A Tribute to Things Two-Wheeled...

Saturday evening a group of us forsook the usual weekend Halloween party and met at the Ram's Head Tavern in Savage, Maryland. While a couple of freaks pedaled straight from their front doors, travelers from afar (such as yours truly) and those who otherwise lacked sufficient ambition drove to the gathering, bikes sprouting from our cars like mutant antennae, and parked in the overflow parking lot, since the tavern was hosting a wedding. It was a good mix of fixed gears, singles speeds, and geared mountain bikes, and a slightly skewed ratio of guys to girls. The plan, cooked up by riderx, was for the 11 or so strong pack to pedal about nine miles to the Columbia Art Center to take in BIKE: An Exhibition, after which we'd return to the tavern to eat and toss down some pints. Three of the riders among us had works of their own on display at the event.

After the usual salutations, riderx broke out a box of glowsticks, and we all spent a few minutes adorning our bikes with the colorful tubes, weaving them between spokes and wrapping them around various parts of our framesets. Then we mounted up and headed off.

The route was a mix of paved and gravel trails, with an interstitial stretch of road thrown in here and there, a relatively direct line along a path that formed the backbone from which occasional secondary trails seemed to spread out in all directions like crooked ribs. We kept up a pretty good pace given the disparate abilities of the riders. About a quarter of the way there, Jay managed to strip the threads on his track hub, allowing the now unfixed cog to spin freely in both directions, and greatly undermining his efforts to move the bike in a forward direction. That ended his ride, and he rolled back to the parking lot to drive over to the center.

At some invisible point, the rest of us passed from Savage into Columbia, eventually making our way to the center as dusk seeped into the autumn sky.

Outside the center, we stacked the bikes in a jagged pyramid reminiscent of the one that sprang miraculously from the sidewalk outside a bar in PA this year on the eve of the SSWC. The tangled mass was an apt prelude of the artwork to be found inside, though considerably less esthetic. Bikes properly secured in accordance with Maryland law, we made our way en masse to the door.

The first thing to catch my eye from a distance was a full-size bicycle suspended from the ceiling, visible from the outside through a window by the doors. It seemed to droop under its own weight, like the cycling equivalent of one of Dali's clocks rendered in 3-D. As we came closer, it was clear that this bike had an infinitesimally low rider weight limit, considering that it was crocheted entirely from yarn. Talk about frame flex. Then again, I've never seen smoother welds. Just from the scrupulous attention to detail, I'd guess that the artist spent as much time on this bike as some custom builders do on their frames.

The group split up to take it all in. Lots of intriguing pieces, with media running the gamut from the aforementioned yarn to celluloid to watercolor to oil to acrylic to, well, steel, and more. It wasn't long before the place was packed. My girl and I managed to find the stash of microbrews secreted behind the front counter, and proceded to polish off a couple as we mingled and observed.

Riderx had three framed photographic works on the wall, a color shot and two black-and-whites, some cool stuff. Not to be outdone, the disco cowboy had on display a large action shot, entitled Paying the Rent, that ended up garnering him an honorable mention at the awards ceremony, and his girl had a beautiful shot of a twisty descent from Snowshoe, WV, that somehow managed to capture the essence of mountain bike racing in a single fleeting instant (unfortunately, my shot of her shot failed to pay proper homage to the quality of the original...should have shelved my beer and used both hands on the camera). All great stuff, to be sure, an eclectic collection that really seemed to please the attendees, cyclists and non-cyclists alike. All those who put their time, effort, and talent into making this event happen really deserve commendation for the results.
Our group of riders shuffled out the doors about an hour or so after the awards, bellies primed for dinner by the h'ordeurves we'd eaten during the event. We untangled our bikes and pedaled off into the night, taillights flashing, headlamps blazing, and glowsticks doing their thing.

