Inspired by Sprinter della Casa's post about his Riggio track bike, I thought I might give an overview of the gear I'm using. I gave an overview/review of my Felt TK2 earlier in the season, but, as a disorganized and halfhearted blogster, don't title or tag my entries and so they're hard to look through to link again and find.

This weekend, I put back together my pretty track bike, above. It's a Pogliaghi, dating from 1973 by my guess. I got it for a steal almost two years ago from a rider in Albequerque, who trusted me enough to send the frameset to me on his dime, prior to payment, so that I could give it a chance before committing. I took my time building it up, relying on modern cranks and the wheels from my commuter at first.

But then I took some other opportunities - buying a Zeus rear hub laced to a Mavic Open Pro, picking up a set of Campagnolo pista cranks, and before I really knew it I was slowly building the bike to a general sense of period-appropriateness. The last bit, I picked up this winter - a Zeus front hub laced to a Mavic Open Pro, for a matching wheelset. (Zeus! Avoiding the all-Campy build with these replicas from Spain - and how smooth they are, too...)

With Cinelli criterium bars and 165 cranks (my first foray into <170mm cranks), I was really pleased at how the bike fits. I had only ever ridden my commuter extensively before, and so was pleased at some of the other ways that a bike can fit a smaller rider.

I started the track season racing it, but I'm pretty attached to the bike; the more seriously I took the season, the less I wanted to race a bike I was attached to. So I started looking around for a modern aluminum track bike that would tolerate being underneath a working racer.

The Pogliaghi sat sadly in my bike pile for several months - no rear wheel, no pedals, bars hanging in the closet - until earlier this week. I put it back together, and was reminded about how lovely it is to ride - the swiftness of the handling, the smoothness of the drivetrain and wheels, and the charmingly odd combination of supple steel and jarring, steep angles. So I've been riding it to work, with a big smile on my face.

It's probably the least useful bike in my stable, but we all deserve a little bit of vanity now and then.

Edit: that picture uploaded like that? Crap. well, here's a link.

It's possible that I'm starting to sound like a broken record on this subject, but New York City amazes and fascinates me, and I love exploring it by bicycle. When I'm somewhere I've never been before, I'm amazed that I'm still in New York City. The outer reaches of Brooklyn, Queens, and Staten Island feel like these little isolated suburban refuges that seem to be imbued with a bit more life and liveliness - if quiet - than the sterile, hypoxic repetition and grids of the suburbs that I am familiar with.

Sunday was Transportation Alternatives New York City Century, which meant an opportunity to pay a couple bucks to ride upwards of a hundred miles around 4 of the boroughs, with checkpoints every twenty miles or so, in the company of friends and a couple thousand other people.

The bike - a street-worthy fixed gear. I chuckled, looking at it with its road drops and brake levers with hoods, and its low gear. Last week, it had track drops and a super high gearing, for velodrome racing. It is quite multipurpose, this bike of mine.

My alarm went off at 4.45 - after a cup or three of coffee, some whole wheat bread and peanut butter, and a banana, I strapped on my camel back and hip pouch, threw a leg over my bike, and set out. It was still dark as Heidi and I rode to Manhattan to the north end of central park. She left and I met up with some buddies, and after a few minutes navigating the confusion of the beginning - long lines of bikers of all types - we left the park, heading West. It was just light out by the time we started, and we all felt good. "What say we pick up the pace a bit?" I asked, and with a wink, we fell into a paceline and spun up to 25mph or so, passing by all the cyclists who filled the road.

We made our way down Broadway, to the Brooklyn Bridge, and eventually to Prospect Park at mile 15, where the first rest stop offered us bananas, oranges, bagels, and donuts. Not wanting to either bonk or overeat, I took some fruit but stayed light on the heavy foods. After staying around to regroup and with some of our number waiting in line to refill water bottles, we headed out.

The route took us down to the South Brooklyn waterfront, into Coney Island, and through Sheepshead Bay. I'm amazed at how often I forget that New York City has such an extensive and beautiful waterfront - but so many years of heavy industrial and commercial use (combined with Robert Moses' highways on just about every waterfront in the city) have left New Yorkers with surprisingly little access to the waterfront. Not so in South Brooklyn. It was a beautiful place to be at 8 AM, and we were all smiles rolling into the second checkpoint. Another chance to snack and refill water, and then we were off again.

The route turns north into Queens, and I start to feel the fatigue of the early morning and fitfull sleep. We start going through neighborhoods I am terribly unfamiliar with, street names I've never heard, and surprisingly high-numbered avenues. At one point, I grab a leaf off a low hanging tree, turn around, and toss it at Gabe, letting the wind carry it back to him - deftly, he reaches up and grabs it, and I shake my fists in the air triumphantly.

We reach Kissena, do a lap amid jokes ("match sprints, anybody?"), and head out to the Northest, Eastest corner of Queens, where some friends are mechanicing at the checkpoint. At this point, about sixty miles in, I'm hungry and much desirous of coffee. I wolf down hummus sandwiches before we head out. I could use a nap, but opt to get back on my bike instead.

We venture West through queens, along the waterfront, past LaGuardia airport, and I gaze longingly at the Bronx across the water. I wouldn't mind napping there.

How to pick up the energy? We stop at Gabe's house and get a couple beers. It's midday, or early afternoon - no problem! While we're at the Astoria checkpoint, flirting with a mechanic, we see a guy who's wearing chammois briefs. Unreal.

The diversity of bikes is terribly wonderful. Super-blinged out modern road bikes, time trial bikes. Gorgeous classic steel racers. Clunky mountain bikes. A softride time trial bike. Several tandems (hooray!), including one with a softride rear (weird!). Horrible jerseys. What a fashion show - I loved it!

We set off over the triboro bridge - my legs felt good but I wanted to sleep. It took us back into manhattan, and once again, as I got on first avenue, I went into alleycat mode, spinning madly up the avenue, grabbing an SUV to skitch... of course my buddies could all follow, but it was fun to ride hard amid a more casual pack of cyclists. Finally, there was a loop through the Bronx. The most trying thing about this last leg of the Century was the fact that there were a lot of turns through small side streets, which was just wearing to ride. I'd rather be on some open roads, some long straightaways. But alas - it was a tough twenty miles to the checkpoint in Van Cordtland Park, where stood an older (ex-military?) man in an ugly kit barking orders to nobody in particular, "Okay, you've got eleven miles to go. Food is there, water is there, use the bathrooms, they're over there..." He had a buzz cut. Tired of his drone after just a few minutes, we resolve to hit the road quickly.

Pleasantly, the route avoids some of the monster hills of Riverdale, and brings us over the Broadway bridge. I would have preferred a straightshot down Broadway - reminiscing from the Broadway Bombin' race - despite the hills, but we've internalized the authority of the spraypainted arrows on the street, and we follow the prescribed route. Finally, it turns us back on to Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, and Central Park is a half mile away. TIme to sprint again! Might as well finish strong, so I get out of the saddle and hammer, trying to stay smooth.

We enter the park, relax, stretch, give each other massages, and, before too long, agree that it is Beer O'Clock.

It's three thirty, and I'm pooped. We chill for a while before I head home. My arse is sore, my body is tired, but my legs feel good. I resolve never to ride long distances on that saddle ever again. I think back on my eating, hydrating, and electrolyte-consuming habits, and think I did a good job of fueling my body.

