Some People

Some people will always be cooler than you.

Buns Out Downhill BMX Series

I grew up about 45 minutes from the legendary Corona BMX track. Like a lot of tracks back then, it was basically a semi-groomed fire road, steeper than it had any business being, given the brakes and frame technology that was--or, more accurately wasn't--happening back then.

Here's some footage of it from On Any Sunday II, which you'll find after the most awesome moto noises/no-footer flying W's to banana seat ballsack rides/best Schwinn Stingray power wheelie in the world footage from the original On Any Sunday:

Buns out jammin'!

The point of view footage was filmed by none other than RRS sponsored Kevin "The Corona Kid" McNeal, who went from the zenith of winning a gold T-top Trans Am for being National #1 Pro, to the nadir of living in the bushes next to the legendary Sheep Hills jump spot. Last thing the interweb wind whispered about him was "Mexican prison."
Anyhow, I had a T-shirt with a Bob Haro drawing of Corona on the front of it I bought at Redlands Schwinn (one of the "R"s in RRS) when I was a wee tot--McNeal was on it, buns out jammin'. I could see the track from the freeway when we headed west on family vacations, but I never got to race it. Closed before I had a chance.

I did, however, get to race the Yucaipa track, which was actually two tracks. The regular track they raced every weekend, and the "European" track, which was usually saved for double and triple points races. While slightly more modern than Corona, the Euro track was nonetheless a balls out gnar gnar SoCal hill bomb with the first berm carved like a corkscrew into the side of the hill, not piled on top of it. Another RRS rider, "Dangerous" Dave Gianunzio owned that track--he frequently beat half of his class by a straightaway and a half. The guy wasn't super fond of brakes. He had a rep as a huge stoner and rumor had it his mom got busted on a child endangerment rap for giving him weed. Who knows? Who cares? He was definitely a hometown hero in a town full of BMXers. He went on to test bikes for both SuperBMX and BMX Plus! Here's a photo of him in Plus! gear on his quarter pipe, which was called "The Columbia Launching Pad":
Style? For fuckin' miles, yo. You'll notice that the ramp wasn't made with a continuous radius, but sort of "planked out" with sections of ply. Kink City. My older sister saw him hang up on it during a lunchtime demo at Redlands High and go straight to the pavement on his face.

Anyhow, coming up when I came up, I've always been enamored of the wide open, flowing down the side of a mountain, loose dirt, mud pit, fall away jump, rutted, "Hey, is that a rock the size of my foot?" type BMX track. Modern tracks, as an FYI, are smoother than silk, often with asphalt berms and spray-fixer tacking the surface down just so. Overall, they're faster and way more technical than the box bar era tracks. For one thing, there are rhythm sections, with jumps packed in so close that you can't pedal over them--you've got to pump. I love this type of stuff, too. It takes a crazy amount of bike handling skills and cojones to get through a 2012 BMX track with speed.

That said, when Joe Kid on a Stingray dropped a couple years ago, with the early racing footage and berm warfare type action by bad boys like the above mentioned, pre-Tijuana prison Kevin McNeal and the Rick's Bike Shop guys, I got a hankering to go back to the future, if you will. What if a bunch of grown-ass men with little bikes and less sense found a weedy hill or a disused fire road, a few joints, a few cases of crappy beer and went elbows out every now and again? There have been all kinds of rebel race series for cyclocross--DFL and Soil Saloon come to mind--but none for BMX. And by "race," let me be clear, I'm talking about the races we used to have at the local jump spot, Haunted Hills, before my nuts dropped. Kid shit. "Ready, set, go!" shit, or maybe a rubber band start. More crashing than racing. A controlled fall. Or a not-so-controlled fall. Race for the best scab.

I don't want to fuckin' train, is what I'm saying--I want to party. Party like it's 1977, you know? Cross ups all day long.
Take a second and listen to Dennis "The Red Baron" Dain and Ernie Alexander talk about Soledad sands:

Here's some back in the day footage of the Red Baron:

Maybe even better than gettin' that extreme lean on is the ripped up, duct-taped Levi's and size giant tennies folded over tiny KKT rat trap pedals. Giant knobbies that you actually need for traction. Real dirt on a course for dirt bikes--not a broom in sight. Puttin' the MX back in BMX.

Check this footage of San Diego's legendary Rancho, which, despite not having a whole lot to speak of by way of jumps or banked turns looks like a goddamned blast:

Sidehacks! Feathered hair! Let's do this. As far as I know, no one's doing an unsanctioned, ding dong dumbass BMX race series. I chalk this up to the fact that people hear "race" and, if they're feeling it, they head down to the local track. Which, considering the technical skills needed to navigate a legit track, can be quite intimidating.

