Time to go out and face the traffic; secure my space on the tarmac bands that connect the geography of S.E. Michigan; ride the vapors of exhaust and dodge the pot holes of winter’s gone by; ride my velo-machine among massive fossil fuel burning metallic and plastic dragons. Have to put on my “Game Face” before I ride or so I am told by people who, I guess, should know, but are kind of arrogant or know-it-all so I prefer to tune them out most of the time, except for today when I grant this aphorism some credence because for god’s sake I need all the help I can get here in the ‘burbs of the motor city. I have heard that axiom of vehicular cycling and processed it as best I can: Game Face. Given there is no real game and my face is what it is day to day what does it mean?
The bike commuter’s Game Face is seen in that thousand meter stare taking in and processing all the potential threats ahead, prioritizing them in the context of surrounding traffic, traffic furniture and the ever elusive and often temperamental digit of destine that the dimension of time often deals. All of that concentration of the world ahead is done while still maintaining vigilance to the rear perusing in a series of still images, snatched from a glimpse in my mirror attached to my glasses flicked up, out and around, tipping my ear back slightly to catch the possible threats receding or approaching from behind. The commuter’s face must remain neutral as if everything is the way it is and the rider is in this moment, riding the Zen of Now. Most of all the tilt of the head, the hunch of the shoulders, the crick of the neck and the tension in the jaw must say, “I am serious, don’t mess with me! Alley cat ready to run, or rumble! Notice to all who see my eyes ‘Don’t Tread On Me!’”
Hidden within the Game Face, but close to the surface, there also needs to be a smile ready when needed for others: cyclists, pedestrians, and sometimes motorists. The smile should look as if it is meant to be polite and sincerely happy to see others doing something that is getting them out of their cars or at least not killing you as a cyclist with their vehicle. A smile lost in a grimace of exertion, concentration, agitation, or exhaustion is hard to read as a happy, positive, genuine effort. A smile that is too broad and wide showing too many teeth can be interpreted by some as an angry-dog appearance with lips pulled back showing canine teeth ready to lunge and take a chunk of flesh as its trophy. A tip of the head, lips together, ends of the mouth pointing upward; An eyebrow raised; Maybe an extra wrinkle in the forehead inquiring if the smile is OK and acceptable. Kind of a shy smile. A happy to know there are others like me kind of a smile. The smile is important to practice and have at the ready.
The raised finger of displeasure with the action of an automobile that has, in your estimation, rudely and dangerously invaded your space from “out of nowhere”, is too late to do any good and seems to be more of an “I am very mad,” kind of a display. Yes, you are angry, but are you really mad you did not see that incident coming and was surprised that you did not evade, avoid, or brace before it happened? That strong urge to raise up an arm, hand and finger then yell out an expletive we bellow to the gods, should remind the rider that they are really happy the motorist passed so close without killing them and they have been alerted to the dangers they were missing on the road because they are not paying enough attention: “Wake UP!” Most of the time the finger gets raised and the cyclist cry to the heavens their displeasure at the actions of the motorist, nothing ever comes of it except… Except that all the other motorists in the vicinity witnessed this display. They may recoil with horror not having seen why the cyclist reacted that way. They may feel that is how all cyclist treat motorists. The effects of that finger action will ripple away from the incident and spread outwards to others who have no knowledge of what went on. The effect of that raised finger will resonate for hours, days, or a lifetime and cause problems for other cyclists never seen.
