bike town

Bike Boy's First Epistle to the Corinthians

2006-02-07T06:00:00.000-06:00

Ummm, this just in. Bikeboy is soon to become bikespouse, or at least on July 1. I'm getting married.

The Coming Power Pageantry

2006-01-27T11:00:00.000-06:00

I just mentioned that I attended a Mike Hatch speech this week. Yikes. I was not impressed. Sure, he's smart, brash, and stands up for the little guy, and I like him. He's also wonkish. Way wonkish. Al Gore wonkish. Which equates to loser in electoral politics, which I view as a Power Pageant. Sure enough, just like in the beauty pageants, brain and talent matter and are a part of the equation. But it is charm and beauty, pure and simple, that wins. Take Bush. He's stupid, arrogant, at times simply absurd. But he's got that facade of down-home charm that manages to convince millions that 'hey, what the hell, he's one of us and shucks, I can make mistakes too.' I even believe the absolutely hilarious spoofs of Bush (e.g., Will Farrell's, Andy Dick's, which is truth told, actually) backfire as insulting spoofs about people who feel the intellectual elite are, well, intellectually elite. It's like we laugh at Bush and his absurdity, but our laughter, to be honest, is generally also directed at those who, we feel, are stupid and beneath us. That has to change, because it's not working.

Pawlenty vs. Hatch? Pawlenty wins the charm portion of the competition hands down and thus the likely coming Power Pageant. Hatch has to cut down on the speed-talking wonky-tonk and just get a little bit down home, like he really does come from Duluth East and actually grew up here in Minnesota. As it stands now, he's a suit, a brash and successful one at that, but a suit nonetheless. I'm concerned.

Blue Blood

2006-01-25T22:00:00.000-06:00

I attended my first civic event as a blue-suited attorney today, the Edina Chamber of Commerce meeting at Interlachen Country Club. I was invited so I could hear what Mike Hatch had to say.

I was completely out of place and, as typically happens, I prove it. First, it was probably the first time in at least a decade that I recited the pledge of allegiance, which is how these meetings apparently always start out. Plus, my shirt collar and cuff sleeves were badly frayed and showing white (it was a dark blue shirt) but for whatever reason I shrugged my shoulders this morning and wore the shirt, thinking I had no client meetings but forgetting that I'd be rubbing elbows with a bunch of suits later. My hands are also badly chapped in the winter, and my fingers sometimes get so dry the fingertips crack and bleed. That happened while I was eating my salad (oh, I was the only one at my table who got the obligatory vegetarian pasta primavera). I bled all over my fork and napkin, then unknowingly rubbed my hands across my nose and cheek, seeing later in a car window reflection that I had a long smear of blood across my face. Why no one said anything is beyond me--pity perhaps for this poor fool.

Nice To Bloggered You

2006-01-25T09:00:00.000-06:00

I don't know about you but I get quite a few of those e-mails that promise millions of dollars for the simple task of depositing hundreds of millions of dollars in my puny little bank account. They are called 4-1-9 e-mails, apparently after section 419 of the Nigerian criminal code. While annoying, I find them mildly amusing in their near lyrical misuse of the English language. Take two I just received today. Here's the first:

NICE TO CONTACTED YOU!

This is an honest work of God, which I am introducing to you to undertake it sincerely and urgently as child of God and to obtain blessing from God.

I am barrister mike smith a lawyer for late Mr. MOSES TONY and late Mrs. DORIS TONY. Mr. MOSES TONY was a chief accountant with a foreign oil company-GOLF in Netherlands for 8yrs. In 1999 he died with his 3 children in motor accident and leaving her wife a widow without a child. They were Christian of the first order that decided in vesting in Amsterdam by banking their money in financial bank and a erecting 6 duplex super houses in Amsterdam.

Now, I'd love to see the 6 duplex super houses in Amsterdam and talk with these Christians of the first order in their honest work. And maybe I could if I qualify as "a responsible and honest person who resides in an entirely country" to be the recipient of "this fund of 25,004,002 Euro and estate for the upliftment of christen cause."

Here's another, just received today:

Due to the political crisis here, I have decided to nominate your name to claim this consignment of Gold & Diamonds on my behalf as my business partner & also you have to promised me that you will not sit on my money when it gets to your country that is why I need your assistance as a God fearing person. As soon as the consignment release from the storage company, the fund will be transferred through a bank or we make a good arrangement with a diplomat to bring the consignment directly to your doorstep in your country through a diplomatic means.

Directly to my doorstep? You mean $8.5 million in gold and diamonds at my doorstep in St. Paul, so long as I don't sit on them? How can I resist, especially as a God fearing person of the first Christian order for the upliftment of children and others? Nice to bloggered you indeed!

When I Fight Authority

2006-01-24T12:36:00.000-06:00

Typically, authority always wins. It's a theme going back to high school, when I wanted to exit from our graduation ceremony with the Beatles "When I'm 64" playing. Big kebash on that one, even though I was, ahem, president of my class and, like all good adolescents with a cause, made a stink about it. But, all that aside, I've got big news. Remember how I griped about Match.com and its 'automatic renewal' policy, whereby they basically got $90.00 more bucks out of me for 'renewing' my subscription automatically each month for three months? Well, I complained to the Minnesota Attorney General's office and, yadda yadda yadda, after a few letters and all, Match has agreed to refund my money. This despite their 'zero refund' policy. I've also been contacted by other folks about the practice and they are interested in pursuing it. Woo hoo!

Needle in the Hay

2006-01-19T20:45:00.000-06:00

There's a fascinating and heartbreaking article in the January 16 New Yorker, about a child prodigy who lived in the middle of Nebraska and committed suicide at the age of fourteen. What is partly so fascinating is the author's ability to lay out the story without judgment, either in the way in which the boy lived or in how his death has been interpreted, by his family, friends, and experts. His mother and father deny that Brendenn was depressed and have an odd interpretation of his suicide. In the middle of the story, however, there's a quote from what would normally be an innocuous teenage e-mail from Brendenn:

I'm glad there's someone who cares. I don't know why I'm so depressed, before it was just every now and then, and you know, it was just 'bummed out' depressed. But now it's constant and it's just 'What's the point of living anymore?' I don't know, maybe I don't spend enough time around good friends like you.

While I don't want to read a whole lot into the few words in the e-mail, for me it captures the genuine distinction of being bummed out vs. being depressed, and Brendenn, at age fourteen, accurately described depression, the constancy of it at least.

I'm fumbling through my days here as well, feeling like I'm merely moving from here to there, sometimes in a car, sometimes walking along a sidewalk, even feeling like I'm watching my arms move, detached and autonomous from my body. It's not very fun, but I have enough cognitive gymastic skill to get through the day and also to seek a bit of help. I don't think the music I listen to helps at times either, like Elliot Smith and Nick Drake, but I've been grooving to free online tunes I've scored for my iPod. Check out www.fingertipsmusic.com.

All's Not Lost

2006-01-08T17:19:00.000-06:00

Whoa. It's been how long since bike boy posted here? Geez. Maybe I can chalk it up to it being winter and my bike is sitting in the back of my pickup truck, which itself is out of order. I bought a used 1997 Volvo, a common person car, or what the elite think of as a common person car. It's a real tank and I love it.

Anyway, maybe another excuse for my inexcusable tardiness is my extreme busy-ness, with new job, new love, new car, new blah blah blah. Now that the Professor--the woman I'm dating--is out of town and in Italy for a month, maybe suddenly I have time that I normally would spend with her. Hmmm. But even that's not easy, as I've suddenly become a complete moron. Yesterday, I lost my favorite hat, a Christmas present from the Professor. I also went sledding with an ink pen in my back pocket, breaking it and exploding it all over my Wranglers, then thought I lost my wallet and called to cancel my credit cards, only to find my wallet two hours later on the floor of my car, where I swear I had looked for it carefully--twice. Before finding it, however, I had spent an hour at the bottom of a hill in South Minneapolis with a flashlight, searching through weeds to find the wallet, even getting a guy, his two kids, and their dog in on the search. But, thankfully, it was not lost, though I'm now without credit cards until I get new ones issued.

After a brief hiatus, I'm also back to running, and now thinking of either doing Grandma's Marathon in June or the Fargo Marathon in May.