In terms of location, private land would of course be ideal. If anyone has some or knows someone who does, well, let's hear it. In terms of reality, I was thinking somewhere in the section of the China Camp loop at the end of the Oak Ridge trail into Peacock Gap--downhill, some hairpins, a couple jumpy bumps but no real jumps...huff and hoof it to the top, haul ass down three times. Golden Gate Park has some "Authorized Vehicles Only" trails near Middle Drive that could be strung together. I know no one reads this blog, but give me some ideas here, people.

Without private land, jumps are going to be an issue. You can't just go digging shit up on trails you're not even supposed to be riding. Maybe lug out a couple plywood wedges and stick them at strategic locations. Ultimately, it'd be awesome to maybe make a rebel trail that's wide enough to do this on somewhat regularly, but people it'd take a particular type of rolling hillside without too many trees--we're not going after singletrack here.

Bikewise, I'm all about "run what you brung," and letting anyone ride who wants to, with a few caveats:

20 inchers are preferred, strictly to instill the proper fear factor. Railing a downhill on a modern trail bike with 4-6 inches of travel is not going to make your asshole pucker like doing it on a fully rigid bike with, let's face it, tiny ass wheels. 24s, 26s, and even 29ers can play, I suppose, but that shit better be a hardtail or you're really missing the point. If you show up on a full squish, it better be a Webco monoshock or a Kawasaki BX200.

Grocery getters, beach cruisers, actual old school bikes, retro new school bikes, street BMX bikes, legit modern race bikes...let's not get too anal about it. Just don't show up on a M9 and wonder why no one's remotely close to you.

Gears? Please: not if you can help it. We're not doing any climbing here, folks. Downhill, black out with your sack out. Take a look at Saddleback's legendary Bonzai Hill, and you'll get the idea:
Absolutely no clips. Legs must be hung out at every possible opportunity. It doesn't matter what you ride so much, but old school BMX must be the prevailing aesthetic of the race:
Lycra will get you...I don't know? Trash canned? Berm busted? An atomic wedgie?

I think it'd be rad to do a series of 3-5 races over the summer, with BBQ party action after/before/and during, but I'd be happy to get ten people together just once, to be honest.

Let's shoot for something between this:

And this:

Something that'll feel like this:
But look more like this:
Everyone's a fuckin' winner!
Or a weiner. Maybe we should look way off the beaten path so the main event can be buck ass naked. Perhaps that should be the punishment for lycra: you've gotta bare ass it the rest of the day.

Like all my cockamamie ideas, I'd really like to pull this off, but once I dig into the next 50 hour work week, it'll probably disappear into the fog of my clapped out memory. Take it under advisement that if you've got a shred of gnar shredding in you, I'm going to do my best to bug you about this idea.

Let's see if we can all end up in a Mexican prison after this one, or, at the very least, sleeping under a bush trailside.

San Francisco's Doomed

Crime were right. SF is losing its soul. Finally pulled a Friday off to see Fist Fam at the Elbo Room. Yeah, I should've know what a clusterfuck the Elbo Room would be on a Friday night. I'm not talking the show: I'm talking about Valencia and 17th. My beloved city has turned into privileged prize pony sorority bitches from La Jolla trying to act like they're running things. And, sadly--they might be. Along with Presidio Heights Range Rover soccer moms and pec-bumping Chestnut Street bro-hams. While the rest of us struggle to pay the rent, these people live in a theme park. This is not a love song. SF is a Fantasia of piranha people--hungry, empty mouths that want to swallow your soul. A Disney piss take on the Barbary Coast, an Enchanted Forest of Entitlement. Cartoon people who've forgotten their manners, walking around with thought bubbles over their heads that says "gimme," "me," and "mine."

Lucky the Fist Fam had the foresight to import themselves from Asheville, NC, and inject some much needed reality into this town, like a blast of fresh air into a room full of people huffing their own very important farts. The shitty thing is, Gus and Philo are moving back home. The Fam has renamed themselves the Weekend Cult and this show was an album release for their eponymous album, as well as a bon voyage to Gus and Philo--you will be missed and don't be strangers. If you like witty, cutting (and cutty) hip-hop with deep, three syllable Suth-er-in' beats to drink Jameson to, you need to download this shit forthwith.

