This one is about how great night riding is

Riding Without Sunscreen

And here's a longer piece that I did about the San Francisco urban mountain biking scene. Unfortunately the great ride I talk about, SF Flow, never happened again. FU city of SF. But the scene continues to thrive. Thank you SFUR.

It All Flows Together in San Francisco

You gotta be shitting me. That’s some total shit. You fucking bag of shit!

Wow. “Shit” is an impressively hard working word. Beloved too. We English speakers have so embraced the S-H-I-T combo that we’ve, like with its equally adored cousin, “fuck,” deemed it trustworthy enough to take on the roll of damn near every part of speech. I wonder how that happens. Is there a Royal Ministry of Word Maker-uppers?

“Sirs and esteemed colleagues of the Ministry. I propose we fabricate a new adjective. One that more forcefully conveys a chosen noun’s extreme low quality when existing words, such as “horrible,” do not suffice. Yes, the representative from the United States of America wishes to make a suggestion?” 

“I don’t think we need a new word. Just let “shit” handle it. He’s totally strong enough. And besides, it’s 4:45 on a Friday before a 3-day weekend. Does anyone really want to get into this shit right now?”

“Approved. Willy’s or The Green Lion?”

Funny how much we especially cherish words we’ve deemed offensive. I guess everyone loves a bad boy. But I digress.

What’s got me in a shitty (last time, I swear) mood is the incredibly spoiled, despicable behavior of some of the dog owners who use the many gorgeous acres of open spaces here in the SF bay area. We’re just so goddamned lucky to have them that I really get frothy when they’re mistreated. Now you, my one reader, may already be thinking, “Yeah, I hate when people don’t pick up their dog’s leavings (I bet you use the word “leavings,” because if you’re a reader of mine, you must be learned and genteel).” But you’d only be partially predicting the reason for my ire. I’ve actually never had a run-in with processed Alpo, with foot or tire (unlike fucking horse crap. Oh yeah, and that one time I wished it had been dog crap), at least not out on the trail. My issue is with the maddening, half assed habit of dog owners bagging their dog’s shit then calling it a day. It’s stunning to me how often I see the blue mark of the asshole on the side of the trail. Why would someone do that? Are you only kind of an inconsiderate fuck? A half-prick? Do these people only have so much consideration for others per day, but happen to tap out the tank just as they tie off the bag—like they’re running out of good person fuel until tomorrow’s shipment comes in? It’s like saying, “Hey, I really like you, you fucking cock sucker.”

I’m imagining these people in their daily lives. These must be the same people who take a big dump and can’t be bothered with hitting the flush after hoisting their trousers and exiting the stall. We had to invent a whole new technology—the auto flusher—just for these low lifes. Do they also wash their dishes but leave the scrubbed dishes sitting in the sink of orange, grease-slicked water? Noooo. Because that would affect them.

And these people must be absolute knockouts in the sack.

“Ohhhh! Ohhhhh! Ohhhh….Wha…? Hey! Where the fuck are you going?”

Look, I get it that it’s kind of gross to carry around a blue plastic bag full of Bonzo’s warm turd. But if you’re law abiding enough to go through the unpleasant chore of bending down and putting yourself nose first into the stink atmosphere of your dog’s soft serve and grabbing the squishy warm mess with your blue condomed hand, then why…just…WHY?!

It is honestly one of the most puzzling behaviors I’ve ever run across. And these are out door loving people (! and ?). I guess I stumbled on the key word right there: People. The thing makes us so great also makes us so horrible: We don’t act only on instinct. We make our own decisions when it comes to behavior, and sooo many of us out there just absolutely suck at it, especially when we can simply walk away from the consequence, leaving it for someone else to either grit their teeth and endure, or have to clean up themselves.  

VCA 2010 RACE RUN from changoman on Vimeo.

As I expected, they put on a fine show. It was the last show of their 30^th anniversary show, and that experience manifests itself in the form of polish as opposed to sleep walking through a show. The best way to describe them is “total pros.” Their bald singer, (who looked like Bruce Willis, circa ’98 from where we were watching the show), Greg Gaffin’s distinct rapid fire, yet oddly melodic tones are 100% intelligible and easy to listen to, which I think has a lot to do with their mainstream appeal.