Thanksgiving Salad Days

2005-11-23T21:00:00.000-06:00

Thanksgiving finds me in Denton, Texas, at my mom's, and I had dinner tonight at my grandmother's assisted living center in Carrolton. Nice place, nice folks.

Anyway, in honor of my grandmother, I'm in charge of making her annual Frozen Cranberry Salad, which is very genetically similar to most any Jell0 salads. Yes, salads. Here in Texas, and in Oklahoma where I grew up, Jello and anything frozen with Cool Whip and a semblance of fruit is deemed a salad. Mama Lu's Frozen Cranberry Salad is a mix of cranberry sauce, mayonnaise, pineapple chunks, pecans, cream cheese and Cool Whip, frozen into a salad and served sliced and next to your brocolli. Again, it's similar to all Jello-related salads, including this doozy. Happy Thanksgiving.

11.15.1965 @ 13:25

2005-11-15T13:25:00.000-06:00

Today is the end of the fourth decade of my life. It marks an uncomplicated life and a complicated day. I was born Brian Scott Schwarz at 1:25 p.m. on November 15, 1965, to a young woman who was 19, had acne, and who for the past five months had resided in a Georgetown home for unwed mothers. I was born at George Washington University Hospital, and was with my mother for seven days before, I am told, I was swaddled up on a Monday, held carefully and placed into the arms of a stranger, and then driven across town to Family and Children's Services at 16th and K Street, near the international youth hostel in Washington, D.C.

The ride between Brian Scott Schwarz and the person I am now was about fifteen minutes. I doubt I understood the noise of the car nor comprehended the light from the day passing over my face. I don't know who drove the car, but I imagine it was a woman, and I don't know if she hummed a song, remained silent, or listened to the radio. I wonder what she did, a stranger who transported me from one life to another, from an unwed mother to an expecting couple. In those fifteen minutes I was still Brian Scott Schwarz, son of Pamela Schwarz, given up for adoption.

I left the arms of one young woman, bereft, and as I traveled from the life into which I was born and into the life of new parents, I was alone with a stranger in a car, bumping across a city and through the afternoon traffic, turning on Whitehurst Freeway, down K Street NW, past the monuments and statues, into a parking lot next to a garden, with a large plate glass window looking over us as we pulled in. What an incredible, short and immeasurable distance, this day of my 40th birthday, that seventh day of my life.

Lawyers, Freaks and Funk

2005-11-11T12:50:00.000-06:00

Ugly Juice took me to lunch the other day for my big 40th birthday, which is tomorrow (and when I'll also be honored in the evening as an "Everyday Angel"). I spilled the beans about being such a Yes Man now, all suited up in my navy blue suit, which my son objects to if I am going to volunteer at his kindergarten. He's specifically asked me not to wear a suit on those days. I guess he's like a growing number of kids who view attorneys as freaks, like the five or six kiddos who dressed up as lawyers for Halloween recently. Or maybe we are now on the same scale as princesses and firefighters.

My days are so friggin' long nowadays, starting around 5:30 a.m. and ending around 8:30 p.m. or later, but part of that is the craziness of being a single dad, as well as my continuing urban ultrathon competition now that my truck's brakes have gone out [the other day I bussed to the train, then walked to Max's mom's house, then took a taxi with him to school, then bussed to work--can you say "loser?"]. I'm exhausted.

Hopping Mad

2005-11-06T13:00:00.000-06:00

Oh, man, I'm hopping mad and have done what all hopping mad people do: create a hopping mad blog. As I've disclosed before, I used an online dating service to begin my initiation into dating after an absence from the dating scene of some 17 years. I used the ever-present and hugely successful Match.com, paying $29.99 for the one month trial period. Turns out that the one month trial period is actually a perpetually renewing month to month subscription, at a tune of $29.99 per month. So, I've now been charged nearly $90.00 in the last three months, all for a service I thought expired and for which I had no need to use. Same went for the person I ended up dating--she was unknowingly charged for an additional three month period. We only found out by discovering the charges on our credit card statements.

What did I do? Well, I've already written demands and now I have completed a Complaint to the Attorney General's office. And, I created the one and only matchdeceives blog.

So there.

Anthropologia Deux

2005-10-19T21:00:00.000-05:00

I am questioning my choice of field work in a small suburban law firm. Tonight, I am at an urban coffee shop--again working on the cases that dominate my work--and across from me is a semi-circle of white females knitting scarves, baby hats, and other functional items. While I am familiar with the knitting circles of early twentieth century southeastern Iowa, having studied it intensely during my undergraduate years, this circle resembles nothing of the early American "craft progenitors." (Robbinson, Gayle, 1987). First, the knitters are young, apparently "hip" as that term is used in early millenial America, and appear to smile and laugh often, quite a different scenario than the women I studied, who were often pictured as enmeshed in a collective brown study. These women here are also, it seems, involved in some sort of conspiracy involving the making of various household and other items--mosaics, tile work, glued felt and, oddly, robots.

I must go. I may have been discovered, so I will pretend only to speak Armenian.

Anthropologia

2005-10-18T20:00:00.000-05:00

Yeesh. Ugly Juice reminded me I had not updated the ol' biketown blog for two weeks. I've been busy doing my field work for my dissertation. You see, I'm a budding anthropologist, stationed in Edina, Minnesota, doing anthropological field work on the heirarchical dynamics of a white male dominated law firm. I fit in somewhat roughly in the heirarchical structure but differ greatly in many respects.

I'm a white male, which is the predominant tribal affiliation in this region. I differ from the other white male attorneys in significant ways. For instance, I don't have any particular allegiance to an odd and somewhate secretive civic-oriented group of individuals known as Rotarians. I do not know yet if it is an offshoot of Romanians, Rosarians, or perhaps Rastafarians. More study is needed, but I am told that the Rotarians adhere to reciting the American Pledge of Allegiance at all Rotary meetings. I also do not readily understand or participate in a quasi-social and role-playing combat exercise where individuals track a small white bomb known as a "fore" and simultaneously compete in carrying long bags that transport their select weaponry known as clubs. Those are the primary traits of the male attorney workers I am observing. In order to do authentic observations from as an objective perspective as possible, I am participating in some aspects of this suburban milieu. I meet with the individuals known as "clients" and have become adept at offering coffee, talking about the phenomena of time value of money (I believe I have that term right), and chit-chatting 'small talk' with secretarial staff, all of whom follow a traditional suburban trait of being white and female. There are some interesting tribal issues at play here, I am sure, but I have yet to break into the inner circle of these workers to determine just who maintains tribal affiliations and loyalties and how those affiliations are formed.

More later as I continue my studies.

3:53:40

2005-10-03T08:00:00.000-05:00

I finished, but not with a flourish. It was a struggle for the last five miles or so and, despite visioning my trash-talking the Kenyans in Swahili as I won the marathon, I didn't come close to my personal best. Oh, well. I ran with my friend Stacy for the first ten miles, then we got separated when I stopped to hug and kiss Max and to show off. He gave me some Gu. I thought I was then ahead of Stacy (she also stopped to use the Porta-Potty). When I finished, I waited around for her to finish as well, never seeing her. Turns out she kicked my butt by almost 8 minutes, a personal best for her.

Ugly Juice ran with me for about 200 yards or so at mile 14, when I still looked good and fresh. She was waiting for Tonya--we were the threesome that did the insane 4:30 a.m. run a while back.

My legs are typical for post-marathon soreness and, despite my struggle, I'm itching to do another one.

Yes, Mom, Those Are My Nipples Bleeding

2005-10-01T21:00:00.000-05:00

If you know me, you know that I'm running the Twin Cities Marathon tomorrow. I'm in full prep mode, having secured the computer chip to my running shoe, purchased a new sleeveless Adidas running shirt, fixed my shorts, tried it all on, and gone through all the goodies in the goody bag you get from the marathon folks. To wit, there's Udderly Smooth Hand & Body Lotion, some berry flavored liquid vitamin supplement called 5-hour Energy, a sample of Tide with Febreze, Earth's Promise green thingy that I can't even figure out (some sort of greenish supplement), Thai Kitchen Garlic & Vegetable Instant Noodles, Listerine Pocket Paks, chapstick, a foot magnet, and a beer cooler advertising the Fargo Marathon ("26.2 miles . . . Uff Da!").

