Friday, September 7, 2012

SHOCKING NEWS (really only moderately shocking: startling at best, noteworthy at worst).

And I'm starting with a rant.  And a preposition.  Twice.
Ok so the rant is on bicycles.  There is a chance that I have let fly about them and the persons who operate them on a previous occasion, or seventeen, but nonetheless, here is another.
I will begin by stating: I am a bike rider, NOT a cyclist.  I still cannot stand the latter.  Lycra sporting, traffic impeding, two abreast chatting motherfuckers really chap my ass.  There should be specific loactions where they are allowed to ride, and locations where they are just not.  Like the streets.  Disagree with me all you want, but until they can go 60km and have to pay rego like I do for my car, then they are my nemeses, each and every one the scourge of my life.
Bike riders, on the other hand, are alright, especially since I am now one.  They include, but are not limited to:
  1. persons riding a bicycle because they lost the right to drive a car, owing to:
    • drunkenness,
    • recklessness,
    • unregisteredness and just plain
    • quambiness.
  2. persons riding a bicycle because they are not physically capable of driving a car,
  3. persons under the age of 15,
  4. ladies in dresses with flowery baskets on the front of their bicyclettes,
  5. persons who like the outdoors and are too lazy to walk (these individuals are identifiable by the distinct lack of speed),
  6. hipsters (though these walk a fine line),
  7. persons who like to keep fit BUT ARE NOT CYCLISTS (these are characterised by a lack of lycra, no visible pump attached to their bikes, the wearing of skate style helmets and no cleats on their pedals).
  8. ANYONE who owns a penny farthing or a unicycle.
NOTE: the only thing worse than cyclists are those JERKS that ride those LAME lying-down contraptions.  The only people who are allowed to do this are thos who are not able-bodied and cannot ride a regular bike.  Then it's not lame, it's cool.
The categories that I fit into are 5 and 7, though I used to own a unicycle (never learned to ride it).
Now that I have the most venemous part out of the way, I would like to get to the more positive, 'shocking news'.  I have become a bit of a bike addict.  I have, only recently, discovered the joys of two wheels.  In company with this discovery, I have leared a few things.  These things are as follows:
  • if you go into the driveway too fast, the jolt to your bicycle will be too great and your front fender will fall right off (who needs em anyway),
  • if you go 'off roading' after heavy rain, your bicycle tyres will become lodged in mud,
  • if you can get your bicycle out of the mud, as you wheel it to the nearest road, lots of little rocks will stick in the mud covering the tyres,
  • if you try to ride it with the mud and rocks in the tyres, then it will all combine at the brakes area to form a conglomerate of mud, rocks, little sticks, a toilet seat and a shoe, and then the wheels won't turn at all,
  • if you accidentally make the seat too high, you will experience a series of harrowing 'near misses', when your feet don't touch the ground and you almost topple over,
  • If you ride through patches of 'unknown foliage', then you will almost certainly get a goat's head thistle in one, or both of your tyres,
  • if that happens, and you are at traffic lights days later, and spy a thistle in your front wheel and pull it out, a hissing noise will result, telling you to put it back in,
  • the thistle will then keep the tyre pumped up,
  • if you change your gears impatiently and crank the adjustment mechanism too far, you will stand up to pedal away at the lights, and your chain will slip off with somewhat startling suddenness, you will almost fall head first into the bitumen.  Cars will honk at you,
  • if it's gale force winds outside, don't take your bike, you may have an asthma attack and
  • if you remove your rear fender to look cool, the very next day it will rain and you will arrive home with a wet butt crack.
So I am learning.  I have a friend Jimmy.  His real name is Freddie.  Freddie is a great name, but the first time I met him, he reminded me (with his thick auburn beard) of my cousin Jimmy, so now, to me, he is Jimmy.  Come to think of it, my cousin Jimmy changed his name actually, so now even cousin jimmy isn't cousin Jimmy anymore...
I digress. 
Jimmy has three bicycles - a BMX (which stands for bicycle motorcross, but they are sans motor, so that doesn't make sense), a single speed and a 'fixie', which I guess is short for fixed speed.  Jimmy is an all round good guy.  He rides bikes, has a beard, likes hats and can draw like a MADMAN, here is the proof that I am not lying.  He can also carry two full grown men on his shoulders.  He claims he can carry anyone up there...