Some cyclist mistakenly put on the game face of the novice or intermediate biker guy who has been out of the saddle for a few decades. This game face is when the cyclist becomes the game of the hunter: trucks, busses, pick-um-up trucks, automobiles, motorcycles, and… are there any others? This face requires a pair of beady eyes with the pupils slightly dilated, eyelids retracted fully into the head, whites slightly bulged out. The focus is everywhere and no where all at once jumping around from place to place looking for the first sign of rapid repeated random or potentially threatening movement so as to follow the Taoist Tai Chi mantra: “If he doesn’t act you do not act. If he acts, you act first.” Ready to act if needed, but not knowing when it will be needed or what action will keep you safe. This game face has a wrinkled worried forehead, a tense jaw line, a look of stoic pain in the tightness and line of the lips breaching into a full on grimace of fear and anxiety. The mirror on the left handle bar, the mirror on the helmet, the mirror on the right handle bar and, for the “freds”, the rear video-cam image on the computer screen mounted on the handle bars between the hands, are constantly being refreshed and consulted for usable bits of information from behind that could prevent death, destruction, dread, or distress. Hands grip the handle bars on the hoods of the brakes with white knuckles protruding out the open bike gloves finger wrapped around the brake levers with a death grip waiting to happen. Body posture is tense from the shoulders to the legs, the neck is retracted like a turtle trying to keeps its head protected from attack under its shell but still having to move ahead to avoid assault. Arms are slightly bent ready to absorb any unexpected jarring that could dislodge the rider from the bike or the road. The buttocks have slid back on the saddle to the most rearward perch that is the most comfortable of that uncomfortable posture. Feet spin around toes pointed down in a jerky flip of the toe like a twitchy sprinter ready to kick in that last 5% for the last 50 meters to try to win the day. Not a pretty picture.
When getting ready for a ride outside it is important to remember that the last thing you need to do is to put on your heart rate monitor, requiring you to strip down to bare skin above the waist to position and adjust the detector and to put on chamois cream which requires you to strip down below the waist to the skin and smear the butt butter on the nether parts of the anatomy. I don’t know why these can’t be done maybe first when getting ready for a ride, but alas they always come as the rider is about to leave the building. I guess it is tradition or something: Get ready and then get ready again. This is especially frustrating when the temperature is below 32 and there are considerable layers carefully tucked in to keep in the warmth which have to be removed and replaced before mounting the machine.
Before heading out early in the season t is a good idea to check your cleats, or at least do it biannually and not biennially. Actually if they are only checked biennially then there most likely has not been a problem and don’t mess with them, don’t touch them! Come to think of it if you are riding enough then biannually would also indicate there was no big problem with original installation so they cleats are working and if nothing was noticed then they are most likely good to go. Now there are people who ride on the weekend, when the temperature is good or there isn’t much rain. In those cases biennially cleat inspection would not really be long enough time of use to present a problem with installation of the cleats because they are used so infrequently. I guess if there is to be a rule about cleats then they should be put on, ridden for twenty or so miles and then checked to see if they are the least bit loose. If they have loosened up then “loctite” is needed on the bolts. Loctite is bolt glue. If the loctite is applied right then the rider should check the bolts in 20 miles. The average cyclist will forget of course because there will be no obvious problem at that point. Having “fixed” the problem of a lose cleat the cyclist will blissfully go about their riding until a cleat falls off or maybe it it doesn’t fall off.
Point is if the cleats fall off because the bolts come loose on the shoe the consequence are really not pleasant and almost always is accompanied by embarrassment. Worse case is one cleat bolt comes out allowing the cleat to pivot about 20 degrees in each direction. That 20 degrees is added to the 10-20 degrees needed to free the cleat, the normal foot will not pivot 30 to 40 degrees without damaging the knee so the cleat on the shoe will not release from the pedal mounted on the crank arm firmly attached to the bike. Bottom line: the shoe cleat is still attached to the pedal; the cleat is attached to the bottom of the shoe; the shoe is attached to the foot with strange one way ratchets and Velcro; the foot cannot let go of the pedal nor can it really use the pedal that wobbles around on the one bolt. This condition usually occurs when you want to stop the bike and get off. Many times a biker, especially a bike club rider, likes to stop when there are other cyclists stopped or they stop where traffic lights tell them they have to stop because there are a lot of other people in cars around. At that time many things come together to highlight the problem of a bicycle shoe cleat that has not been properly installed and maintained. The bike slows loosing the gyro stability and increasing the latitudinal instability: the bike wants to fall over. Just as the feeling of falling enters the cortex of the brain, the foot twitches to the side to free the pedal so the foot can touch down on the ground and stop the perceived fall. Alas the cleat will not free and the shock of that happening takes a few seconds to process. Meanwhile the bike has continued to lean farther over accelerating towards the pavement. Suddenly the pavement or parking lot comes up and hits the rider taking the skin off the outside of the knee and elbow and if he/she is not wearing gloves, the heels of the hand on that side of the bike maybe braking the wrist of breaking the collar bone. Like a fish out of water you thrash around in the parking lot trying to free your foot from the pedal, but it will not happen with only one bolt in the cleat. Pathetic. Not that I have had a problem with that scenario.