Asheville's own Foulmouth Jerk opened, and he was hilarious. Rec League were up next, and they killed it with more energy than my crumpled old ass could handle. Entertaining as fuck though--"White Boy Wasted" was the standout jam: "You ain't gotta be a white boy to be white boy wasted..." I've been a little too white boy wasted myself lately. Fist Fam we're up next. Z-Man had the last spot, but I only caught a couple of songs, because, you know, it was time to get home and make sweet love. Upstairs at the Elbo was a sucka free bubble, which was amazing compared to the asshole factory downstairs. Next Gurp City show I'll just blindfold myself until I get there.

Philo, alert mode:

This motherfucker stood up on his own through the whole set. No shit.

Gus Cutty, words of wisdom, with the JJ Walker Defenders of Good Times shirt:
Horn guy in the mix:
Merkulson, on one:
Ronnie Mac lit himself on fire about midway through the set, which was cool:
J Eaze, from the gut:
We were all feeling like this by the end of the show: happy and maybe a little bit blurry.

Zed's Dead, Baby. Zed's Dead.

Despite a professed hatred of freak show bikes, I sure like to build freak show bikes. That is to say, if it's a freak show I'd like to be invited to. I put this together for my buddy Josh in Santa Rosa:
The inspiration for this one was somewhere between an old school bobber:
And a cafe racer:The frame is a 17" aluminum MTB frame, raw, with an arching top tube that gives off a moto-meets-Schwinn Stingray vibe. Bars are motorcycle drop bars. Giant brake levers are first generation Dia Compe mountain bike levers, which I put on everything because they rule. Lever boots are a must:Left side gets a micro bar end mirror, for seeing when the fuzz is about to put the kibosh on your mean motor scooter party action happy fun time:Whereas the right side gets the speed selector--7 lucky speeds--courtesy of a Shimano barcon:
Tape is Cinelli Mike Giant limited hoo-ha. Stem is a mega-tough, über-ridiculous Dirty Dog skull jobber:
Beautiful machining and anodizing. Despite the amount of material carved out inside, the thing weighs about as much as two or three normal stems. Ridiculous on any other bike...ridiculously awesome on this one. Good thing the spacers are carbon.

Braided steel cables by Odyssey give a custom moto feel. Gusset forks and retro brick cruiser tires. OWL decal on the head tube because Josh is the head hooter at Our Wrecked Livers:
Avid BB7 caliper with a Dirty Dog skull and crossbones rotor:
God is in the details:
Polished Profile widowmaker chainwheel, red ano beartraps, raw Stolen cranks, and a Paul chain keeper:
Skull are important:
Rally-striped banana seat, cut down sissy bar, Moon Eyes license plate:
All this and an Coupe de Ville?
And an awesome pooch named Lux, to boot. Some guys have all the luck:
Now for the randomness. Psychedelic clouds in the Presidio:
Strange interlopers:
They're here for our weed, y'all. This high art sculpture is in a store next to the newly re-opened mini golf in Clearlake. It's got a ton of tribal motif T-shirts with pitbulls on them and sayings like "Nor Cali Grown,"and posters of the "Indian 10 Commandments," enormous dreamcatchers, wolf face sculptures, shit like that. For Clearlake, the place is like a museum of fine art.
Speaking of art, if you see your mom this weekend, would you be sure and tell her:

Oh, You Were Behind Me? I Wasn't Even Pedaling.

Not sure if it's the most amazing race of all time, but it is pretty amazing, and it's definitely "all time." Homeboy breaks his chain coming out of the first turn and hangs on to win. Must be truly demoralizing to be in this guy's class.

This Is Evolution? Take Me Back to My Cave, Then.

I don't mean to sound like some kind of Stevil Knievel rock and roll retro grouch railing against disc brakes on cross bikes or belt drives, but one has to draw the fucking line somewhere. Which leads me to ask, what the fuck is this thing?
Let's see: it's a recumbent unicycle with another wheel tacked on? A really unsafe, ugly bar stool from Sonny and Cher's honeymoon palace? Why no, it's the "Evolution Bike" by Roel Verhagen Kaptein, a Dutch "industrial designer" who's clearly way too into design for it's own sake.

Of course, it's some kind of ridiculously complex internally geared automatic variable front hub transmission nightmare. Click on the photo for hilarious explanation. As far as I can tell, the key is "the rotating balls tilt." Whereas this truism has caused many a hernia, apparently tilting balls is a good thing with Roel's better mousetrap. Haven't studied the diagram too hard, but I'm wondering if there's some kind of clutch mechanism to allow one to coast, or is it all shifty-shift shit, forward we go? Who knows?

The best part about riding Roel's bitchin' barstool?
"No messy chain."

