Man’s (or Woman’s) other best friend

A normal man (or woman) bike is much like a dog. No matter how poorly you treat it, it will always be there for you and will never hold a grudge. You develop a connection with it that no one else could understand. It will likely have qualities that you aren’t particularly fond of, like licking its balls, but you put up with it because “its your dog” (or bike). Its not always the pure-bred that makes the best normal man bike, sometimes it’s the runt or the neglected that cruises around town with you like none other. This posting is both an eulogy and a (re)birth announcement. Following the order of events, I’ll start with the eulogy.

The original normal man bike (ONMB) was first introduced to me at Christmas some years back. It lacked any quality of being “hip,” “stylish,” or “fast.” It was the type of bike you might expect to see your dad cruising around the neighborhood on with his black socks pulled up to his knees, shorts way too short, and sweat-stained undershirt looking disgustingly sweaty for the mild day. He got the bike after a New Year's Resolution to “trim up.” But he only rides it twice before it begins collecting dust and contributing to the rest of the clutter in the garage. Well, you get the picture. Needless to say, ONMB got neglected for several years. Finally, in a desire to simplify my life I brought it up to Saratoga Springs with me. Soon ONMB and I became best friends. I rode that bike everywhere I went and in every condition. ONMB took a ton of abuse and was always a loyal best friend. Soon it was outfitted with a headlight, blinking taillight, and fenders, in addition to its already big comfy seat. It carried me around town in downpours and feet of snow. It took some wrecks, like when I didn’t see the curb in the dark or when I tried to show Elizabeth my latest trick on the way home from the bars (resulting in a nice endo). That bike personified me probably better than I personified myself. Well as these stories commonly do, the original normal man bike met a sad end last fall when it encountered a parking garage while riding on top of my car.

But, with loss comes new beginnings; several weeks ago I procured a new normal man bike. This bike was found at a garage sale and looked like it had not been ridden since being bought over 30 years ago. All components, down to the tires and brake pads, are original and in fantastic shape (all things considered). We are still getting use to each other, but things are going well. While weighing the importance of “braking ability,” sadly a squirrel suffered a tragic demise, and I soon decided that braking ability does provide some benefits.

So, if you have a bike stuffed away in the garage or drive by a neglected bike at a garage sale giving you those puppy-dog eyes, I implore you to open up your heart. Who knows, it could be the beginning of a beautiful best-friendship between you and your new normal man (or woman) bike.

The Black Moshannon ("Black Mo"): An incredible, yet deadly creature

Sept 14, 2008: I'm sure you have watched the mountain sections of the Tour de France and thought, "I could do that, maybe not as fast, but it doesn't look that hard." No? OK, so I'm the only naive, arrogant bastard that has thought that before. Not to worry, one experience with the deadly Black Moshannon has shocked me back into reality.

The Black Mochannon ride is rare, serpentine creature that stretches over 40miles of rural Pennsylvania countryside. In fact, it is only found just outside State College. The fear that it inflicts is from the slow, painful attacks it strikes to its prey's lower body. What is so deadly about the Black Moshannon? It does not strike only once, but 3 times with many smaller nibbles along the way. The strike comes silently, the only sound being the slow grinding of your gears. This should not be taken lightly; not all are as lucky as I in making it out alive. However, the attacks not only affect the legs, but spread to the very heart, soul and mind. As you see in the video on the bottom, I am already becoming senile only halfway through the second attack (and completely butchered the quote).

You may wonder, "Why even mess with this beast?" The Black Mo is the modern-day Muse, whose mystical songs are the fantastic views of rolling Pennsylvanian green valleys. Not only was my breath taken by the relentless climbing, but also the amazing scenery. The ride even hosts an old man sitting on his porch with his dog at his side all day, staring into space, but eagerly (as eagerly as "an old man sitting on the porch with is dog at his side all day" can) waving and wishing you a good day as you trickle by. I feel there are few better ways to see the beautiful PA countryside than from a dance with the Black Mo.

Oddly, because I never get lost, I did manage to miss a turn in the very heart of the Black Moshannon. However, the missed turn did provide benefits besides extending the ride by 7 miles and throwing in several healthy climbs (oops, I forgot we were talking about benefits). With my minor miscalculation I was able to see a house that decided a first floor is much better suited as firewood storage and another house that is simply birdy over bird houses (too much?).

Be warned, the final strike is the most painful. When you are beginning to think of home, the Black Mo inflicts its final strike. The 3rd strike is not the longest, but holds a steep incline which in your weakened state will test your very will for survival. When I made that final pass there were angles singing and all the creatures of the forest lined the road to congratulate me on my successful evasion of the doom of the Black Mo (or I was simply halucinating). The best part of the long climbs, other than developing veins the size of pythons popping out of your legs, are the several miles of long descents where you coast at 30+mph without a single pedal stroke.

