Bike Snob Page 6
Nothing is more sacred to the Retro-Grouch than hand-built, sensible wheelsets with high spoke counts. They are to the Retro-Grouch as the Stetson is to the cowboy.
A Hatred of Carbon Fiber Anything
People love carbon—especially Roadies and Triathletes. To them, carbon fiber is as essential as salt, rum, and sugar were to the Old World colonial empires, or as crack is to Amy Winehouse. Roadies and Triathletes will literally sell pieces of their homes to purchase a carbon fiber version of any bicycle component, regardless of whether it actually makes sense in that application. But while Roadies and Triathletes love it too much, Retro-Grouches hate it too much. The Retro-Grouch’s favorite thing to say about carbon is that it “fails catastrophically.” That’s their self-important way of saying they think it’s ugly and it’s too expensive.
A Love of Steel Anything
To the Retro-Grouch, steel is all that carbon fiber is to the Roadie or Triathlete. A Retro-Grouch will have you believe that it’s impossible to make a bad frame out of steel. They live for the moment someone’s carbon bike fails so they can mention their fifteen- to twenty-year-old steel frame.
Why other cyclists don’t like them:
They’re like “Debbie Downer” from SNL.
Compatibility with other cyclists:
Largely incompatible with Triathletes and Urban Cyclists due to an inherent mistrust of the new as well as a disdain for trends, both of which are essential to Triathletes and Urban Cyclists.
The Righteous Cyclist
I believe that cycling can help make you a better person. I also believe that riding a bicycle helps make the world better for other cyclists, since more cyclists means more awareness of cyclists. However, I stop short of believing that cycling can actually save the world. This is not true of the Righteous Cyclist, who is convinced that the very act of turning the pedals will actually restore acres and acres of rain forest, suck smog from the sky, and refreeze the polar ice caps.
The Righteous Cyclist comes in many forms. There’s the Unkempt Righteous Cyclist, who rides some kind of squeaky bicycle that’s been recovered from a dumpster. Then there’s the Laden Righteous Cyclist, who makes a point of transporting unwieldy objects by bicycle or even moving to a new apartment by bicycle. (This is to reduce vehicular emissions, even though the miles of traffic that forms behind the Laden Righteous Cyclist more than makes up for the three gallons of gas they might have saved by not using a car to bring home the new-to-them couch.) There’s also the Europhile Righteous Cyclist, who will remind you at every opportunity just how much more bike-friendly cities like Copenhagen and Amsterdam are, and how evil and car-dependent America is. The Europhile Righteous Cyclist is also very well versed in civic issues and is either an amateur city planner or else is employed by or volunteers for some sort of advocacy group, and probably rides either an authentic Dutch city bike or else some studiously retro steel bike with a basket on the front that never has anything in it. Also, all of these cyclists will take great pains to remind you that they don’t have a car, unless they can afford to own a car or a parent or relative gave them a car, in which case they will provide a lengthy rationale and tell you how they never use it.
Even though the Righteous Cyclist is outwardly completely different from the Triathlete, the fact is they are held in contempt by some because, just like the Triathlete, the Righteous Cyclist is a high flight risk. If a Triathlete only rides a bike because it happens to be part of a triathlon, then a Righteous Cyclist only rides a bike because it doesn’t use gas and is perceived as “green.” However, if something greener comes along, who’s to say they won’t leave the rest of us behind? It’s difficult to ascertain how many of them are just a cleverly worded pamphlet away from defecting to Rollerblades.
Why other cyclists don’t like them:
They’re smug.
Compatibility with other cyclists:
Generally incompatible with competitive cycling and especially with Mountain Bikers and Cyclocrossers, due to the car use.
