what was that? is that all there is? who is this? this is it.

here's to pushing limits on the cutting edge of technology in the realm of bicycles as well as performance enhancing drugs

here's to police raiding the team hotel at 5am looking for last year's dope. But that shit is so one year ago bro they won't find anything. They don't know what they're looking at, it's too new.

here's to the 109th Tour de France

A couple weeks ago beer from the kegerator was pouring extra foamy and a bit warm & flat. So I checked the thermostat and the CO2 and the heft of the keg and then drank it anyway. ---denial---  The next day I poured one for my old lady and it was the same tepid foamy flat froth. She was a bit more skeptical. I wanted to drink it anyway, but it sucked. 

I checked on the kegerator again and it was humming a weak sound but nowhere near cold, barely hanging on. Not a beer issue but a refrigeration issue. Georgetown prints it at the top of their cans “please refrigerate. warm beer sucks” and returning a keg that's half-full of warm beer, really sucks. 

It was like a beloved family pet, a trusty companion, always there to greet me at the door. After 12 years, it’s hard to let go. They say the first stage in the grieving process is denial. I'd agree with that as I’m moving through the stages and processing it all.  

The first couple years were all Elysian. Pony kegs schlepped on a bike trailer just up a hill to the CD.  Full kegs from friend’s cars. Then Junior was born. Then the cargo bike arrived to schlepp more pony kegs. Then my old lady got canned at the Elysian and we started buying Georgetown kegs. Then Junior Junior was born. Then we moved to a new house. Then I woke up and 12 years had gone by. 

The first sticker stuck was a DrunkCyclist “there will be beer”. Scratch back through the sticker stratigraphy and you might see one you gave me. 

Perhaps I jinxed it on my most recent birthday talking about how great it’s been pouring beers from a tap instead of a can or bottle and how it’s paid for itself several times over, over the years. 

A simple estimate says more than 144 kegs poured through that tap. If you’re reading this, there’s a very good chance you pulled a pint or two out of old faithful. 

My personal price index will remind you that retail pints (even in Idaho) are now pouring at $7, tall cans are $5 and a cup of lousy fucking drip coffee is $3.  So a $120 keg holding 120 pints of good beer is a great investment in a quality of life issue. 

It’s taken me a couple weeks to process but now I’m ready to purchase old faithful 2.0 and continue the journey with a new companion to start sticking some new stickers.  

Would you like a beer?  

Conk photo

my family went to Coeur d’Alene 

and all I got 

was this T-shirt tan 

and COVID 

but this too shall pass

in & out of Idaho

I will refrain from talking too much shit about Eastern Washington / Northern Idaho. I grew up there in the heart of the Inland Empire, which entitles me to a bit of shit talking. But I haven’t spent any real time there for 35 years.  This recent visit was an eye opener in a suburban sprawl way as one incorporated “city” has glommed into the next in a continuous monumental ode to the automobile with a particular emphasis on big big trucks, vans, suburbans and SUVs.  With plenty of parking for everyone. Plenty of parking. 

34 years ago a little amusement park opened on a 400 acre plot in Athol and it has grown and grown and grown. Fast forward to last week and that Big Amusement Park was the reason for our little visit. Here there’s a strong correlation with contracting COVID 2.5 years into this whole virus thing. But that’s another story. 

day 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…

what day is it? 

is that all there is? 

oh no     no

there’s more 

where that came from 

until further notice 

never came

that was what 

six feet looked like

you must have 

been mistaken

you must have

confused me 

with someone 

who gives a shit

you must have 

has   had

been being be

am is are 

was  were

will  would 

can could this too 

shall should pass

Sitting at a red light on the Burke-Gilman crossing the Ave staring into space waiting expectorating anticipating more waiting when this sticker on a signpost caught my eye just enough for me to pluck it off and take a closer look. 

I ride a Bullitt around the U-district all day schlepping amazon packages their final fifty fucking feet.  