I have to admit, with all the glory that Black Mo presents, it is merely an earthworm compared to the Tour's mountains (a really big, scary earthworm, like the one from "Tremors".....well, maybe not that big). As I slowed to a stop before my house, I knew that I had encountered a creature like none other, and I couldn't wait to ride it again. If you are still reading about my encounter with the Black Mo and are not hiding for safety under your covers, then maybe you too should consider the incredible, yet deadly dance of the Back Mo.

A ride to the end of an era...and pizza

Sept 7, 2008: When Wade mentioned his interest in making the ride to Coney Island, it sounded like a nice way to spend the Sunday. I didn't realize that this ride would show me the many burrows of Brooklyn and end at the closing of an icon.

On one of the most beautiful Sunday's I have ever seen in New York (following a day of Hurricane Hanna), I took the train from Wall Street over to Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Checking out Wade's new single-speed, we began our voyage down to the bottom of the island. I had always enjoyed Brooklyn for the many free-pizza-with-a-beer bars, even despite the overwhelming population of hipsters in uniform. But I had never ventured beyond 7 blocks in Greenpoint.

Riding along the new bike lanes, providing a nice (false) sense of security, we left Wade's Polish neighborhood, soon entering a conservative Jewish region. It felt like we had ridden into a new country. Our next landmark was Prospect Park. The 583acre park designed by Frederick Law Olmstead and Calvert Vaux (after they finished that other big park) feels like Central Park (surprisingly..) but with a more wilderness, solitary sense to it. Arriving at Prospect Park, I felt like we were riding through a Eruopean town, with the similar Arc de Triomphe and big round-abouts. If I ever lived in Brooklyn, I feel like I would never leave this park. Riding through the park, we identified another rider slowly creeping up on us. We, of course, had to crush him. We picked up the pace, and even though he tried to match us, we crushed him!

After a brief fear that we were taking the on-ramp to an expressway, our ride now became the long stretch along Ocean Parkway. Along this stretch I discovered that suburbia does exists within the city! A second goal for the ride was food. We had long heard of tales about a pizza place run by a man for 4 decades. Nestled inside a Jewish neighborhood where every food joint totes a kosher classification (have you ever seen a kosher Subway?) we spotted an establishment swelling with people of all ages but unified by a lack of yamika. We had arrived at Di Fara's pizza and not a moment too soon because we were parched and ravished, good thing it was only about a 30-40minutes wait for a slice of pie.... The scene inside is crowded and subtly tense as everyone is politely elbowing forward for the next available $25+ pie. OK, the place has a great story, a "cozy," old school, simple feel inside, and the fresh basil is fantastic. But, for $4 per slice of cheese (someone bought a $35 pie before us, which I could have found for $15 back in Ohio), the pizza was good, but a little greasy (a la a healthy pour of olive oil) and not as mind-blowing that I thought a 40min wait would produce.

"Soon" we were back on our bikes, on our way to reaching the final destination. All I had ever known about Coney Island was its iconic namesake and an image of boardwalk, ocean, and an occasional genie wish machine (Big). With that fresh smell of rotting ocean life, I soon saw the boardwalk. Knowing it did, I still felt surprised that the boardwalk really existed. How much wood did it take to build that thing? Riding along the boardwalk, humming Drifters songs, I really enjoyed the whole scene. From a distance the beach and ocean looked fantastic, people weren't in a hurry to get anywhere, a diverse crowd were playing handball, and there was the strange juxtaposition of beach and roller-coasters in the foreground. There were also the characteristics that made the experience uniquely Coney Island: Shoot the Freak, Nathan's Hotdog (with way too long of a line, don't people know they sell them in malls and grocery stores?) and the Wonder Wheel (take one ferris wheel and add 10times more sweetness and you get one Wonder Wheel).

As we headed home, Wade mentioned that we had experienced the last day of Coney Island. The following day it will be closed down and a casino built. While we were crushing another biker trying to pass us, I thought about a world without Coney Island. Does this make Cincinnati's Coney Island the "real" Coney Island? Where will I go for that magic genie machine that will make my life totally sweet? Where will The Freak go for work? Who gets the Wonder Wheel and how do I become friends with him? Will business at Nathan's located in malls suddenly pick up? Will people still be "falling in love under the boardwalk"?

This was no normal bike ride. In a mere 30miles I rode through Polish, conservative Jewish, rich Jewish, Kenyan, European-like, and wilderness worlds. Other than crushing other slow riders, I also got to see the last day of Coney Island. What a Sunday! I should have taken more pictures.