I'm set. Except I nearly had a conniption when I couldn't find the little round Band-Aids that I need to, err, cover my nipples. Yes, I am a bloody nipple guy. If I run more than 12 miles or so without a Band-Aid cover, I advertise my chafed pilor erectia with a trail of blood down my shirt. So, I was a bit freaky when I couldn't find the Band-Aids. I guess I could buy NipGuards, whose somewhat nonsensical slogan is "For the Pain You Don't Have to Run Through." But I don't have the time to order and receive the $8.95 ten-pack. I was impressed with its website and dedication to the cause, including a very handy instructions page with photos on just how to peel off the adhesive backing and "clear away hair and attach NipGuard directly on to nipple." And, if you so desire and love the product so much and want to go beyond providing a testimonial for the website, the NipGuards logo t-shirt is now in stock and ready to order! Seriously.

I found the band-aids. Wish me luck.

Epilogue to Hunky Dory

2005-09-25T13:43:00.000-05:00

Oh, I forgot to mention that my hard drive on my laptop fried and I may lose all of my data, including three years of pictures, six years of financial records, and the recipe for spicy sesame noodles. That's the antithesis of hunky dory. Or, it chubs the nub, man.

Boy Returns All Hunky Dory

2005-09-24T07:00:00.000-05:00

I'm back from a kick ass hunky dory trip to the Boundary Waters, complete with a driving rainstorm as we canoed out on our last day. Max and his friend Alice were troopers the entire time, their first real adventure camping. We had some fear of hypothermia in the kids on our last day as the cold rain just kept coming down and down and down, but we improvised some warmth and got out alive. Now I'm back to the reality of mildewed clothes, wet sleeping bags and a new job, which I started Tuesday.

It's hunky-dory. Nice partners, great support staff, super interesting work, and a whole mess of it, from family law to trust and estate litigation to employment litigation. Dan, one of the partners, and I make up the litigation team, so I'll be doing skads of litigation. That's hunky-dory with me. More later.

Where Am I Going?

2005-09-15T23:00:00.000-05:00

A rather bizarre day physically today. First, it was my last day of being on the payroll of Project 504, the little nonprofit I run. A court clerk made me a nice cake, which was super sweet, the cake and the gesture.

But before court this morning, I dropped Max off at school and then went to the gym to do some weights so that I don't become skin and bone. After the dips, pull ups, sit ups, etc., I went to the locker room to shower and, as I sometimes do, weighed myself on the scale that always begs to be used. 148 pounds, which is good, as it means I've gained about five pounds. With all the running and biking, I'm having trouble keeping on the weight, which also explains the weight-lifting regimen. Anyway, I go to court, a meeting, yadda yadda yadda, then take some time off in the afternoon to fit in a 15 mile run for my marathon training. I plan the run to start and end at the gym so I can take a shower and move on with the day. The run goes very well and I'm feeling great. I get back to the gym and do the usual shower routine and, for the hell of it, weigh myself again. 140 pounds. An eight pound weight loss in the span of 8 hours. I weigh myself again--same thing. And the first weigh-in this morning was no mistake either, as I double checked it then too. It's bizarre, and I wonder where all of me is going.

Well, literally, I'm going to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA) tomorrow with Max, his friend Alice and her father Matt. It will be my sixth time there, but my first with kids, and Max's first camping trip. So, you won't hear from me for a few days, five to be exact.

Cue Up That Dylan Song

2005-09-14T21:00:00.000-05:00

It turns out that I haven't kept folks up to speed on my job and life. First, I accepted the job offer I mentioned earlier, and on September 20 I'm joining a small law firm. It's in Edina, and I'll be the fifth attorney in the firm. I'll do mostly civil litigation work--suing people or defending people who are being sued. It will be a huge change for me, but one that intuitively feels right. I've sent out a letter to all the supporters of my little nonprofit organization, and folks have been super kind in wishing me all the best. I'm actually going to hang on for a bit as the unpaid Executive Director until we have new leadership in place.

I'm also well along with dating, and if you can put two and three together you've figured out I'm dating a woman who lives in Northfield, Minnesota. She teaches at one of the colleges there, drives a Volvo, cooks a mean meal, and speaks Italian. Anyway, despite all the razzing I get from my dating advisor, I've managed to stay out of dorkville these days. Though I haven't told my advisor that my professor friend is, well, now my girlfriend. Yeah, we managed to get over the status of 'just dating' and enter the realm of girlfriend-boyfriend. And, despite what anyone ever says, there is little maturity in dating--it's just like it was back in high school, with one important exception: you can more readily laugh at how stupid you feel and how funny the whole business is.

Hoofin' It

2005-09-12T15:55:00.000-05:00

Man, I spoke too soon about how easy it is to ride to or from Northfield. On a trip on my bike this past weekend, I not only baked in the sun but got blown about by a wicked northeasterly wind. The worst is between here and Rosemount, where there are hills galore and a wind that actually required me to pedal hard downhill, just to get downhill. Nearly as bad were the open areas between the sod farms around Farmington. There, the wind just races across one sod field to another, and I was the only thing apparently getting in the way. Ugh.

By the way, there was a story in the Pioneer Press this weekend entitled "Hate Traffic? Hoof It." It was about $25 million coming into the region to help promote bicycle commuting and walking. The article noted that:

more than 2.5 percent of Twin Cities residents bicycle to work, one of the highest rates in the nation, said Don Pflaum, a Minneapolis transportation engineer and the city's bike coordinator.

If I had some of that money, we could make a pretty cool bike lane all the way down Route 3, promoting bike commuting between here and Faribault. Just think of all the Faribault Falcons waiting to hop on Schwinns to come up here.

'On Your Left'

2005-09-07T05:00:00.000-05:00

With a heightened focus on the mostly poor and predominantly black families in New Orleans who have suffered from governmental indifference, not only now but for years, there was a seemingly unrelated item in the Sunday New York Times that caught my attention. It's not that New Orleans is any different than the rest of the country--rather, it has forced us to see our two-tiered society at work, at its worst. We have been building and ignoring little pieces of New Orleans all over the country. From the story in the New York Times, September 4, 2005:

The top fifth of earners in Manhattan now make 52 times what the lowest fifth make - $365,826 compared with $7,047 - which is roughly comparable to the income disparity in Namibia, according to the Times analysis of 2000 census data. Put another way, for every dollar made by households in the top fifth of Manhattan earners, households in the bottom fifth made about 2 cents.

That represents a substantial widening of the income gap from previous years. In 1980, the top fifth of earners made 21 times what the bottom fifth made in Manhattan, which ranked 17th among the nation's counties in income disparity.

By 1990, Manhattan ranked second behind Kalawao County, Hawaii, a former leper colony with which it had little in common except for that signature grove of palm trees at the World Financial Center. The rich in Manhattan made 32 times the average of the poor then, or $174,486 versus $5,435.

Boy Rides Through Farms

2005-09-05T10:00:00.000-05:00

To honor the farmers who have abandoned me, I rode my bike from Northfield to St. Paul yesterday. The route meanders through huge sod farms, small dairy farms, and large new housing developments, including one south of Farmington that promised "Providence: Urban Townhomes." I had no idea that Farmington was urban, though I'm told Northfield is now considered part of the South Metro area.

The ride along Highway 3 was great--about 38 miles from house to house, with wide shoulders along the highway, old farms, a few saloons, and rolling hills toward the end until you hit Robert Street. I passed through Farmington and made a mental note of the new Starbucks in Rosemount. I even rode up Ramsey Hill in St. Paul, probably one of the biggest hills in the metro area, and the first time I've managed to pedal up the entire hill.

Farmers Abandon Law School and Urban Living

2005-08-30T17:00:00.000-05:00

I've been abandoned. Seriously. The farmers today informed me that they are dropping out of law school and returning to the farm. Within an hour of telling me this, they had packed up most of their things and were on the road. Apparently, the contract for the farmer's cows fell through and the cows were coming back to the farm--tomorrow.

I'm shell-shocked. It was a perfect fit, and I really liked them. While they will be back for their furniture--a brand new entire bedroom set--it sounds like a done deal. Now, I'm a tenant's attorney compelled to enforce my sublease against two renters. Dang. Anyone know of a good housemate out there?