Back at the Ram's Head Tavern, we reassembled and, over dinner and a few pints (mmm...Resurrection Ale), discussed the details of an upcoming C&O Canal Towpath "girl's ride." Well, most of us did. My girl and I managed to arrive upstairs a bit late (the band downstairs doing Hendrix covers was just too damn good to miss) and ended up sitting with the disco cowboy and his lady at an adjoining table somewhat removed from the main group of cogitators, so I'll have to catch up on the specifics sometime this week. Looks like that's the next big adventure, so plenty of stuff to get ready in the meantime.

You like bikes? You like art? You like bikes AND art? Then check out BIKE: An Exhibition. Because after November 20th, it's gone-daddy-gone. (For an insider's take on the event, check out DC's blog.)

Art of the Wheel...

Dwellers or lurkers in the Columbia, Maryland area and outposts thereof may want to throw a leg over their bikes this Saturday and point the wheels in the direction of the Columbia Art Center. The center is presenting a juried art exhibition, curiously entitled "BIKE," showcasing the talents of almost 50 artists from around the country. Local single speed legend riderx somehow managed to step off the bike long enough to submit some of his photographic oeuvre, as did the disco cowboy (who, rumor has it, is NOT dead, though he sure seems damn sluggish lately), and one Brad Quartuccio of Dirt Rag fame, among many others.

The exhibition runs from October 20 through November 20, but this Saturday, October 29, is the Gala Reception, which will be held from 6 to 8 pm. Along with food and drink and an awards ceremony, the reception offers the chance to mingle with some of the featured artists.

Of course, it's de rigueur for cyclists to show up to the event on two wheels, so ride 'em if ya got 'em.

A Tale of Two Trails (Conclusion)...

From the ferry, we pedal up a ramp to a general store. Markings on the storefront indicate that in the summer of '72, flood waters rose as high as the third story—it's a sure bet that the record will stand for the rest of the day. Just past the store lies the C&O Canal Towpath. To the left, the path stretches in a more or less northwestern direction some 150 miles before coming to an end in Cumberland, Maryland. But that segment, along with the lure of less familiar vistas, must wait for another time. Instead, we head right to begin the second half of our loop.

The sun is beginning to drop from the sky, ducking behind treetops and blanketing much of the trail in shadows. I've got my bike light, but the amount of life remaining in the battery is a question mark, since I neglected to recharge it after the last use. My conservative guess for burn time is about an hour and a half at best; unless I'm wrong, we'll be riding the last hour or so in the dark.

No other travelers are in view as we roll past mile marker 35, as in 35 miles to the terminus in Georgetown. The trail is already stippled with fallen leaves. The low rainfall of late has left the surface dry for the most part, though the occasional puddle punctures the dirt like a canker. The grade is slightly downhill, just enough for us to sustain a decent speed without using too much energy. (This minor advantage is amplified considerably over the full length of the towpath; for those looking to ride the entire trail, it is a strong incentive to start the journey in Cumberland, Maryland.)

I'm running 35s on my fixie; my girl is running 32s on her single-speed cross bike. It's her first real ride on the towpath, and I worry that the relatively skinny tires don't have enough meat to adequately buffer the bumps and ruts that seem exaggerated after riding the long ribbon of smooth asphalt that is the W&OD Trail. But she's doing fine, keeping up the pace and managing to dodge the tennis ball-sized black walnuts that turn swatches of the trail into inadvertant minefields.

We are flanked on the left by the canal itself, on the right by the Potomac river, which flickers in and out of view through the stand of trees along the edge of the shore. As the sun sinks closer to the horizon, the strategy becomes obvious: avoid anything darker than the rest of the trail—ruts and fallen branches become indistinguishable from one another in the gloaming, and both can mean bad news for the inattentive rider.

Though the twilight is upon us, we stop occasionally to take in the scenery and snap some pics. Somewhere along the way, on the Potomac side of the path, there appears a small group of houses atop stilts. Their spindly legs are a mute reminder of the dynamic, often destructive power that gathers quickly when rainfall and river join forces. On the other side, the water of the canal lies motionless and undisturbed, its surface covered in a thick layer of primordial algae, like the rind of some unripened fruit.

