Tune In Turn On Get Dropped

Well, they haven't kicked me off the radio yet, and today I'll be on at 10am talking about kids, bikes, and kids and bikes:


I'll also be talking to Henry Cutler of WorkCycles, makers of my personal Smugness Flotilla:


Henry was my guide on my trip to Amsterdam, which I wrote about in my third book, and we'll compare our school drop-off routines as well as marvel over the fact that in the Netherlands kids can ride on their own by the time the're like 10, whereas in America you've basically got to lease a Hyundai just to cross the street.

Also, awhile back I mentioned I divested myself of the Ritte Rust Bucket, and I'm pleased to announce that it is now part of the Classic Cycles collection on Bainbridge Island, WA!


This is all true, by the way:


The Ritte and I had a good run, but once my new-to-me titanium road bike entered the stable the trusty Rust Bucket could sense it was now the old nag destined for the glue factory:


Not only is the bike pictured above refreshingly bereft of rust and sweat stains, but it also rides beautifully, and having now logged a few hundred miles on it I've come to the conclusion that all that crap I've been hearing over the years about the marvels of titanium is totally true.  In fact, I like this bike so much it may very well have ruined me for my other road bikes, because my brand-new plastic Fred Sled now feels harsh and jittery in comparison.

Anyway, given the Ritte's storied and dignified history, it only seemed fitting to re-home it with the museum.  There, it joins the Renovo, and just as soon as I earn my first billion I'll endow that esteemed cultural institution with an entire wing in which to house them.

Speaking of my plastic bike, I headed out to race it yesterday in the predawn hours.  It was raining when I rolled out at like ass-thirty or whatever it was, and as I seem to do at least once a year I found myself slipping off the back almost immediately, like an elephant seal slathered in Vaseline and trying to climb a water slide.  This was mostly because, you know, everyone else out there was much stronger than me.  But another factor was that, as I hit the first descent, gritty wheelspray hitting me in the face, all I could think about was Phil Gaimon's recent tweets and how I really didn't want to spend Fathers Day on a gurney.  You know, you can work with not being strong enough, and you can work with bad weather conditions, but combine the two and you're asking for trouble.

After all these years you'd think I'd have learned the most important lesson of park racing by now:

If you wake up and there's any rain at all, go the fuck back to bed.
Oh well, there's always next week.