Pistol-Whipped...

In a move that surprised no one, but should command a galaxy of respect nonetheless—if only because resistance to commodification, real or symbolic, is in such short supply nowadays—the Sex Pistols have decided to politely turn down an invitation to be inducted into that most fatuous and meaningless of popularity contests, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

In a short, appropriately hand-written note, the group put it succinctly, saying in part:

"Next to the Sex Pistols, rock and roll and that hall of fame is a piss stain. Your museum. Urine in wine. We're not coming. We're not your monkey..."

Well done, lads. While this move doesn't efface the sell-out feeling of those recent, lucrative "reunion" shows, it is a breath of fresh air in an increasingly putrid atmosphere of prepackaged, instant stardom.

Time to pull out my drawing pen and tablet...Johnny Rotten just got the vote as the point-punk subject for the next punk bike enduro.

And Then There Were Three...

The ranks of the Tuesday Night Swill (TNS) ride have begun to swell lately.

Last Tuesday's ride started out with four of us heading from Falls Church into Shirlington via the W&OD, Custis, and Mount Vernon trails. We started out with me, DT, Jason, and a new TNSer, Jonny B. Jon recently threw together on old 70s Raleigh he picked up off craigslist a little while back, after rattle-canning it a dark emerald and painting the lugs black. Turned out pretty sweet; sporting the original Weinneman brakes in pristine shape, an old skool set of dropbars that were waaay too narrow for my tastes (his too), and chromed drops front and rear. Single for now, but I'm trying to convince him to fix it.

DT was again running the old Fuji with the bad chainline, untouched since the last ride, which we all understood from past experience to mean that any long, rough downhills this time out would mean a dropped chain for him. Add into the mix the fact that his voice sounded like he'd gargled with crushed glass—he was coming off a nasty cold—and we had the makings of an interesting evening before us.

We headed off into the darkening streets with the idea of taking the long way into Shirlington to hit Cap City for food and the mandatory swill. ("Swill" is a bit of a misnomer here. When the beers typically run anywhere from $5 to $8 a pop, it's misleading to classify them with Bud—anyone remember A-B's "It's the Hops" ad...WTF?—and its mass-produced ilk. Still, the name endures, owing more to the character of the drinkers than the drink.)

I think we made it into Arlington before DT threw his chain the first time. We stopped and he caught up. Happened again a few miles later in Rosslyn, just before we hit the Mount Vernon trail at Key Bridge. While waiting at the bridge, we ran into Gwadzilla, who was either heading home from work or out on a ride. Not sure which; I didn't know it was him until later, sinced I've never met him, and I was too busy trying to find a tear that was developing in the sidewall of my front tire to pay attention (Panaracer Paselas suck and blow!).

Gwadz decided to hang with us for a while, and kept the ailing DT company at the back of the pack while we three cretins hammered on ahead, stopping periodically to let them catch up.

At the spot where the Mount Vernon and Four Mile Run trails meet, we got a call from DT saying his chain had exploded. Apparently, he needed more links than he had with him, and decided to bag the ride there and call his wife to pick him up. Probably a good idea since, like I said, he sounded pretty ill. Gwadz must have split about this time as well.

We continued on into Shirlington, Jonny B right on Jason's ass right on my ass all the way in. Locked up the bikes, headed into Cap City, grabbed a bar table, and Jason and I ordered the Belgian Trippel they had on tap, since the Double IPA was long gone. Pretty good stuff. Jon opted for a Hefeweizen.

Ate and drank another beer, then left it up to Jon to decide on the route back. We ended up taking the short way back along the meandering Four Mile Run trail. At an underpass in Arlington, I decided to throw in a little sweet suffering, and headed off the trail and up the long hill on Wilson Boulevard. From there, we took a right and screamed down Larrimore, crossed Patrick Henry, and hopped back on the Four Mile Run Trail. In a few turns of the cranks, we made our way over to the W&OD and stayed on it to the cars.