The Lone Wolf
The Lone Wolf is that proud breed of cyclist who adheres to no style code and obeys no commonly held beliefs with regard to equipment choice. He (or she, but almost always he) is immune to trends, and is untroubled by the fact that it’s considered bad form to wear a helmet with a visor for road riding, or that knee-high sweat socks look kind of funny with Lycra half-shorts. This is because he rides alone, and he’s arrived at all his cycling-related conclusions by himself instead of gleaning cues and bits of advice from the other cyclists on the group ride.
The Lone Wolf might ride anything from a high-end road bike, to a dual-suspension mountain bike, to some kind of hybrid comfort bike. But whatever he chooses, it will feature some aberrant element that makes it clear it’s a Lone Wolf’s bike. If it’s a road bike, that element might be a giant gel saddle and a suspension seatpost. If it’s a dual-suspension mountain bike, that element will probably be a pair of slick road tires or an abundance of rearview mirrors. (Lone Wolves love using off-road bicycles for road use.) And if it’s a hybrid, it might have dual disc brakes and a suspension fork. Some riders use the right tool for the job; others use the wrong tool for the job. The Lone Wolf, though, adapts the wrong tool for the job.
Also, he likes to ride in clean white sneakers.
Indeed, there’s a certain proud beauty about the Lone Wolf. When you see him, vintage Sony Sports Walkman velcroed to his bicep, bar-ends extending proudly from his riser bars like elk’s antlers, and CamelBak mouthpiece wending its way around his stout midriff, you can’t help but admire his rejection of—nay, his indifference to—cycling’s traditional folkways. As his name suggests, he usually rides alone, but you may also see him at large charity rides or centuries, as he can be drawn into the pack by promise of free food at rest areas.
Why other cyclists don’t like them:
All cyclists like the Lone Wolf—or at least respect him.
Compatibility with other cyclists:
Avoids other cyclists, though will appear at a charity ride like a coyote stealing food from a campground in the desert.
Contraption Captains
Well over a hundred years ago the bicycle realized its current form, and it has remained largely unchanged ever since. However, there are some intrepid souls who refuse to accept this, and who embrace alternative designs for human-powered wheeled vehicles. And by far the most popular alternative “bicycle” is the recumbent.
The recumbent strikes fear into the hearts of nearly every non-recumbent-riding cyclist. If you’ve ever seen a dog growl at a plastic bag caught in a shrub because the dog thinks it might be some kind of weird animal, then you understand the reaction. Cyclists all notice one another, so when we see something that looks somewhat like a bicycle yet places the rider in an odd position with his feet kicking at the air like he’s defending himself from an attacking eagle we become confused and disoriented. And when animals (including humans) don’t understand something they become angry and defensive.
However, Contraption Captains mean no harm, and they’re simply operating machines they feel are superior to regular bicycles because they’re potentially faster and they don’t require the rider to sit on a narrow saddle. Of course, they also can’t negotiate tight corners, they’re heavy, they’re difficult or impossible to lock to poles or bike racks, they’re unwieldy and can’t easily be stored in small apartments or offices, they don’t climb hills well, and they require big tall flags since they’re below automobile hood level. Yet none of these things keep the Contraption Captains from polishing their helmet mirrors, combing their beards, packing a day’s worth of supplies in their fanny packs, and taking to the roads.
In a certain sense, the Contraption Captain is similar to the Lone Wolf, in that they are unconcerned with aesthetics. Yet unlike Lone Wolves, Contraption Captains do form clubs—though you can be both a Lone Wolf and a Contraption Captain.
Why other cyclists don’t like them:
The
ir vehicles are confusing and frightening.
Compatibility with other cyclists:
Themselves. Will also join charity rides and deign to ride among “uprights,” similar to their cousin the Lone Wolf.
GETTING THERE BY BIKE
How Cycling Changed My Life
Give a man a fish and feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and feed him for a lifetime. Teach a man to cycle and he will realize fishing is stupid and boring.
—Desmond Tutu
There’s a treacly parable about faith and God called “Footprints in the Sand,” which you’ll often see in poetry form printed on various religious knickknacks and bits of inspirational paraphernalia, and which I will paraphrase for you herewith. (If you insist on reading the original, Google it.)