Just a few thoughts before a late spring ride…
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Dead Possum
Thoughts while riding to the store…
I’m just saying that when you see a dead possum on the side of the road, maybe even have to steer around it a bit to keep from thumping over the deceased marsupial, it is a fair guess that the possum was too slow to escape the car that hit it. That may be a wrong assessment of the clues; smashed possum in the road and tire marks across and beyond the carcass, but it is not in error by much because whatever the “real” reason for the demise of the pouched beast, the outcome is the same: flat or not so flat nocturnal semi-arboreal omnivore with or without car tire track across it. A neutral observer might watch the possum crossing the street and when the head lights of the oncoming car sweep across it as it is scurrying across the dark pavement, a long dark shadow is laid down behind the hind haunches and the possum may just “play possum” in the road, falling down pretending to be dead. Then… it is dead when the car thumps over its pretending to be dead body causing it’s actual untimely end. Was that prescience of the possum to foresee his/her own demise beneath the wheels of the urban vehicle and it just lay down to assume the position? Was it an error in the fur ball’s threat assessment process? Was the possum just to slow to live? Regardless, the pouched predator, did not have to be in the road, and most likely could have chosen to leave and would have made it if it had been fleet of foot and fast with its brain. But the opossum doesn’t make it across the road before the car hits and kills it as evidenced by the remains alongside or even in the road: a testament to something maybe even spiritual. Too slow to live at least on a busy road at night.
Like seeing a dead possum and thinking, “not quick enough,” I see with my review mirror blue hair at the top of the steering wheel as the only hint of life inside the giant land yacht approaching me from behind and I also have an instant thought. I assume a particular scenario which may or may not be entirely true and correct, but ultimately it has served me well from joining the road crossing dead possum. Perhaps an elderly matron with the prestigious car her deceased husband bought 20 years ago which is now only driven to and from the hair dresser down the street because her license has not been renewed due to poor eye sight, poor reflex time, poor processing speed, flights of fantasies, tunnel vision or all the above. Move over and hope for the best. Not a time to insist on taking the lane.
Thirty something woman with a cell phone held to her ear driving a mini-van somewhere near or over the center line of the lane with what appears to be a bunch of people/kids packed in the two back seats. Now that conjures up a scenario of what has and is going on inside the vehicle and the lack of attention to the other traffic on the road and even the road and driving itself. I ride with caution expecting the unexpected.
Shiny brand new pickup truck sitting high on the frame, with fancy rims, big mud tires, spot lights and just maybe a gun rack in the rear window with or without guns. Junker car with terminal cancer surrounded in a blue cloud coming from the engine and beneath the car which can be smelled before hearing the rattling and roaring as it approaches from behind. La Bomba chebby with the woofers thumping out a beat that shakes the vehicle visibly, tinted windows all the way around, blue lights in the wheel wells, sitting low to the ground driving too slow for conditions. An RV with all the bells and whistles, an old guy with a plaid shirt and short pants behind the wheel like the captain of a ship commanding from the bridge. There are a lot of these indicators of a potential dead possumness for a cyclist. Fill in a story that surrounds the vehicle and act accordingly to be safe. Or end up like the possum assuming he/she can outwit a car that doesn’t even see it playing possum in the road or is just running a bit too slowly.
There are some things that I think about when situations present themselves that have served me well and kept me on the road regardless of the truth of what I am thinking. Is that being prejudice or being vigilant? Is that making a judgment or being judgmental? Just sayin’ that a blue haired in a land yacht has never revved its engine, honked, passed me extra close, stuck the middle finger out the window and yelled, “get on the sidewalk ass hole!”, but she has nearly run over me without knowing it. A new pickup truck with huge mud tires has not followed me at ten miles an hour up a hill for a mile and finally swerved into the other lane passing me almost and swerved back before actually getting past me leaving the other twelve cars behind it fuming at me for slowing them down. Now a junker has passed me, dropped a large chunk of a muffler that had to be bunny hopped over and I know I could smell it before it passed me safely before the muffler thing happened so I am ready for that. La Bomba chebby with the tinted window, I just want to say not in Detroit thank god.
The possum is dead and dead by car. Whether it was struck and killed in a fair race across the road, or the car swerved to hit it unfairly or the thing just lay down and took it on the chops because it was stupid, dead is dead. Some judgments just need to be made for life as a cyclist.