As we pedal along quietly, the surrounding silence is broken every now and then by deer crashing through the woods. Unlike those that loiter along the W&OD Trail as it passes through the suburbs of Vienna in Virginia, these deer have not yet acquired the unsettling docility that comes with encroaching housing development. Aside from the deer, which we hear more than see, no other wildlife appears.

The miles roll by slowly, and it occurs to me—not without a twinge of guilt—that part of the reason for the ride, the scenery, is quickly disappearing with the fading light. We pass over several locks, whose numbers don't really jibe with the nearest mile markers. The locks can be tricky sections when you're riding blindly, since they veer slightly from straight (straight being a dropoff into the canal) and usually have a short but choppy downward slope on the far side. Somewhere around mile marker 28 we stop long enough for me to attach the light to my girl's bike. Not dark enough yet to turn it on, but I'd rather install it while I can still see.

Back on the bikes, we keep the cranks turning. By the time we reach the bridge at Lock 24, the normally prominent rocks in the Potomac have been swallowed up in the darkness. But luck is on our side. A nearly full moon is cresting the treetops and throwing pale light onto the trail. We turn on the bike light only when the canopy of leaves overhead throws the path into shadows. Sightseeing is no longer an option, and we lay into the pedals with greater resolve.

Near mile 13, we arrive at a detour, a wooden bridge that leads up and over the canal to the opposite side. When I rode the full towpath last year, I skipped the detour and took my chances with the rocky section that lies beyond it. Big mistake, since much of this section is all but impassable, especially when you have to hike a bike with full panniers. So, we carry our bikes up the stairs and ride across the bridge to the other side. We turn on the bike light for the length of this detour, since the surface of the trail seems pitted with hoof prints, and neither of us have ever ridden it before.

Soon we see a detour sign pointing us left and down a rutted hill to cross back over to the towpath proper. Though the nighttime has stolen the colors around us, the moon spills diamonds of light across the surface of the canal; the chiaroscurro effect is by turns beautiful and eerie.

At Lock 6, on the banks of the canal, we see a house owned by the National Park Service. The lights are on inside; as I understand it, the inhabitant is an employee of the NPS who has the benefit of living here rent-free as part of his or her compensation. We don't stop, but instead pedal on to give the family their privacy.

Near Lock 4, we pause to take some pictures of The Georgetown, a canal barge that, with the help of an ambitious mule, ferried tourists along the Georgetown section of the canal until it was retired in 2003. Somewhere, I imagine, there's a mule who doesn't realize how lucky he is.

At some point after Lock 3, we stop to investigate the strange chirping sound that seems to be coming from my front wheel. The hub checks out okay, as does the brake. I squeeze the tire and realize that it's quite a bit low—odd, since I pumped up both tires before we began the ride. I pull out my backup light, a headlamp, switch it on, and begin to fill the tire with air. Satisfied with the volume, I remove the pump, and instantly the valve head explodes like a cannon, rocketing off into the void well beyond the trail's edge. This is the kind of mechanical you don't think about when you forego the spare tube in favor of a patch kit. Fortunately, I have both. I swap the defective tube for a new one, pump it up, and we head off again.

Suddenly the lights and traffic of Key Bridge come into view. We pass under the bridge and it isn't long before we reach the end of the line. We head up and over the canal via a steel truss bridge that lands us amid the lights and bustle of Georgetown. Technically, the end of the towpath is another .4 miles further east at mile marker 0, the Tidewater Lock. But, we rationalize, since we didn't ride the entire trail, this is good enough. Besides, it's late, and cold beer and a hot meal are calling to us. Fortunately, the Hard Times Cafe in Clarendon is open; it fits the bill on both counts. Chili and beer may just be the ultimate recovery meal—if not nutritionally, then certainly spiritually. Especially when the beer on tap is Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA; coincidentally, it's the same beer I celebrated with last year after riding the whole towpath.

By the time we reach the car, we've logged nearly 80 miles. It's been a long and enjoyable day, but now it's time to ride with the likes of Hypnos and Morpheus.