I start thinking about what it would take to do some other long-distance rides... like a 200K brevet... or a 300K, or a 400K... or 600, and maybe, if I like it, if I grow to like it in four years, 1200K.

Yesterday, I finally went out to the Kissena Velodrome in Queens. It’s a bike track – a banked concrete oval, made for riding track bikes (one speed, no coasting, no brakes) very, very fast. Despite having ridden track bikes on city streets for years, despite having lots of friends who race out there, I hadn’t yet taken the plunge and gone out to race.

Yesterday I did. I put a higher, faster, harder gear on my bike (Beth: 48.15 – what do you ride at the track?), borrowed some drop bars, got up early, packed water and food, and went out to the track.

The racers assemble on the infield, making adjustments to their bikes, pinning their numbers onto their jerseys, stripping off casual shorts to reveal padded shorts or bibs. Many are pumping up their tires; more than one put packing tape over the valve hole on his several-thousand-dollar aerodynamic disc wheel. Others shark around checking out gear and garb – I chatted with a rider from Sleepy Hollow, New York, who had a lovely classic Raleigh as well as a totally awesome jersey with the headless horseman on it.

The races are separated by class – Women’s, Men’s A, Men’s B, and Masters. I’m in Men’s B, which has a curious mix of first-timers, the skilled but (comparatively) slow, and the dudes on super expensive bikes with thighs the size of my torso, who should probably be riding in the A group. So, fortunately, there’s plenty of time to wait around and rest between races.

My first race is a match sprint – four riders, two laps. Typically the first lap is very slow as each rider tries to avoid being in front. A rider in back can predict if and when the lead rider will make a move, draft the lead rider, and pass them on the final turns and beat them in the sprint on the homestretch.

As we’re finishing our casual first lap, I’m behind the lead rider, and the advice I got a few nights ago (“Just don’t try to win your first time out”) is ringing through my head. We enter turn one, high on the banking, and I glance behind me. If I make a move, will Nick and Jack catch it? I shrug. I’m not trying to win, I’m just picking up the pace. I dive down the banking with a big burst of speed and as I come out of turn two I get low, low, low in the drops against the velodrome’s backstretch headwinds. I chance a glance behind me – I’ve got some space! I swing around turns three and the bumpy turn four and stay low and put on one last desperate burst of speed and as I cross the line, I realize that I’ve held off Nick and that my friends in the infield are cheering my name! Holy crap, I won!

I sit to spectate for a while, and, between races, hop on a paceline and do twenty or so laps to keep my legs warm, which comes in handy when my group is called to the rail for a 10 lap scratch race. A scratch race is a basic race – a bunch of laps, with winners at the end.

A few laps in, two guys break off the front, and another young rider who I’ve met a few times at bike events asks me to work with him to reel them in. For five or six laps we’re alternating pulls (riding in front, breaking the wind for the rider close behind to be fast with less effort), closing the gap little by little. For a while, we’re between the leaders and the rest of the pack, but the pack catches up as we close the gap. On turn 2 of the last lap, we catch the leader, who pulls up track and lets us go by (remember, in racing strategy, if you’re in front, you’re at a disadvantage! Kind of like golf in that regard). I’m not in great position for the final sprint; a big guy comes around me on the inside, riding on the grass to sprint past my buddy Nick who’s sprinted by (with me encouraging him!). Coming around turns 3 and 4 we lap another kid – Nick uses him as a blocker to ride high on the track and come down fast, and he’s got the advantage on me. He finishes second to the big guy, and I take third. Not bad for my second race!

After that, it seems, I was pretty done. I raced a miss-n-out, where the last person on each lap is eliminated. Mark and I worked together again to push the pace forward, but didn’t achieve any kind of a breakaway. and besides, there’s not much point in a small breakaway in a miss-n-out. I think one is better served racing smartly with the pack, and not being boxed in during the final sprint. We did a good job, but when the pack caught us after several laps, I was in poor position – on the inside of turn 4 – and was caught out.

I also had the match sprint semifinal, against two very fast guys, one of whom just came from behind, ate me and the other like a shark, easily dispatching us. Later, the other pointed out that it’s wise to get the fast guy in front during the casual lap. Of course – it made me wonder why his strategy was just to cruise along at a fairly brisk pace during the first lap.

I also entered a 20 lap scratch, which was open to Masters (30+ year-old riders), all women, the A group, and any Bs that qualified. It was a fast group, and I was struggling to stay on the end of the pack, hurting every time there was an acceleration. With nine laps to go I bailed, pulling up track, and not feeling bad about it either.

Well, I’m hooked. Beth, you helped me get inspired to get out and race. It’s too bad the season is ending, but I’m excited that by next season, I’ll have my dedicated track bike.

I definitely got the courage and skills to go out there because of Heidi’s prospect park race series, summerslam. Awesome stuff.

‘till next season…

Grant Peterson is some dude who owns a company dedicated to making fun, rideable bikes, on the idea that racing bikes are stupid and not for everybody. Pretty neat stuff, especially considering the fetishization of technology that exists in a lot of bike stuff.

Anyhoo, he's got a nice little piece called Tips for Happy Riding, which I shamelessly plucked off the blog of somebody who i've never met but seems really cool and thoughtful.

Inspired by Peterson's sensibility, I put an easy gear ratio on my bike, flipped my flat handlebars way high up in the air, and passed up the third in a five-part race series (in which I'm doing well) to go to the beach with friends on Saturday.

It was a very good decision.

On Monday night's prospect park race, I had fun racing again - I had the feeling I wouldn't, so I was pleasantly surprised. I stole wheels and blocked some wheel-steals, then hopped on the wheel of a breakaway and had a deadly fast first lap. Wound up coming in 4th and scoring some points - not bad!

My sister has moved to town, and this is a nice thing. We had dinner on Monday night.

You know, in Boggle, when you shake up the cube filled with letter-cubes and you have to keep on giving them little shakes until they settle? But there are always a couple that are lying at odds on their corners?

Shake shake shake.

My band, Maxwell's Demon, is playing a show on Saturday. We have been intensively practicing and writing music and are planning work on a new album - we've got a great start and I am just getting more and more excited to see this develop.

I wish I could take a couple months off work to see this through... I still feel the strongest urge to play hookey, to go somewhere new each day, to wonder where I'll eat my next meal, to explore the corners, to sing songs loudly, to see Manhattan from new angles and heights. But sighing, I return to work every morning.

Monday morning at work. I'm still thirsty, undercaffeinated, slightly dehydrated. Tired, but my sweat from the morning commute has dried.

I'm ammused at moments that feel like a huge contrast. Monday morning at work, and me feeling sore and fatigued from a weekend of vagabond punk bike tomfoolery in Boston - it makes me think of that delightful scene in Fight Club when Ed Norton flashes a bloody set of teeth at a coworker.

Why did I decide to go to Boston? I have a wariness of Boston that, at some point - mixed with fear and ignorance - blossomed into full-blown avoidance. I'm never racing in Boston! But this weekend, I went anyway. A whole mess of NYCers went up Friday night, and Brantley and I caught a Saturday morning Chinatown bus. Our destination? The L Street Beach, starting line for a race based on the movie The Departed. The goal? First Out of Town. The prize? A custom Geekhouse bike.