A good night of riding, just under 25 miles in all, I believe. Started out with four riders, went up to five, and ended with three, the usual number of TNSers. Guess the recent spate of unusually mild weather is bringing everyone out on the road, since the dirt trails are sloppy with no protracted freeze. Man, I'm jonesin' for some dirt!

Immediate Gratification...

Just finished rereading Hakim Bey's short work Immediatism, and I have to say it got me thinking about two things I hold dear. Those would be, of course, bikes and beer. More specifically, I realized that many of us have been practicing a type of Immediatism already, without really recognizing it. But first, a little background.

The titular topic of the book concerns a sort of social practice or art that seeks to do away with the middle man, so to speak, in terms of direct experience. Bey makes the point that all experiences are in some way mediated, meaning that something comes in between subject and object that necessarily diminishes the former's perception of the latter. The degree of diminution (and thus, inversely, experience) varies depending on the media involved. In Bey's words,

"All experience is mediated—by the mechanisms of sense perception, mentation, language, etc.—& certainly all art consists of some further mediation of experience. However, mediation takes place by degrees. Some experiences (smell, taste, sexual pleasure, etc.) are less mediated than others (reading a book, looking through a telescope, listening to a record). Some media, especially "live" arts such as dance, theater, musical or bardic performance, are less mediated than others such as TV, CDS, Virtual Reality. Even among the media usually called "media," some are more & others are less mediated, according to the intensity of imaginative participation they demand. Print & radio demand more of the imagination, film less, TV even less, VR the least of all—so far."

However, the extent to which an experience has been commodified (i.e., separated or "alienated" from the subject) can sometimes have greater impact than the form of mediation involved. Going back to Bey,

"...an argument could be made that music distributed free or at cost on cassette via mail is LESS alienated than live music played at some huge We Are the World spectacle or Las Vegas niteclub, even though the latter is live music played to a live audience (or at least so it appears), while the former is recorded music consumed by distant & even anonymous listeners."

Bey goes on to talk about projects or activities that mitigate this mediation and thus allow a deeper experience, one akin to the play of a child (or—no stretch here—the play of an adult riding a bike), imbued with the power of imagination and the joy of pure frivolity. The rules? According to Bey,

"All spectators must also be performers. All expenses are to be shared, & all products which may result from the play are also to be shared by the participants only (who may keep them or bestow them as gifts, but should not sell them). The best games will make little or no use of obvious forms of mediation such as photography, recording, printing, etc., but will tend toward immediate techniques involving physical presence, direct communication, & the senses."

Furthermore, Immediatism is something that should be

"...shared freely but never consumed passively, something which can be discussed openly but never understood by the agents of alienation, something with no commercial potential yet valuable beyond price, something occult yet woven completely into the fabric of our everyday lives."

Okay, what came to mind after digesting the subject matter were those group mountain bike rides (e.g., enduros) where each participant "pays" an admission fee of a six of microbrew, or those where a local brewing company donates a keg, and riders sup after each lap or between stages, depending on the event. (Occult? Okay, maybe not, but I've had some pretty magical moments involving the combination of endogenous substances—adrenaline and dopamine, to name two—and bicycles.)

Dirt Rag's Punk Bike Enduro is probably the best known of these gatherings, but it violates at least one additional "rule" of Immediatism, namely, it is publicized and thus receives press coverage, however limited, and so runs the risk of becoming "contaminated," to use Bey's word, by media. Also, it's sponsored, not only by DR but by Troegs Brewing Company, who offer "support", as DR puts it. Thus, by the standards of Immediatism, it's already been co-opted, the whole thing a sort of fait accompli where mediation is concerned. (I'm not complaining here; participation in the Enduro is voluntary, obviously, and I happen to like both DR—missing latest issue notwithstanding—and Troegs beer. And the Enduro, for that matter.)

