Fixie

My only regret about this project is not taking before/after photos. When I first got the bike, it was in pretty bad shape. It had been left outside for the better part of a year, and needed a lot of work.

I started by removing all the components, then stripped the original paint off the frame. I had been warned this would be difficult, and it was. Getting the frame completely bare took me ~25 hours. I went through a can of paint stripper, a lot of steel wool, and a circular wire brush (I used a drill to get paint out of the the nooks and crannies.

After setting up a studio, I got to work painting the bike. It took about a month of actual painting to finish this stage (somewhere in here I stopped entirely to study for the MCAT).

I was able to conserve some of the original components including the cranks, the handlebars, and the seatpost. I polished the aluminum with steel wool for hours to restore some shine to the metal. I ended up replacing both wheels, the fork, the brakes, the bottom bracket, the tires, tubes, saddle, etc. etc.

Here's the few photos I do have. Enjoy!

This is the only original photo of the bike. Without the close-ups, it is pretty difficult to see just how gross and dilapidated this bike was. We're talking chipped, rusted, spider-infested, greasy...the seat foam was rotting...etc.

Anti-thematic, to say the least

Today I had an epiphany. On second thought, "epiphany" connotes some sort of productivity--a moment of truth in which something pivotal and previously unnoticed betters forever the life of the "epiphant." (Epiphant being the receiver of an epiphany.) As you will see, definitions and new words have overwhelmed my day. But I'll come back to that topic.

For those who don't know, I'm living in Berkeley, unemployed. In a valiant quest for gainful employment, I sat down at around eight o'clock with firm intentions of continuing my job search. Sunday evenings, however, are an insidious foe.

It started innocuously; I opened a new browser window to re-read the job requirements for a position I'm applying for, then started punching out a cover letter. The words wouldn't behave themselves, so I set the cover letter aside.

I opened another tab to look at graduate fields of study at UC Berkeley (yes, I'm still trying to figure out what to do with my life). The PhD in Linguistics caught my eye, so I opened that link in a new tab. Dutifully reading the website, I realized I had almost no idea of what Linguistics was.

This called for a new tab! I googled Linguistics and wound up at the Wikipedia article on Linguistics. After scanning the article, I clicked the external link at the bottom taking me to the "Language Log."

New tab. The language log has a worthwhile youtube vid with the audio by Stephen Fry. I watched it, then wondered who Stephen Fry was, so I clicked his weblog.

Tab #5. Stephen Fry, it turns out, is one of the principal actors in "V for Vendetta." (If you haven't seen it, do so immediately, before the 5th November.)

I mentioned this tidbit to Kelsey, who was reminded that we must observe "Guy Fawkes Day," November the 5th to most of us, which is to drink 40's, eat cupcakes, and watch "V for Vendetta."

Wittily, I responded "cupcakes, 40's and V for Vendetta? That's kind of anti-thematic, don't you think?" I wondered aloud whether anti-thematic was a word.

Three tabs later I had checked the google news site for instances of "anti-thematic," as well as dictionary.com and the urban dictionary. It was present in none of these.

Excited, I opened tab #9 and began to compose an urban-dictionary definition for my new word. I had never written a definition before, and the task was more complex than anticipated. I found myself opening tab #10 (online thesaurus) and #11 (another urban dictionary window to cross reference words in my new definition). Tabs #12-14 followed with several additional dictionary and thesaurus sites.

I finally worked out this definition:

Anti-thematic:

the deliberate or accidental absence of any common theme among a group of objects, ideas, events, etc.

Example

Despite his fondness for malt liquor, Andrew didn't attend the "Cupcakes, 40's, and Guy Fawkes" party on the 5th of November, declaring the combination "inappropriate and anti- thematic."

Flushed with success, I submitted my definition.

At this moment my inverse epiphany struck. Dumbfounded, I stared at my formerly innocent, productive browser. In front of my eyes lay a fully intact chronology of corruption. From job search to...making up words?

And that's how Sunday evening had it's way with me.

Tune in!!

Here's something you won't believe. Steamboat has radio stations (notice the plural) that you actually want to listen to.

It's amazing. First off, the narcissistic self-promoting Front Range stations don't broadcast up here. Second, the advertisements are local. All of them. It's unreal. Finally, they play good music!

It's a refreshing change from Whister. Someone told me, though I never verified it, that 20% of the content broadcast by canadian stations must be of canadian origin. While I'm not sure of the social and economic impetus behind that particular legislation, I am sure that it resulted in me shouting "THATS ENOUGH ALANIS!!" at the radio on a bi-weekly basis. Plus BC has a strange fascination with B-side 80s music--you know, things you never heard when they were popular, and for good reason.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Why don't you just buy a mattress?

"Why don't you just buy a mattress?" It's a legitimate question. But I do tire of repeating myself to legions of bemused bystanders. Maybe that's why I like writing: question deferrment. Write it once, then reference.

"But seriously, there's a bed in the other room. You can use it." So I must explain, again, the pile of raw lumber in my tiny room. I hate bad mattresses. Had one in college. Couldn't tolerate it. I slept on the edge of the mattress to avoid the super-saggy black hole. There was no way to sleep on my stomach either--didn't fancy a career as a contortionist.

The standard-issue box spring/mattress combo with a basic metal frame has several shortcomings. It’s too low to store anything underneath. When your living space measures 12' by 15', storage is vital. A decent mattress (one that doesn't double as a hammock) is way out of my price range.