A Pinup, But Not In Lingerie

2005-08-26T13:33:00.000-05:00

Contrary to rampant rumors, I am NOT going to model the new line of Victoria's Secret underwear and bras. NOT.

Yesterday I got an e-mail from a staff person at Guild Incorporated, a social service agency that helps lots of people with mental illness. It turns out they selected me as an "Everyday Angel" because of my past pro bono work in helping their clients. I represented one woman in a nasty divorce case involving mental illness on both sides--boy, was that a doozy, but ended with good results after years of struggle. I also represented a woman in an Order for Protection hearing involving a terribly abusive husband. I actually forgot all about these cases and was only reminded of them when I got the e-mail yesterday.

Here's the deal: I'm one of 12 Everyday Angels. Why 12? Because part of the deal is a photograph of me produced in the annual Everyday Angel calendar, sent to some 4,000 people associated with the Guild. There's also an interview and whatnot, and an award ceremony, but the idea that I could be a pinup in a cubicle in an office building in Maplewood is pretty frickin' funny. Though I am, of course, completely flattered and honored.

Crabby Summer

2005-08-24T07:07:00.000-05:00

First, I was pleasantly surprised to read an editorial in the Star Tribune about bike commuting. Apparently, the Strib editors believe it has been a "beastly summer," difficult for bike commuters. I don't think I'd go as far as beastly. Maybe crabby or flaky.

The farmers have moved in. Ken, the fourth-generation farmer, sold all his cattle except a few, and some folks back at the farm have agreed to feed the last remaining cows. He's truly a farmer, with broad meaty and calloused hands, an aw shucks attitude and a laid back temperament. Liberal to boot. His wife is not your typical farmer's wife, though what the hell is a typical farmer's wife? Law school orientation has started for them and they have their first reading assignments, which they diligently complete. They've already developed that first year law student knack to discuss every small detail of a case, as if it is the most moving case ever read. I'm going to enjoy this, though it's an adjustment to get used to two additional people in my space.

Chitlins, Pickled Pigs Feet, and Bush Bearings

2005-08-19T09:55:00.000-05:00

The diversity of my job and life is pretty remarkable, though it's likely going to change. Take yesterday. I spent most of the morning supervising lay advocates in housing court, then we all went out to lunch for a working meeting. While it was officially a meeting, it turned into a long discussion about food, including arguments about the best way to make okra, the delicacy of pickled pigs feet, and how much you have to clean chitlins before boiling them in water and beer. I learned, in fact, that "you cannot eat everyone's chitlins" simply because you cannot trust how well the intestines were cleaned.

From there, I met with a bunch of attorneys to discuss technical details about landlord-tenant law. Sounds boring, but I actually like that stuff as well. Then, a discussion with my mechanic about transmission fluid and the right front end replacement of bush bearings and U joint. From there, home with my son, where he met one of the farmers and we got to talking about pregnancy checks in heifers, complete with gloves up to your shoulder.

I really shouldn't call them the 'farmers' anymore. though the husband is still back at the farm dealing with the sale of the dairy cattle. He wants to sell them to someone close to home so he can still visit them. Interesting.

Keep Your Mouth Shut

2005-08-18T09:45:00.000-05:00

I've been biking for three months now, almost to the day. Physically, I'm a lot faster and stronger on the bike, and I've returned to my bike messengering days when the bike felt nearly like an extension of my body. When I rode from Max's house to my house last night, I covered the 12+ miles in about 45 minutes. A word to the wise, though. When you bike fast and down along the wetlands next to Minnehaha Creek, keep your mouth shut. While they may be a delicacy somewhere in the world, a bowlful of gnats down your gullet is not very appetizing. Yech.

Ultrathon Stage 2

2005-08-16T14:30:00.000-05:00

Little did I know that the Urban Ultrathon is a staged event. Stage 2 today involved loading my bike into the moving truck, returning the truck, biking over to the YWCA to work out (yes, the ultrathon is a full body experience), hopping on a train with the bike, badly miscalculating the bus schedule to South Minneapolis, and then biking to Max's Mom's house in lieu of the bus, where I borrowed a car. From there to Max's school, hop on a school bus for a field trip to the Metrodome, hop back on and return to school, then off to a meeting, all before noon. A protest has been launched, however, about the use of my ex-wife's car. I had no idea that ultrathon rules were so rigid.

Despite the setbacks, my bike is super fit after its tune up and flat tire repair yesterday. I love it. And with gas now at $2.69 a gallon and going higher, it's about time I'm back in the game.

Urban Ultrathon

2005-08-15T11:50:00.000-05:00

First, the rumors are true: I've been on my bike. But, only for a limited time. You see, I apparently entered my first urban ultrathon. Here's how this sporting event works. First, you fry your transmission on your pickup truck, rendering it useless. Forced to bike to your child's house to pick him up and take him to school, you blow your back tire while crossing the Mississippi River. After limping along on the bike for half a mile, you lock it up and hop a bus that dumps you about a mile from your kid's house. From there, you grab your bicycle helmet and run the final mile to the house, arriving a sweaty mess. You play with your kid, get him some breakfast, then walk to the coffee shop where he gets his favorite sprinkle donut. Then, both of you hop on another city bus to his school. After dropping the kid, you hop back on a bus, then a train, and arrive at the truck rental place, where you rent a ten foot moving truck. You hop in the truck, drive to your old office and load up all the remaining furniture and boxes, say hello to your old landlord, and head off to move the furniture into storage.

All this before 9:00 a.m., which is a new record in the event. We'll see what happens tomorrow, but for now I have to retrieve my bike and take the truck in for treatment, all post urban ultrathon clean up.

(Let's Get) Physical

2005-08-12T07:00:00.000-05:00

I'm taking my bike in for a physical today. I get a free 90 day check up at Penn Cycle and I'm now approaching the 86th day. It's in need of a tune-up, as I estimate I've ridden it about 500 miles in the last three months.

If you read the title to this entry and got a sudden twinge of feeling toward Olivia Newton John, then, yeah, I suckered you in. I know you are all closet lovers of Olivia, as I am a devoted follower of her poetic genius. So, I leave you with these fine words. Notice her brilliant turn of the phrase "intimate restaurant" and the remarkable closing of the song's first stanza. Cue it up, boys, and don't blame me if you are grooving to it the rest of the day and singing it loudly to your colleagues.

I'm saying all the things that I know you'll like, 
Makin' good conversation
I gotta handle you just right, 
You know what I mean
I took you to an intimate restaurant,
Then to a suggestive movie
There's nothin' left to talk about, 
Unless it's horizontally
Let's get physical, physical
I wanna get physical
Let's get into physical
Let me hear your body talk, your body talk
Let me hear your body talk
Let's get physical, physical
I wanna get physical
Let's get into physical

When It Rains, It Rains

2005-08-10T13:00:00.000-05:00

I was offered a job today at a small law firm in Edina. I'd be the fifth attorney there and would do a lot of litigation. In other words, court work. I tell you, when it rains, it really rains. I was half-kidding earlier about wrapping up the trifecta of love, money and shelter, and here it is at least partially wrapped. There's lots of work and unknowns for the future, but I honestly cannot help but smile.

It's likely I will take the job, though I asked to sleep on it before making a decision. For me, the most painful issue will be leaving my baby behind--Project 504. It's been six years in the making and a roller-coaster ride at that, with near financial shutdowns, frustrating and deflating defeats, and unbelievable results and recognition. Recently, I've been working with the most remarkable people: our team of lay advocates, regular people who assist tenants in eviction cases in Hennepin County District Court. Two in particular--Megan and Yolanda--are quite powerful in the work that they do. All I did was provide some basic training and direction, as well as immediate feedback, and they have become smarter, more insightful, and more effective than the team of volunteer attorneys who are available to help tenants at court. They are street smart, savvy and compassionate, a rare combination. I will miss them immensely, not only because of their skill and efforts, but also because I have loved hanging out with them at court and taking their guff about my life--whether that relates to my dating, my son, or the goofed up things that I sometimes do.

We'll see. If all goes as I would like it to, I will accept the job and also hang on to some role with PJ504. Given the rain that has come down on me, I'm thinking it's all possible. Knock on wood, everybody, and touch metal if you happen to be or speak Italian.

