pedestrian saga

It’s early afternoon, a Monday. I haven’t showered in over two days (and haven’t removed the jeans I’m wearing since that last shower). I’m sitting in the observation lounge car of an Amtrak train winding through the Cascades into the southern Willamette Valley, and I’m listening to World Without Tears and Real Gone, idly circling items of interest in Amoeba’s Music We Like booklet…

Bliss!

Oh, I could keep riding the rails, play hooky a little longer…

But I detrained at Albany Station, caught a pair of buses home, to spring the pups from their kennel digs and to get back to work. Let’s see. Uh, where was I?

Mid-April through July, I pedaled 500 miles* around Corvallis, and yesterday my odometer ticked past 600. Now, this little 500 isn’t a great distance to travel, geographically speaking, for that stretch of time (three-and-a-half months to do the equivalent of Corvallis–Berkeley** is hardly impressive by contemporary standards), but psychically speaking, it means I’ve come a long way, baby, as a car-free bicycle commuter for peace.

*Really wish I’d gone 804 kilometers instead.
^**Really wish I’d actually traveled Corvallis–Berkeley instead of just back and forth to work.

La chance, c’est comme le Tour de France. On l’attend longtemps et ça passe vite. Quand le moment vient, faut sauter la barrière sans hésiter.

[Luck is like the Tour de France. You wait, and it flashes by you. You have to catch it while you can.]

-Monsieur Dufayel in Le fabuleux destin d’Amélie Poulain

Once again, I’ve let the Tour de France flash by without catching it. What’s up with wanting to follow the Tour de France anyway? Well, I figure I fancy cyclists (Scott, Tamao and Sue, the Robert-Barry-Montana triple threat, the bike cooks of Los Angeles, the king of New York, the cutters of Bloomington…) and bicycles (the sleek and sexy Bianchi, the adorably tuckable Bike Friday, the robo-dynamic torque coupling Co-Motion, the tough and exotically elegant Bambucicletas…) so maybe I could get into cycling? And the Tour de France is, like, cycling with a capital “C.” Plus I have a vague notion that it’s an event rooted in myth, passion, and drama, set against beautiful landscapes, and while I’m not really into sport, I’m a total sucker for myth, passion, drama, and beauty.

Anyway, this year, I came closer to catching it than ever before: the relevant BBC Sport page remained open in my browser a good couple of weeks, patiently waiting for me to peruse it, and I actually called a local sports pub to inquire about commandeering their TV. The doping scandals that dominated the news, however, proved an insurmountable barrier to entry for someone just trying to pick up the lingo and figure out how the dadgummed contest is supposed to work.

Instead I enjoyed following my mum’s very own 2007 tour de France. A passionate secondary school French teacher, she won a fellowship and planned an entire summer of intensive language and culture studies. Next thing you know she’s blogging about her adventures and Skyping me from across the Atlantic. Shucks, I’m proud! I made this map for her.

La Danse en Rond: Sylvie’s 2007 Tour de France

View Larger Map

Initially I rolled my eyes at this report of a pair of grownup kids strapping a rocket to a bike, and I cringed at the bastardization of my favorite human-powered transport. Then I went all soft, thinking affectionately of my aeronautically inclined brother and his fellow rocket aficionado, our brother-in-law, and recognizing the potential for bonding with them over this hybrid of our separate enthusiasms…

But, um, guys? Zero to 60 in five seconds, on a bicycle? Do your mothers know you’re doing this?

(Thanks for the link, Scott!)

Bicycled to Philomath for the second day in a row. Thirteen miles each outing. Yesterday, pouring rain and hills - reluctant and a tad crabby. Today, sunshine (shy at first, then bursting) and Sunrise Sourdough Bakery (scroll a little) - mellow and a little more confident. My companion, Scott, cyclist catalyst, velo hero. Someday, I’ll cycle strong as his stoker.

So far I haven’t broadcast any “Dear Cary” letters or online dating profiles, which is not to say I haven’t mentally drafted them as I’m walking. In case I’m ever actually compelled to complete a dating questionnaire (Venus forbid!) like the cheeky personals featured on the Onion or the L.A. Weekly, I’ve got answers prepared for at least one question.

Fill in the blanks:
Andrew McCarthy is sexy; James Spader is sexier.
Car-free guy on a bicycle is sexy; Car-free guy on a custom-built fixie is sexier. [Profuse, adoring thanks to the bitchin' Bici Blog!]

Meow! Purrrrrr…

My new mantra– Just show up.

For a few weeks, I’ve been excitedly admiring Bike Summer from the creature comfort of my living room until suddenly the celebration is almost over. High time to get out there and ride (and earn myself the right to sport the gorgeous Bici Verano Luche Libre guy). Nothing like cycling for chow or cinema to motivate me, and today it was the good folks of Different Spokes and their promise of dim sum in Chinatown to bring me out. (more…)

For me, this is the epitome of Bike Summer– Next Saturday, which happens to be Day One of the Tour de France, Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure is playing Hollywood Forever, and the Bike Coalition is riding in for the show! You’d better believe I’ll be backpacking a picnic and taking in this *classic* bicycle movie under the stars (and with some stars six feet under)!

Vive le velo! Remember… the Alamo! See you there!

Mild-mannered whoever I am by day, by night I emerge from my lair to crawl the streets of Burbank’s equestrian district. Here the houses crouch behind perfectly groomed lawns, but where are all their people? Most certainly not out sidewalking with me, for the spiders are left free to weave every which way! As I move, I catch the webs and gather special spider strengths to me. They cling to my arms and my chinny chin chin, and they’re mine, all mine, mysterious neighbors! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Oh, no! Will Spider Woman use her powers for ill deeds? Will she wander, confused and naive and lonely, until she finds redemption in Nick Fury and teams up with Wolverine? (Damn! Somebody neutralize her mutant pheromones fast!) Or will she mature into a benevolent goddess of powerful wisdom? (One can only hope.)

This morning I trunked my bike down the I-5 from the LA River to its tributary, the Río Hondo, to ride the 20th Annual Tour de Sewer. As both a leisure cycling enthusiast and a connoissewer,* I felt downright obligated to throw myself heart and soul at this opportunity. I mean, there’s a reputation to build here! There’s a sexy bike jersey to collect! There’s another stinky concrete megalopolitan river to conquer! (more…)