Send In the Asteroids

Earth-crossing asteroids - objects with highly elliptical orbits that cross the plane of Earth’s more circular solar orbit - are whizzing by us in the dark reaches of space. According to a recent post in Salon.com, "At least three hundred of these potential killers are known, and in the next few decades some of them will pass uncomfortably close."

"A recent survey of how people are most likely to die rated asteroid impacts pretty low - something like 1 in 100,000 . . . . about the same probability as death by lightning or a tsunami . . . . Chances are excellent that you don’t have to worry, nor most likely will any of the next hundred generations. But we can be absolutely sure that another big impact of the dinosaur-killing variety is coming someday, somewhere. In the next fifty million years, Earth will suffer at least one big hit, maybe more. It’s all a matter of time and probability."

Cold comfort, says Miguel. You don't have to tell me twice. Probabilities be damned, if something bad is going to happen you can bet that someone will be around to worry me about it beforehand, over the 50 million years or so before it hits. This is something even the Transportation Safety Authority can't protect us against.

"Get your hands off my cupcakes!"

As the Final Day approaches, perhaps as early as 2029 when a 900-foot diameter rock is predicted to cross Earth's path well inside the Moon’s orbit, what remains of American capitalism will market asteroid survival in climate controlled asteroid shelters, home-brewers' survival kits, post-crash courses, late-night cable reality programs ("Asteroid Wars"), seminars and workshops, two-year associate degrees, certification classes and pre-loaded assault rifles at End Time prices. 

American Protestantism will feature endless Youtube clips of Pat Robertson explaining how this all comes of our forebears' pact with the Devil sometime before the American Revolution; boxed CD sets of Joel Osteen sermons ("This Wasn't Supposed to Happen to Us, Lord," "Why Is This Happening to Me, Lord?", "Leveraging the Asteroid to Realize Your God-given Prosperity Potential," "Thank You for New Marketing Opportunities, Lord"). Not to mention a spate of Final Days bumper stickers.

Astronomy Sucks!

I Uranus

Asteroidal impacts may not occur often, but when they do they take out really big things - every last dinosaur, entire NFL football seasons, white ethnic majorities, Republican prayer breakfasts, African countries and Chinese dams. On the other hand, there's no denying they have their upside: no more marriage equality initiatives to vote down, no more worries about the Violence Against Women Act (since, in the aftermath, violence will be pretty much equal opportunity), no more Equal Opportunity/Affirmative Action initiatives, no more EPA. Hell, no more E, come to think of it.

Admittedly there are "asteroid skeptics" among us, and they do raise some pretty tough questions for asteroid alarmists like Miguel - most notably, this humdinger: if, instead of God, it really was an asteroid that destroyed all the dinosaurs, then how did all the other "passengers" on the ark - mammals, white people, unicorns - manage to survive? A stumper, I'd be the first to admit.

 "Head for the big wooden thingy!"

But seriously, what can we expect should the planet suffer asteroidal impact? "If a ten-mile object hits the oceans—a 70 percent chance, given the distribution of land and sea—then all but Earth’s highest mountain peaks will be swept clean by immense globe-destroying waves. Nothing will survive up to a few thousand feet above sea level. Every coastal city will utterly disappear." For all of that, every other city will probably disappear as well - maybe Lhasa will be unscathed but who wants to live there? 

"I thought I just saw Fukushima go by."

Let's face it, if an asteroid does hit Earth there won't be much anyone can do to stop it. "When one of these projectiles is finally observed, it will likely be much too close for us to do much about it. If we’re the bull’s-eye, we may only have a few days’ warning to settle our affairs."

So let's say I have three days warning - probably a realistic estimate - what would I do? Well, for starters I'd probably get myself to Portland's 10th annual "Filmed by Bike," where I could get several items ticked off my bucket list all at once. First, I'd get to visit Portland, a city already renowned for a sort of precious idiocy, just before it's washed off the face of the earth; second, I'd finally get to attend a film festival featuring movies filmed entirely by people riding bicycles; third, I'd get to ride my bike - a ride to the opening night street party no less, led by cycling celebrity Gary Fisher; and finally, dream of dreams, I'd get to meet someone named Ayleen Crotty. After that you can send in the asteroids.