Darkness Visible

2005-08-07T17:00:00.000-05:00

First of all, four thirty in the morning is not morning. It's NIGHT. It's the hour that people sneak home from doing wrong. It's the peak hour of owls, the middle of the day for raccoons, the bedtime for ghosts. But I swear to God it's night, and there I was at 4:28 a.m. in the parking lot near Summit Avenue and River Road thinking "this is all a brilliant practical joke. I've just been punked."

I wasn't punked. Ugly Juice and her friend Tonya did show up. UJ ran two miles with us before fading, her excuse being lack of training. Tonya wrapped it up after about 9 miles, which was excellent considering her late night snacking at the Chatterbox and the fact that her father--a marathoner himself--passed away suddenly two weeks ago. I hustled on and completed about 13 miles before heading in to Dunn Bros for coffee. I wasn't going to stop at nine when I got out there at 4:30 in the NIGHT.

Now, for your literary types out there, Darkness Visible is the title of William Styron's brilliant book about his personal struggle with depression. Read it if you need to understand depression. I won't reveal my own struggle, but suffice it to say that I am happier now than I have been in at least four years, evidenced by my ability to drag myself out of bed at 4:00 and run thirteen miles, starting in the dark and finally ending after the sun comes up. Thanks, UJ, for busting my butt.

Running Craze Taking Over

2005-08-06T19:00:00.000-05:00

Part of the deal with the biking powers is to track how much weight, if any, I lose as a result of riding my bike around. But that's problematic when I'm simultaneously training for a marathon. I've actually lost about 15-20 pounds in the last few months, but that has been accelerated by all the biking. I'm guessing it's responsible for 5 of the pounds, 6 tops. That's what I'll report.

Now, talk about insane. Ugly Juice and her friend Tonya roped me into a 15 mile run tomorrow morning at 4:30 a.m. Yeah, 4:30. Apparently this is something of a regular deal with them, and they rope other people in as well. The only reason I'm going is that I will already have been up and have biked 42 miles, plus they are promising me all-you-can-eat banana and orange GU. Who could refuse? I am disappointed they did not get the new flavor, Espresso Love, in honor of my caffeine addiction and mad dating skills.

Two Going, One to Go

2005-08-05T06:30:00.000-05:00

OK, my life trifecta of shelter, money and love is cruising right along. I got new housemates. Two to be exact, and they are a farm couple from Southeastern Minnesota. Both of them are in their fifties, operate a dairy farm, and are going to law school in the fall at William Mitchell College of Law. Pretty fascinating, and it's a good fit for my house, as we need a few head of cattle and some down home cooking. Actually, he's the farmer and she's involved in academia in some way, and they are selling their cattle and moving in with me on August 15. Don't worry, it won't crimp my newfound and exciting dating life--they'll spend most of their weekends back on the farm.

So, I got love going and shelter done. More info in a bit on the money side; i.e., my job search. Oh, and an update on the bike situation--after all, this is BikeTown.

Will Bike and Boy Be Repossessed?

2005-08-04T14:23:00.000-05:00

I've been on the bike a total of 0 days since mid-July. I hope Bicycling Magazine is not reading this, as they may take the bike away.

But I have excuses, good excuses. Like I've been dating, finding housemates, and looking for a job. All is going well and in different degrees. Take the dating. I've been on two dates so far. The first was nice but there was no chemistry, which is code for I wasn't that attracted to her. Hey, I'm being honest. The second was last night with a very nice, smart and attractive woman. We had fun on an All-American Date. But, man, am I a complete dork. Dinner was cool and we had a great conversation. Then we went for a walk along the Mississippi. Toward the end of our walk, I suggested that she should get home (she lives about 50 miles away from the Twin Cities) because it's "getting late and getting dark." Yeah, like 9:15. Dufus. Did I recover? Nope. I followed that brilliance with my saying "yeah, I'm a worrier about travel at night." What a moron. God, can I be any more of a complete ass? I barely recovered and said or mumbled something or maybe I didn't say anything, but it could have been"or we could get a beer or something." She suggested ice cream and Izzy's was not far away, so off we went to get ice cream and listen to music in her car through her iPod. Yeah, we went parking on our first date.

I withheld the driving-home-in-the-dark story to my dating advisor, who is supplying me with tips and encouragement. My advisor will remain confidential, but suffice it to say that she is young and super hip and dishes out great advice. But she doesn't have much to work with at times. For instance, and to continue the theme of boy as dork, I suggested a second date toward the end of last night. What was the proposed date? Going to a coffee shop in her town and reading the Sunday New York Times. My advisor's reaction was, well, fairly predictable, like "You f---ing moron. God, what are you, an old couple already ten years into the marriage, hanging out and just reading the paper on a Sunday morning? Jesus, what are you going to do next, mow her yard?"

I'm in damage control mode now. We'll see if we can save me from myself.

Boy May Grow Up Yet

2005-07-27T11:11:00.000-05:00

I've been gone. I apologize. I spent a very relaxing and comfortable (and bikeless) five days on a lake near Racine, Wisconsin. My son and I took the train to Milwaukee and then went from there. He learned to fish, saw his first firefly, learned how to canoe, experienced a paddleboat, and had the courage to grab on and fling himself off on a rope swing.

So, I get back to the real grind of all the stuff this boy has to deal with: career, a roommate for my house (check out www.haguehouse.blogspot.com for details), closing my organization's office, and dealing with my ever-present singlehood. So I decided to grow up and . . . go on a lunch date. It's today, and if it goes well you will likely hear nothing about it. Or maybe if it goes badly you'll hear nothing about it. We'll see. After the date, I'll decide any career issues by 4:00, select a roommate by 8:00, and get my organization's office closed and moved out by noon tomorrow. That's how you do things as a lawyer.

More bike things in a bit. Thanks, UJ, for kicking my butt and telling me to get back to blogging.

Boy Reveals Bike

2005-07-18T07:00:00.000-05:00

Geez, it's hard to believe I never posted a picture of my bike. Here it is, in all its glory but without the glory of a decent photographer (notice the withering vines on my backyard fence). The second picture is the bike's rear end and gear mechanism. For you geek heads out there, it's the Shimano Nexus Inter-7 internally geared rear hub, which means basically that everything is inside that little silver hub there, you betcha. I think it's pretty cool, though being limited to seven gears has its downside, especially downhill. Even in top gear going downhill, I pedal like the Wicked Witch of the West completely hopped up on meth.

The Bike

Look, Ma! No Derailleur!

Dorks and Winners All Around

2005-07-12T06:47:00.000-05:00

I was biking to my son's T-Ball game this past week. I'm actually one of the coaches of the team, called the Nighthawks, and I wear a bright baby blue shirt with COACH spelled out in huge letters on the back. I'm sure it looks stylish from behind as I ride the bike. Anyway, out of the blue I spotted another BikeTown bike winner about to enter the Midtown Greenway. The bikes that we all won are unique--with Penn Cycle emblazoned on the chain guard--so I knew he was one of us. Like a dork, I pedalled as fast as I could toward the poor guy and yelled "Hey!" He didn't apparently hear me--or thought I was some sort of thug who wears a safety helmet--so I kept pedalling toward him and again yelled "Hey!" I got his attention and then blurted out "Whoa, did you win that bike?" The guy--a small and now confused man who I am not convinced spoke English--answered "Uhh, yeah." Well, what could I say then? I just stood up on my pedals to turn around, licked my lips, stuck out my chest and said, like a little kid "That's so cool. I won mine too." I'd like to say we then had an instant and permanent loving bond, but when I looked back he was coasting down the hill to hurry on the Greenway.

Which reminds me that I should post a picture of the bike in the next blog (and also tell you about the discovery that UJ has made concerning an impostor biketown!).

Ask the Amateur: 3

2005-07-02T07:03:00.000-05:00

Hi, Amateur:

If you get struck by lightning on your bike, will the bike tires ground you? Can you survive?

Ugly Juice

Dear Juice:

Whoa, I had the same question! Being a complete amateur and a part-time moron, I thought that--as long as you held on to your rubber handlebars or did not touch metal--you were good to go. Wrong. According to the National Weather Service, you are literally toast if your bike gets struck by lightning, because it is thought of as a natural conductor.