I cohosted one of these events a few years ago, a clandestine and illicit multi-lap jaunt around some local trails interrupted by pit stops at an oasis deep in the woods, where a cache of well-stocked coolers awaited each thirsty rider. It was a great time, one that we all keep talking about reviving. And a buddy north of me hosts an excellent one about this time each year, an almost perfect, if accidental, example of what we're discussing here. That ride, like Dirt Rag's, involves "point punks" (see the one above that I created) and the post-ride awarding of trophies—homemade totems comprised of scrap bike parts. Sadly, I'm afraid that gathering might not happen this year, because of unforseen (but positive) circumstances in his life (he'll remain anonymous here because name dropping violates the sine qua non secrecy of Immediatism, among other reasons of a more legal nature). There's another similar ride held annually in Philadelphia (as I'm sure there are in other states and other countries), and the weekly TNS local road ride involves elements of Immediatism, though it's not a perfect example, since brewpubs are involved and we make no effort at secrecy. Critical Mass is another example, though less so, since it's necessarily public and charged with overt political symbolism (and is thus not "play for play's sake"), and receives the occasional poisoned press coverage, however marginal and ephemeral.

These rides have a quality about them that is difficult to define, that kind of unique, intense euphoria that has its archetype (one can imagine) in the successful commission of a nonviolent crime that is, essentially, victimless. And indeed, that's exactly what these rides are. Each rider a kind of Robin Hood, stealing back the element of play from a system that has no right to possess, control, or sanction it, and sharing it freely with other participants.

Of course, the ideal such ride would be one where each participant offered up a few bottles of homebrew, since homebrew could be understood to be less mediated than commercial brew, and therefore more meaningful as a gift. And gears and suspension would be strictly res non grata, since each could be construed as an instrument of mediation that buffers—and thus diminishes—the riding experience.

Sounds like I better get working on it...

Interesting footnote on the lack of footnote denotations above: The title page in the front matter of the book contains this curious little statement,

"Anti-copyright, 1994. May be freely pirated and quoted—the author and publisher, however, would like to be informed at (publisher's name and address)"

Yeah, I sent 'em an email about the excerpts I lifted for this post.

Virgins Know...

Managed to throw down a few miles last Sunday at Wakefield, pedaling through the white oblivion with DT, Gary, and a low-slung, four-legged trailblazing beast named Buster. We were the first ones to lay down tracks in the fluff that spilled from the skies
beginning Saturday afternoon and continuing on through Sunday morning. It was the first significant snowstorm of the new year in the DC Metro area, and we sure as hell weren't going to let it slip away in the coming high temps. At least not before we could etch a little two-wheeled graffiti in the soft medium.

It was a virgin ride on two counts for Gary's new-to-him Karate Monkey: one, this was its first offroad ride (been a wet winter here in the northeast Yoo Ess), and two, this was the first time, as far as anyone knows, that it has had the opportunity to dip its knobs in the snow, so to speak. And as you can see from the accompanying pic, it wasn't alone in the experience.

Snow was just a bit wetter than we would have preferred it, thanks to temps that hovered right around the freezing mark, but no one was complaining. Aside from a little mystery drag that had developed in DT's King hub (the best headset maker, bar none, but when it comes to hubs...), we had a blast carving fresh ruts in the cold. Stuck mostly to the flat sections; the uphills were all but impossible to conquer in the thick stuff and we all had plans for later on in the afternoon, so this was going to be a short one from the outset. If I could have convinced Gary that a few pix of us riding would be well worth the risk of damaging his high-end camera/lens, you'd be staring at masterpieces of what Baudrillard calls "l'ecriture de la lumiere" right now instead of my amateur renderings. I tried, but apparently Gary knows sophistry when he hears it.

Snow rides are one of the few cycling experiences that require the simultaneous deployment of finesse and muscle (another being steep technical climbs), a combination that leaves you spent and ready for a beer and a meal.