So there's Jimmy.  Why am I writing about Jimmy?  Because he's ace and because he changed my mind about people who ride fixies.  Until Jimmy, I thought only wanky hipster knob jockeys did, but I was wrong.  It seems that certain people are 'bicycle purists', who, for various reasons, like to ride a bike old school style.  See, Jimmy tricked me.  He endeared himself to me before I knew he had a fixie, so by the time I found out, I had no choice but to change my opinion.
So, there you have it.  I'm a new woman.  I don't want a fixie myself, I'm just not that pure, and I love to freewheel.  I do, however, have my 'new' bike all planned out, it's going to be plain as plain, no bullshit, no fanciness, just a bike with one gear, one brake and one sticker.  Oh, and spokey dokeys.
 
So.  Shocking bike news out of the way.  Next topic is Father's day.  I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before that it's a hard day for me.  Luckily, I have an amazing girlfriend who works overtime on days like that to ensure that I am distracted.  So, we went to the Port markets. 
It was the first day of spring, and no amount of clich├ęs could accurately describe the weather, suffice to say that it was perfect.  Warm, sunny, just a hint of breeze... We rode our bikes to the train station and headed to the city, then to the port.  Just after we got off the train, we were on a little path leading to the Port Canal shopping centre carpark.  Ahead I noticed an elderly couple approaching: arm in arm, enjoying the sunshine, so I stopped to let them pass, my plan being to recommence cycling after they had gone, up the little incline and into the carpark.  The flaw is my plan was that Mercedes was up my ass and had to veer off the path to avoid a collision.  She had enough speed to induce not only panic, but a sweet little skid in the gravel.  It was ace.
So we had a lovely stroll around the markets, and I broke my detox.  I did this because whenever I have a Dad rememberance day, I drink a glass of port for him, that's what he liked.  Since I knew I would be breaking it that night, I broke it in the day and we enjoyed a delightful baked potato out in the rays overlooking the port river.  Behold, the loveliness:
 
 
After the starchy goodness, we took a little ride around the Port, then headed off to see Lori in Semaphore.  Somewhere in this time frame I rode through goat's head thistles.  En route, I suggested we get some beer, drink it in the sun, then watch it set.  Skip a few hours, three six packs and a tallie later...

 BEWARE OF THE C-BOMB! turn down the volume, turn up the brightness.
 
By then, I was aware of my flat tyre, so the plan was to go back to Lori's, pump it up and catch the train.  That didn't happen.  We ended up staying the night at Lori's, where the ghost of her Grandfather shone a light in my eyes and woke me up.
Now, to finish.  I have decided that until I have been through the whole collection, I shall end each post with one of my robots and its background.  Enjoy.
 
This is Zorbitron. 
 
 
 
He's 77 years old and hails from Atlanta, Georgia.  He began his life as a metal doorstop, and enjoyed that peaceful existence until he was urinated on by a cat.  His owners tried to clean him up, but there really is no getting rid of cat piss smell.   With only minimal regret they tossed him on the street, where the cat piss smell attracted other cats, who also urinated on him, drenching him, mixing with his salty tears to create a rivulet which meandered into a storm water drain.  Dwelling there was a creature with a body made of half boxer dog and half a deodorant can called Nathan.  He smelled the cat piss tears and bribed a transient with a heart shaped paper clip and a skinless orange to bring him the being from which such an odiferous river flowed.  As soon as he laid eyes on Zorbitron, he knew he could help.  With his bottom (from where the deodorant sprayed), he fixed the smell, and then, using tools he borrowed from a visiting merchant sailor, he opened Zorby, put some cogs inside, licked them with his boxer dog tongue and brought him to life.  From there, they lived a simple life, snacking on anybody who happened to stumble into the sewer.  At present, Zorby is on loan to me, while Nathan is in jail for dry humping a team of visiting Canadian curlers.
Until next time,
Tx 
P.S. Also, I have a friend called Rachel who always bails me out of trouble.  Wednesday night she brought me a pump and repair kit for my thistle at my work, just in case.  Everybody should have a mate like that.