But what if you rode a Bullitt around the U-district all day with a single super sized silicone spermatozoon strapped to the cargo bed with see through cellophane straps? Its long tail slithering in the seat stays subconsciously suggesting motility and more marketing mumbo jumbo. Wearing a snazy sperm bank uniform and matching helmet. Toting a satchel full of promotional items, aka plastic crap to distribute: key chains, bottle openers, pens, pencil toppers, chapstick, QR coded silicone sperm stress balls, beanies, face masks, hand sanitizers, carabiners, tire levers, water bottles, fidget toys, rubber duckies, slap bracelets and sunglasses. 

Be careful what you wish for. 

He’s the guy waiting in a hotel room in Bozeman, waiting for the OEM parts to arrive from Germany so the local shop can fix his BMW. 

I’m the guy that shimmed it out with a beer can and rode away yesterday. 

There are only two shirts like this in the world. As we speak, I’m wearing one and the other one is in the mail, on its way to PDX. Both shirts still smell like thriftstore because they are Costco castoffs from the original owner repurposed recycled redirected regurgitated. 

Hella  Hella  

Messing around on old thriftstore shirts inspires inspiration. The next hella hella shirts will be vertical instead of horizontal in a horticultural agricultural sculptural way, recognizable to a select few. You know. 

Those in the know, know that Steve is the OG Hella Corndog and he's the reason I burned the Hella screen for a Corndog Classic in whatever broken-sternum year that was, 20ish years ago…  …and that’s why that shirt is on its way to PDX for one of the guys down at DANK bags. I don’t have any photos from that Hella Corndog but visualize Monorail Kevin and then ask Kittleson. 

There may be a few of those original T-shirts still kicking. When I say kicking I mean hermetically sealed in a safety deposit box at 701 5th. Squirrel’s kid may or may not be wearing one right now, I’m told. But the silk screen is going hella strong here and now, here and there. 

slap dash

pell mell

glycogen stores

closed until

further notice

stand by 

hurry up 

and wait 

high fructose 

corn syrup

nonfat decaf

milquetoast latte

tax deductible

wealthy donor

athletic supporter

jock itch

long covid

lung butter

well placed

snot rocket

post nasal

drip dripping

left sleeve

slug trail

glistening in

morning light

members only

order operations

Herbert Walker

Bush League

inside job

controlled demolition

hip dysplasia

inbred purebred 

resistance is 

futile bro

don’t take

it personally

barking up

wrong tree

misdirected energy

Hella Hella 

clockwork like

like clockwork 

golden ratio

just so

these shoes

rule <-> suck

protected bikelane

placebo effect

single use

throw away

chuck down

dental pick

swisher sweet

throw back

not not

my backyard

cable actuated

class clown

cherry pick

gold brick

authentic handbuilt 

retrofit replica

verisimilitude dude

front butt

acid reflux

blue tooth

whiter whites

fresh breath

phantom nostalgia

psychosomatic syndrome

ass pocket

U lock

ass   out

you  me

keep frown

upside down

final fifty

fucking feet

Todd Gallaher photo bro

It was a dark and stormy night one day when I replaced the grips on my Soma. Classic black OURYs on a sweptback Nitto bar. In the ends I tucked some old Cinelli bar plugs I had sitting around to keep the handlebar from slicing circles through the end of the grips over time or the end of my knee some day. 

Fast forward a few weeks when I’m rolling to work and I heard a rattling sound up in the headset handlebar area. In my groggy state I assumed it was cable housing slapping around or the headlight bracket or Steve clipped a paperclip on my bike somewhere back in 2009.  

On the way to work, it’s all downhill to the train and then all downhill from the train station to the mothership. So bike things rattle and bounce and clickety clack. The fastest my bike ever rolls is coasting downhill. On the way home it’s a slow motion single speed grind up hill. What I’m getting at is that the mystery rattle didn’t rattle on the way home and I forgot about it for a while and switched bikes a few times. But when I came back to the Soma another  morning, the same thing happened. 

If you’re reading this, there’s a good chance you would have pinpointed and fixed that rattle within 30 seconds of hearing it. Some of you spend your entire weekend cleaning drivetrains and tweaking little bike tweaks ad nauseum. You may be very particular about your particulars.  But I have gotten pretty slack on things bike related these days. My few ounces of give-a-shit evaporated when I wrenched on bikes full time.  Good enough is good enough for me with bigger fish to fry and four bikes to ride… …that rattle hung around for weeks, giving me time to speculate about the source and really listen to the sound when I’d hop on the Soma in the morning and then forget about it in the afternoon. 