The Path Not (Yet) Taken

Balancing Act

Chasing the Beast

Lovely Day for a Hike in the Woods

DT Carving Out His Own Space

The Case For Disc Brakes

Wishin' the Monkey was a Husky: Gary Plows Thru

After the ride, I was fortunate enough to get in some snowshoeing with my girl at the Difficult Run end of Great Falls, Virginia.

Snow and Stream

Not the Eponymous Falls

MhBs (Mid-hike Beers)

The Ultimate Fixed Gear?...

Rider weight limit of 175 lbs with an option to bump up to 225 lbs. Massive steel thru-axles. Mustache bar.

Not to mention, endless no-talent track stands. But where's the rear brake whammy-bar?

Guess you really can go home again...

Pedaling to Paradise: The Search for a Clean, Well-lighted Place...

Last Tuesday evening marked a first for the Tuesday Night Swill (TNS) rides. Instead of the usual trio/duo setting out to get in some miles on the road, interrupted only by the chance to eat and throw down a few pints, this time we ended up with seven alcohooligans.

Seven.

For us, that's a huge number. Hell, that's almost of WUSS Tour de Swill proportions.

The evening started out with DT, Jason, and I meeting sometime-TNSer Gary at the usual time and spot in Falls Church. The plan was to catch up with Butch and Steve in Georgetown at a quasi-yuppie joint called Pizzeria Paradiso.

Well, it was a quasi-yuppie joint until recently, when PP's beer manager, Thor Cheston, got the idea that offering some quality craft brews might be a good thing, not only for business and his own peace of mind, but for the discriminating palates of the many thirsty souls wandering the streets of the DC Metro area like zombies with scabrous livers, a taste for the flesh of living yeast, and fat wallets to back it all up.

So Thor decided to convert the basement dining area to something he calls Birreria Paradiso, a small venue that takes its cue from the usual rathskeller beer bars, with one notable exception. Birreria Paradiso boasts an impressive lineup. Impressive, as in quality and diversity: old homegrown standbys rub shoulders with some of the best Europe has to offer, a real eclectic mix that is, regrettably, all too uncommon in this area. Have a look at what was flowing from the taps on Tuesday and see if you don't agree:

• Schneider Aventinus Wheat Doppelbock
  
• Saison Dupont
  
• Fullers ESB
  
• Unibroue Maudite
  
• Rogue Shakespeare Stout
  
• Rogue Dead Guy Ale (upstairs)
  
• Chimay (upstairs)
  
• Kasteel Tripel
  
• Bluebird Bitter
  
• Jever Pilsner (upstairs)
  
• Duchesse de Bourgogne
  
• Hoffbrau Weizen
  
• Ommegang Hennepin
  
• Dogfish Head 60 (upstairs) and 90 Minute IPA
  
• Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout
  
• Clipper City Small Craft Warning Uber Pils (handpull)
  

Add to the above a cache of 80 bottled beers—including the reputed "best beer in the world," Trappiste Rochefort 10 (8 too!)—and you get my point.

What's more, for you purists out there, the beers are served in style-appropriate glasses. That means tulip-shaped goblets for strong and imperial ales, traditional (read: sub-16 oz.) pint glasses for the lower-octane ales, pilsner glasses for, um, pilsners, English "true pint" pub glasses for stouts, and some funky phallic monster of a glass (German wheat beer glass?) that was reserved for the Schneider Aventinus offering listed above. A nice touch of authenticity that stops well short of pretentiousness. Okay, it still has the feel of a yuppie joint about it (c'mon, it's Georgetown), but make no mistake: this place is serious about showcasing some great beers, and the staff is cool and informed.

But back to the ride. DT showed up with an old lugged Fuji in place of his Pista, something he'd cobbled together last minute that didn't include bar tape or a front brake. No worries about the latter, since up until a short time ago, a front brake on a fixie was a luxury item for him.