I want comfort. I want utility. I want spatial maximization. I want cost effectiveness. I decide to build a bed. This is problematic; I have no tools. And by no tools I mean absolutely zilch. No hammer, nails, drill, saw. Nothing.

So I headed off for the lumber yard. This is a place where serious men do serious business, like operating forklifts, driving giant diesel trucks, and pointing huge meaty fingers at lumber piles then grunting formidably. This is not a place for punk-assed, Passat-driving, flip-flop wearing, 24year olds with kiddie sunglasses. They should have a sign posted. "This is not the Home Depot. We will not be happy to assist you. As a matter of fact, if you have to ask, we will actively despise and belittle you. When you know exactly what you want, we will get it for you. Grudgingly."

I was swiftly passed from employee to employee. It's the workplace version of hot potato: pass the obnoxious customer. James, the forklift driver, drew the short straw. A disclaimer: I am not pleased to share a name with this man. He was unpleasant, rude, and made it clear from the outset he would have loved to run me over with his forklift. Or possibly skewer me with the prongs and deposit my shish kabobed corpse atop a pile of 5/8 inch plywood in the far corner of the warehouse. Either way, he was not at all happy that I needed "One 14’ section of 2x4, one 10' section of 2x4, both cut into 50" segments, one 14’ 2x4 cut into 80" segments, an 8' 4x4 cut into 2' segments, and a 5/8 sheet of particle board cut into two 48x40inch segments." He informed me repeatedly that he was not a carpenter and that cutting the lumber for me would forever negate the possibility of building anything with it. He threatened to loan me a circular saw and make me cut the planks. I declined. He claimed he would have to use a chainsaw. Seeing the precision table saw mounted on the far wall, I called his bluff.

Once James had suffered the indignity of making ten easy cuts in 4 small pieces of lumber, I paid and loaded up the car.

Lacking a tape measure (remember, no tools) I had hoped a 40x48 inch particle board would fit into the trunk. It did not. Nor, with the particle board jammed unceremoniously into the backseat, did the 80" 2x4s fit into the trunk.

The end result was questionable at best. The particle boards only fit into the backseat with the windows rolled down, so the corners could poke out. Even then the rear passenger door refused to shut. I remedied the situation by looping the seatbelt out the window and tying two half-hitches around the exterior handle. I drove home with 2 of 5 doors open.

Thankfully I did not encounter any police cruisers.

Epilogue

I borrowed a drill from a friend of a friend, bought some wood screws from Ace, and the bed looks great, despite premonitions of grouchy forklift operators.

Blogged Anew

I guess we're off to the races again, and by “we” I mean “I” since I’m pretty sure no one reads this blog anymore.

Near the end of April, I went heli-hutting in the Tantalus range, near Whistler. It wasn’t heli-skiing, because we didn’t get dropped off on any peaks. Instead the chopper drops you at the hut, and from there you climb whatever peaks you desire.

Skinning up to the saddle after a particularly exhausting day, we crested the ridge and were greeted with a vista spectacular by any standards. Inspired, sentences began to form in my mind, and I raced to the cabin, grabbed a pen and paper, sat down, and BAM. Nothing. Pen and paper is my kryptonite.

My solution? I bought a palm-powered device, called a DANA. It has a full keyboard, long battery life (AA powered), and it’s designed for use in public schools--hence, durable.

The idea here is to write every day. I'm hoping to take this nifty device with me wherever my travels may lead. What you’re reading now is the fruit of those labors.

Poof!

Just like that, it's over. The village is deserted. The broadcasters have left, taking with them the screaming throngs emblazoned with red maple leaves on their foreheads. There are traces that the olympics were once here, but the metamorphosis has been swift and unforgiving.

I can't speak as to what happened in Vancouver during these past two weeks, but I will say this. Whistler was a dreamland. To all those Whistler locals who, poisoned by the whining of naysayers complaining about lack of parking and the inconvenience of the games and the incompetence of VANOC, abandoned their hometown during the Olympics: you missed out. Big time.

For those who stayed it was magical. We were there when thousands turned out to watch the torch come thorough Whistler, there when Canada won its first gold medal on home soil, there when the village had 4 concerts daily, at the sliding center when the USA took gold in the 4 man bobsled. We perched on the hills above the Dave Murray downhill and watched the world's best skiers pit themselves against our home mountain (making us look like chumps in the process). And most importantly, we saw Whistler at its all-time best.

Its all-time best.

Hockey and Salt.

I had no idea so much hockey was played during the Olympics. The difference in coverage between US networks like NBC/ABC and Canadian ones like TSN and CTV is both remarkable and telling. In the states, hockey is practically an afterthought, whereas in Canada, hockey carries as much weight as all other sports combined.

The US defeating Canada somewhat resoundingly comes then, as a huge blow to the Canadian ego. Not that it stopped me from jumping up and down screaming "U S A! U S A!" in the middle of Whistler square surrounded by legions of maple leafs and dumbstruck faces, but I do find it inappropriate to rub more salt in the wound. Any self-respecting Canadian feels the sting far too acutely, and strolling down the village walk after the victory singing "America the Beautiful" at the top of our lungs was probably sufficient.

The Olympics continue in spectacular fashion. The weather has made every effort to bolster the party atmosphere. February the 23rd feels like spring. The temperature was a balmy 50 degrees--and warmer in the sun. We sat on the deck in Tshirts eating ice cream and pondering going swimming. But I'm not ready for spring just yet. Hopefully the winter hasn't burned itself out too quickly.

Hasta entonces!