We got off the bus and popped into Revolution Bikes across the street. A dirty punk rocker with the thickest Boston accent I've ever heard in real life sold me a tube - I didn't want to be the jerk who flatted and had to bum a tube. We called Dan - who spent years in Boston - to figure out where the hell to go. I figured everything was a long ride away - after all, we're talking about going back and forth across the city!

Nope. Ten minutes had us pulling up to a bike shop where Dan and a bunch of folks were hanging out. We pulled up as it started to pour, and we took refuge inside. While hanging out, the rain kept coming down harder and harder, but for some reason, we decided to mobililze anyway, to head to another bike shop a few miles away.

We rode into some of the hardest rain I've ever seen. When you are soaked through (immediately!), you've got nothing else to worry about from the rain, so you might as well enjoy it. I should have photographed Dan skidding through three-inch deep puddles... or the sight of ten of us dripping wet all over Cambridge Bicycles.

We dumped some stuff at Lauren's house - it sucks to ride with a full traveling pack - but my bag was still heavy. You never know when you're going to need a lock in a race. Still, though, I'm looking for ways to lighten the load that I carry. Going fast is much easier when you don't have a ten pound bag on a shoulder.

It's raining less and less, and then barely at all when we roll through Southie to the L Street Beach. I'm a little nervous about this race, because of my New Very Special Plan: to have absolutely no idea where I'm going and just try to stick with the leaders, with Dan Bones, with Gary, with who ever can be fast, show me around town, and get me placing high. High enough to win some sick prizes. Cause let's be honest. I like winning prizes.

It's a huge crowd that gathers around Scott as he introduces the race, and then, with no warning, "NOW GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" I'm near the back of the crowd which means I'm early out and I hop with a fast pack that hurtles the wrong way down a narrow street and then turns onto L street, which turns into Summer and will take us out of South Boston. It's just narrow enough to be nervous and the neighborhoods are just quiet enough to make the intersections a little bit hairy. It's the lead pack I'm on and there are about twenty of us. I suck a lot of wheel and work my way close to the front, behind two fast Boston guys, a couple fast NYCers, Gary, and a few unfamiliar faces. The plan is to stick with this pack for as long as possible. These are the guys to beat.

I tightly draft over a bridge and we take some intersections together. I'm working hard and pull into the first checkpoint fourth, but there's no checkpoint worker. The moment of confusion means that the pack catches the leaders, and Dan Bones is yelling, "other way! other way!" and we all turn around and there are way too many riders together again, bombing this hill. I hear somebody go down behind me, and I need to go into oncoming traffic to avoid a traffic island.

At the second checkpoint I get in early enough to reach up to the guy sitting on the wall and hand him my manifest, but by the time it's signed i'm in the middle of a huddle and have to push my way out, not caring about people's bikes or bodies. Gary is just leaving - his green bike is distinctive to follow.

We hurtle through streets for another five or six checkpoints, doing some nasty, hurried traffic work. I'm kicking my ass to keep up to the pack, at times, making guesses at turns, keeping Gary's green bike in sight a block ahead of me. And then, a problem - Gary pulls over. "You okay?" I yell. "I'm out of the race!" he says back. Slowing down to ask that meant I had to struggle to keep the pack in sight. Every now and then I see Crihs a few blocks ahead of me, but it's hard... Luckily a guy catches up to me - I verify that we're going to the same place and that he can show me around. This is good. I can be back on track.

But what happens? Passing an intersection I see Brantley - he was ahead of me with the pack - and I turn with him and follow him to... a checkpoint I've already been to! I look up - that wasn't Brantley! It was Colin, wearing a similarly bright and ugly jersey. Fuck. Where am I, and where do I got?

I have no clue.

And by this time the leaders are very far in front of me, for sure.

I yell for directions back to Summer Street and get them, from riders headed in other directions. I meet up with some locals and follow them, but they are going slowly. No way I'm going to catch up at this pace. A few times going back and forth on Summer Street I see the lead pack - I'm two miles back. Brantley and Dan Bones are with the pack and I'm psyched for them, but realize that I'm out of the race.

With that realization comes fatigue; I'm working hard to stay on the wheel of David, a cheery local who accepts the role of navigator. My manifest is in tatters from being shoved in and out of damp pockets, wet hands, stamps and pens. It's getting dark. I could use some water. I could use to race a little smarter. I could have geared down. I wouldn't mind dry socks and a beer.

It's a long race. We go through Boston again and again, through puddles, out to lonely piers, to Chinatown Alleys. Friends at checkpoints say, "Yeah, you're doing pretty well," but I know it's not as well as I could be doing, or as I want to be doing.

Several times, seeing the leaders heading the opposite way, seeing Dan and Brantley with them, I want to skid 180 degrees and hop on their wheel, I want to pull out my manifest and scribble a signature in a few boxes and consider myself "caught up" - but come on, cheating in alleycats? I won't. Would anybody? I hope not.

Finally, the last checkpoint, climbing up Beacon to the State House and setting in to the ride to the finish line. Two others catch up to me and David, and with my last energies, I entertain a sprint to the finish line and am second in our pack of four to cross the line as Scott is counting off - he writes my name down in 27th place.

I frown, and get a funny combination of elated and disappointed in myself when I see Dan and head his way. "Seventh!" he crows. "Nice!" How'd Brantley do? I look at him. He's tight-faced and supresses a sparkle in his eye. The kind you do when you don't want to be overwhelmed as how awesome you just did... "Yeah, I got it..." he said. "First out of town!" Dan yelled! "Third overall!"

Brantley wins a custom frame! I'm pretty happy for him. He beat a casual rival of ours. Dan is super excited, too - he's got his confidence back, his legs back, and his impeccable navigation of Boston did him well - 7th in a race this size, with almost a hundred racers, is no small feat.

We celebrate with snacks from a convenience store, and a 4 pack of Fin Du Monde. Return to the party for beers, me getting drunk and yelling "I'm takin' portraits!" and snapping my camera in people's faces. Prizes all over the place. Smelly punks. High fives. We ride out to L Street Beach again to pick up Dan's chain lock, do some wheelies and other ridiculous shit before making our way - where? Who knows, but we got yelled at from a sidewalk, joined some other bikers including Scott, Brantley, and Aaronplane, and made our way to a bar for a few hours of recap, shooting the breeze, and me running into somebody from college who I cannot place.

Then we destroyed a bag of Doritos on Lauren's stoop and crashed, hard, smelly, and wet, all over her house.

The next day was brunch, desperately seeking a clean scrap of anything to wear, and long, slightly nauseated hours on the Chinatown bus before I made my way back to the Bronx for a fitful but much-needed night of sleep.

What a weekend.

Last night was the first of a seven week, all fixed-gear race series, , Prospect Park Summer Slam! My team was generously donating a few bottles of our Special Edition Lager as prizes; after gluing labels on to bottles in a hurry we rolled up to Prospect Park as people were gathering.

It was a different crowd than I was used to. Plenty of people from alleycats, but plenty of fast people who are in the bike scene who don't come out to the usual races. Older, more experienced riders, and most people decked out in spandex. This was a Serious Race in an informal manner - very different from alleycat races. On the bike scene's internet forum, people were talking about pack riding, drafting, and treating this like riding on a huge velodrome with hills.