Don't fret. Although you'll likely get struck by lightning before you win Powerball, you still have only a 1 in 600,000 chance of frying. If you are caught out in the open and on a bicycle, the best thing to do is get under a bridge or, get this, under high voltage power lines (but away from the metal tower). If you are out in the open with no bridge or high voltage power lines to protect you, then you should be desperate. As in, get off your bike, lay it down, and get into the "Lightning Desperation Position" (not to be confused with the Duck and Cover maneuver in the case of a nuclear bomb).

To illustrate, the National Weather Service provides a nice picture, and I've courteously swiped it and placed it here. Next time you are in a lightning storm but safely in your car, look carefully over at the side of the road and chances are you'll see a few dozen folks in this position.

Lightning Desperation Position

Mouse Tells Cat to Shove It

2005-06-27T22:15:00.000-05:00

I dropped Max off at his mom's house a little before 9:00 tonight, around the tail end of the rain and wind storm that swept through here. I had my bike in the back of the pickup truck and my raincoat. So, I said to hell with it and rode the 12 miles home. It was pretty dang cool. Few cars, smooth trails and roads, and a tail wind to push me along. The only thing that creeped me out was the cracks of lightning every now and then that spread across the sky. And, the irony of this dumb little mouse telling the cat to shove it? I was protected in the darkness by a cool little gizmo known as a Cat Eye.

Почему он Вам понравится

2005-06-27T07:00:00.000-05:00

I've been the lucky recipient of hundreds of Russian e-mails, or Russian Spam, at a rate of about five a day. At first it was really annoying, as I don't know how to battle it. I can't really use a filter to filter it out because the filter can't use Cyrillic characters. And I really don't know the common Russian spam words, or any Russian at that.

So, I've given up, and I translate it now and then just to see what I'm being offered. Turns out it's as prosaic as a collapsible stool. In fact, the title of this blog entry ("Why it is pleasant to you") is from the e-mail that offers me the collapsible stool. The e-mail advises me:

Order a collapsible stool of all for 299 roubles, cost of delivery across Moscow 99 roubles on ph.: (095) 585 77 14. Delivery within 5 working days.

It is easy at perenoske. Basic parts incorporate lipuchkoj and do not collapse at walking. Give a gift to the mum or the grandmother that they always could sit down in public transport.

I got another e-mail just a few minutes ago. I think I'll translate "Knock it off, already" into Russian (Пробейте это прочь, уже), send it, and see what happens.

Movie Deal Imminent

2005-06-25T23:03:00.000-05:00

The roughly 15 seconds of fame I've received for winning a bike may be extended through a . . . movie deal. I got an e-mail this week inviting me to be part of a "TV show that features winners and their home video stories." I'm not so sure. They want me or a friend or family member to video tape me, presumably riding my bike and demonstrating my day to day biking adventure known as commuting.

I'll give it some thought.

Biking Honeymoon Over

2005-06-20T15:00:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I woke up this morning, looked across the bed at my Giant Cypress LE and didn't think she was all that pretty anymore. The chain already needs a bit of cleaning, she's noisier than when I first got her, and I think it's time to take her into Penn Cycle for my free 90 day tune up. Over the weekend, I rode the bike a total of zippo minutes, sympolizing the depth of the post-honeymoon period. Ahh, the memories.

I do have the excuse of having Max with me most of the time--and we had fun, playing miniature golf, soccer, cars, camping out in the back yard on Friday night, and then putting his hand through the glass portion of a screen door yesterday. I think it was his best Mr. Incredible impression--and we had a trip to urgent care where they put some really cool superhuman glue on the deep cut, something called Dermabond. Now he questions why people don't have metal skin and get cut, or why they make doors without safety glass. With all the focus on skin, I did the next logical thing: I taught him the old standby grade school tease: "Your epidermis is showing, your epidermis is showing!" He misremembered it as your dermabond is showing, which is close enough.

'On Your Left'

2005-06-15T21:05:00.000-05:00

An occasional lefty look at the world

These days I cannot get an Ursala Le Guin short story out of my head. If you have not yet read "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas," please do. It's a Hugo award winning short story and one of my favorites.

I've thought about it a lot recently. It came to mind when various news media reported that the number of millionnaires in the United States increased 21 percent in the last year, with those in the $5 million club increasing at an even greater rate (38 percent). This at a time when real wages for real people fell at the fastest rate since 1991.

Omelas is a utopian society. Its joy, happiness and abundance depends on the utter degradation of one child. As Le Guin writes:

In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is. The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective, or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits hunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and nobody will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes--the child has no understanding of time or interval--sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may come in and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother's voice, sometimes speaks. "I will be good," it says. "Please let me out. I will be good!" They never answer. The child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, "eh-haa, eh-haa," and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a half-bowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually.

They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child's abominable misery.

Although you should read the complete story, there are those in Omelas who cannot accept the child's complete abandonment and abuse. They are the ones who walk away from Omelas.

While on my bike in the last few weeks, I've been unable to shake the notion that many people in our society live in a relative bounty of Omelas, yet do not understand that their joy depends on the misery of others. They do not walk away from Omelas--rather, they embrace their bounty and revel in how it is justified. And, then, in a fit of absolute dejection, I wonder if they are right.

Ask the Amateur: 2

2005-06-14T09:00:00.000-05:00

Hey, Amateur:

Dude, I'm a Ninja Biker. Like I have a black bike, black spray-painted reflectors, and use some wicked stuff that makes my bike go quiet when I ride at night. Even my next door neighbor [who is a complete nut case and lives right across the street from Vine Park Brewing Company at West Seventh and Canton-- that's the odd side, not the even side], well, he can't hear me at all. Cool, huh? I was wondering if I get caught (like that's even remotely possible) anything bad could happen to me.

Ninja Biker

Dear Ninja:

Ninja, by itself, is perfectly legal. You'd have to add something else to be criminal, or what lawyers commonly call "Ninja Plus." Like Ninja Plus Murder or Ninja Plus Disorderly Conduct. Unfortunately for you, we'd call your scenario Ninja Plus Misdemeanor Unlawful Operation of a Bicycle. Not only do you have to have working reflectors when you ride at night in Minnesota, you must also have a lamp that emits enough white light to be seen at least 500 feet away, as well as a red back reflector that reflects enough light to be seen from 100 to 600 feet away. If you want, Ninja, you can also comply with the law by using a rear light that emits a red flashing signal. Oh, and wear a helmet.

Cat Scores Big

2005-06-10T12:00:00.000-05:00

Well, the cat lured me out of my mouse hole this morning, making me think I can get to Max's school and back without getting hit by rain. I made it there, and we then took the bus to school with my bike, but I got nailed on my ride back. While I like running in the rain, biking is a bit less fun, especially if you are rushing to get to a meeting and don't want to look like a skunk (or smell like one either).

I've also received some guff this week about not updating things more quickly. I double promise to get back here more often.

Bracket Madness

2005-06-04T21:11:00.000-05:00

When you are on your bike, you run across some interesting signs. I came across this homemade one in Mendota the other day. Click it for a larger image so you can read the fine print.

Wind, My Great Nemesis, Returns

2005-06-02T21:00:00.000-05:00

Back in the day--and it was way back in the day--I used to seriously curse the wind when I was riding my bike. On bad days, I'd wave my fist up in the air and yell "Goddamnit" as loud as I could, in pure rage. As in 'how dare you stop me cold in my tracks while my legs ache and I try to pedal through your power.' As in, how could you do this to me, the injustice of it all?

The rage has subsided, but not the wind. Yesterday, I left court late to get to a meeting with the minister at my church. No, I'm not getting married, divorced, christened, chastised, or baptised. I just have a pretty cool minister at a very liberal church, one that I started attending about two years ago. Anyway, I left court and was already late, hopping on my bike and hoping for prevailing west to east winds. I was out of luck and had to struggle hard against the wind the whole way. And, yes, I cursed that wind, cursed it hard. Which was fitting in the whole scheme of things, me on my bike, pouring sweat and cursing a power that I could not control, on my way to talk with the minister at my church about things that are peaceful and spiritual and beyond my control. I arrived a mess, with sweat soaking my back and up and over my shoulders where the backpack straps were. Wind, my great nemesis, had returned.

Ask the Amateur: 1

2005-05-31T09:00:00.000-05:00

Yo, Amateur:

What's up with you guys? Why do you insist on riding on the road when there's a bike path two feet away? What is it, some sort of political statement?