I realize that people are always going to try to build a better mousetrap, even if the old style snap trap and a scoop of peanut butter will still kill every mouse in the house. I'll even admit to have recently ridden a two speed kickback, freewheel, belt drive Spot street bike which I found strangely awesome and at least half fun. But seriously: what is it with you design school shitheads that's so goddamned afraid of getting your pant leg, or--God forbid, your hands--dirty? Please, explain the horror of the "messy chain" one more time. It's like the Blair Witch Project of bike parts...purportedly horrifying, yet, when you really come up against it, not too freaky at all. A little sticky, sure, but not all that horrifying.

Reminds me of a story. I was riding what I consider my first "road bike." This was like, 5 years ago. If that. What can I say? I never really cottoned on to the whole lycra thing.Said "road bike" was second hand Cannondale--actually a hybrid frame of some sort, and, though it was a touch too small, it was US made and a fun ride. It set it up with mountain bike riser bars, a triple, and my first set of 23s. Oh, and flat pedals. (Go ahead and tease me...I realize for "real roadies" the aforementioned set-up is definitely on the "fat girls and mopeds" side of things.) Though for me, it helped me discover the joys of just getting out there and riding roads--paved ones--for hours, without jumping curb cuts, kicking out on trash cans, or wall-riding, and popping only the occasional wheelie.

One day, while out on Skyline toward Daly City/Pacifica, I encountered a fully kitted-up Lycra warrior on a titanium Seven. He had on the full Seven kit with shoe covers, and though I didn't inspect his machine too closely--I first saw him as he was dropping me like a bad habit on a climb--he was probably running a full Campy Super Record set up. You know--that type of dude. The weekending dentist as Conquering Invader. The "if I can afford it, it must be what I need" kind of guy.

We swapped the alpha postion a few times--he'd pass me going up, I'd pass him going down. (If there's one thing I've learned pushing pedals, it's to let your beer belly work for you.) As I came over the crest of a hill, I saw Tour de Pac Heights stopped up ahead with a mechanical of some sort. He was staring with consternation at his bike around the cranks/bottom bracket/front derailleur area. Keep in mind, I had an unobstructed view of this guy for 60 yards as I approached. Being somewhat handy with a wrench, and not so small-minded and petty as my lead-in might have you believe, I slowed down to see if he needed assistance. Right as I was about to stop, I noticed his chain has overshifted off the front ring, and he was pulling latex gloves out of his underseat bag. He had to put on latex gloves before he could put his chain back on.

Damn you, Messy Chain! I will not deign to touch you with my delicate phalanges. I just had my hands re-palmed in fine Corinthian leather.

The horror!

Just think, Mr. Seven, now you can avoid that revolting entity altogether and evolve, as Roel Verhagen Kaptein has got you covered. Calling this thing a bicycle is like calling a Razor scooter a skateboard. No wonder they couldn't photoshop actual people (actual virtual people) into the concept illustrations, just oversized maquettes:

That's the only way I can envision riding one of these: if you're made out of wood and have no eyes with which to see your own shame. He actually made one, and yet, still no photos of anyone riding or even sitting on the thing:
What the bike world, and the world in general, needs is products designed by people who are end users of similar products. You know what I mean? Like, don't design motorcycle suspension if you don't ride motorcycles. Don't design blenders if you don't like smoothies. Don't brew beer if you don't drink it. Pretty straightforward, to my way of thinking. Yet the cycling industry (eww...I just threw up in my mouth a little) is full of pretentiously pretty design school bullshit that doesn't actually work. I'm not against hydraulic road brakes or belt drives because they're not reinventing the wheel--they're just options. Insofar as they're actually functional.

Bicycles didn't spring fully formed from Zeus's head: there's a reason they look the way they do. Sure, they're going to keep changing, but they're not going to "evolve" into recumbent unicycles overnight because a Dutch design student and an anal retentive roadie don't like "messy chains." At least they shouldn't. Fuck, I don't think I've ever crossed my fingers this tightly.

Too Dumb to Die

Too stupid to live.

This is five steps beyond "fat girls and mopeds." Seriously, how do you explain it to your girlfriend when you get caught doing this shit?

This other thing, however, is fucking amazing. Guy's a way better rider than me:

Too Long

I haven't done a Bertlemann in way too long.Tell me this shit doesn't feel good.

Helicopter Parenting and the Nuclear Family

Off the wall in Vans: me at 16. Tender little bitch, ain't I?
As I leave the shop for a test ride, two kids are playing around with a demo bike we have parked outside, screaming like hormonal hyenas as their mothers ignore them from 30 feet away. The trophy moms of the Marina are confused when their nannies get a day off, though they tacitly acknowledge Juanita may have a little brown family of her own.

