Crazy weekend. First of all it got nice as hell outside. I spent yesterday afternoon sitting on my roof doing homework, sans-tshirt. I bought a dripping ripe melon from the Puerto Rican grocery store and sat in the sun, chowing down on fat slices at my makeshift desk in the middle of our rooftop garden.
Saturday night was the final stage of the Tour-da-Chicago alleycat series. I was excited all week, although my ridiculously busy schedule prevented me from doing a pre-ride. I was nervous too. Sunday morning races are one thing, but this one was at eight thirty Saturday night, in the wake of Saint Patrick's Day craziness no less. For those not familiar, the Tour races take place on an open course, which means tear-assing through full-on traffic on busy city streets. The race this weekend was the Stairmaster. In between sprinting around downtown and the lakefront, racers had to shoulder their bikes and dog their way up and down 400 steps worth of staircases.
The riding and climbing felt really good when it was over. Had I done the pre-ride, I would have been prepared for trecherous ice accumulation and some mud-bogging shortcuts. We clanged up vertical downtown staircases and pounded down wide concrete lakefront steps. As I finished the first lap, I could tell by the cheering that my girlfriend Andrea had arrived. By the end of the second lap, every muscle in my legs were burning. Half the people I raced with had bloody shins and knuckles due to crashes and collisions. As far as I know, none were too serious and everyone finished in high spirits. I finished 12th.
I got doored on the way home that night. We were riding through the heart of Wicker Park (which is hardened beyond recovery by hipster cynicism) and this big furniture truck opened it's passenger-side door into my face. I remember hitting the door fast, but beyond that things aren't too clear. I bounced into the back of a parked car hard enough to dent it, but I don't know which part of me did the damage. A cop saw it happen, and suprisingly told me I could leave if I wanted to. All my parts were functioning so I did. There are some deep bruises on my wrists and I feel like someone dropped a bag of bricks on me, but no structural damge.
fuckcorporategroceries.net is a rad local website about independent shopping.
:: Ira
10:14 AM
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