Obviously my city bike - fixed gear, flatbars, front brake - won't exactly suffice. So I pull off my chainring, put a larger one on, pull off my brake, and put drop bars on.

Just the opportunity to move my legs fast and gain more skills. Last night's race was a two-person, four-lap relay race. Jeremy and I teamed up, and I lined up on the line with twenty other racers for the first lap. With a "stay safe and have fun!" from the organizer, we're given the go.

People get up to speed, quickly, and the pack forms. It's not super tight but people are grabbing on wheels. I move through the pack, concentrating on being alert and keeping my spin smooth. I find Dan - we work together and move toward the outside where there's a little bit more room. He's on his fast bike and feels good, and as we're at the Southern end of the park, he moves by me. I grab his wheel.

I'm unused to riding in a pack - hoping I'm aware of riders close to my side behind me, working hard to hold my line. And meanwhile, I'm pretty sure that this frontal pack has left a solid handful of riders behind. Dan moves past the pack but I can't grab his wheel. Niki does and a line of riders forms, with me off to the side. It takes me a while to get back into good position - I let myself drop back in the pack and find plenty of room there.

I'm unfamiliar with Prospect Park. I realize that we've been going down a slight downhill when I realize that I'm spinning out, and that my ass is starting to bounce in the saddle. This means we're easily doing 30 MPH.

I settle out my spin - I want to keep it smooth. Sticking on someone's wheel, no matter what, means that I'll hurt, but a whole lot less than if I get dropped. But I'm also impatient. I want to be near the front, I want to be in good position to get a jump toward the end of the hill. But impatient and inexperienced aren't a good combination, and I'm learning that, when it comes to racing in a pack, where you are is no indication of how you're doing. It's when and how you make your move.

A handful of fast guys make their move at the bottom of the long, last hill. The hill's not very steep, but it's long enough to tire you out. As the pack picks up its pace I furrow my eyebrows, thinking that it's too soon to move on the hill. But the pack thins out, so I get out of the saddle and grab a wheel. Riders are quite spread out by the top of the hill, and as we come around the curve we're calling our numbers to our teammates, who will take the next lap.

I pull over, keep my legs moving, take a squirt of water, and in a few minutes, line up for the next lap. Heidi says that the winner of the lap crossed at 6.45 - I do some calculations in my head and figure out that that means there was an average speed of over 30mph throughout the 3.5-mile loop. Damn.

After a few more minutes of waiting on the line, we hear the riders approaching. A handful of leaders fly by - you can feel their power. I hear Jeremy a little while afterward, and just get up to speed by the time I hit the line. But as I'm riding out into the park I realize that I'm alone. The leaders have taken off, and there's nobody in sight in front of me. A quick look under my arms from in the drops confirms that there's nobody within sight behind me. I stay low in the drops and keep a good pace.

Finally, I see somebody ahead of me. I don't gain on them for a while, but then I begin to. Around the southern end of the park, I catch him, and hug his wheel. I'm sucking air from my effort to catch him and deserve the reward of drafting, even selfishly. After a bit, I pull in front; other riders catch us, Dan and Eric. Dan, who loves to move, pulls around us after a while, and we grab his wheel - he's pulling us up the hill.

In a more intimate pack, I feel more comfortable, and smarter. Halfway up the hill, I make a move, pulling around Tom and putting a lot of energy into the sprint. I'm moving pretty well, but definitely unsustainably, so I'm happy to bellow "ELEVEN! JEREMY! ELEVEN!" as I'm coming around the corner. Jeremy comes off the line, gains speed, and is moving when I cross the line.

I felt great. Tired, yes, but that part of tired when your legs are moving fast on their own accord. I am motivated to get faster, and will get up early at least once a week to do laps of Central Park at a brisk tempo.

Till next week!

Hooray! Two new blogs I'll be reading:

Beth Bikes. I was fortunate to know this badass lady in college - before either of us were cyclists (I was a biker then, sure, but have since crossed a couple of important thresholds...). I'm not surprised that she's thrown herself into racing with such gusto - everything she does, she does 120%. I love reading race reports by people I know, so I look forward to more. Hey Beth! I'm glad your face healed! Damn!

Bike Snob NYC. When I first read a few of this person's post, I scowled, a whole lot. Come on! A whole blog dedicated to snark? Aren't there better ways to spend one's time? It's not that I disagree with him - yeah, just about everything that he mentions is stupid is really, really stupid. I just try not to let it get to me enough to blog about it... I prefer to try to be more positive than negative. But I've gone so far as to read the extensive comments to some of his posts, and the way that Bike Snob responds is considerably more tempered and even-keeled than I had expected. So that's good.

Oh. A third. A guy in the NYC fixed gear/alleycat scene or community or whatever here, is training for the Hour Record, and writing about it at Hour Record. "Training for the hour" sounds a little bit presumptuous, like taking on Goliath, but who among us here on the streets can say they're willing to punish themselves for a solid hour at Kissena just to see how they do? Plus, further marks in the "race reports by people I know" category.

I was thinking about focusing this blog a little bit more, since people enjoy my write ups of races, but here's the thing: alleycats are really, really awesome, but I don't want to get overly caught up in them. I mean, okay, I'm caught up in them, but I don't want to only write about alleycats. This touches on a bunch of stuff involving valuing processes and things that don't necessarily produce tangible results - "elevating the lived experience to the status of art" - and so needing to remind myself that I have a lot of fun with and on my bike, without racing. So I'm not going to focus it. Because, after all, what has riding a bike shown me? That I can get anywhere and do anything - and more than that, that I want to go places, do things, explore, try things, go to quiet spots in the city, cross through worlds, open new doors.

You can do anything on a bike. Anything. I swear. My challenge to you: bike every day for a year, and see if your life is better than before.

I curse, fiercely and forcefully. It's just gotten dark and the rain is starting to come down hard again; I am on my bike on Broadway in the 30's, heading South of course, and I'm in the worst place possible during an alleycat race: alone. The rain exacerbates the darkness and the lights glaze everything in a shine that obscures rain-filled potholes, pedestrians sneaking out in the road, and my desire to continue riding hard. We're two thirds of the way through Broadway Bomber and I do not yet have a bruised hip, scraped arm, and cracked helmet.

Despite a few mishaps on the way to the starting line - a wipeout in the rain and a broken seatpost bolt suffered by a non-racing friend - the race started off great. We gathered in a parking lot at the tippy top of Manhattan and waited around, staying warm and grabbing snacks from an over-airconditioned bodega. For once, I didn't mind waiting for an excessively late start - the longer we waited, the drier the roads were getting. I should put it in the singular: road. This race started at the beginning of Broadway in Manhattan, and ended at the end. Thirteen and a half miles from the top to the bottom: Broadway Bomber.

When they're ready to begin, the organizers lead us over the Broadway Bridge into the Bronx, to a parking deck behind a Target, a few blocks away from the Bridge. Mike Dee abuses us a little bit when one person crashes and two people flat on the bridge - "You were advised to stay off the steel roadway! There are two perfectly good concrete sidewalks for you to use! Now shape up and get in line!" Before beginning there's a brief hype session. The top twenty finishers from the last race, Rumble Through The Bronx, are given front spots in the pack and gold stars, while the others are told that we are the ones to beat.