"Progress..."

They hunt in packs...mechanical menage a trois in Ballston (Arlington, Virginia). Note scavenger in lower right foreground.

A Tale of Two Trails (Part 2)...

So, after a few minutes, the ferry makes its way to our shore. A banner strung overhead informs us that the ferry is called the General Jubal A. Early. I half expect to see a Confederate flag trailing from the stern, but somehow we are spared that Dixie atavism.

We wait until fifteen or so cars pile on, then walk our bikes down to find a forlorn spot on deck somewhere near the back. We squeeze between one edge of the ferry and the passenger side of a Lexus SUV, whose occupants are in their fifties and apparently quite content with the level of obesity they've managed to attain here in the land of plenty, only too happy to trade in their enfeebled legs for a quartet of steel-belted radials and easy access to drive-through windows.

The guys operating the ferry are jovial, and make good-natured jokes about our obvious minority status as they accept our payment. We gaze out at the Potomac and the distant landscape, tacitly grateful for this brief respite from the day's ride. The scenery is beautiful and the mood is serene, qualities that will surely intensify in the weeks to come, when the leaves die in a paradoxical burst of vibrant color. (Poetic waxing: in the northeast, the short passage between Summer and Fall, almost imperceptible, is a chrysalis of sorts—the celestial emerges from the commonplace overnight and dies soon thereafter, in harmony with a plan that even our own time of dying may not reveal to us. So be it.)

The Lexus people are talkative and eager to show off their onboard GPS system. They are pleasant, and to be social, I feign interest and lean closer to snap a pic of the display. The act is surreal, taking a picture of a picture that only simulates the reality around us. The digital screen renders the majestic in a paltry three-color schematic—esthetics be damned, give us information! It is the this decade's embodiment of DeBord's Spectacle, yet another layer thrown up between us and the natural world. GPS-equipped automobiles mean never making a wrong turn, never venturing into an unknown area, never chancing upon something new. Sad, in a way, especially when you accept the cold fact that here, sitting comfortably in their (no doubt heated) leather seats, are two archetypes of the moribund American Cheap-Oil Era, smiling complacently. I am reminded of how much I like my bike. It is a social machine, enhancing connections instead of blunting them. But I digress...

The trip across the Potomac is quicker than I expected. We reach the Maryland side and, in keeping with our second-class status (but really because it's safer), we wait until all of the cars disembark before pedaling off. Evening is upon us.

[End Part 2]

A Tale of Two Trails (Part 1)...

On Saturday, I get the idea that it's time to do the White's Ferry loop, a.k.a. the WODCO loop.

Now, I've ridden the entire W&OD Trail out and back (about 93 miles) in a day on the fixie, running 48x16, and that was a piece of cake, considering that it's all paved and not very hilly. I've also ridden the full C&O Canal Towpath (about 190 miles to my front door) one way over three days on the fixie, along with a group of buddies, and I know that even though it's mostly slightly downhill from Cumberland into Georgetown, the rough "clay and crushed stone" surface of the trail can really take it out of you in an insidious manner, especially when you're weighted down with full panniers.

Well, the White's Ferry loop is about 75 miles and combines the best of both worlds: 35 miles on the W&OD/Custis Trail, 35 miles on the C&O Canal Towpath, and about 5 miles on paved roads to link the two. Throw in a pub stop in Leesburg before a short ferry ride across the Potomac and you've got a nice day in the works.

And that's exactly what it was. Sunday, my girl and I hop on our bikes and head out from Clarendon around one o'clock, some two hours later than we originally intended. We pick up the Custis Trail almost immediately and ride westbound to where it meets up with the W&OD Trail in Arlington. This route makes sure that we get in some climbing before settling in to the relatively easy pedalling out to Leesburg.

The ride on the W&OD goes smoothly until around the caboose stop in Vienna, when I decide to check on my girl's bike, just because it's overdue for an inspection. Sure enough, some play has developed in the driveside crank/BB interface, the result of an undertorqued crank bolt that has worked its way loose. Nobody's fault but mine, as the song goes, since I built it. I tighten up the errant bolt, and we're off again.

