High Road Pro Cycling

Who is this wanker and what does he do for a living? Perhaps he is a donut chef on a competitive donutmaking team. No, too healthy-looking . Or possibly a moto-cross dirtjumper guy blasting his motorbike over huge lumps of dirt no-handedly. But he's so dirtless. Or perhaps he's a road racing professional cyclist pretending he's Tom Cruise.

The subject of today's complaint is aesthetic: this name and design spat out by the entity formerly known as T-Mobile Team annoys me considerably. Of course the telephony giant withdrew their long sponsorship after the three-scandals-too-many year of 2007, having hung in there after the Jan Ullrich doping disaster/public disembowelment at the Tour launch of 2006. The complete re-jigging of T-Mob as a squeaky clean, drug-free squadra (+ Torontonian pro Mike Barry!) fell to bits last year and the German sponsor finally called it quits. It was the end of an era that saw the some of the best (if dopey) days of Ullrich, Vinokourov, Kloeden, and my man Erik Zabel, but better yet, it was the last end of the hideous pink/black uniform supplied by Adidas. I never liked it, particularly the 'magenta' aspect.
The above picture details what the new team strip looks like. White is fine, a good fresh start type colour, but what of this Fast Food bubble font in bright red and yellow? Does it mean that if this new, principle sponsorless team fails, all employees will have a leg up on Wimpy serving High Road hormone-free high protein burgers?
There is such a plethora of hideous designs in the spandexed world of road racing that it pains me to see a new opportunity to improve (and here without even the constraint of a title sponsor) basically ruined. I mean, would you go out and spend $125 on THAT jersey? Good god.

Is Elk Man Canadian?

Perhaps Elk Man was inspired by this fine government program dedicated to making the world a better place for all.

Elk Man vs. Four Wheels of Power

The Tour of California is rolling through places like Santa Rosa and Sacremento these days, chock full of the pro peloton's stars (Boonen, Bettini, even Mario Cipollini in a comeback from retirement). And Elk Man from Montana, who appears to have run all the way to California in his cycling shoes, in order to pace insurance salesman-disguised as bike racer Levi Leipheimer up super-steep Mt Hamilton yesterday.

I assume he's not working for the Rabobank rider, who seems to be ahead of him and is a foreigner anyway. No, Elk Man has his priorities straight. I only wonder if he was feeling frisky enough to pace the 'autobus' when it arrived about eighteen minutes later. Was he slapping Cipo's behind? Poking Bettini's world champion stripes with his antlers? We can only wonder.

It all reminds me of that literary giant of 1960's northern California, Richard Brautigan, author of In Watermelon Sugar, The Pill Vs. the Springhill Mine Disaster and other works I have also not read. His style was absurdist and whimsical. Every paperback he published had a b & w photo of his latest dorky girlfriend on the cover. I think Brautigan would have liked the gesture of Elk Man, who might even have heard of Richard Brautigan but somehow I really doubt it.

Whoops! and Goodbye.

Nada mas:

Duke's Cycle burnt right to the ground this morning, as did a few other buildings, sending a huge plume of smoke all over the downtown, including into the subways. Miss P. called from Metro Hall to report she could see it from her window on the twenty-second floor, and could smell the smoke too.

May I admit that I never much cared for Mr Duke and his cycle shop?

In fact, the general consensus seems to be that three generations of the family business contributed virtually nothing to the cycling community here in Toronto. So it's on to the insurance claims - surely the Duke Boys will come out of it a couple of million to the good.

Prior to this fiery carbon fibre furnace, I left work last night feeling a touch of foreboding. When you've ridden as much as I there is a little instinct inside you learn to listen to, when it's telling you to pay attention to possible dangers. It had been snowing, night was falling, and Mortimer Avenue was looking extra-narrow with its huge banks of snow. Sure enough, three-quarters of the way home on Bloor Street I was doored by a teenager being dropped off by Mommy in a gleaming silver 4x4.

One good smash on the left hand and forearm later, my temper was thoroughly riled, and I didn't hesitate: I doored him right back as SonnyBoy sat blank-faced with the door still partly opened. Mommy uttered a shocked sigh, having been the one with the brilliant idea of letting her precious out on a major arterial in the darkness of wintertime rush hour, naturally paying no attention to her side mirror (my headlight was definitely flashing white light I assure you). A little road rage in the proper direction can really help sometimes. It definitely took the edge off my sore left side last evening. The road can be a nasty place sometimes, let's face it.

Can you spot Obama?

Barack Obama does not appear in this photograph. But clearly, all subjects are thinking of Him, of what He might do, where He might appear next in his quest for Supreme USA Commander status ('cept the bearded guy, who's clearly unexcited).

My question is, Who cares? The answer is Everyone in the World. On the international French channel TV5, they care. In Toronto, people I know care, and all the Canadian mass media care so deeply they report about Him constantly, whether He blew his nose or even sneezed.

Of course the alternative is covering Canadian politics, ie, how are we getting out of Afghanistan with without brown stains on our bloomers showing visibly and how many brown stains Stephane Dion can accumulate on his before the Liberal Party digs a hole and dumps Dion into it. Yet I find these issues much MORE interesting than this Obama=black JFK narrative that is so predictable and boring to me. The problem is, we're Canadian and naturally are completely seduced by American politics even if no one even understands how it all works. The mystery of primaries and delegates and facepainting is so great no Canadian can resist, except myself and two polar bears in Churchill, Man.

A Long Walk Home in a Great Blizzard

This what walking home last night in T.O. looked like.
Sidestreets looked like this.
Here is a smart approach to moving the groceries in inclement weather. All photos from Toronto Flickr Pool.