I'm strangely calm by the time the security guard comes around to tell us to leave. Mike Dee and Chris ignore him, finish their speil, and with a whoop and a hoot, send us packing. Not knowing how to get off the deck, I follow the dozen guys in front of me down a ramp, and for a few minutes, it's a quiet, tense scramble over sidewalks, off curbs, and the wrong way down the street until we get to the bridge. We all take the sidewalk; I decide to be cautious until we get to open street, and I think everybody else decides this, too, but the difference between me and them is that my cautious is a little bit slower. When we get on to the street and I get up to speed, the leaders have a block on me.

I hop on the wheel of a tall, wide-smiled guy on a Pogliaghi, drafting him. As usual, the first push has fooled me into thinking I'm tired, but as we start up the first challenge - a long, steady climb up to the George Washington Bridge - I settle into a smooth spin and wiggle my eyebrows at a few cheering bystanders. I'm putting space between me and the people behind me, and trying to close the space in front of me. If I can stick with the front pack...

In and out of the first checkpoint, and onward! The next checkpoint is at an island on 163rd; "Eat a donut!" Jacob from Boston says; I take a bite, yell "fifty five!" and get my manifest stamped, and head out as Heidi pulls in. I hear say, "Nope, I'm vegan..." and as I'm pulling out, see a few people overshoot the checkpoint. I settle in to another climb; Heidi pulls next to me and we chat. She passes and pats her butt, yelling, "Hop on!" and I jump on her wheel to draft, spinning well and moving fast in the open stretches of Northern Broadway. I want to work with her, so on some of the fast descents, I take the red lights with my hand brake and give her a signal so she can bomb through with no brakeless reservations.

At the 125th checkpoint we're told, "tenth and eleventh." Nice! I clip back in and we head up the hill - I see a few riders ahead of us and say, "What say we make up a few places?" We pick up the pace going up hill, but then I see something too tempting to pass up - a bus that I can catch up to. I grab a hold on the wheel well, lean away from the wheels, and enjoy a great, fast-paced skitch up to the crest of the hill. I pull in before Crihs, but pull out after him. It's hard getting my manifest in and out of my damp pocket - I finally resolve to buy a cool hip pouch.

The hills are over and we've got time to settle in to a little paceline. Crihs greets me by name - that's cool, I didn't know he knew who I was - and as we're tearing down the Upper West Side we're working together with another couple of riders, communicating well and absolutely flying. My plan was to ride really hard for these stretches of the race, knowing I won't be able to handle the sub-42nd street traffic as fast as some of the others. If I'm keeping pace with Crihs, then the plan is working. Lincoln Center Checkpoint: Check. I tear through Columbus Circle but lose half a block on Crihs and the other two guys.

Suddenly, I realize it's getting dark. I navigate Times Square badly and have to hop a curb, ride through some tourists' picture, and drop off a curb to get to the checkpoint where Amanda, Chombo, and others are working. I pause for breath and realize that I've been dropped: dammit. 42nd street is jampacked and I go through it awfully slowly. My manifest is getting soaked and gross and I don't know where the next CP is - I don't want to fly by it, and I have no security of people in front of me pulling over. Without other riders to keep up with, my pace sags.

And then comes the rain. It starts slowly, with the realization that the street is wet, but then it is drizzling, and then really coming down. It is getting nasty. I'm tense and unhappy - we're in lower Manhattan and this is not a good place for racing. I take the Madison Square Park interchange badly and need to dive across a few lanes of traffic. Kym pulls up behind me as I slow off - "Don't slow down now!" she yells. I thank her and put in a new burst of energy, which lasts me until Union Square. I figured the Checkpoint would be on the island on the southeast side, but as Broadway hits the top of the square, a guy is yelling, "Checkpoint in here!" There are metal gates, can't go through, need to turn around, and then my tires slide, bike is on its side, I'm following it down, and I hear the crunch of my helmet against the pavement.

Stop, start. This is how accidents work. Different day, different time. I get up and grab my bike and straddle it and mumble something. "How's your bike?" Someone asks me. "Don't know, keep racing," I say. I get my mani stamped and I'm shaking my head and body out as I pick up another manifest off the ground in time to see Heidi come back around the corner, looking for hers. I hand it off to her - she barely breaks stride and takes off. I struggle to catch her and do - we share a few grumbles. The race has taken a foul turn - crashing rattles me, the conditions were absolutely dangerous, and the traffic was getting worse in lower manhattan, famed for covering road work with metal sheets. I just wanted to finish this race and get off my bike.

At the next checkpoint, Kym is off her bike, bleeding profusely from her hand. Gary catches up and I get re-energized. I want to beat him. We're getting close but I don't know where to finish. A cab squeezes me against the curb and I elbow its panel sharply; a few riders pass by on the other side and I lose more places - damn. Kym blows by me, still bleeding. Damn. And then there's a bull - we must be close, but I don't know where. I barely know where I am and can barely see where I am. I hear a yell and see a finish line, well off to the side. I yell at those in front of me, do a death-defying turn between a bus and a sedan, and make for the steps of the U.S. Customs House, ahead of everyone I had just passed. I run up the steps.

"How'd you do?" someone asks. "Only went down once," I mutter, as my manifest is checked over. I hand it to Hodari and the guy with the computer and go back down the stairs again. The pack is filtering in, and then it's a swarm, and suddenly there are a lot of bikes at the foot of the stairs.

I need to walk around. I feel weird, shaken, uncomfortable. I got tenth place, I should be thrilled, right? Top Ten in a NYC alleycat. But I didn't like the last two thirds of the race, and I only got top ten because I got lucky at the finish, and I'm cold and wet and tired. I talk with a few other people and more stories fill in - a crash over here, over there. Jeremy running from Canal Street after blowing his last tube in a crash. Heidi's ankle bleeding. Oh, and that sound I heard at the beginning of the race, on the ramp? That was Dan.

But that's races. A pretty big roll of the dice, about conditions, competition, and the ability to see where you've got to go. I don't feel lucky to get top ten - I got nothing out of it, and who wants bragging rights by beating their friends by dumb luck? Points were awarded seven deep for this race - I come up empty.

I have good company. We watch the fireworks. It's okay. It's just a race. My body is sore, but everything's okay.

I'm eagerly awaiting the results from Rumble Through The Bronx. I know how I finished, but I have to admit - I just want to see it written down among so many other names.

It's not bloody fantastic or anything, but it's way better than I had really planned. I had high hopes, but more realistic expectations, and it was nice to be much closer to the "high hopes" section.

Yesterday, something significant came in the mail - cycling shorts.

I used to tell people, "Oh, I'm not a cyclist, I'm a biker." They'd ask, "What's the difference?" and I would mull for a moment and reply, "Spandex." Really, this exchange has happened several times. I think I even mentioned it in a blog post.

But I guess I've crossed the threshold.

I get a big stupid smile in my heart when I'm moving through places that amaze me. This one moment last night, coming back from the velodrome out in Queens, biking past Shea Stadium and through a huge cloud of smoke from a car fire.