Basically some guy is dreaming that he’s walking on the beach with the Lord. As they walk, scenes from this guy’s life are flashing across the sky, like he’s on mescaline or at some kind of drive-in movie theater. During the good parts of his life, the guy notices, there are two pairs of footprints in the sand, the Lord’s and his own. But during the bad parts (the poem doesn’t specify what kind of bad stuff this guy has gone through, but I’m guessing it’s probably stuff like addiction, sickness, and sunburn) there is only one set of prints. The guy figures this means the Lord ditched him. So he has the audacity to ask the Lord, “Hey, where were you when all that crap was going on?”
“That’s when I was carrying your ass,” the Lord replies, which naturally shuts the guy up and drives home the point of the poem, which is that God is awesome and works in mysterious ways, like a pair of SRAM Red shifters.
Whatever. I know I’m supposed to be inspired and moved by the fact that the Lord apparently gives people piggyback rides on the beach. However, for me this parable raises more questions than it answers, such as: (1) who is this man? (2) what kind of shoes does the Lord wear? (If I had to guess I’d say New Balance or Saucony. Maybe Rockport); and (3) do the Lord’s footprints stay with the man’s footprints even when he goes to the bathroom? I really can’t give myself over to this parable until these questions are answered and I can be sure that, if I do choose to follow the Lord, I’ll still get to relieve myself in private.
Still, parables are the pop music of spiritual philosophy, and even when you don’t like them they can get stuck in your head. I get Billy Joel songs stuck in my head all the time for no reason and I can’t stand him. So even though this story is essentially the “Piano Man” of allegorical poems I still find myself thinking about it sometimes. What would my own vision—my own Great Obvious Bicycle Metaphor—be like? I mean, I’m no stranger to hardship. There was one time I rode my bike to work in my cycling shorts, and when I went to change into my street clothes I realized I had brought jeans but had forgotten to bring my underpants. Would my vision reveal one set of footprints on the beach on that horrible day—those prints being the Lord’s size-fifteen New Balances as he carried me fireman-style to the nearest Gap so I could purchase some dignity and not have to go commando for the rest of the day?
The truth is, I don’t know. But I do know that if I looked at my life as footprints on a beach there would be a lot of bicycle tire tracks. In the early scenes, there would be the ones from the old hand-me-down Schwinn on which I learned how to ride. At first, there’d also be a set of training wheel tracks next to the main tracks, but eventually those would disappear, though I’m sure there would be scattered sand and some blood where I fell off the bike while getting the hang of things. After a while, those would be replaced by the knobby tire tracks from my first BMX, on which I learned to skid and do tricks on the streets of Bayswater, Far Rockaway, with my first best friends, a pair of identical twins. Then the knobby tire tracks would wander off when that big kid asked if he could “try my bike,” and I let him, even though I realized as I handed it over that I’d just given it away. Fortunately, though, the tracks didn’t wander very far, and I actually found the bike later that day in front of the kid’s house, because he was even dumber than I was. Then more BMX tracks, at first all chaotic because of all the tricks, but becoming increasingly linear and deliberate because as I got older I got into racing. Then there are the tracks from the old crappy Univega I started doing longer rides on in college, and that would bring me to adulthood where at present the bicycle tracks of my life are a vast ganglion of varying tire widths and tread patterns shooting off into all directions.
At this point in my vision I’d probably ask: “Great Obvious Bicycle Metaphor, you once said that if I decided to ride you’d be with me all the way, but I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, like that time I was ‘slaying’ some singletrack and rode into a tree, that there was only one set of footprints and no tire tracks after that for a while.”
The Great Obvious Bicycle Metaphor would reply, “You stupid idiot. That’s because you separated your shoulder. Bikes go where they’re pointed, and you pointed yours into a tree.”