Get Off My Road

Dear GOMR:

Chill, dude. I'm an amateur--how should I know? Though I do prefer trails to roads when I have a choice. To get a professional's perspective, I passed your question on to Mike Beadles, President of the Twin Cities Bicycling Club. This is what he had to say:

I actually do hear that question quite a bit from co-workers, family, and some friends that do not understand.

The safest place to be for a cyclist is "on the road."

Cyclists are twice more likely to be involved in an injury accident on a bike path, and 25 times more likely on a sidewalk.

I have logged over 5,000 miles per year since 1997, and I too believed before that year that I started that cyclists should only ride on paths and sidewalks. After my years of experience, I can personally say that the best place for me to ride now is on low traffic, well-paved roads.

Regarding safety, think of it this way, bike paths are full of others - kids with training wheels, roller-bladers, runners, people walking dogs, and there are no "rules" on a bike path, anyone goes whereever on the bike path they want to. Also, think of when a bike path crosses a driveway or street, do motorists stop before the path (like for the crosswalks downtown for pedestrians) to allow those are using the path to cross? I can say from experience that most do not.

Also, even though it's usually not enforced, there is a speed limit of 10 MPH on most bike paths, and I ride consistently at almost twice that speed all the time.

Also, bicycles are legal vehicles on the road (see Minnesota Statute 169.222) , and with that comes a legal responsibility. Obeying the rules of the road - i.e. riding on the right side of the road, stopping at stop signs and stop lights.

Change Is Coming

2005-05-30T19:00:00.000-05:00

Well, I've decided that I can't really talk about bikes and bike commuting all the time. Boring. Though I did have a great weekend riding along the southern edge of the Mississippi River, from Harriet Island in St. Paul, through Lilydale, across the Mendota Bridge, past Fort Snelling, and back across the Mississippi River, then back home. I actually did that twice, and the trail along the Mississippi River is fantastic, though the climb up the High Bridge in St. Paul is daunting, as is the climb up Ohio Street and Cherokee Avenue on the way back. Seems lots of cyclists are using the bridge and Ohio Street to do hill work.

But I digress. I'm going to mix things up a bit. As promised, I'm going to start writing 'Ask the Amateur,' with the first one coming up tomorrow. I'll also reach into my bag occasionally for the things I collect over the course of each week, and will call that 'The Messenger's Bag.' Who knows what I'll dig up and dish out (lately it's been some hilarious '419' e-mails I've gotten). Finally, I'll pipe in on politics once a week in what I'll call 'On Your Left,' with an obvious leftist slant. These will be weekly deals, with plenty of biking news and personal biking observations filling in the rest. So, stay tuned.

Mouse 5, Cat 1

2005-05-26T20:00:00.000-05:00

I've made it through a week of commuting and riding. I've also managed to play a good game of cat and mouse with the incessant rain that keeps hitting the Twin Cities. I've ridden on days that seemed like it would rain but it didn't, and on the one day I stayed off the bike it rained all day. Today, I flirted with the edges of every thunderhead that rolled into town. When riding to Max's school, I skirted the southern edge of a storm rolling in, then turned left and missed the eastern edge of another. I then rode down Minnehaha Parkway, right between rain coming down to the south and to the north of me.

That's not to say the cat didn't score some style points. I didn't get soaked by rain but did ride through puddles and over rain-soaked streets. Without fenders on my bike, I arrived at Max's school with a nicely defined rain and grease streak down the middle of my back, up my neck, and onto my helmet. I'm not sure if there's a name for the obvious splatter pattern of rain bikers, but to me it's like having toilet paper stuck to your shoe as you come out of the bathroom.

Agliochophobia

2005-05-25T10:00:00.000-05:00

There is no name for the specific fear of being hit by a car, so I had to resort to making one up. Agliochophobia is actually a mix of agliophobia (the fear of pain) with ochophobia (fear of vehicles). It is not to be confused with arachibutyrophobia (fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth).

But, yes, of all things, my only real phobia in life is a fear of being hit by a car. It's not exactly an irrational fear, and it is one that seems to have developed in the last decade or so. It was definitely not present when I was a bike messenger in the late 1980's, when I was an undeniably stupid twenty-something American male. I actually tried to instill in Boston drivers the very rational fear of bike messengers. I was known at times to spit on motorists' windshields or pull out my Kryptonite lock and threaten to smash a driver's window. Usually, my rage was directed at cab drivers, who often dangerously cut me off and also fought back for any of my transgressions. One guy even pulled a Rockford Files move and blocked my escape across the Mass Ave bridge (though the cabbie didn't fully take into account my then formidable sidewalk hopping skills).

But, here's how it manifests itself today, nearly twenty years later. I cross only at corners, cringe at walking through parking lots, usually wait for the traffic signal to turn to White Pedestrian Guy before crossing the street, and rarely if ever cross against the light. I'm a model pedestrian and, by extension, a model bicyclist.

Sure, I've had my share of comments by many of you fearless lawbreakers out there ("that guy wouldn't last five minutes in New York" is my favorite) and I may look like the complete cycling dork, waiting patiently at the light while other cyclists whiz by and no car can be seen on the cross street for at least a mile. But, hey, I'm just following the law and, unbeknownst to everyone, engaging in field therapy for my slight agliochophobic suffering. In fact, inspired by my behavior as a model pedestrian and cyclist, I've decided to launch an "Ask the Amateur" portion of this blog. In it, I'll combine my training as a lawyer and my status as a certified agliochophobic and answer any and all questions about cycling and pedestrian travel. And I mean any, and I'll go to the source if I have to find the right answer. So, ask away.

Sweat Free Commuting

2005-05-24T12:00:00.000-05:00

I passed the first test this morning of going to court while still commuting by bike. It involves going by bus and light rail, which is exceedingly easy. I start from St. Paul by bus, where I put the bike on the front end of the bus in a special rack for bicycle commuters. It's pretty easy to do, but I can't imagine everyone has the ability to lift the bike up so far to put it into the rack. From the bus, I transfer to the light rail at the Lake Street Station. Again, very easy to weave your bike through commuters and hang it up on a special rack in the train. Pictures of how to do this are here.

So, I ended up in Housing Court fresh and sweat free, where we are about to launch a new tenant advocacy project next week. More on that later.

Cornball Runner Admits All

2005-05-22T07:00:00.000-05:00

Biking is going extremely well--I used my truck just a bit yesterday to get Max to his soccer game and then pick him up at a friend's house. We then had a "bike adventure" later where I packed up binoculars, a tupperware container full of fresh strawberries, a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips, and about fifteen Hotwheels. We then rode along Minnehaha Parkway from Minnehaha Park to where he and his mom live in South Minneapolis, stopping at Mel-O-Glaze Donuts to get a cookie. He ended up playing with his cars on Cottontail on the Trail, the 11 foot bronze bunny at Portland and the Parkway. By the way, if you want to be serenaded by thousands of Northern Cricket Frogs, ride along the Minnehaha Parkway trail between the light rail station and 34th Street.

Earlier, I fit in a run as part of my training for the marathon. OK, I'm a complete cornball runner. Not my gait or stride, but how I motivate myself to run, and this is something I hardly ever discuss because it reveals how profoundly American and dreamily dumb I can be. First, let's take the music, which I need in the early part of training. Songs motivating me right now range from Sonic Youth's Kool Thing to Enigma's Eyes of Truth. Also in the mix is Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes, Seal's Crazy, and Moby's Alone. It's the rhythm that primarily counts. And the songs get me imagining what I typically always imagine: winning some prestigious marathon, usually the Boston Marathon, sometimes the Twin Cities Marathon. Here's a typical script from my head, and seriously folks, this is what I think about at some point on each long run, usually while listening to Enigma, all timed to various dramatic points in the song:

It's late in the marathon, about mile 19 or 20. The camera is low to the ground and at the top of a hill. Heat waves are coming off the pavement. Bobbing heads start to come into focus: two Kenyan runners, obviously on a record pace, their bodies rising as they come over the crest of the hill. Suddenly, I appear just behind the Kenyans, then move to the side, and the announcers go crazy. Who is that guy? My God, he's keeping up with the Kenyans. He can't last, he can't last. Even other regular runners on the course stop to listen to radios or watch the race on big screen televisions. No one can believe this unknown American kid is competing with the Kenyans. I'm just behind them, actually talking to them, sort of trash talking in Swahili, saying they can't beat me. We come down Beacon and into Kenmore Square in Boston, the huge crowds ecstatic. We race down Comm Ave and turn first at Dartmouth and then left for the final stretch down Boylston Street. The announcers have finally identified me and people from my hometown have now turned on their televisions because, somehow, they heard I was about to win. People who never believed in me suddenly see me in a new light, every person who ever slighted me is, remarkably, watching it on television. And then I pass the Kenyans and blaze down the final 385 yards to win the race, usually setting a new world record. I then collapse and sob.