New Ways to Spend Old Money

A fool and his money are famously but nodding acquaintances. Particularly risky is the fool with disposable income who reads Bicycling magazine. Someone else is certain to dispossess him well before the Cat 4 season has ended and cyclocross has begun.

Bicycling is the premier shill of the industry, an indispensible driver in a relentless marketing effort. From bikes to clothing to aftermarket upgrades, Bicycling's fundamental premise is that everyone who rides a bicycle either races or wants to race, wants to go faster and will pay any amount of money to be able to do it. None of this is to fault the magazine for reporting on trends in the business or for collecting large advertising revenues or for taking a narrow, if profitable view, of a sport which was first a reasonable and civilized mode of transportation.  Still, its advertising and its articles commonly trade on that haunting feeling of inadequacy in the inadequate. It reminds them that, in the world of cycling, a primal fault separates the feckless nerd . . . 

Feckless Nerd

. . . from the True Cyclists. (As it happens, the feckless nerd in this photo is a feckless Rivendell nerd, so he's already spent at least as much on his fecklessness and nerdiness as the True Cyclist spends on Truth in Cycling.) The two worlds are as irreparably sundered as are the rich and the poor, the proud and the humble, the saint and the sinner, the halt and the strong, the sleek and the rumpled, the Republicans and Everyone Else. Follow the dictates of Bicycling as you would the counsels of your physician or lawyer, and Everyman can be a Cipollini. Nowadays I never go out on a bicycle unless I'm appropriately attired, as in the photograph below, and only to ride a time trial from my personal starting ramp.

 

Lookin' good, Mario 

Off the bike, of course, one should opt for a looser, more casual look - strive for the panache that comes of proper breeding and cannot merely be picked up at the newsstand. For my part, I like a pair of well-washed jeans, a nightshirt, and some stylish little poultice for my bad knee.

The smart consumer knows how to look every bit the professional cyclist by shopping for bargains - something you needn't admit to, but it's no crime to stretch the purse where one can. For 2011, Bicycling informs us, Sidi, the Italian shoe manufacturer with factories in China, has lowered its 2010 prices by 11 percent - the limited edition "Ergo 2" has dropped from $500 to $450 this year -  and money well spent. They'll look elegant beneath those Assos bib tights you've always wanted. (Assos is a Swiss manufacturer of cycling apparel whose corporate slogan is "Sponsor Yourself," as in "sponser yourself, sucker." At prices from $330-$440 American for bib tights, who else is going to pay for you to dress like Mario?)

The magazine's advertisements are as informative as the product reviews. For example, the Cosmic Carbone 80, a wheelset (hint: never say "wheels" when you can say "wheelset," "frame" when you can say "frameset," "brakes" when "brakeset" sounds better) - a wheelset, as I was saying, that's the "first wheel and tire specifically designed to work together as a system . . . and opens a bold new chapter in wheel-tire development."  This would explain why I've never been able to keep my tires on my wheels for even the length of time it takes to go from Paris to Roubaix - nor have any of my friends nor anyone I've ever known been able to, but then who knew that we needed to "control the variables between wheel-tire interface," for crying out loud? Nor, for my part, can I see how to "open a bold new chapter" and keep my eyes on the road at the same time, but the prospect is certainly a heady one. Cost of the Cosmic Carbone 80 "wheel-tire system": $1094.50.  

Of course you could wait and get the Mad Fiber wheelset for $2,600, gaining the satisfaction of knowing that they were made in Seattle, which is the next best thing to being made in Portland. Further, this "wheelset" or "wheel-tire system," the ad claims, "can save 14 seconds on a 40K time trial over its closest competitor." Much of the marketing of framesets and wheelsets strongly suggests that you needn't really bother much with pedaling the damn contraption - it just goes by itself, like predestination through a Pentecostal church camp, and you'll have all you can do to stop it. 

Which is where brakesets come in. A "brakeset" can stop you before you even buy it. The 'eebrake' (marca registrada) will set you back, if not stop you, by $569. They do however possess the recondite ugliness that attests to your seriousness as a cyclist: The name 'eebrake' seems an unfortunate one for a brakeset though, since "ee!" seems the last thing you'd want anyone to be saying as you apply them.

 eebrakes

And you'll need some cables to go with those brakes - Bicycling's gear gurus suggest the Gore Ride-On Professional System sealed cables at $65, which seems a bargain if you consider that, being sealed, you'll never have spiders in your brake cables. 