As a grown up, I’ve come to admire bands like Bad Religion. Let’s face it, despite their noisy first years and their once edgy, but now relatively innocuous no religion logo, Bad Religion hasn’t been much more than a gateway band in the punk genre for a long time. They were the first punk band your fucked up, out of work, tattooed, 89 lb cousin loved when she was 12, before she got serious about music and started listening to and emulating the rabid punk bands that would steer her toward making poor decisions.

Bad Religion staying true to what they are and perfectly playing their role in punk is pretty cool in my book, and is, beyond their obvious musical talent, a key to their longevity (I think it’s also why the guys don’t give off the “pathetic aging rockers” vibe on stage). We’ve seen acts like MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice and other highly digestible, mainstream artists that float around the periphery of traditionally hardcore genres get sick of being considered pussies and decide that they’re going to show everyone just how fucking hardcore they are. The results are always laughable. As far as I know, Bad Religion has never started doing pissy interviews and put out a, “Fuck you, haters. We’re totally hardcore!” album.

So what do my probably inaccurate thoughts on Bad Religion have to do with mountain biking? Not a goddamn thing, but I got really stoned at the show and I had a few thoughts about the show that I wanted to put down. Although there is one tie-in.

While the tragically fucking horrible opening act was playing, John and I went up to the balcony area of the Regency Ballroom. Looking down on the poor bastards whose ears were being clumsily finger banged by Off With Their Scrotum, or whatever the band was called, I noticed a mosh pit. Mosh pits always look kinda funny from above, almost like an invisible tornado has touched down in the crowd. Man, I used to love me some moshing. It was a must back in the day and always a topic of conversation after a concert. But I’m happy to say, those days are behind me. It’s always a satisfying moment for me when I see younger people doing something that I used to do and I think, “That just looks fucking miserable….and painful.” Why satisfying and not sad and depressing? Sad is what it would be if I still felt I belonged in a mosh pit at 37. Moshing is one of those nutty things you do when you’re young and then outgrow.

Mountain biking, however, is something nutty that holds up, which is why I love it so. It has elements of moshing and getting crazy at a concert: There’s adrenalin. You can get hurt. It’s fun to do with friends and talk about after the fact. But it doesn’t hold that same potential for someone saying, “Did you see that fucking old dude? What the fuck?” I used to say stuff like that in my teens and early 20s. I don’t want it said about me. And if I were still in the pit, I’d totally deserve it.

But with mountain biking, I don’t have fears of ever deserving the stinging shit talking of a snot nosed kid. Even though it’s the younger guys who kick the most ass at the sport (like any sport), no one who mountain bikes into and past middle age has the appearance of pathetically clinging to some piece of their youth. That’s a good activity to get involved in. On the contrary, I feel much more pathetic when I don’t mountain bike. 

We’ve had some absolutely lovely weather out here in San Francisco over the last week. Some would say it’s been too hot. I say, “stop yer bitchin’ and enjoy it.” I sure have.

I love this city with all my body parts, but when it comes to the weather, the summers suck the part of my body that poops. It’s especially bad where I live, out at the beach. It’s cold, often windy and permanently overcast. And for some reason—maybe el nino or la nina or some other latin rugrat—this summer was particularly worthless, and not just out in my neck of the woods. Despite the fact that the rest of the country got absolutely broiled this summer, things just never got cooking anywhere in the bay area.

I do a weekly night ride with a group of buddies (which, coincidentally, you can read about in my latest published piece here) in the east bay hills. Normally the east bay has much better weather than we have just a few scant miles west. I really look forward to night riding during the summer months. Once the sun goes down, the temperature + the wind rushing by while you bomb a hill = a sensory experience that’s just…man, it just makes a brotha’ smile his ass off and feel happy to be alive and on a bike and living in such a great part of the country. It’s freakin' optimal. But it can’t happen if the variable of the temperature is off. And this summer, it was off damn near every night we hit the trails. It was always chilly. I’ll never complain about any time I spend on my bike, but as far as enjoying warmth, we got dicked this summer.

So when we got this unseasonably warm weather, I sure as hell wasn’t going to pass up a chance get in a night ride before the agreeable temperatures passed (which as I write this, has done just that). So after work I headed out for an impromptu solo ride from my place at the beach, through Golden Gate Park and up onto Mt. Sutro. And man, it was an amazing night. It was warm. The view from Twin Peaks was crystal clear. The riding gods were even smiling on me to the point that I had a slow leak on the way home that was just slow enough that I didn’t have to change the tube. I can’t complain about shit…oh wait…yes I can. Unfortunately, I mean that literally.