It sounded like a couple of plastic chicklets rattling in a steel tube. My speculation became a hypothesis which evolved into a theory: a tooth or two broke off the back of the Cinelli bar plug and began to rattle around in the handlebar. The manufacturer refers to them as “stay put ribs” designed to tuck into drop bars and keep the bar tape nice and neat. Aside from the RB-1 for RAGBRAI 2007, 08,09   I haven’t really rolled drop bars since 1998, which is one reason the teeth on these plugs were a little brittle. 

Yesterday morning at 5:47am I pulled one of the OURYs off and shook the busted chicklets out. My theory was correct. Then I slid the grip back on and rode down the hill to the train.  

hose clamped

milk crate

douche bags

expecting respect

range anxiety

backup battery

lithium ion

juiced up

beyond belief

rad power

power couple

his        hers

excessively accessorized

two   to

too much

kitchen sink

neither bicycles

nor luggage

first - come

first - served

If you ask me about a certain coworker, housemate or distant relative and I respond with “they take up a lot of space”. It's not a compliment,  it’s a generic long-story-short response that may encompass a variety of human relations issues in addition to actual cubic feet of physical space.  

This rad power couple takes up a lot of space. In my field of vision, on the train, on the elevator, on the sidewalk, in the bike lane, in the city of Seattle. Perhaps in their minds they’re traveling light because they left their 57-foot 5th-wheel trailer on their Ford F550 in a WalMart parking lot to skeet around downtown on their “bikes”. 

the other day Shaggy sent me a digital facsimile of this Alexander Farnham painting that's up for auction 

without the words

word

As you know it’s Bike to Work to Bike at Work All Day Day (BTWTBAWADD)  

However, I took the day off, so I might ride a bike today but I won’t be riding a bike to work to ride a bike at work. 

Bike to Work Day has always been unofficially subtitled “honey can you pick me up after work? I’m too tired to ride that fucking bike home.”

Clo'e Floirat SPOT  The New Yorker 5-16-22

Aside from Junior riding a stationary bike, a highlight from our trip to the thrift store was seeing Carole King’s Tapestry perched front and center on the pile of vinyl near the books, dvds and vhs tapes. It was as if another shopper placed it up front to make sure someone like me would see. Somewhere in the haze of my memory I have sounds and visions from the 70s of my sister playing tracks off various albums, including Tapestry. She was the DJ, I was the audience. I never paid much attention to the album cover until now. 

Holding the album, I mentioned to Junior that I recently read a poem about the cat on the cover and she could not have cared less but it made me smile as I tried to remember where I read that poem. Today I remembered, it was in The Threepenny Review #168 on page 26. 

The Cat on the Cover of

Carole King’s Tapestry is Dead

The photographer who took the picture is dead, too. For nine years now. He died in his seventies. But the cat – his name was Telemachus – has been dead longer. Just look at that cranky face. He’s been staring out at us for fifty years now, each day wanting us gone, wanting his mother all to himself while they wait for brave Ulysses to return home from battle. All he wants is to be left alone on his pillow throne there in the window beside her bare feet, soaking up the sun while she knits her gatefold tapestry. Only once the moon rises over Laurel Canyon will she unravel her progress, to fool us into thinking she’ll soon choose one of us. 

–Kevin Grauke

They say you’re supposed to change the tap line in your kegerator once in a while. Not just clean it, but replace the entire thing. I bought a new hose a few months ago and I planned to swap it out between kegs. After watching a couple youtube videos I thought I could just loosen the nut behind the tap with a cone wrench or an adjustable wrench or whatever happened to be hanging around in the garage. But when I popped the top off the tap tower I realized there’s a reason they make special wrenches for this setup. It’s no cone wrench and an adjustable wrench won’t even come close. So I put it off, tapped another keg and bought the right tool for the job and now it’s hanging up, waiting for the keg to blow… 

"The KOMOS tower wrench is specifically designed to tighten the nut on the back of a faucet shank. It is double offset for clearance inside of coffin boxes and larger round towers and to move the handle away from the insulation or other nearby objects. Also super handy when tightening shanks inside a cold box when space is at a premium and it is hard to fit a traditional wrench. Pubs have historically made their own, now you can get one the easy way."

