo-in. Although the criteria were very rigorous, they were randomly applied, especially as Hoofixr Man’s rye brew began to affect half of the committee and especially after Anaximander stopped purring and shifted into cat-flatulence mode.
Anyway, here’s the list. If you are on it, go ahead and celebrate or despair, as appropriate. If despite your legendary contributions you were mercilessly snubbed, remember that the race goes not to the swift or the wise, but to she who perseveres. Or as Charlie Brown would say, “Just wait ’til next year!”
2017 South Bay Cycling Award Finalists
Greatest Advocate: David Pulliam, Lynn Ingram, Peter Flax
Best Bike Shop: ShiftMobile, Bike Palace, Raleigh SaMo
Best Young Rider: Makayla MacPherson, Megan Jastrab, Bader Aqil
Best Old Rider: Jan Palchikoff, Michael Hines, Keith Ketterer
Most Improved: David Ellis, Thomas David Rennier, Elijah Shabazz
Best Club: Velo Club LaGrange, Big Orange Cycling, Bahati Foundation Cycling Club
Best Event: Belgian Waffle Ride, Telo, CBR Series
Wanker of the Year: Kayle LeoGrande, James Doyle, Greg Seyranian
Belgian Award: Evens Stievenart, James Cowan, Dan Cobley
Group Ride Champion: Josh Alverson, Eric Anderson, Jack Daugherty
Best Sponsor: RAAM/Joseph Duerr, BonkBreaker, Helen’s Cycles
Best Male Racer: Justin Williams, David Holland, Matt Wikstrom
Best Female Racer: Makayla MacPherson, Megan Jastrab, Coryn Rivera
GC Award: Dan Cobley, Greg Leibert, Rahsaan Bahati
Greatest Recovery: Debra Banks, John Walsh, John Abate
Strava KOM: Phil Gaimon, Fred Mackey, Meagan Jones
Most Happy to Help Others: Joann Zwagerman, Pablo Maida, Patrick Barrett
Most Fun: Michelle Landes, David Wells, Raja Black
Best Spouse/SO: Debbie Hoang Efthimos, Julie Black, Sarah Butler
Steve Tilford South Bay Rider of the Year: James Cowan, Charon Smith, Greg Leibert
END
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