And then this morning, after a pre-work ride to Piermont, coming back across the Hudson River, seeing Manhattan in all of its glory.

I bought a cute little cycling hat. This is one of the best things about cycling.

If I glance at myself in the mirror, I can see a dark smudge on my forehead, about two inches long and three quarters of an inch wide, next to my hairline. I figured that it was from biking all day in the sun on Saturday - I got tanned in accordance with the vent holes on my helmet. No more!, I declared, and bought a cute little cycling hate, so as to avoid silly through-helmet tan patterns.

Also because it's a funny little cycyling hat. It says "Columbus" on it, which is the kind of steel that one of my bikes is made of.

This morning, several people asked me how my ride was, so I told them that I did a longer ride before coming in to work. They asked how long, and I told them forty five miles, which is the truth. "Wow, you must be in really great shape," is a frequent comment I get, but I'm not too interested in it.

I prefer to talk about how I'm just really proud of myself for having abandoned some unhealthy habits in favor of this far more healthy habit. I'm pretty proud of what I can do with my body - it's an achievement for me, and it's changed my lfie significantly.

I'm wary of sounding as though what is important to me is the Biker Points that I rack up - the mileage, the rides, the placings in races - because at the heart of it is the fun I have, the mobility I've aquired, and the pleasure that I take from it.

I take some inspiration from Jeanette Winterson's Product is the excrement of action (which, by the way, mimics some of the stuff we talked about a few years ago about elevating Lived Experience to the status of Art; oh, and, apologies for linking to crimethinc...): "After all, it's so complicated to have to worry about whether you are really enjoying yourself, how you are feeling in the moment. It is easier to focus on the results, the hard evidence of your life; these things seem easier to understand, and easier to control." When I'm in the saddle, I'm feeling my legs, my hands, my ass, my pace, the wind in my face. I'm looking at the view, I'm moving through it, I'm feeling the pavement through my tires, I'm feeling my feet through the rotation of the pedals. These moments come frequently and they're moments when I am truly enjoying what I am doing, and I can honestly say that I am present to my body, to my self.

I learn lessons from riding.

Oops! I've accidentally been doing way more racing than I anticipated! I even put together a calendar of upcoming races, and I can't believe how much there is to do all through the spring, summer, and early fall. I don't plan on racing everything, but I am enjoying pounding the streets a whole lot.

I didn't intend to race "Three Sparks Night" during the Polo Comp, but got talked in to it. A fun, fast race that was mostly a scavenger hunt. I don't know how I did other than I didn't win, which is fine since I had a blast and also learned that too much Sparks is a very, very bad thing.

I didn't plan on racing "The Angel III," either, but since I was out at Kissena Velodrome watching the racing, I got caught up in the bug. It was a one checkpoint race; the pack hopped on Metropolitan Avenue after a few miles in Queens, and stayed on it till the end. I got out to an early start and kept passing people till I found myself racing with a group of people moving at good speed. Many downhills, easy traffic, some big intersections being blown en masse. At one point I got dropped by the pack. As the distance between us grew to several blocks - and the several more - I began to give in to the fatigue to which the hot, nonstop pace had given rise. Anticipating a red light at an big, tough intersection several hundred yards away, I just began to slow when another rider came up from behind me (in a move known as a Surprise Buttsesh) and said, "Come on! This intersection is important!" We sprinted together, made the light, and I was re-energized. I caught the pack I was with. When we got to the finish, there was a crush to hand in manifests. One of my riding buddies came in tenth; based on that I got my manifest in the collector's hands right afterwards, I figure I came in eleventh or twelfth. The award ceremony was epic - great, generous prizes, which would have been nice to win but ultimately I'm in the racing for the personal challenge and for the fun.

Then I found out about Ghostbusters Race this past weekend. Team Wreck Stuff - a loose affiliation of fun-loving scoundrels - put together a three-person team for this race. It was a 30+ mile, trivia-and-challenges points race that hit some key locations from the film (which I don't think I've ever seen, actually). We rode hard, wrecked a thing or two, experienced lots and lots of close calls on Avenues in midtown, through which we had to ride over and over again between checkpoints and the home base. Finished fairly high - fifth, I believe - but didn't get enough points to place in the top three.

Team Wreck Stuff has made a good showing lately, and we're looking forward to Grand Theft Velo this weekend in New Haven.

There are some sudden/not-so-sudden variables that might preclude my involvement, but if I go, I'm in it to win it - no doubt about it.

Racin' some bikes!

I took my chances in another alleycat race this past weekend, and rode to a respectable 10th place in New Haven, Connecticut. There's nothing quite like doing well despite a couple of mix-ups and getting lost to make you vow to do a whole lot better next time, especially when it's combined with repeatedly catching up to (and passing) a fast local, only to have them pick a better route from behind you, and emerge in front of you yet again.

On my commute to work this morning I thought a little bit about why I ride in alleycat races. I'm aware of the tendency for bikeishness to lean toward snobbishness and general jockery, and don't want to be a part of it. Bikes are for fun, not status symbols. So it was a funny moment to realize, hey, wait, alleycat races are surprisingly non-competetive. I mean, people aim to do well, but I haven't seen any idiotic cock-measuring of "I'm gonna kick your ass today!" People ride hard, cooperate frequently (I rode the whole race alternating between drafting off of and pulling another NYC rider, and was joined by several CT folks at many points of the race), and are generally out to have fun with the mentality that anything can happen in an alleycat race. It's not about speed, nor is it about geographical knowledge. It's about both, with a healthy bit of luck thrown in - are you going to get a good sequence of lights down that avenue? Flat right after the first checkpoint? Pick a direct route only to run into a devastating headwind? Kiss the hood of a taxi?

I think that a lot of riders know that when they ride, there's a lot that is within their control, and a whole lot that is out of it. The sobering threat of an inattentive driver damaging your frame or your body adds to the mix the knowledge that whatever happens happens, and it's preferable to some of the worse-case scenarios.

Bike races are fun. Before I started doing them, I was pretty convinced (based on slim evidence, mind you) that racers were a hardcore, exclusive bunch. I've since been proven wrong. When you're on the outside of something, it's really easy to be scared of stepping in. When you're inside something, though, it can slip one's mind to reach outside. That's why I like having fun at races, being friendly to bikers who haven't raced, encouraging them to race - to test their limits, improve themselves.

After all, I'm at a point where one of my notions of fun is to sprint my bike around for 20+ miles through traffic, and I can do it well enough, too. It's a physical feat that I never really thought I could accomplish until I realized it was within my grasp.

That was the point at which I thought, I wonder what else I can do - on bikes, and off.

It's springtime.

Getting sweaty during lunchtime rides in Central Park.

Having a big stupid grin on my face all the time.

It's nice.

Road rage pisses me off because it's such a damn common phenomenon and I don't hear a whole lot of conversations people who drive regularly - or from the licensing process, come to think of it - about how driving a car is a really dangerous thing, and if you're an asshole, you can kill somebody.

I almost got killed twice yesterday by righteous assholes. Something about bikers apparently makes a fair number of drivers think that it's okay to be really dangerous toward bikers. A righteous driver is the worst, because they think that whatever they do is justified by the fact that you were in their way.

I yelled "Yo!" at a driver who was driving erratically. I had to swerve to avoid him twice, and the third time, he actually knocked in to me with his side. I'm surprised I stayed on the bike.