We pedal on, stopping only occasionally at busy intersections where most drivers, hermetically sealed in the antisocial capsule of their vehicles, refuse to play fair or even acknowledge our presence. The weather is nice—a little cool and somewhat overcast—but there's a powerful headwind that refuses to yield, creating the sensation of perpetual brake drag the whole way out.

Arriving in Ashburn, we take a right off the trail onto Ashburn Road to grab an energy drink at the Pedalshop. Inside, Mike (the owner) introduces us to his latest work in progress, an On-One Inbred 29er, resplendent in pearlescent white and black, clamped in a bike stand, and awaiting a parts transfer. Sweet frame, with sliding dropouts (a'la Kona) and some cool gussets where the wishbone chainstays originate. Ogle a bit, wipe up my drool, then we chat some more with Mike before he issues me my official ODB/Pedalshop team member discount drinking—er...training—card. Then it's back on the bikes and back to the trail.

We make it to Leesburg (somewhere around mile marker 31) a little after three o'clock, then hang a right off the trail and onto King Street before winding our way to nearby Thoroughbreds Grill and Brewing. Good timing, the "Simple Fare" menu is in effect, offering good food at about half price. They are out of their Cat 50 IPA, but no worries, since Bear Republic's Racer 5 is the guest tap. Nice!

Couple of burgers, couple of pints, and it's time to get back in the saddle. We head off down Edwards Ferry Road to Route 15 on our way to White's Ferry, where we plan to float across the Potomac to the Maryland side to pick up the canal towpath. On Route 15, we pass a vineyard, where the grapes are so ripe for picking they would tempt Bacchus himself, whose otherworldly powers mean that he would not have to climb the fence to sample the goods like us mere mortals.

We pedal on, hugging the road's edge while traffic zooms past us at highway speeds. This four mile or so stretch of asphalt is the only piece of the ride where we come into close contact with automobiles. That's fine with us.

Eventually, we make a left onto White's Ferry Road, and roll along until the road veers left near the edge of the Potomac River. Rounding the bend, it isn't long before White's Ferry comes into view. As luck would have it, the ferry is just leaving from the Maryland side, loaded down with about twelve cars and no bikes. The sluglike pace of the ferry means that we have a few minutes to take in the scenery, which we do. The leaves on the trees are still very green, despite the lack of rainfall the area has experienced lately, and it looks like it will be a couple more weeks before the beautiful crowd-drawing colors appear in full force.

As we stand waiting, a line of cars quickly assembles behind us. We check out a sign that lists the rates for various types of travelers. Cyclists pay a dollar to cross (just a bit steeper than the going rate of six and one-fourth cents per man, mule, or horse levied back in 1828), drivers, three dollars, and pedestrians, fifty cents. In keeping with our undying car culture, bikes are the last to board. We've clocked a little over 40 miles at this point.

[End Part 1]

If It Ain't Broken, Fix It Anyway...

So I'm trying to muster the testicular fortitude to convert the Monkey to a fixed-gear mountain bike, and then actually ride the damn thing offroad. Not really an ideal frame for it, I suspect, since the bottom bracket sits pretty low and I tend to pedal-clip stuff now with it set up as a single speed. Add into the mix that I'll be running some skinny cross tires, and the situation worsens. But the bike is not getting much action right now, so why not? Insurance is paid up.

Only problem is, I'm looking to use a nice Paul disc WORD hub that is freewheel only. Solution, of course, is to find a bolt-on cog and slap that baby on the hub where the disc rotor normally goes, flip the wheel around, and voila!...instant bombproof fixie wheel. Now, the only such cog I know of in production is a nice Ti one made by Boone. No experience with Ti as a chainring/cog material, so I don't have any beta on the durability of these beauties. That unknown, plus the premium that Ti commands (considering the likelihood that this bike won't see the lion's share of my offroad riding), plus the incongruous and unnecessary bling factor, means I'm still searching.