Peddling Bicycles: Marketing by Illiteracy

Yesterday's post considered the new rhetorical style of "distributed marketing" currently on tap on the web - blowsy, rambling copy intended to sell a "lifesyle" to the Urban Hipster. The height of this bloviation concerns hand-built bicycles, many of which are made and doubtless sold in Portland to Portland's throngs of hipsters, millionaires, baristas and urban shepherds.

Shepherd Graffiti in Portland 

Buying one of these mobile works of art is, according to the Cycles Papillon copyist, like entering a new sexual relationship, one that really works, a union made in Heaven: "There is no better bicycle than one made specifically for you. One that fits your body but also one that fulfills your dreams and aspirations."  It's a physical and spiritual relationship that should be entered, if you'll permit that word here, with just as much care, circumspection and hope as a relationship with the Beloved (although more of that in a moment, just to keep the best cat in the bag.)

Buridan's Dilemma', Portland Style: Pick One

The Argonaut copyist begins by asking, "So why buy an Argonaut custom bicycle instead of one of the many other custom bicycles on the market?" A fair question; to which the natural rejoinder is, "A fair question.  I'll take the next year or so and rethink a purchase that right now seems ill-considered." But the purchase of an Argonaut puts you in the way of a good deal more than the average bike buyer ever bargained for. Read further into the site and you will quickly be wondering whether Argonaut's craftsmen are clandestine FBI agents or defrocked priests intent on dragging you into the nearest confessional:

 

Argonaut Bicycles, Portland ("questionnaire room")

"Every buyer starts out by filling out a comprehensive questionnaire intended [to] give me a general idea of what type of cyclist you are, and uncover any special needs or desires you might have. The questionnaire is then followed by a phone interview intended to open the lines of communication, and hash out the specific details of your bike [like one wheel or two?]. . . . [Then] I’ll work with you to find the best certified bicycle fitter in your area who will help me design a bike . . . . This process accompanied by painstaking attention to detail and world-class fabrication techniques guarantees that your Argonaut will be one of your most prized possessions."

A "comprehensive" questionnaire, a wearying and superfluous phone interview, a Savile Row fitting (probably equally lengthy and painful, certainly more expensive), a "collabo" design job, and you'll finish (provided age and decrepitude have not by then taken you to the bosom of your Maker) with "one of your most prized possessions," which clearly don't include either your sanity or your privacy. "Opening the lines of communication" sounds to me like a Beltway euphemism for wiretapping, which I understand is actually less painful (unless, of course, it's done by a certified bicycle fitter).

Certified Bicycle Fitting Room

Ira Ryan takes the "epic autobiographical" approach to marketing, one of the more tiresome forms of the genre. He tells a knockabout, Pirates-of-the-Caribbean tale ending in bloodshed, begging the conclusion that you should buy a bike from him. None of his self-importance seems to have any bearing on whether Ira is able to build a bike, but I guess it's possible to buy swashbuckling history in lieu of one.

"I have built over a hundred bicycles since I opened the doors of my workshop in 2005. They are all a result of a love affair with the bicycle as a tool for discovery. . . . I have been a cycle-tourist, raced . . . wrenched on week long tours and in dark basements, messengered in the rain . . .  caught in midwestern hail storms . . . . ridden carbon fiber race bikes, bad suspension mountain bikes . . .  rusty cruisers found in alleys in the snow. I have cut my hands on a sharp lug and shed blood for my craft."

"Dial-A-Pirate," Ira Ryan's frame order software

Stop Cycles' copy requires little comment, combining bad stream-of-consciousness (cf. Capote on Kerouac: "That's not writing, that's typing") with a recurrent icon of the Portlandic trust fund community, the passionate-yet-failed "art major". First, the obligatory profession of sincere artistic ineptitude compounded by staggering ineptitude for business:

"All art was created by our team of starving, out of work art majors who went to school to follow their passion but got left holding a big bill but have spades of talent. We traded them all a 6-pack of beer and some chicken wings for some art and we were pretty happy with what we got.

