First bicycle race today. In the wet.

Wish me luck.

----

supplemental:

When I started, I'd two goals: the stated goal of not coming in last, and the actual goal of finishing without injury or severe damage to the bike.

Out of a field of 24, I came in 16th.

I had a few moments on the hills where I questioned why in the name of all things holy anyone would do this to their body,
And I mismanaged my on-bike food intake so that I started getting ridiculous stomach cramps around 10 miles from the finish, but I did it. And I know I can do better.

So while I don't want to so much as *look* at the bike for the next 48 hours, I'm hooked.

Oh, and Mattio got 3rd.

When after many years, you learn to see the world through the eyes of another, you forget to see on your own when those eyes are suddenly shut, when that connection is suddenly severed.

Oftentimes I *still* feel as though I am learning to see for the first time, re-learning what it is to let my eyes wander among the stars or to feel grass under bare feet, to listen to wind. Love is a connection to more than that one person, its a connection to the world. And having found out that part of that was a lie for so long, it's still tricky to connect to the world.


Sorry for airing that publicly, it's just been on my mind.

wheels

I haven't blogged about the bike in a long time, and that's because, largely, it's been perfect. I have a secret steel racing bike project in the works, building up an early nineties steel frame to become a modern racing machine, and that's been keeping me from obsessing over my beloved Raleigh, plus I've just been *riding* the damn thing a bunch, getting my legs all fast and whatnot, learning to corner better, getting out in the nature. But in a recent fit of organization I cleaned my room and my desk and came upon the set of tubular wheel that I'd bought a few month back for virtually nothing. The wheels are gorgeous Mavic GL 330's laced to early Shiamano 600 hubs (tri-color era 7 speed, for the geeks in the audience), and they weigh even less than my self-built-for-speed clincher set. So it's been kicking around the back of my head that I should glue some damn tires on to them and go for a ride.
That's right, glue. Tubulars are what they sound like: tubular tires that get glued on to the rim. The disadvantage is that the glue sticks to everything, needs to dry, and kills braincells 'till it does. The advantage is that the tires are perfectly round. That means no sidewalls. Which means, in theory, they handle like a dream.

Well.
I did it today on mattio's stoop. And they are incredible. The bike is twitchy in an amazing way. I just think about a direction, and the little criterium frame is already mid-swoop. The wheels look so much less sleek than my hardy clinchers, blending in perfectly with the 30 year old frame. But that just makes their speed even more amazing. Did I mention they even weigh less?

* * *

Today was a wildly productive day in ventures that make me no money. In addition to the bike wheels, I finally fixed the brakes on the volvo and I started talking out a really exciting new radio project.

If only I hadn't gone grocery shopping, I'd have broken even.

incendeary comment # 1

one of my opinions on Hillary Clinton...

women who traded in their feminism to marry investment bankers felt like they had a chance to redeem themselves in a karmic sense by voting for an otherwise moderate candidate.

A piece from this weekend

When I first met Louis Palmer, a Swiss schoolteacher spending the week in New York, he was in the midst of a predicament familiar to most automotive New Yorkers -- he'd woken up to find his car wedged tightly into its parking space, a small tan sedan having parked within inches of his bumper. I watched as, with a mix of determination and consternation unique to urban drivers, he wrestled with the steering wheel for a few minutes, weaving the vehicle back and forth, trying to find an angle advantageous to his situation. Eventually, uttering the traditional expletives under his breath, Mr. Palmer stepped out of his car to assess his options. It appeared that he was, in fact, stuck, and so there was only one thing left to do: he reached back inside, pulled a lever, and then carted the rear half of his car out of the way and across the street.

Mr. Palmer's is a decidedly unique car on a straightforward, if equally unique, mission -- to prove, by means of global demonstration, the viability of solar-powered travel. Mr. Palmer and his Solar Taxi have thus far logged 27,500 miles over fourteen months in their trip around the world, powered only by the sun.

Mr. Palmer and his support team arrived in New York City on Friday, September 5, where they were made guests of the country's first green residential high-rise, Battery Park City's Solaire. "Sustainability brings a lot of good people together," said Mike Gubbins, Director of Residential Management for the Albanese Organization -- the developer behind the environmentally designed Solaire, Verdesian and Visionaire residences -- who offered Mr. Palmer's team lodging for the duration of their stay. Over the past week, Mr. Palmer and his Solar Taxi have played chauffeur to New Yorkers big and small, from Mayor Michael Bloomberg and U.N. Secretary General Ban Ki Moon to Battery Park City residents and this reporter. "I call it a taxi because I always give people rides," Mr. Palmer explained, estimating that he's had about a thousand different people in his passenger seat since his trip began. The point, he emphasized, is to demonstrate to the world that solar-powered vehicles are well within reach. "We have an energy crisis and a climate crisis; I want to show that we have a solution. It is affordable, it is reliable, and it is ready."