We headed off into the frigid evening (the coldest night of the year to date), hitting the W&OD and riding into Arlington. About halfway there, DT suffered a broken—make that horribly mangled—chain. Noticing that he and Gary were nowhere to be seen behind us, Jason and I circled back and found the two inspecting the damage. To pass the time while DT rejoined the chain, I thanked aloud each caring, altruistic, shining example of irrepressible human compassion that rode past us silently with scarcely a glance, as if ashamed of their own misanthropic indifference. We didn't need anything, and the fact that there were four of us probably played into the thing, but it's kind of depressing to watch people ride by like insensate robots.

The mech meant that we would be running a bit late. We hopped back on the bikes and headed into Georgetown, suffering only one dropped chain (guess who?) on the way.

Once on M Street, it wasn't long before we reached our destination, where two fixies, an On-One and a Bianchi, sat outside in the cold, signifying that our buddies were inside in the warmth. I got the idea to hang my bike up in a nearby tree, and the others quickly followed suit, stacking the frames helter-skelter between boughs on the barren sapling. We made a half-hearted effort to secure the bikes with a couple of cable locks and headed in and down the stairs to the Birreria.

At the bar, Shiva Steve and Butch were already half a pint up on us, but it didn't take us long to get up to speed. I started out with a 90 Minute IPA, which disappeared quickly. Next, I got my hands on the Duchesse, a red-haired beauty of Flemish ancestry that flowed from the tap like liquid ambrosia and left behind a delicate lace. Wow! By turns tart and sweet; heady, rich, and ruby-colored, but with a punch that steps aside just long enough to let all the flavor through. Red ale just got interesting!

About halfway through my date with the Duchesse, Joe stopped in, bringing us up to the aforementioned record-breaking seven riders. We crowded the bar area, taking up all but two seats.

Finished with the good lady, I moved on to a familiar friend, or should I say comrade, Old Rasputin. Great in the bottle, better on tap! Had this beer been around in the late 19th Century, I have to think that Tsarina Alexander would have been wooed more by its complex personality than by the powers of the mystical eponym himself.

The conversation picked up as the beers went down, focusing on the usual topics: Heidegger and eschatology, existentialism after Sartre, the unwillingness of the US to ratify the Kyoto Protocol, the intrinsic right of indigenous peoples to remain autonomous against the threats presented by globalization, bikes. Well, at least one of those things.

We ordered food, most of us opting for the pizza, which was pretty good and really hit the spot. Loaded with toppings and featuring large hunks of tomato in place of standard red sauce, it disappeared all too quickly.

The other guys were tossing 'em back like it was the final judgement. Gary was favoring the 90 Minute IPAs and seemed immune to their legendary potency. Joe seemed to be sticking with the Belgians. Steve, Butch, and Jason were all over the place in their choices, taking full advantage of the diverse selection. DT ended up trying a bottle of the Rochefort 10. Very good with a truly unique flavor and a huge head that went nuclear as soon as it hit the glass. But the pre-taste hype (and the pre-taste beer?) kind of ruined it for me, so I'm sure I didn't appreciate all it has to offer. Maybe some other time.

From Old Rasputin I moved on to the Saison Dupont. Crisp and a little citrousy with a curious pepper taste that cut through the yeastiness. Huge foam cap. Tasty. At some point, Jason experienced an epiphany of sorts and requested a black-and-tan made up of 60 Minute IPA and Shakespeare Stout. Someone else followed suit. I tried a sip. Yeah, it was good, with both flavors shining through equally—harmony instead of hegemony, can you dig it?

After a few hours, the party began to wind down, with Butch and Joe cutting out first. The rest of us had another beer to brace for the cold. I think ("think" being the operative word here) I ended up back with the Duchesse, though by this time I was probably too impaired to appreciate her European sophistication. We finished up, paid up, thanked Thor, and made our way upstairs and out the door.