Then the inchoate artistic passion of a newly discovered (and of course "epic") artisanal calling:

"Mum’s the word when being spoken to and bleeding hearts wrapped in lace bring an elegant touch to this tube wrap style decal package.  

"Multiple color options and a peaceful groove ['groove' was one of Kerouac's default words] await this colorway option . . . . Little nuggets of peace."

(I have to ask, is "multiple color option" the same or not the same as "colorway option"? I mean, if I'm being offered multiple colors, wouldn't that just be a "color option" - well, "colorway option," then.)

Renovo brings high tech to the age-old art of woodcarving - their frames are made of exotic woods, often woods from Oregon (which would be the 'exotics' pine, spruce and fir, right?)

"Wood is tough stuff; from axe handles and baseball bats to the walnut stocks of the 1903 Springfield rifles. . . .These rifles were thrown from trucks, dragged through sand, rivers and hell, used as pry bars, clubs, crutches and still functioned as rifles." 

Here's a specimen, the Renovo TT bike, the dream alike of chainsaw artistes and carvers of small lidded rosewood boxes. Treat it like you would a rifle butt and sit on it:

 "If I break it can you weld it?"

Quixote Cycles  is our sweepstakes runner-up. Its copy incorporates in a scant two lines or so the Jungian grail "quest" twice, and manages to be both cringingly  pretentious and idiotic (it's not easy to stand out in this crowd, either):  

"It is my quest to change your preferred mode of personal transportation . . . . With this [bicycle?], you may sally forth on your own quest and together we shall change the world."

"Together we shall do this-or-that" always has such an apocalyptic ring to it. How about, "Together we shall warm the world"? With marketing outreach like this I'd prefer them to change my preferred mode of public transportation and leave my personal transport well out of it.

But the real winner in this carnival is Beloved, the love child of Chris King of expensive-water-bottle-cage fame. This site combines everything pretentious with everything illiterate, overheated, self-indulgent, gormless and fey. I feel constrained to quote at length (which, given the vocabular range of the typical web content person is fatiguing and just short of maddening, but not the eternity it seems).

The introit to the site simmers with a contained pentecostal fervor, invoking infinity by beginning sentences with infinitives: "To feel the wind in your hair. To feel the sun on your face. To find new love for the neighborhoods, the street corners, the passers-by. To re-inspire the well grooved commute. The freedom to find a new way. To wander. To work. To be among friends."

And then a Beethovenesque gerundive, in the key of the Ninth Symphony: "Let us chase the sun."

What follows is a yammering, drooling prose poem to each of three Beloved models, 'There and Back', 'No Haste' and 'Flamme Rouge'.

"There and Back is the sun on the horizon peaking slowly over the crisp morning. It is dew lapping your shoe from the road. It knows the destination fully to itself but not to you. It labels the road not in smoothness, pavement or pavé, but asks only for it to keep going. From brow to hand to hood, it tells a thousand stories of adventure along the way. Taking the road less traveled, and getting lost, then found.

"Taking time, oh sweet time is stenciled on the journal of No Haste. With haste comes wasted opportunities, and by all means one must take the time for experience. Whether wind, rain or baking heat tailor the theater of the day, all is digested and taken root as a promise kept. The journey, not the destination, is baked into the very being of No Haste.

"A monumental breed. A site of passion and madness, the Flamme Rouge is a small peloton of friends, a sprint to the county line. It gives you narrative and acceleration for the mind, body and soul. It has the ability to mix it up with the best using classic attitude. Rolling hills, steep descents, the Flamme Rouge burns on the manifest doctrine of steel is real."

I also label the road not in smoothness, not being given to labelling roads in general and particularly if there's actual traffic on them. I also know the destination fully by itself but not to you, unless of course I decide to let you in on where we're going.  I also have the ability to mix it up with the best using classic attitude, I'd just prefer to do it in someone else's kitchen. But when I have to "tailor the theater of the day," man, I get flummoxed. I'm willing just to stick with stencilling time on the journal of No Haste, although if a bicycle is keeping a journal, then for my money it can do its own stencilling.

No Haste (anymore)