I’m just saying that when you see a dead possum on the side of the road, maybe even have to steer around it a bit to keep from thumping over the deceased marsupial, it is a fair guess that the possum was too slow to escape the car that hit it. That may be a wrong assessment of the clues; smashed possum in the road and tire marks across and beyond the carcass, but it is not in error by much because whatever the “real” reason for the demise of the pouched beast, the outcome is the same: flat or not so flat nocturnal semi-arboreal omnivore with or without car tire track across it. A neutral observer might watch the possum crossing the street and when the head lights of the oncoming car sweep across it as it is scurrying across the dark pavement, a long dark shadow is laid down behind the hind haunches and the possum may just “play possum” in the road, falling down pretending to be dead. Then… it is dead when the car thumps over its pretending to be dead body causing it’s actual untimely end. Was that prescience of the possum to foresee his/her own demise beneath the wheels of the urban vehicle and it just lay down to assume the position? Was it an error in the fur ball’s threat assessment process? Was the possum just to slow to live? Regardless, the pouched predator, did not have to be in the road, and most likely could have chosen to leave and would have made it if it had been fleet of foot and fast with its brain. But the opossum doesn’t make it across the road before the car hits and kills it as evidenced by the remains alongside or even in the road: a testament to something maybe even spiritual. Too slow to live at least on a busy road at night.
Like seeing a dead possum and thinking, “not quick enough,” I see with my review mirror blue hair at the top of the steering wheel as the only hint of life inside the giant land yacht approaching me from behind and I also have an instant thought. I assume a particular scenario which may or may not be entirely true and correct, but ultimately it has served me well from joining the road crossing dead possum. Perhaps an elderly matron with the prestigious car her deceased husband bought 20 years ago which is now only driven to and from the hair dresser down the street because her license has not been renewed due to poor eye sight, poor reflex time, poor processing speed, flights of fantasies, tunnel vision or all the above. Move over and hope for the best. Not a time to insist on taking the lane.
Thirty something woman with a cell phone held to her ear driving a mini-van somewhere near or over the center line of the lane with what appears to be a bunch of people/kids packed in the two back seats. Now that conjures up a scenario of what has and is going on inside the vehicle and the lack of attention to the other traffic on the road and even the road and driving itself. I ride with caution expecting the unexpected.
Shiny brand new pickup truck sitting high on the frame, with fancy rims, big mud tires, spot lights and just maybe a gun rack in the rear window with or without guns. Junker car with terminal cancer surrounded in a blue cloud coming from the engine and beneath the car which can be smelled before hearing the rattling and roaring as it approaches from behind. La Bomba chebby with the woofers thumping out a beat that shakes the vehicle visibly, tinted windows all the way around, blue lights in the wheel wells, sitting low to the ground driving too slow for conditions. An RV with all the bells and whistles, an old guy with a plaid shirt and short pants behind the wheel like the captain of a ship commanding from the bridge. There are a lot of these indicators of a potential dead possumness for a cyclist. Fill in a story that surrounds the vehicle and act accordingly to be safe. Or end up like the possum assuming he/she can outwit a car that doesn’t even see it playing possum in the road or is just running a bit too slowly.
There are some things that I think about when situations present themselves that have served me well and kept me on the road regardless of the truth of what I am thinking. Is that being prejudice or being vigilant? Is that making a judgment or being judgmental? Just sayin’ that a blue haired in a land yacht has never revved its engine, honked, passed me extra close, stuck the middle finger out the window and yelled, “get on the sidewalk ass hole!”, but she has nearly run over me without knowing it. A new pickup truck with huge mud tires has not followed me at ten miles an hour up a hill for a mile and finally swerved into the other lane passing me almost and swerved back before actually getting past me leaving the other twelve cars behind it fuming at me for slowing them down. Now a junker has passed me, dropped a large chunk of a muffler that had to be bunny hopped over and I know I could smell it before it passed me safely before the muffler thing happened so I am ready for that. La Bomba chebby with the tinted window, I just want to say not in Detroit thank god.
The possum is dead and dead by car. Whether it was struck and killed in a fair race across the road, or the car swerved to hit it unfairly or the thing just lay down and took it on the chops because it was stupid, dead is dead. Some judgments just need to be made for life as a cyclist.
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