I always heard you haven't really lived until you are showered by rose pedals from Rick Springfield's guitar...

July 18, 2008: I'll have to begin this story about a month back. On a fateful night when Tai was saving small children, he became intoxicated by the joy of running up a bid at a live auction and ended up saving many, many (many) more children than he ever realized he could. What, you ask, did he receive for his selfless, chivalric donation, other than the joy of saving small children? Well he was rewarded with only the sweetest auction prize ever: 4 FRONT ROW TICKETS, 4 BACK STAGE PASSES, AND A SIGNED GUITAR BY THE TOTALLY INCREDIBLE RICK SPRINGFIELD (the other Boss)!!!! Have you stopped hyper-ventilating yet? I know, I still get excited at the thought. Well, after buying a CD to find out who Rick Springfield is, Tai immediately inviting all of his friends to the once in a lifetime opportunity. I was fortunate to receive the call.

I'll be honest, when he first asked me, I was surprised that Rick was still touring. At one point in my life, wishing that I too had Jesse's girl, there was no way I was going to miss this opportunity. After daily phone calls to confirm that I was still coming, the day finally arrived. Upon hearing of the chance to not only be serenaded, but actually meet Rick, Elizabeth immediately flew in for the event. In true Tai form, the night began with a feast from Dorthy Lane (fortunately no Dom P was involved). After eating a plethora of random food and listening to "Jesse's Girl" on repeat, the four of us, Tai, Elizabeth, Anna, and myself, made the journey over to Fraze. The entire night we had been talking about "Rick Springstein," "the Boss," and "Bruce Springfield." What if when I actually met him I accidentally called him "Rick Springstein"?

I knew front row meant you were in the front row, but I never realized how front row, front row actually meant. When the lights dimmed, the thousands (OK hundreds) of middle-age-housewives went crazy. Then he appeared. He sported a classic soap-opera/rock-star-haircut, leather jacket, tight jeans, boots, and a surprisingly great build for a near 60 year old. When he walked out, turned, and made a standard rock star pose with electric guitars wailing in the background, I thought to myself, "This will be hilarious!" But once he started in, my fist instinctively began pumping and did not stop all night!! I've seen many talented musicians, one's that when you walk away you think, "Wow, that was a really talented musician." No offense to Rick, but I wouldn't say it was the most technically amazing music, BUT he rocked harder than I have ever seen someone rock and it was the most fun I have ever had at a concert. I'm not going to lie, I don't think there were 4 other people in the state of Ohio rocking out as hard as we were for the next several hours. I was pumping my fist as hard as anyone could, Anna and Elizabeth were doing normal rocking-out dancing, and Tai was doing a standard rock-out that would get you kicked out of 99% of all venues while randomly pushing the monitor in front of us. And Rick definitely took note of our incredible rocking out, because he kept coming over to stand on the monitor in front and sweat on us. Don't believe me? Check out the video around time 4:20......yea that's OUR fists you see!!!!

What you also see in the video, is the first time that he did the rose pedal shower. It might have been one of the most classic things that I have ever seen, and I've seen many classic things. The crowd went nuts with hundreds of middle-age-housewives going nuts. Granted after the 10 next times that he did the rose-thing it started to loose its effect, but it still is one of the most classic things I have ever seen. The highlight of the concert, other than being teased by "Jesse's Girl" intros, was "Don't Talk to Strangers." For a song that consists essentially of 4 words, he was able to rock it out for over 10 minutes. He traveled into the crowd where he was felt up, down, and all around by middle-age-housewives, called one woman's husband on the phone to remind him to not talk to strangers, then brought 3 young children up on stage to help him sing the complex lyrics. One of the 3 was Grace, who sat behind us. I think it was her mom's proudest moment. Then there was another little girl who went on stage but refused to sing or say anything. But after some comforting by Rick (don't worry, he's not a stranger), she touted a quiet reminder not to talk to strangers.

While I was sorry to see the singing end, my bicep felt as though it was about to rip from all the fist pumping. The wait to see Rick took a little longer than I had expected. We had to show passports, work permits, get DNA tests, take a verbal and written test, do some calisthenics, then undergo a severe interrogation to prove that our passes really were real passes (this is for the safety of Rick we are talking about). When I met him, I wanted to tell him it was the most thrilling 2 hours that I have ever experienced, but I knew he gets that all the time. So, I played it cool, showed him I was just a normal man.

Over the next several days, I slowly regained the ability to move my arm, but the excitement of the evening never ceased. I never would have thought that what began as somewhat of a joke would turn into the most exciting concert of my life. Thanks Rick.....and don't talk to strangers.