When I open my bike shop this wrench will be hanging with the tools somewhere not too far from the Campy corkscrews. 

When I finally quit this messenger shit, once and for all, I’m going to open a bike shop. A big bright historic space with huge storefront windows and high ceilings and wood floors. With passive solar heating in the winter, and well placed shade in the summer. I’m going to work there all the time, six or seven days a week. The shop will be beautiful, stocked with every bike tool ever invented. French, Italian, Japanese, you name it, I will have it, hung neatly on the shop walls. Everything in its place. A place for everything. I will have two Campagnolo corkscrews with cherry handles. I will have seven different kinds of bike tool bottle openers. I will have four brands of headset presses. The 3000 square foot work space will have work stands and tools for 5 full-time mechanics, so I can work on 5 of my bikes all at once.  Two air compressors enclosed in sound proof cases. Truing stands bolted down to work benches 42.5 inches off the ground. I will have two Phil Wood spoke cutters/threaders. There will be cement floors and drains built in so I can hose it all down when the kegs overflow or the chainlube explodes or the cat pukes or the shit hits the fan. I will have shop dogs and shop cats. The bike book library will be monumental. The furniture will be well designed, attractive, comfortable and functional. There will be no non-dairy creamer. The coffee will be good. The beer will be cold. There will be wholesale accounts with everyone for everyone. Paul, Phil, Chris, Grant, Brooks, Mavic, Moots, Sachs, Sidi, Swobo. For me and my friends of course.

I will be at work all the time. I’ll show up at 5:30am, or 3:00pm, or not at all. I’ll spend the night. I’ll stay for two weeks straight. Or take a week off if I feel like it. However, the shop will not be open to the public. The sign on the door will say “closed”, and if you flip it over it‘ll say “closed”. I’ll also have a large neon CLOSED sign, and it’ll be on all the time, like a beacon of freedom constantly sending its message, at all hours of the day and night. I’ll be in there working hard on my own bikes. Or on poetry, freelance writing, silk-screening, carpentry, cooking breakfast, pondering or drinking beer and pondering. The shop hours will not be posted. The phone will not be connected, so people cannot call and ask about the shop hours. And there will not be any employees because I won’t need any. This will eliminate any potential human relations issues, staff meetings, communication failures, personality problems, scheduling conflicts, and all the junior-high shit that goes along with trying to run a business with employees. Fuck that.

I will be in the shop but I won‘t be selling anything. Retail bullshit will not enter my sphere of existence. The windows will have incredible displays of bicycle art and elegant simple functional bikes because I like window displays. And I’ll spend hours creating them for my own enjoyment, not to attract customers. I‘ll be in the shop, reading the NY Times, listening to Miles Davis, or the White Stripes, or the Minute Men, or Bob Mould, or Guided by Voices, or Modest Mouse, or Guns n Roses or NPR and drinking coffee and beer and beer and coffee. Customers with stupid questions or flat tires or sheepskin seat covers or cracked carbon fiber forks can knock on the door all day long and I might even notice them between Hüsker Dü songs playing on the Bose Wave Radio, but probably not, and if I do, I’ll give them a half smile then get back to my work. My work as a sole proprietor and my work drinking beer and pondering.

The back door will be unlocked and open whenever I am in the shop and friends can stop by and bring their dogs and work on their bikes and add or subtract to the cold beer in the double wide Sub-Zero fridge or hit the bottomless pot of black coffee. The shop will include a beautiful stainless steel commercial sized kitchen. And a sleeping loft and an amazing bathroom with more magazines than a news stand, and I will not have to worry about customers fucking it up, because there will not be any customers.   ###

the continuum 

continues continuously 

across state lines

"Above-average rainfall expected in Seattle"

read the sensational headline of the story that ran with this photo

how could you not want to read more about the rain in Seattle?

Pulitzer prize winning journalism it is not

but I appreciate the photo