LeVeL Components seems to have the right idea, but their cog interface is proprietary and I'm not looking to invest in a new hub right now. So the question is, who makes steel ISO disc brake bolt-on cogs?

Perched on the Abyss...

"And when you stare persistently into an abyss, the abyss also stares into you."

— Friedrich Nietzsche

Okay, a synopsis of Darwin’s Nightmare (see "Hell On Wheels..." below for a lead-in):

The documentary deals with the effects of globalization on the people living near the shores of Lake Victoria in Mwanza, Tanzania. More specifically, the film focuses on the Nile Perch, a large predatory fish artificially introduced into the waters of Lake Victoria more than 40 years ago, presumably by some enterprising businessmen. The goal of these hyperopic mavericks, apparently, was to boost the local fishing industry.

They got their boost all right, and then some. The Nile Perch was so voracious that it devoured every other species of fish in the lake. Prey became so scarce that the fish began cannibalizing its young for sustenance. The result of this decades-long feeding frenzy was a population explosion of algae and other organisms that used to be food for the smaller fish that disappeared down the gullet of the Nile Perch. Now, the burgeoning algae masses have depleted the level of oxygen in Lake Victoria, threatening to suffocate the very creatures to whom they owe their reproductive success.

But no worries. The Nile Perch is one tasty fish, and fetches a hefty profit on the European market. In fact, there is such a demand for this delicacy that several planes arrive in Mwanza daily—mostly from the Ukraine—with the express purpose of leaving with as much packaged perch as they can carry. (Indeed, in a darkly humorous scene, we are shown the broken hulls and decapitated cockpits of unlucky aircraft that litter the runways near the shores, victims of their own greed in taking on too much cargo.) The incoming planes deliver munitions to other areas in Africa before arriving in Mwanza, helping to sustain the many wars that continue to ravage the continent. For the pilots (and their employers), it’s a win-win situation; the planes have to make the trip to pick up the fish, might as well put them to good use on the way over. Of course, the planes could bring in medicine and food for the destitute, as the film implies, but that stuff’s just not profitable. And while they wait for the planes to load up, the pilots help themselves to the local prostitutes; it is a symbiotic—though not equally so—relationship, an unintentional byproduct of the fishing industry, a lesser example of the plundering of Africa’s resources by the Western world (think diamonds).

European demand for the Nile Perch is so great that, as with coffee in parts of Latin America, fishing becomes the number one industry in Tanzania, so much so that many traditional professions simply disappear in the pursuit of higher wages. Farmers become fishermen in a twist of irony that produces food for foreigners while the locals go hungry. Well, not exactly hungry. There is the daily supply of fish heads and tails left over after the local (foreign owned) packing plant has processed the day’s catch. In a scene not for the squeamish, the camera shows us several indigents standing among piles of fish scraps crawling with maggots, as they pick through the carrion for the best morsels to be boiled for soup.

Hubert Sauper, the director of the film, shows us more than he tells us about the plight of the citizens of Mwanza as they are subjected to the darkest side of globalization. His weapon of enlightenment is a handheld camera, and this low-tech approach works well for him as he interviews fishermen, orphans, prostitutes, plant employees, and local politicians. The footage is raw and unscripted, and the film is rife with sadness punctuated only occasionally by unexpected bursts of accidental humor. The story is not a new one, but thanks to Sauper's innovative style, it becomes almost a personal one, with the power to really make you think about the hidden costs of luxury and privilege.

I wish I could say that I made it back to Grosvenor Auditorium to see some more of the films sponsored by Amnesty International, but alas, fate had other plans. I did manage to bike into Shirlington for the Capitol City Oktoberfest on Saturday, despite Lady Nature throwing everything she had at us after holding back on the precip for so long. Oh well, the Chocolate Donut beer from the Shenandoah Brewing Company booth more than made up for the inclement weather.

Chain Stays, Seat Stays...