Indeed, there are fewer ways to prove that a concept has matured beyond the drawing board better than putting it to the most rigorous test at hand. And if that concept can thus be shown the world over, all the better. And thus far, by Mr. Palmer's estimation, the Solar Taxi has excelled. "In 14 months of driving, we only lost two days to breakdowns," said Mr. Palmer, elaborating with pride, "It's a Swiss car, with Swiss technology. It still runs like a Swiss clock." And, from the passenger's seat, at least, the car is an impressive work. As alluded to earlier, the Solar Taxi is made of two components: a three-wheeled car, not too much bigger than a SMART, attached to an approximately fifteen-foot long trailer lined with solar cells. The two-part nature is intentional, Mr. Palmer said -- the car can function independently from the trailer for 150-250 miles, depending on speed, allowing it to function as a perfectly small city car, temporarily leaving the unnecessary bulk of the solar panels behind. A full recharge of the batteries, Mr. Palmer said, takes about six hours. When combined, the two units weigh approximately 1500lbs -- a little more than half the weight of a Mini Cooper. Speaking easily over the engine's low whine, Mr. Palmer also pointed out that the Solar Taxi generates power efficiently enough that, to compete, a gas-powered vehicle would have to travel about 270 miles per gallon. And though the engine can only push the car a little past 55mph, its lightweight and torquey nature made for a quick and confident bout around Battery Park City. In fact, amongst the CD player, sporty seats and dashboard-mounted calculator, gauges and dials, the only concern of note on such a sun-powered day was that the Solar taxi lacks air conditioning. But then again, so does this reporter's beat-up old Volvo.

The fourteen months spent on the road seem only to have confirmed Mr. Palmer's conviction that affordable solar-powered travel is as possible as it is necessary. "The most surprising thing," he said of his travels, "is that, everywhere, there is so much awareness that something must be done." Though this particular vehicle has been sponsored by Q.cells, a German company and the world's largest producer of solar cells, Mr. Palmer believes that a commercialized version of the vehicle would be very affordable, saying that construction of the car and trailer cost $10,000 and $6,000, respectively.

The immediate future holds yet more travel for Mr. Palmer and his team, who, by the time of this printing, will have left New York City for Boston and Montreal. Nevertheless, he intends to return. "It's New York," he responded simply, when asked what brought him here, "when people see the car, they shout, they scream, they wave -- people don't do that in any other city." Next time, though, he hopes to have more cars: Mr. Palmer is planning a solar-powered race around the world, for which there are already four more cars in the works.

Those who can do...

It's been an interesting week or so. Have begun reporting and writing again, am recalling the familiar problems of editors and deadlines, the traditional string of coffee cup after coffee cup. But nothing particularly noteworthy to write about. Rather, I've been thinking a lot lately about learning and re-learning.

I think it's a Zen concept, the notion of starting out at something and progressing past mastery until you are a beginner again, and then repeating. Wherever it comes from, I like it and believe it. There is nothing I would say I've mastered. But of the things I am quite good at, all follow this cycle. And maybe because it's an artificial kick-start to such a cycle, the act of teaching always makes me think of this notion. Kay and I went upstate this weekend and we brought the bicycles along. For the past few weeks now, we'll go out on the road, either upstate or in the city. And as I try to impart on to her what I've learned from the year or so that I've been riding seriously, it makes me answer questions that I already thought dealt with. I'm taking everything from "this is how you change a tire" and "this is how to pedal efficiently" to "why the hell would anyone want to burn away a meal to travel at 25mph?" Every opportunity for teaching is an opportunity for self examination in the task at hand. In fact, any skill differential seems to bring such questions to the fore. When I meet a novice guitarist, I recall why I play. When I meet a master guitarist, I question the direction I wish to go.

Teaching and learning are just two words for the same concept, of momentary transference across a skill differential.

I posted this a year ago.

Notebooks are interesting. We surround them with airs of privacy. We lock them up. We stash them away. Blogs, at least, are more honest: open to the world, commanding "read my thoughts".

I always entertain the fantasy of a youngish grand-daughter, or a great grand-daughter, opening a wooden box in the attic of her parent's house to find all of my notebooks. To get to know me, a forgotten ancestor, as a real person, a poet, with failed dreams, realized hopes, weaknesses and terrible handwriting. It's this hope that keeps the privacy alive: if we write as though we wish no one to read, then what we write is for once honest and flawed, truly worthy and ready to be read.


There's one notebook that stands out in this fantasy. It's red and its small and its simple and the paper is perfect--It's my journal about my experiences as a student in New York a few September elevenths ago. I wont write anything about it here. I cannot finish the journal. I wanted to get it all down. to chronicle the day and the days that followed, and the weeks that followed, and the months sliding into war. I didn't want to lose any of it.

It took four or five years to get to the morning after. As I go, the narrative slowly starts to sputter and stop. Nietzsche once wrote something about the absolute necessity of forgetfulness in human relations. And no matter how I try to save that terrible day, a greater more primitive portion of my brain pushes it under, pushes the book aside and keeps its thick pages blank.

When she opens that book, my great-great-grand-daughter, what kind of truths will she find in that flaw? What kind of history will write with ghostly ink on my empty pages? What words will she have for my inexplicable speechlessness?

Quarantine

Computer viruses are getting smarter. Used to be a time I would just jump into the registry and wrestle the sum'bitches with my bare hands. Nowadays, they're besting me. The laptop went down yesterday and is in shambles. Looks like I'll be able to save the vast majority of the data, but I'm largely off-line and knee-deep in coffee.

Goddamn assholes, the people who write these programs.

Booking

Had a long-awaited, much needed beer (or two) with John tonight, who is winding down (or cranking up?) the editing process on his second novel, largely at the behest of the "bludgeoning" the manuscript received from his agent. We talked at length about a great many things, including the notion that once a work of art is complete, it no longer belongs to the artist but rather, each interpretation belongs wholly to each interpreter.

John noted that something cosmic must be at work as he just wrote his first poem as I am beginning my first novel. (We were two beers in) I feel dubious about my first foray into what I'll call long-form-fiction, but so far I've had an absolute blast researching the book. Its all the fun of research with none of the downsides. My plan is to have the first draft of the first chapter done by the end of the month. We'll see. Maybe these here internets will keep me honest.