Twenty centimetres of the white fluff known locally as "snow" floated down upon our heads yesterday, adding nicely to the collected crust on the city's surface. It blew horizontally by the east winds, it piled lightly on sidewalks and swirled off roofs of buildings. My boss advised me twice during the day to leave my bike at the office and take the subway. And for once, I more or less listened as the daylight disappeared while the blowing snow took over. It had been snowing since 9:20am. He, on the other hand rode home, but that is a different matter of course.

Myself, I elected to walk. After a hard day's mindless surfing the 'net and doing the occasional middling office task I wanted to experience the storm in all its glory and on foot is the way to go. It was of course do-able by bike, but then you have to focus on all the wrong things - the car just behind, the stoplight up ahead, tell-tale signs of ice in the curb lane about to spill you over in a heap.

So I walked across Mortimer through the whiteness of East York, down Broadview (briefly contemplating a real snow-hike through the Don Valley at Pottery Road), and finally west again over the Viaduct where the red eyes of a thousand brake lights shined in the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Parkway and on Bayview Avenue. Thoughts of the lunacy of a society based around daily commuting by automobile from city to city drifted through my giggling brain - everyone at a standstill 10% of their way home to northern suburbs at 6:30pm would be back at it at 7am the very next day.

What's the point? Why not just sleep in the office, order a pizza and have a pyjama party right there in the workplace for once? But no, the religious devotion to the norm had prevail no matter what. Drive man, drive till it kills you, me and everyone we know. It's only natural.

At Bloor and Mt Pleasant the story was the same - bumper to bumper to the east and west and northbound on Mt P - of course. What did I care, I was walking along faster than car traffic. By Bay street, I knew the crush of rush hour was past its peak, and I was feeling just slightly shivery so with mental apologies to generations of failed Arctic explorers gamely freezing while dying of scurvy and still man-hauling 800 lb sledges over frozen hummocks of ice, I nipped into the station and caught a not-too-packed train to Dufferin street, and a full bus home.

Of Snow & Men

Photo: Susheela Nirmalan-Nathan.


I stole this off the Spacing photoblog for your viewing pleasure so click on it to enjoy fully. It's the opposite of today in Toronto (where this was taken) where it's about -10C and snowing heavily. Actually it is really quite lovely; this winter is looking and feeling the way winter is supposed to feel in these parts. Back in the Fall, the long-range forecast was for the coldest winter in fifteen years and so it is.
Went skate-skiing up in the country on Sunday and the whole drive had huge gusts of blowing snow to the point where the road disappeared. And the skiing was good too, tho' damned difficult for a rusty X-country man like my rickety old self. I ended up on the long loop and got progressively slower as the silent km's went by. A fine thing, a groomed trail of hard snow through a quiet wood is, skating along unbothered by skiers' tracks nor traffic. What isn't fine is getting so slow that you come to a stop, exhausted. Skate skiing is a technique-heavy business.

The morning commute of 12.5 km was just a tad icy in the curb lane; that's what you get in multiple days of -10C and lower. Of course the other lanes were perfectly dry and clean on Bloor Street. Somehow, the Plow Boys couldn't quite scrape up the lane a cyclist/madman has to use around here and I don't mind telling you, even for a veteran of the snow, ice and slush, my 23 mm tires were slipping and sliding in the rushour traffic more than once. It was enough to make me keep my 30 mm arse seat-bound.
Moreover, it made me think of the Icycle Race to be held at Dufferin Grove park's ice rink this Saturday. I'm supposed to head up to my country hideaway for a few days of deep snow, hard liquor, and Ipod-speaker-driven dance parties by candlelight, but I've really been feeling the pull of the ice every day for the past week. I've never raced any ice race, and I so want to do it. My blood tickles and burps at the thought of tight turns on studded tires. !Que adventura!

Last Night at a Party

Miss P. has demanded an account of some things.

Last night at a fundraising event for a fine local Ngo that I occasionally move myself to be involved with, an exchange of a kind I sometimes have took place. I was asked what I do for a living, which in the sort of people I tend to meet is typically met with smiles of approval. After all, what urbane progressive type wouldn't be impressed by someone 'involved in bicycle planning' (as I liked to put it these days)?
Knowing more than my fair share of urbanism-activists results sometimes in more than just general approval. Last night I ran across the young J., a true blue urban planning geek of the first water, who positively cooed with delight when he heard just what I get myself up to here at the office.
"Transportation Planning or Transportation Services?", he demanded, pimpled cheeks fairly bubbling with joy. "Oh, it must be a dream job! It must be - to work on your passion and get paid for it!" His little black eyes shone with wonder, his little legs nearly danced a jig of delight.

"Well, it's a good job, I guess" said I, not knowing what else to say. You really can't say anything else. To suddenly be transformed into a Master of the Universe before innocent eyes, all due to your slightly unique position as a low-level government clerk - yet a position on the Inside, firmly Behind Closed Doors of government business. Ooh.

And there are moments of insider excitement I guess. That very day I got to see a presentation on the re-design of Union Station, complete with animated pedestrian flow computer modelling in a CAD mockup of the new designs, and well-shaved senior planners in crisp shirts and good ties talking about 'building porosity' and laser pointering 'pedestrian desire lines' that fanned out in all directions in purple; you could even interrupt with a question here and there if you wanted. I guess young J., still wet enough behind the ears to have achne, would have verrily peed himself with over-excitement.
Oh dear. I am so terrible.

Something So Cool It's Almost Rediculous

This is real and it's from an art project in the Netherlands, designed to facilitate interaction between neighbours in a new neighbourhood that's been built there.

That's right, the fact that a classy working bike pump has been installed into a bike-lockable railing isn't even the point, to the designers.

That's the Dutch for you - too cool in urban design improvements to even know what to say about them...