...the whole damn bike stays outside of RFD in Chinatown, while its owner throws down a pint or three.

Random pic from the recent past:

Hell on Wheels...

So around 6:30 this evening, after a brief sprinkle, I throw a leg over the fixie and head into DC via the Custis trail to catch a documentary called Darwin’s Nightmare. The film is the first of several in a three-day series sponsored by Amnesty International and held at the National Geographic Society Headquarters, Grosvenor Auditorium (see previous blog entry for more details).

From the trail, I take Key Bridge into Gee Town and begin to pedal east up M Street. Almost immediately, I hit a line of stalled cars that stretches for blocks on both sides of the street. Not that unusual, it is rush hour. As I weave through traffic, I notice up ahead what I take to be an errant patch of fog. Then the pungent smell of burning rubber hits me, and I realize that the fog I’m rolling into is actually smoke, billowing towards me and filling the street. I kick up the pace a bit, hoping to blast quickly through it while trying to breathe as little of the acrid fumes as possible. Presently, I see that a throng has gathered on the sidewalk up ahead of me. A few quick pedal strokes and I’m on the scene: an SUV is ablaze on the other side of the street, flames engulfing the engine compartment and roaring out from all sides, tires bubbling, the whole thing forming a literal ball of fire. The spectacle is surreal, like a scene, I imagine, out of modern day Iraq or Palestine, minus the instigating blast. And me without my camera. I try to rubberneck a bit as I pass, but the traffic is acting even more chaotic than usual for the area: oncoming cars whip u-turns in the middle of the nearest intersection to avoid the jam, horns blow, vehicles inch up to fill any available gaps--a lengthy lapse in attention might send me caroming off a sideview mirror. One more look, and I hit it hard; don’t want to be around when the gas tank goes supernova, something the gawkers gathered directly across the street apparently aren’t thinking about.

Another block, and at last I see DC’s finest rolling down Potomac Street, pulling up short at the intersection with M because a Metrobus is blocking the lane. I continue on, half expecting to hear an explosion and screams of panic, but nothing happens.

I locate the NGS HQ, conveniently placed right on M street, lock up the bike, and take my light in with me to grab my ticket. I’ve got 15 minutes to spare, which is cool, because I need to pound an energy bar to get me through the show. Bar gone, I grab a seat and settle in. After a speech by Philip Bennett, Managing Editor at The Washington Post, about the critical role of the media in uncovering the abuses of global power (there’s your irony), the lights dim and the movie begins.

(Quick film synopsis to follow. Next up for viewing is State of Fear, which uses Peru as a backdrop to discuss the balancing act that occurs when a country is faced with maintaining the rights associated with a democracy while trying to fight a “war on terror.” I recommend it. And worry not, while there’s a disgraceful dearth of bike racks in the area, the railings outside the auditorium accommodate u-locks quite nicely.)

Think Globally, Drink Locally...

If you live in the DC area and have some time to kill over the next few days, you might want to bike down to the National Geographic Society Headquarters to check out the Amnesty International Film Festival. The festival runs from Thursday, October 6, through Saturday, the 8th, and features several flicks dealing with human rights issues. Pretty cool stuff, if you read the descriptions.

On a lighter note, the Capitol City Brewing Company is hosting their sixth annual Oktoberfest celebration right off the W&OD trail in the lovely, gentrified Village of Shirlington. Over 30 breweries will be on hand to offer their fermented fare, so you should be able to find something you like. One tip: get there early. Last year, most of the breweries, uh, ran out of beer before the festival ended, prompting a mass stampede for the last trickling taps. (If you missed the W&OD reference above, the suggestion is to ride your bike some or all of the way if you can; besides being good for you and all other living things, it's a good idea for another reason: the parking situation in Shirlington is a mess, thanks to some wonderful new condo units that were plunked down dead in the center of the only easily accessible free parking space in the area.)

If you hone your timing and know your way around the Custis and W&OD trails, you can hit the filmfest either before or after the drunkfest and check out at least one flick.