My "Yo!" prompted a barrage of screams, curses, middle fingers, and insults from this BMW driving honkey on the Upper East Side, culminating in, "I'll take you out!"

That shook me.

Surprisingly, a cop pulled up next to me as the asshole drove off, saying, "Hey, you okay?" Shaken, I yelled, "That guy assaulted me. He was swerving all over, I yelled Yo, and he started cursing like a madman and threatened to take me out." "We'll look in to it," he said, went forward, and turned off of First Avenue - I don't know if he was following the other car. Maybe, because I had lost sight of the car, who had possibly turned.

I'm really sick of this shit. I just want to bike in New York City without people thinking that they're justified in coming far too close to killing me. I'm not about to make idle threats about "the next person who does that gets their mirror smashed by my lock," because that won't stop somebody else from doing the same thing a half mile down the road (note to self: remember this please!).

It's scary, and above all, it's ridiculous. There's no reason why encountering somebody on a street should promp such vitriol, such a willingness to disregard somebody's humanity as to threaten them with such violence.

Safer streets would be nice. It's good to know that Streetsblog, Transportation Alternatives, and everybody associated with Times Up! exist and are doing good work.

Monster Track: I spent plenty of time waffling about whether or not I was going to race this. I gave myself plenty of excuses - the weather, my level of fitness, a cold that had been working on me - but something clicked and I got excited. I started riding around and seeing people on track bikes and whooping, yelling, "You ready for MonsterTrack?!" And people were yelling the same at me. Everybody on a track bike in the city got tingley, excited, grinning with anticipation.

Monstertrack 8, a race through Manhattan and Brooklyn in the middle of the winter, for track bikes, gained fame and notoriety through the years due to its intensity, its track bike requirement, and videos like Lucas Brunelle's helmet-cam action of Monster Track V.

I had no particular pretensions of doing well but had plenty of reason to get excited. I'm a solid biker, I told myself. Heck, the night before the race, at one of the pre-parties, I even beat two extremely fast, race-winning messengers in a thirty-second stationary bike sprint. Not the same skills that wins races but enough to raise the excitement level a little bit. A little bit more. To get me thinking, Okay, so, how good can I do?

The start was just south of Delancey - hundreds of people milling around in the cold and the snow, looking at each other's bikes, forming little clusters and shooting the shit, wondering how much later it would get before the organizers give us some fucking manifests and give us the go. When are we gonna start? Everyone's getting cold. The Organizers line us up. We stand around for a long time more. Finally Victor yells GO! and the hundreds of people make a mad dash for their bikes and to get out of the court before a bottleneck opens up - to get out to some open road.

But there were so many people that very few people found any open road, especially with the entire field going up 1st Avenue up to 61st street before splitting. It was amazing. Two hundred riders, yelling and screaming and whooping and going fast, together, tearing up 1st Avenue. Stretching well ahead of me and well behind me. You pass somebody you know or somebody you don't, throw them a shit-eating grin, and head on. At the UN, Nick caught up with me - we rode down to the race together, and he had a helmet cam. "I've been behind you," he said, "I'm getting great footage!" "Then get me some more!" I yelled, and sprinted ahead down into the tunnel. And we went faster...

It was impossible to stay with who I was riding with. After the first checkpoint the field seperated a lot and I went on my own way a lot, meeting up with people here and there along the course. My favorite part of alleycats is seeing people racing, coming from different directions, blowing by you, criss-crossing, riding together for half a mile before going in different directions. Like the whole city becomes alive with whooping bikers.

After two extensive forays to all the checkpoints between SoHo and Midtown, I went back to the base to get the last manifest, hit up the two sponsoring bike shops, and finish hard in Williamsburg. Caught up to somebody I know on the Williamsburg Bridge, jumped on his wheel to catch my breath for a minute before sprinting past me - "Get on my wheel and we'll take the bidge together!" I said - and we passed a group of riders. Then found the finish line, the bar, and dropped off our manifests.

Water. Fruit. Food. Beer.

Tired. Whew! Shit! My pants are wet and the road salt is stinging my thighs. It's dark but it's still early but it feels late.

MonsterTrack... Only a year until the next one...

Yesterday evening, as I was curled up on the couch with a book, my bike gave me one of those reproaching looks. It's been a while. Yeah, I know that. You know you want to. Yeah, I know that too. Is there a problem? Naw, it's just... it's cold outside. That's never stopped you before. I know, but... Is it me? No, darling, it's not you. There's no other Italian Steel between my legs - just you.

I've spent a lot of time on the subway. It's not too cold to ride, just a little too cold to be motivated to ride. It's just cold enough to make me use a hackneyed conversation-with-an-inanimate-object device.

Anyway, I've been riding a lot of subway, which lets me either curl up with a book for a half hour in the mornings (love it), or press my face against the glass and look at the graffiti as the train tumbles down the tunnel at 32 miles per hour (love it).

I'm getting more tuned in to street art. Not all of it thrills me - far from it - but I've been seeing it, noticing it more often, and it's been making me think about it. How did somebody get up to that billboard? On to that rooftop? Were they speaking in hushed voices when they trotted down the subway track, looking over their shoulder, carrying a backpack full of cans.

Not that all of it is good. I have a hard time imagining the point of venturing on to the subway tracks (though maybe the barrier is a level of risk that's only in my head) just to toss up a scrawled tag; but then again, some of the stuff that Revs and Cost did also elicits some head-scratching, like the billboard-sized roller tags they left all over the city (so odd to see one of those and have my breath taken away from it while driving in a livery cab, too well dressed for my comfort, with coworkers on a work trip...).

I like graffiti because of its low signal-to-noise ratio. Is it art? Yes no and I don't care. Is it vandalism? Yes no and I don't care. Does it require skill? Yes no and I don't care. Is it rebellious? Yes no and I don't care. Is it anti-capitalism? A baffling reversal of advertising? Self advertising? Yes no and I don't care. Graffiti artists, dissatisfied perhaps with the blandness of their surroundings, transform their surroundings. And yet graf has become an easily expected part of the urban landscape - ubiquitous, omnipresent, unsurprising. A tag, a mural, in unsurprising spots. Much of it being absolutly and utterly formulaic, noteworthy only in its mediocrity.

And then, every now and then, something grabs my attention. Sometimes a mural's freshness. Sometimes the curve of a tag. Sometimes something undescribable that makes something stand out. Sometimes, just the color, or the surprising legibility of a word or the vagueness of a phrase or tag. If graf artists are transforming their surroundings, they are recreating a domineering blandness with occasional moments of incredible beauty. How appropriate.

I'm keeping my eyes open a little bit more these days than I have been in some of the recent past, and I suppose it's paying off. Maybe I'll carry a camera more often, and preserve little bits of things that are making me think or gasp.

Image found at ofb.net/~epstein.

It's been a while since I've updated this blog, but I still have big plans for it. Consider this time to be a bit of a winter semi-hiatus. After all, it is cold; we are less expressive, insulated among coats and layers. Trees, in the winter, look barren and dead, but it is in the winter that they grow underground, their roots expanding outwards to support the weight that will grow on them in the spring and summer.

