Name-dropping and No Air (How many times can I say "stylish" in one post?)
This past week can be mapped out in a series of flat tires. There were so many that I have to crank my brain up to full horsepower to get them sequenced correctly.
The first couple were slow leaks. I discovered them in the basement of the Rapid Transit bike shop, where I am apprenticing. The people I work with are great. I'm learning all about bikes and verbal abuse.
The third flat was also discovered at the shop. I spent my lunch break viewing apartments with my girlfriend. I should have used better judgment when I discovered a flat donut for a back tire, instead of filling it with compressed air and cranking off for the East Ukrainian Village. The place we looked at had high ceilings, big windows (my criterion) and bathtubs (hers), but I quickly realized I was stranded due to lack of air pressure. Andrea let me ride her Bianchi so I could make it back to work on time, telling me it looked like a kid's bike under my six-foot-four frame. Then she walked my bike all of the way back to the shop. She is the greatest girlfriend ever.
At this time, my rear inner tube had so many patches on it that it looked like a case of adolescent acne. Each time, the damage had been inflicted by flakes of broken glass working their way into the cracks of my worn out Conti slick.
"It's obvious what the cause is," Nate told me later. "You're skidding too much. You're not only destroying the tire, but you do it at intersections, which is where the broken glass is. You'll be lucky if your tire lasts half a season." Nate may nag worse than your mother, but he knows his shit. Trouble is, skid stopping on a fixed-gear bike is both stylish and functional, making it a difficult habit to give up.
The apartment hunting flat happened of Thursday. This Friday as the last of the month, time for Critical Mass. March came in like a lion this year, and was about to go out like a lamb. Then a Gigeresqe alien ripped from the lamb's belly and we ended up with thirty degree weather and snow flurries. I had on thin canvas shoes, dress-socks, no gloves, and only a sweater on top. To stay warm, I alternated riding and running along side my bike. The stoplight jumping jacks and manic sprinting was putting me in a great mood until I hopped back on my bike and heard the aluminum-grinding sound of yet another flat. The wonderful Critical Mass community supplied me with enough tools to keep moving, but the rest of the Mass turned into a pump-and-ride, where I hopped off every ten minutes and franticly refilled my flat.
We ended up at Western and Devon, epicenter of Chicago's Indian community. After a gut-stuffing meal of curry, somosas, and cloyingly rich gulab jamin (think pancake balls drenched in syrup), Alex Plotsky suggested that we check out Version Fest at the MCA. As we rode the Red Line el train down town, I entertained the passengers by fixing my flat tire. Alex and I were in turn entertained by a hostile, loudmouthed trash-talker who made jokes about the fact that we had bikes on the train. "Fuck a bike" was his favorite phrase.
We got to the MCA at 11:00 p.m to find it deserted. We ran into a couple of stylish kids who I recognized as members of Neon Hunk. It seemed as though they were trying to connect with someone at the MCA as well. Alex told me about a party at the Buddy space on Milwaukee, so we left downtown heading Northwest.
Buddy and the Heaven Gallery next door had been connected by way of rooftop staircases to create the ultimate art-tech-geek dance party. A staggering sea of shaggy-haired art students twitched to click-hop and electro, surrounded by walls of art and druggy video projection. The pirates from Redline Radio were broadcasting live, inviting party-goers to talk on-air about the Iraq war.
On Saturday I went to Gallery 2 for the SAIC BFA Show . I had a chance to test the eternal question "How much art can you take?" as i viewed exhibits by 300 students covering 3 floors. There was some really nice stuff that you should go check out before the show closes.
On the way home, I got another flat. I think of the Ashland/Division intersection as being pretty close to my house, but that changes drasticly when I have to walk my bike the entire distance.
When I got home my puffy chair felt like a womb. I would have left under no terms, except that Alee from the bike shop was having a birthday party. With my bike flipped over in the living room, I stripped off my fucked-up Conti slick and replaced it with a 700x28 Conti touring tire. For non bike-geeks, that is one beefy piece of rubber; one of the set I rode across Wisconsin on last year.
It felt like I was cruising across the West Side on a moster truck.
Alee's party was wonderful. She has the nicest friends. Unfortunatly I had two more parties on my agenda. First stop was Camp Gay for the BIEGE Records Cassette Jockey World Championship /a>. Yet another room packed with geeky art kids, and even more blippy, noisy music. The crowd was way past E2 density. I met up with Melissa and some other kids, went dancing, and got home around 4 a.m.
While limping into my front hallway, groggy with sleep, I noticed that my back wheel had a cancerous growth just above the rim. After cursing all thing bicycle related, I examined the lump and found that the tire had torn off of it's bead. Put simply, the tire was fucked. I emptied the tube and dropped off to sleep.
Like most bad fiction, this story has a happy ending. On Monday I purchased a tough-ass Conti Gatorskin tire to replace my dead one. Not only is it sleek and stylish, but the thing is built like a military-spec flack jacket. Have my troubles ended? Check back next week...
:: Ira
9:49 AM
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