(no subject)
Yesterday, I tagged along with H to the city while she did her women MBA thing. Brought my bike. I am sorely under-prepared for topography - and not just hills. Within the first three pedal strokes, my tire got caught inside a streetcar track. In Union Square, so you know, nobody saw me eat it.
I knew I was in the lower Haight when I stopped seeing derailleurs.
Obviously, I'm totally against the brakeless, fixed gear, no helmet - cycling cap! thing. I think it's the latest definitive example of lack of pretense pretension - only this one will get you killed. Yeah, there are plenty of good riders who can totally rock all those affectations in pissed-off city traffic - but I think it's plain old irresponsible that these dudes put their hipster girlfriends on their old Bianchi Pista (which they've since replaced with something more DIY, less corporate). The thing's three sizes too big for her, and boyfriend just sends her out there, telling her "Oh, you'll be fine." Sexist? Probably. Tell me you don't know at least one couple playing out this scenario.
I'm doing the new city tennis dance, where I go to various public parks to see what the scene's like. I'm a flake and would much rather just show up, as opposed to arranging play dates. For this to work it all, you need a certain vibe, the right people, the right skill levels, etc. H has taken to comparing the whole exercise to finding a new bar. Rode by Golden Gate Park last night and it seemed amazing, but there's no way I'm trekking all the way there from rock'n'roll mid-Peninsula, average age: 55.
Anyway, so far I've met Cowboy Hat Mom, Wifebeater Mike (who's official nickname is actually "Headphones Mike"), Gearhead Uncle Ray, who's got thousands of dollars in string inventory but can't really play, and Vietnam Vet/Scottsman Mike, who most reminds me of Groundskeeper Willie.
I'm allegedly working at home, but what I'm really doing is listening to nonunion contractors drilling and hammering and yammering at one another, loudly. In Cantonese.
I knew I was in the lower Haight when I stopped seeing derailleurs.
Obviously, I'm totally against the brakeless, fixed gear, no helmet - cycling cap! thing. I think it's the latest definitive example of lack of pretense pretension - only this one will get you killed. Yeah, there are plenty of good riders who can totally rock all those affectations in pissed-off city traffic - but I think it's plain old irresponsible that these dudes put their hipster girlfriends on their old Bianchi Pista (which they've since replaced with something more DIY, less corporate). The thing's three sizes too big for her, and boyfriend just sends her out there, telling her "Oh, you'll be fine." Sexist? Probably. Tell me you don't know at least one couple playing out this scenario.
I'm doing the new city tennis dance, where I go to various public parks to see what the scene's like. I'm a flake and would much rather just show up, as opposed to arranging play dates. For this to work it all, you need a certain vibe, the right people, the right skill levels, etc. H has taken to comparing the whole exercise to finding a new bar. Rode by Golden Gate Park last night and it seemed amazing, but there's no way I'm trekking all the way there from rock'n'roll mid-Peninsula, average age: 55.
Anyway, so far I've met Cowboy Hat Mom, Wifebeater Mike (who's official nickname is actually "Headphones Mike"), Gearhead Uncle Ray, who's got thousands of dollars in string inventory but can't really play, and Vietnam Vet/Scottsman Mike, who most reminds me of Groundskeeper Willie.
I'm allegedly working at home, but what I'm really doing is listening to nonunion contractors drilling and hammering and yammering at one another, loudly. In Cantonese.