That's how it is here at tristatevagabond's headquarters. I've finished building the Pogliaghi (pictured above!) - the right saddle, used, from eBay; wrapped the handlebars with cloth tape; got its own pedals. I took a few minutes on Saturday to take some pictures of it in the sunlight. I wanted to go for a ride, but the cold scared me back indoors, and instead of riding I picked up a guitar and played.

I'm in something of musical crisis, but I have new projects in the works.

I've got big plans for the spring - places to explore, photos to take, even new art ideas that, well, I've been keeping to myself. Growing underground, one might say. Anticipating the return of that exuberant weather, that warmth that makes strangers smile at each other, that makes people flirt with each other, that makes people laugh and dance and make beautiful things.

Planning beauty with secret smiles, while bundled against the cold - New York City in the winter.

On the fairly rare occasions that I drive a car, I remind myself to be extra careful. As a biker, I've got firsthand experience with dangers of a moment of inattention or a risky lane change - I have been hit by cars and daily I have the opportunity to take evasive action that would be unnecessary were there a culture of safe, competant driving, and adequate infrastructure for bikers. When I'm driving a car, I don't want to contribute to the dynamic that I hate while biking, so I'm extra careful.

When I'm biking, I try to reign in my frustration with pedestrians. We have to share the same inadequate spaces, we share similar dangers from cars, and we stand to benefit most from (and ought to be united by) the Liveable Streets Movement. However, it is extremely frustrating navigating jaywalking pedestrians. Yelling "Heads up!" or "Coming through!" will get their attention, but too often, people just freeze, or the step further into my path in a confused attempt to get out of my way.

A fraction of a second to react.

This morning: kaboom. He puts his arms up, I go flying. A drawback to weighing a paltry 135lbs is that my momentum wasn't enough to knock him over instead of crashing.

So, my first crash on the Pogliaghi. The bike is fine and I'm fine - physically - but I am annoyed, peeved, disgruntled. Five months I've been commuting in this city, 20 miles a day, and I've gotten in to two crashes. That's a crash every thousand miles of commuting, which is a little bit too high for my liking. It's not my riding that's doing it - it's the conditions: manifestly unsafe. The sidewalks are narrow, the avenues are highways in disguise; the speed is low, but the speed limit is high, so if there is a yellow light or an open strip of asphalt, then there's weight on the gas pedal, a revving of the engines.

Expecting safety on New York City streets makes about as much sense as expecting your Cheerios not to bump each other in the breakfast bowl. Demanding safety? This is something every New Yorker should be doing. Anybody who has ever frowned at a delivery truck gunning it through a red light, anybody who has ever had a cab come too close as it's rounding a corner, anybody who grips their child's hand tightly when they cross the street, saying, "Always look both ways!" Anybody who has ever gotten on a bike, and, more importantly, anybody who finds too many reasons not to ride. Anybody who has ever dodged an SUV. Anybody who walks on Manhattan's narrow, crowded sidewalks and sighs as cars go roaring by. Anybody who looks at the incredible amount of space taken up by gridlocked cars and wonders if maybe it wouldn't be nicer if some of those were plazas, with outdoor cafes, vendors, exchange students playing guitar for quarters... the sights, sounds, and smells of New Yorkers interacting with each other, instead of muttering as they push by each other, competing for scraps of sidewalk space, forced to the edges by a culture that's willing to go to any extent - even destroying a beautiful city - so that everybody can drive where they please.

In an odd turn of events, I have a very nice thing. A new bicycle frame, possibly a redundancy in my slim fleet, but the offer was too good to pass up. A classic 1970s track frame, built by an acknowledged master, with a beaten-up paint job and an owner who's too big for it. The price I got was better than good, and so I started aquiring a few parts for it - used cranks, a used front wheel, a cog. I'm still looking for a rear wheel and pedals that I can put on it permanently so I don't have to swap back and forth between it and my daily rider, but quite frankly, since building it up late last week for a weekend's worth of beautiful weather and riding around, I've barely gotten off it. I've even commuted on it.

That, of course, brings up questions in my head about the smartfulness of riding "brakeless" in city traffic, but I consider myself a careful and skilled rider and have geared down, letting me accelerate and decelerate with greater ease. I've had no problems so far, except for the occasional bump of my foot against the front wheel - the frame has significant toe overlap, which takes some getting used to.

Fortunately, I've got the opportunity. Winter has not lived up to the expectation that it would force me from my bike and into moody restlessness. It's been a curious winter. Temperatures in the single digits in early January and nothing bur balmy since. We were all lightly dressed for the Memorial Ride for Fallen Cyclists this past weekend; we all sweated our asses off at the New Years Eve Alleykitten. We sniffed curiously at the gas smell on Monday morning.

Those of us trapped at desks only heard about the brief moment or two of snow flurries that fell this morning, after commuting hours.

Sometimes in the middle of the week, it's hard to stay focused when you're looking forward to the end of the week. My band Maxwell's Demon is playing a show down in Washington DC, and I'm ready to skeedaddle from work on Friday afternoon, have a dinner party in Brooklyn, bike back up for some sleep and leave town early on Saturday morning to turn the amplifiers up. After all... the boys are back in town!

Back at work, for real this time. I took some time off between Christmas and New Years', but it didn't add up to anything like a vacation. Just some time off, in New Jersey with the family, then back to NYC for a few days of work in a very, very quiet office.

Sometimes breaking the routine can be so tiring it's not that bad to go back into it, for some peace and quiet. Even if the commute is a little bit crazy and you're tired from staying out late at the Metropolitan Opera seeing the kind of odd but pleasant if confusing Magic Flute.

I raced the second annual New Years' Eve Alleykitten this weekend; last year's race was my first race and it was a lot of fun to ride it again. It's geared toward folks who haven't raced before, but isn't really easier than any other alleycat. A huge mass of people and bikes gathered by the bike polo court at Christie and Broome and I walked around saying hey to people I kind of know. I wanted to do well this race, so when I got my manifest I made sure to be thoughtful with my route; however, as with many things, once I lean toward a decision I go full-blast and didn't really pick the optimal route.

However: hammering down Broadway to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, then up Trinity and over to the East River at 22nd Street, where the CPers threw eggs at me as I rode away. I hauled up First Avenue to 86th St where I ate a piece of garlic, then found my way to the bandshell in Central Park (that slowed me down...) to capture a flag. Further slowed down trying to find the checkpoint on the right pier in the Hudson River in the 60s; then down the bike path to pushups across from the Javits Center, down to Trackstar where I had to recover my bike from a "thief" and carry a package to a 23rd place finish at Lakeside Lounge.

Not as well as I wanted to do, so here are some pointers to remind myself:

*sometimes it's good to stick with the pack a little bit, but if you do, you're gonna have to beat 'em to the checkpoint to stay competetive.
*plan a route before the race, duh, but revise it if necessary and consider alternatives. don't just plan a route and stick to it like glue.
*planning a route might still leave you getting lost, not knowing the fastest route way to a small little place like a bandshell or a pier.
*consider going absolutely 100% balls-out in the beginning.

I had lots of fun, though, and enjoyed the after party as I'm getting to know a few more people. I met a few people whose company I really enjoyed, and went with a few others to Punjabi's for dinner after the race - especially important after a handful of $2 pints at the after party...