As I was about to hit Twin Peaks, I spotted…oh god…a little puddle (yeah, it was pretty much a mini cow pie) of shit right in the middle of the trail. And when I say the middle of the trail, I mean it was like someone measured the trail width, did some quick calculations, scratched an X in the dirt and covered it with their feces. Yes, I said someone. And unfortunately, try as I might to make a last second trajectory adjustment, my back tire rolled right the hell over the leavings of some degenerate with digestive issues. Fuck. Fuck and double fuck. I thought dealing with horseshit on the trail sucked.

Stubborn stuff, human shit, especially when it gets to hunker down in the complex tread of a WTB. I tried dragging the befouled four inches through some dry grass. All it did was give my tire a little goatee and create a scratch and sniff effect. Friends, human shit doesn’t smell good. Especially when it’s not mine and it's ON MY FUCKING BIKE!

But, despite my best efforts, there wasn’t shit I could do about this shit. So I calmed myself, leaned my bike against a rail, put about ten feet between me and my stinky wheel, and enjoyed one of the most spectacular panoramic views of city lights in the world (thanks to whoever I stole this great photo from).

After eye humping the sights for a bit I headed back down the trail, turd tire and all. And, as it often does, the trail cured all.

I remember seeing a show on PBS or some other smart person network I watch because I’m so smart, that showed that the Great Lakes are actually naturally breaking down and reversing all the bullshit we’ve unleashed on them.

By the time I got home, after the dirt of Mt. Sutro and the sandy trails of Golden Gate Park had done their thing, nary a speck remained. Oh trail, is there any problem you can't solve?

But despite the natural scouring, me and my bike still had major Silkwood showers when I got back home. I mean, that was some dude’s shit. That’s seriously nasty.

So, on to my stupidity with some other thoughts mixed in.

I have a Toyota Corolla. When it’s just me, rather than put on my rack, I just drop the back seats to make my trunk space extra big, take off my front wheel, load in my bike and the wheel, slam the trunk closed and I’m on my way.

So I went through this routine last Wednesday morning, as I had a night ride planned after work:

Open trunk. Lean the seats forward. Take off my front wheel. Load in my bike. Slam the trunk closed. I’m on my way.

Oh wait, a step is missing; a step I didn’t realize I had skipped until I opened my trunk after driving all the way across San Francisco and parked. There I stood in a downtown parking area realizing that I had joined the ranks of the truly lame.

I called my wife to go to where I had been parked to see if there was a wheel there. No dice.

I was the now the not-so-proud owner of a Santa Cruz Blur LT unicycle. And some fucker who didn’t have the decency to leave a note on a nearby tree letting me know where I could get my wheel, was now the owner of my front wheel.

So, what did I learn? Not that I have a tendancy to go brain dead. I already knew that. I've proven it to myself many times. Not that many people are greedy dicks that would rather try to make a few bucks than help out someone who has screwed up. Everyone knows that. I actually didn't learn anything.

But I was reminded of something that is so cool about bikes.

One of the main thing that makes bikes so special—so pure—is the fact that there’s no bullshit. Save suspension (on some bikes), the padding on your saddle and handlebar grips, every piece is essential (let’s leave gears out of the conversation. For most of us, they’re essential. Personally, I don’t get the whole single speed mountain bike thing). Unlike the ten thousand extra odds and ends on a car, you need every single piece of a bike for it to work. No handlebar, you’re fucked. Missing a pedal, you’re fucked. Broken chain? You got yourself a cumbersome scooter, not a bike. If you put your bike back together after a repair and you’ve got a hex nut left over, friend, you got yourself a mystery that better get solved before you hit the trail.

Bikes are perfect machines. Higher end parts are available for more durability and decreased weight, but in terms of basic construction, a bike is like a gator or a roach. It’s the same now as it’s been forever. There’s no need for evolution. Perfection. That’s why we love them.

But if I had to do a Greg Fitzsimmons rank ‘em, I’d say there are no parts as essential to the operation of a bicycle as wheels. You lose a wheel, you don’t even have the option to roll anymore. You’re not pushing your broken bike home, you’re carrying the bastard.

When I fuck up, I go all out.

Special thanks to my buddy, Lee (Buddy Lee. That’s funny) for loaning me a wheel and thanks to Colorado Cyclist, where I bought my Blur, for giving me a sweet deal on a replacement.