“Okay, fair enough. So where were you in high school?”
“You were an awful brooding creature like most teens. Nobody wanted to be around you. I stayed as far away from you as possible so as not to hear your awful music or inadvertently witness your fumbling formative sexual experiences.”
“Eeew.”
“Exactly. But you did discover skateboarding and a lot of bands you liked because you were interested in bikes, didn’t you? You never really liked most of the things other people in your high school were interested in, so being into bikes helped you seek out and discover your own interests. So you could say I single-handedly led you to your first independent cultural discovery, couldn’t you? You could also say I respected you enough to give you your space.”
“I suppose that’s true. But how about this? Remember when I got my first really nice road bike?”
“It really wasn’t that nice—it was just a Cannondale.”
“Well, it was nice to me. Remember how I bought that bike, even though I could hardly afford it? Remember how I rode it all the time, and then I ended up leaving my job because I was unhappy there and then went to work as a bike messenger? I was having a great time and really enjoying it and things were going great. Just look at the beach! There’s my footprints and your tire tracks, side by side. Then I locked my bike up to a mailbox, ran in to make a delivery for like thirty seconds, and when I came out my Cannondale was completely gone. How about that? Where were you then?”
Of course, as I ask this I realize exactly where the Great Obvious Bicycle Metaphor was. Firstly, just like bikes don’t steer themselves, they also don’t lock themselves. You’ve got to lock them with strong locks to things that can’t be moved. And even the strongest lock will not keep a bicycle attached to the leg of a mailbox when you haven’t noticed that the bolts securing the mailbox to the sidewalk have been removed. So basically, I had simply locked my beloved bicycle to a booby trap.
Secondly, yes, I absolutely loved working as a bike messenger. The rhythms of messengering agreed with me like no job ever has, as did the fact that any responsibility lasted only as long as you had a package inside your bag. Once that manifest is signed, your work is done. There’s no follow-up and no stress to take home. It was as if I could leave my future to percolate in some other dimension while I spent all my time riding my bike. Basically, I’d wake up, and once I was ready to work I’d call my dispatcher, who would send me to my first pickup. I’d then spend the day riding my bike all over the city. It was an especially enjoyable sort of riding, because while it was totally unpredictable, it wasn’t aimless. Once you’ve got a good relationship with a dispatcher and you’ve proved yourself swift and reliable, a kind of music develops between you. He keeps you in a certain part of the city, and you keep picking up packages until your bag is full or there are no jobs left. Not only has he chosen these pickups because they’re localized, but he’s also picked them because they’re destined for buildings that are along a route that will lead you to another trov
e of jobs. For example, maybe you’ll spend a half hour picking up six envelopes around Grand Central Station. Then, once you’ve picked the neighborhood clean, you get to fly down Fifth Avenue, dropping them all off along the way until you wind up empty in SoHo where you start all over again.
Sure, it wasn’t always fun. Sometimes, the packages I had to pick up were unwieldy. I didn’t always mind this, since you got paid more for oversized jobs. However, the client was also supposed to tell the company the package was oversized when they called it in, since if you’ve already got a bunch of stuff on you it can be very inconvenient. I once arrived at an office and was presented with a fur coat, which someone was apparently having me bring to some storage facility for his wife. I made a show of carrying it out of the building carefully, and once on the sidewalk I stuffed it into my bag with the sole of my mountain bike shoe. Other times, the packages were just bizarre. At one building in the Financial District I picked up a package that contained a hot meal. I’m not sure why someone was messengering a hot meal—to a radio station DJ at that—but it was actually pretty cold out so the warmth of the package was kind of nice. Then there were the modeling and advertising portfolios, which I’d bring to agencies and photo shoots. These could sometimes be quite large, and there are few things more unpleasant than being stuck in a winter storm at 6:00 P.M. while desperately trying to unload the last of your portfolios so you can finally go home, pull the plastic bags off your feet, and take a hot shower.