As I ride back to the shop, the little boy is backpedaling the cranks furiously with his hand, while the little girl pokes her fingers at the whirling teeth of the cassette where it interfaces with the chain.

"If you keep doing that, you're going to cut off your finger," I tell the girl.

They look at the scary bald dude and hustle toward their mothers, who tell me, "We're sorry about that."

"No problem," I say. "It's not my finger."

Though I do thumb my nose at you, mothers who hover at all the wrong times. You're probably more concerned about your kid's peanut butter (organic almond butter, perhaps?) than their fingertips.

Excess packaging will be the end. To paraphrase Nikita Kruschev in a way his vodka-addled borscht brain could've never envisioned: it will bury us.

The world needs another, even colder war, to embrace the eternal, paternal coziness of a fasco-Republican republic. A womb for grown ups! A veritable Mit fit for a man! I learned to love the bomb as a child: the shooting of Korean Airlines Flight 007 from the sky was my Lourdes. It was our mini-Missile Crisis, an adrenaline hit in the dog days of summer, just before succumbing to the lingering sickness of school. Shot out of the sky by a Soviet fighter on the way home from vacation, or a business trip; first peanuts and Coca Cola, next, fiery, howling death at 35,000 feet.
I drew a lot of mushroom clouds/skulls/mushroom clouds that looked like skulls/skulls that looked like mushroom clouds on my Pee-Chee folders that year.

"Radical man is the CIA and we say no!"

Multitasking

Lotta people might think it's weird that my dog drives a car...
What's even weirder is that he wears a hat.

No Exceptions

So I'd just worked a 60+ hour week. It was my first day off and in a damn while. I headed to SF General to see my buddy Toph One on my new SE PK Ripper single speed (freewheel, thank you very much). Toph was wrecked by a hit and run driver last Saturday night on the way to his house.

Still, it was cold but sunny, and there are taco trucks everywhere, like lost apostles of Jesus:
Love was in the air.And so was death, and general broken-ness. There were a few stuffies zip-tied to this fence--and a bunch of empty zip ties that once held flowers, I'm guessing. Drive by "oopsie" carnage? Shit's pretty real around 22 and Harrison.
Toph was in great spirits, though his pelvis was as broken up as a melting ice floe. You'll never have a baby again, Toph! Your childbearing years are behind you, sir.

Hardy har. He's got a couple benefits coming up--the one in the link above is the first. The second benefit is at Som bar on 16th Street this coming Sunday, January 22. I'll be there, so, clearly that's where you hot bitches wanna be seen.

Even if you don't know Toph--and everybody knows Toph--you should come through. Biker or not, show your love for a solid guy with solidly bad luck. Toph has an car magnet in his ass--he's already broken a collar bone and a hip on cars.

On the way back from General, I saw a 6'4" gay dude on rollerskates with furry legwarmers, a top hat, and two foot tall bunny ears.

Squint, and you can see him:
Donnie Darko got nothing on everyday SF.I got stuck between a gaggle of hippies on squeaky shit bikes on my way through the wiggle. Every time I passed them, I'd get caught at an intersection, stop, and they'd pass me back. Finally I just sat at a park bench and smoked a bowl. The smell of hippies and the sound of squeaky, neglected bikes is basically my description of the lowest circle of hell.

Newly lifted, I made my way into the park. As I approached the stop sign at the Conservatory of Flowers, a rabid pack of street shit rat kids coalesced out of the trees like spectres of extreme bunkness. They had a couple of unleashed brindle pit mutt hippie dogs (sorry you drew the short straw, buddies--at least you're not in China), and the scrawnier of the two decided two blaze across the street into my path at Mach 3. I didn't know if it wanted to play with me or eat me.

Immediate application of massive braking. I run the original Dia Compe MTB levers...they basically came off a 1973 Hodoka. Huge. OTB status, forthwith.
Right away, I wondered if this dog was going to start grubbing on my tender bits before I could get up. Fortunately, it was more about playing than anything else. A girl ran up to me, saying "Oh my God, are you okay?" while 6 or 7 other hippie shits fucked off into the treeline like spoiled American Yetis.

I stood up and stared at her for a few heavy seconds before I enquired:

"Have you heard of a fucking leash?"

"I have a leash!" she said, indignantly.

"Well why don't you put it on your fucking dog?" I retorted, before adding a none-too-poetic but all-too-true, "Fucking hippie shitbags!"

This is why my front door has this on it:
What Would Lemmy Do? I know he was in Hawkwind and all, but seriously: hippies ruin everything. If there's oatmeal, a hippie's going to shit in it. It's like they think their crap is brown sugar.