Outside, we harvested the bikes and made our way along M Street to Key Bridge, five strong now with the addition of Steve. I took the lead with Jason drafting me, and after the bridge we veered off the path toward Rosslyn to throw in the climb (known as DT's hill) up Key Boulevard. The rest of the ride seemed to go quickly; we rolled down Wilson Boulevard to Fairfax Boulevard alongside light traffic before regaining the Custis Trail. I was surprisingly solid and steady for the amount of alcohol my liver was working overtime to process—wrestling the muscles in my legs for blood, no doubt—and the cold never registered.

Just inside Falls Church, we split up with Steve, since he had to pedal further west to reach home. It wasn't until the next morning that we all learned he'd taken a spill right before we split up, his drunk-biking skills being a bit rusty from neglect. Seems he landed hard on the hand he broke a few years back at the Watershed and was feeling it. Aside from this, it was a great night and a good ride, sure to be repeated.

After all, Pliny the Elder is due for an appearance at the Birreria soon.

Personally Famous...

Managed to get a pic published on page 23 of the latest issue of Mid-Atlantic Brewing News. It depicts local fixie rider DT getting an autograph from none other than the avatar of homebrewing, Charlie Papazian. Charlie was at the Brickskeller last December (along with Bob Tupper of Tuppers' Hop Pocket fame) to host a beer tasting event and to sign copies of his latest book, Microbrewed Adventures: A Lupulin-Filled Journey to the Heart and Flavor of the World's Great Craft Beers. For $40, you got a complimentary copy of Charlie's book, the opportunity to taste some familiar and unfamiliar microbrews, a background discussion from the man himself, with insight into each offering, and a warm, cozy environment in which to enjoy it all.

So, on a 25º Tuesday evening, DT and I hit the W&OD/Custis trails, pedaling from Falls Church, Virginia, into DC to attend the event. The low temps meant that the trails likely would be covered in spots with a veneer of ice and crusty snow, and this was indeed the case. We handled the slick stuff with aplomb until just inside the Arlington border, where DT took a heavy spill rounding an icy corner. He was up quickly with no apparent ill effects and we rolled on.

We arrived at the 'skeller without further incident and wasted no time settling in. As each beer was served, Charlie and Bob gave background information, liberally sprinkled with humorous asides—including one anecdote from the former about some dubious homebrew he'd sampled while in Zimbabwe—and fielded questions from the attendees. The tasty and eclectic offerings were as follows, listed in the order in which they were served:

1. Sierra Nevada: Fresh Harvest Ale
   
2. Old Dominion: Tuppers' Hop Pocket Pilsner
   
3. Anchor: Our Special Ale 2005
   
4. Magic Hat: St. Gootz Hefeweisse Dunkle
   
5. Balladin: Nora
   
6. Wolaver's: Oatmeal Stout
   
7. New Glarus: Raspberry Tart
   
8. Brooklyn: Black Chocolate Stout
   
9. Dogfish Head: 90 Minute IPA (2 styles, one run through the belly of Randall the Enamel Animal)
   
10. Stone: Old Guardian Barleywine
    

Great stuff, to be sure. Too many to address individually, but I will say that the Raspberry Tart from Glarus was about the best framboise I've ever tasted (and I generally stay away from the sweet stuff). And that obscure Golden Ale offering from the equally obscure Balladin of Italy, Nora? It was, well, odd. Dry, spicy and altogether hopless in flavor...let's just say that a sample was plenty.

As alluded to above, I took some pix inside, but most of them turned out fuzzy because of low-light conditions and my laziness in learning how to adjust my Elph accordingly. So how did I score the photo credit? Seems some chaps from MABN also attended, but didn't get any pix. Long story short: They asked. I submitted. Voila! Instant marginal celebrity status, along with a check for $25.

Except the check hasn't found its way to me yet.

The Pic that Made the Cut

Lancing the Little Guy...