That's the general vision, though there are lots of variations. Like it's the Olympic Marathon and I make my move in the tunnel into the stadium, with the crowd going crazy as me and a Tanzanian runner come out of the dark and onto the track. Or, in the late 1980's, I would beat Rob de Castella, the Australian marathoner. Yes, I always win. And sometimes I get a call from the President, which I refuse. I then fade into history, never winning another race, never to be heard from again.

Commuter Chic

2005-05-20T13:36:00.000-05:00

Wanted: stylish business suit, suitable for an attorney. Must wick perspiration and be highly breathable. Water resistance a plus, as well as optional hood and hand-warming pockets. Fleece or H2No fabric a possibility, if decently stylish. Matching pants or slacks should be flexible, breathable, and able to deflect grease, oil, mud, and street grime. Also in need of a necktie that can simultaneously function as a headband, without loss of style or increase in odor. Serious proposals only. Paisley or gabardine not an option.

King of the World

2005-05-19T18:00:00.000-05:00

Well, I think I rode about 25 miles today, crossing the Mississippi River twice. I rode to Max's pre-school and had lunch with him and his friends. If I ever need to feel like I'm the coolest person alive, all I have to do is go to Max's school with some information that is only a bit remarkable. The kids then think I'm gravy. The fact that I rode from St. Paul to Minneapolis got a bunch of "WHOAs" from Max's table, and the fact that I won a new bike put me over the top, along with having a Kryptonite Lock key that lights up. And, in the eyes of my five-year-old son, I'm just about King of the World.

Snap back to reality. Everyone passed me like I was standing still. Middle-aged women and men, hotshots on road bikes, grandma out for a ride. Actually, the only person I passed was, in all seriousness, yawning at the time and stretching her arms while riding with no hands. I left her in the dust, man, and ended the day with five pounds of sweat in my shirt and two sore legs. But all worth it, as I never started up my rusty ol' truck--I calculate that I lost 12 pounds of gas today.

Here's the scoop on the goodies: a Giant Cypress LE, apparently custom built with Shimano Nexus components, Kryptonite Lock and Cable, Bell Helmet, and Cateye Light Set. Plus a bunch of maps, a bumper sticker for Share the Road, Shimano coffee tumbler, water bottle, free bagels and coffee, and speeches by Lt. Governor Molnau, St. Paul Mayor Randy Kelly, and the Minnesota Commissioner of Public Safety. Penn Cycle fitted all of us on the bikes (about 25 of the 50 winners were there) and then we had a ceremonial ride around the Capitol.

Helmet Head

2005-05-19T09:00:00.000-05:00

Just popped home for a bit after picking up my bike, light, lock, helmet, some coffee, maps, water bottle, mug, and other goodies. Very very cool bike, custom built by Giant and Shimano [play the "Jump Your Co-Workers" game on the Shimano site]. More details later, hopefully with pictures.

Funny thing is that we received driving and parking directions yesterday to get down to the Minnesota Transportation Building, where we received our bikes and celebrated Bike to Work Day. So, for some folks, they drove to Bike to Work Day. I took the bus, mostly because I'm only five minutes away from the Capitol.

I'll post more later today about the festivities. I did, however, ride away after the ceremony and got home long enough to check in before heading off to a meeting at William Mitchell College of Law, then lunch with my son Max at his pre-school. At this point, my only concern is how to take care of the helmet head that develops from wearing a helmet while I bike all over town. Maybe it's a status symbol among bikers. I'm not sure my clients will understand.

Boy Bites Bike

2005-05-18T08:00:00.000-05:00

I'm being dogged by the press about this earth-shattering story of winning a bike. So, I held a press conference earlier today and my press aide, lawyer, and I fielded questions. Here are some snippets:

You seem to be portraying yourself as a simple boy with a bike. Isn't true, however, that you're a former bike messenger?

Uh, yeah, that's true. I was a bike messenger for two years in Boston, trying to earn money for college. It was the best job I ever had.

And you didn't wear a helmet then. What changed?

I was hard-headed back then, so all I needed was a pink Trek bicycle hat. I'm now approaching 40 and my brain is a lot mushier, needing more protection. I still have that hat, though.

What does your son think about all this?

I explained it all to him and he asked if he could have another treat. Actually, he thinks he can commute with me, but we'll see.

Umm, in addition to being a bike messenger, isn't it also true you rode in a 24 hour bicycle race while you were a teenager?

Man, how do you guys know this? Yeah, when I was twelve or so I picked up my blue Schwinn and headed over to Utica Square in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I grew up. It wasn't exactly a race--more like a 24 hour ride. So, I rode that Schwinn for 24 yours, piling up more than 230 miles. There were all sorts of serious riders there and when I ended up third overall--because I was one of the few people who actually rode all night--folks thought I cheated. So, they nearly took away my medal before my dad intervened. I guess I didn't look the part--no bike shorts or shirt, on a beat up and out-of-date ten-speed, tennis shoes, just a pesky kid. I was like a twelve-year-old version of Dave Stoller, one of the cutters in the movie Breaking Away. But I ended up getting that medal.

Joining the Bike Commuter Cult

2005-05-17T11:38:00.000-05:00

It's T-Minus two days before Bike to Work Day, when I pick up the bike and my goodies. Already, my world view is slowly starting to change, as if I'm entering a cult of bicycle commuters. I'm noticing bike lockers, bike racks, places to put a bike on the light rail, and also thinking 'how the hell am I going to do this?' I'm even thinking about moving to Minneapolis so I'm closer to the bike paths I will need to use.

One of the cool things that the Metropolitan Council sponsors is a 'Guaranteed Ride Home' Program, which does just that: guarantee you a ride home by bus or cab in case of emergency. Once you register for the service, the Met Council sends you two coupons every six months that you can use in a pinch--like when you need to pick up your kid at school or need to work late. I just registered, and also requested a free commuter bike map and some other stuff.

The Weight of Gas

2005-05-14T14:35:00.000-05:00

OK, I actually haven't received the bike and haven't even signed the legal release and contractual stuff that goes along with winning (like I have to acknowledge that riding a bike can be hazardous, I agree not to run for public office for a year, and I can't plug or endorse any products). But I'm excited and a bit daunted. Part of the overall plan for BikeTown is to track how much weight we bike commuters lose over the course of the summer. I'm not the best control group for that experiment, as I'm also gearing up for running the Twin Cities Marathon this Fall.

But I am into saving on gas and d0ing my part to reduce dependency on oil. I drive a rusting 1990 Ford F-150 pick up truck, which gobbles up gas [but lets my five year-old son ride up in the cab with me so we can talk]. At $2 or more a gallon, I'm spending about ten bucks every other day in all the driving I do. Yeah, I'm one of those guys who, instead of just filling up the tank once, puts about $10 in the tank all the time, thinking that I'm not really using that much gas.

So, we'll see how much this will save me over the summer. Instead of losing pounds of fat, I'll shed pounds of gas. With a gallon of gas weighing about 6 pounds (water weighs just over eight), I stand to lose hundreds of pounds.

Ma, I Won!

2005-05-13T22:39:00.000-05:00

On a bit of a lark, but serious enough that I would follow through, I entered the BikeTown contest to try to win a bike so I could commute to work and beyond. Well, I just found out I won. Pretty cool. There's a press event this Thursday announcing the winners, as part of national Bike to Work Week, with Thursday being Bike to Work Day.

Here's the deal--I get a bike, lock, helmet and light set. In return, I promise to, well, ride the bike to work and check in now and then about my efforts. I've sort of jumped the gun and decided to start a blog to boot. So, welcome. And stay tuned.