Back in November of '05, the Lance Armstrong Foundation (LAF) decided to play hardball with a small-scale bicycle frame manufacturer from Ohio called Cycles Gaansari by threatening them with that distinctively American cornerstone of conflict resolution, litigation.

The problem? Since May of '04, Cycles Gaansari had been using the name Skidstrong to refer to their line of fixed gear frames and components. This was no accident; the name was coined as a play on the LAF's ubiquitous yellow Livestrong wristbands and the campaign of the same name to benefit cancer research.

However, the name wasn't the only thing similar between the two organizations. Seems Cycles Gaansari created a charity campaign—and a wristband—of their own, to benefit the Bicycle Messenger Emergency Fund (BMEF), a non-profit organization that provides funds to bicycle messengers who are hurt on the job (read: hit by careless and/or angry drivers). Under the bike company's campaign, all proceeds from the sale of Skidstrong wristbands and a portion of the proceeds from the sale of Skidstrong parts would be donated to the BMEF.

But in November of last year, some reps from LAF caught wind of this nefarious coattail-riding incident and decided to do something about it. Fearing that the average person with an altruistic bent might lack the critical faculties necessary to discern between the two strongs—and thus might contribute to the "wrong" cause—the LAF instructed their counsel to issue the company a cease-and-desist order (but not before they trademarked the Livestrong name in August of last year, some 15 months after the campaign started).

Cycles Gaansari's response? They ceased and desisted.

Well, from using the name Skidstrong, anyway. The fixed gear components and frames now carry the title Fisso (Italian for "fixed"), a change that meant the company would incur rebranding and inventory costs—costs that surely paled in comparison to the legal fees associated with a court battle had they taken that path. As for their BMEF campaign, it's still going, well, strong (though without the wristbands), despite the LAF's unwillingness to share six little letters.

Seems to me that anyone unable to distinguish between the two causes would probably find the process of writing a personal check or using a credit card online to make a donation to be on a mental par with deciphering the secret name of God. The likelihood of trademark dilution, as it's officially called, seems even lower when you consider the relative obscurity of the Skidstrong brand.

Oddly, these guys are still going strong.

Interesting footnote: The folks at Cycles Gaansari maintain that, upon agreeing to refrain from using the Skidstrong label, they asked the LAF to consider making a donation of $3,000 to the BMEF as a sort of reciprocal good-faith gesture. To date, the LAF has not responded.

(The graphic at the top of this post, minus the red circle with a line through it, was lifted from www.gaansari.com.)

Pedalgogy...

Next Wednesday, February 8, hop on your bike, point yourself in the direction of Washington, DC, and pedal your righteous ass over to the Flemming Center on the corner of 9th and P, NW. Make sure you're there by 7 pm, since that's the time when Still We Ride will be cued to roll.

Still We Ride is a documentary about the Critical Mass movement that recounts the heavy-handed tactics of the NYPD in overstepping their authority on August 27, 2004, by arresting some 264 cyclists for the heinous crime of two-wheeled locomotion during the Republican National Convention. The film also covers the court battles that ensued in the months that followed the event, and offers a look back at the seminal CM rides in San Francisco over the last decade.

The screening will be followed by a cyclists' rights infoshare aimed at providing cyclists with a practical knowledge of where they stand with regard to those esoteric DC bike laws. You know, the ones of which even the cops typically exhibit ignorance.

If you can get downtown a little early, check out RFD in Chinatown for a pre-flick pint or two. It's ony a few blocks from the center. Hopefully they'll have on tap the remnants of the Lupulin Slam contest that was held there last week.

Details At-A-Glance —

What:

Still We Ride (a documentary about Critical Mass—running time is approx. 40 minutes)

When:

Wednesday, February 8th, 7:00 pm

Where:

Flemming Center (Community Room)
1426 9th St. NW (corner of 9th and P streets)
Shaw-Howard University Metro stop

(The graphic at the top of this post was lifted from www.stillweridethemovie.com.)