DoppelBacchanalia: The Sixth Annual Bootlegger's Bliss is Almost Upon Us......

"The majority of wines, almost all spirits, and every one of the beers whose memory I have evoked here have today completely lost their tastes — first on the world market and then locally — with the progress of industry as well as the disappearance or economic re-education of the social classes that had long remained independent of large industrial production, and so too of the various regulations that now prohibit virtually anything that is not industrially produced. The bottles, so that they can still be sold, have faithfully retained their labels; this attention to detail provides the assurance that one can photograph them as they used to be, not drink them." 
—Guy Debord, "Panegyric - Volume I" (1989)
"Suffering results from constraint. A portion of pure delight, no matter how tiny, will hold it at bay.  To work for delight and authentic festivity is barely distinguishable from preparing for a general insurrection."
—Raoul Vaneigem, "The Revolution of Everyday Life"
"Sooner barbarity than boredom."
—Theophile Gautier


This then, is it.  Again.

Fall returns. Leaves renounce their lofty perch and drift (dérive! dérive!) like wayward angels to the waiting earth.  The air, cool and crisp and clean, beckons smoke from blackened chimneys.  Autumn skies whisper elegies to summer evenings past.  The moon is a melancholy mirror.

And the dirt in Pennsylvania, the very dirt to which we all return one day, is already like poison in the wound.*

Now is the season when the Bliss reigns supreme.  Post-Halloween, pre-Thanksgiving, its timing is nothing if not divine.  And this year is different.  This year, the preternatural power of the Bliss to renounce the anhedral, stultifying grip of modern culture is two-fold.  The late, great Terrence McKenna, in speaking of hallucinogens, said, "When in doubt, double the dose."  Indeed.  The Bliss, second to no substance in its herculean ability to transcend the ordinary, to burn the paper throne beneath the ego's bloated ass, to rouse the sinful spirit from the plastic puppet that dutifully bends to the might of the moneyed marionettes, the Bliss, the Bliss is racing toward you on a fat-tired tandem, and over its shoulder can be seen a diabolical double, a dastardly doppelgänger, a querulous Quilty to the hapless Humbert at the helm, leering and drooling and laughing maniacally.  And hell-bent on destruction.

This, my friends, is going to be good.  Stay tuned.

*With profound apologies to the Potentate of Parody, the Prince of Prose, Vladimir Nabokov.

Blissful Thinking...

To the two faithful readers who come back to this blog once a quarter to see if I’ve galvanized myself into throwing pixels on the page once again, I say, "Thank you for your misplaced fidelity!”  To those sloth-like embracers of pop technology who are pushed here via RSS feeds, I say, "Welcome back!"  And to the handful who are led astray each week by less discriminating search engines to find themselves run aground on this oft-barren beach, I say, "Better luck next time."

All these introductory words to say that, yes, the Sixth Annual Bootlegger's Bliss will indeed go down this fall.  Zealots of zymurgy, rejoice!

Here's the status and some fuzzy details:  I am anxiously awaiting word on the availability of a particular venue that would allow us the proper luxury of a two-day event.  The target date is the weekend of Satyrday, November 5 October 29.  Although it's a two-day event, I have taken pains to plan it in such a way as to allow those whose free time is limited the option of attending either one of the two days.  If I the two-day venue logistics don't pan out, then it's back to a one-day event, which would be the aforementioned Satyrday (11/5).  Partakers of Bliss's past can expect an email with details tomorrow evening.

If you haven't brewed, it's late, but you still have time, depending on the style.  My apologies for the procrastination.

Quick Summary of Tentative Details   

Date: Satyrday, October 29, 2011, through Stunday, October 30, 2011
Location: Awaiting Confirmation--if confirmed (likely), this will be a new and fantastic venue
Time:  11:00 a.m.

No Cameras Allowed...

Shot with my iPhone. Vid coming soon...

Bikes, Beer, and "Bug"...

Hello, and welcome back. Let's get right down to it...

This Saturday is going to be busy for me. First, I'm putting on a SSOFTeam ride that incorporates the White's Ferry Loop (80+ miles)--in reverse--with the 4th Annual NOVA Summer Brewfest (50+ breweries), a brilliant combination that is guaranteed to press all the buttons on the pleasure/pain master panel and thus to meet with approving nods from the spectral crown of the Marquis himself.

Before I launch into what's next on the agenda for that day (see far below), here are the details for the ride:

Leesburg Loop of Lusty Libations
(Sponsored by The Bicycle Escape and Single Speed Outlaw Factory Team)
Location:
First half - C&O Canal Trail from Georgetown to White’s Ferry (near mile marker 35 on the C&O)
Second half - W&OD Trail from Leesburg (near W&OD mile marker 33) to Arlington, then Custis Trail to Georgetown
Date: Saturday, June 25, 2011, at 8 am (wheels down at 8:15 am)
Ride Level: Intermediate (due to distance)
Cost/fees: $1 per cyclist for White’s Ferry; $22.50 (in advance) per cyclist for the NOVA Summer Brewfest
Description: Get your brew on! Come on out for a day stuffed full of the best things in life—bikes, beer, food, and friends. The first half of this loop takes us along the scenic, historic C&O Canal Trail from
Georgetown to White’s Ferry, where we’ll hop aboard the ferry ($1 per cyclist) and float our way across the pristine waters of the Potomac. Once on the Virginia side of the river, we’ll pedal a couple miles along the wide shoulder of Route 15 in rural Leesburg, where we’ll arrive at a vast, open field that is the venue for the 4th Annual Northern Virginia Brewfest. This ‘fest never disappoints! After supping sudsy samples, gorging on grub, and shaking off the miles, we’ll get back on the bikes for the second half of the loop.
From Leesburg, we’ll take the W&OD Trail into Northern Arlington, and then switch to the Custis Trail for the final leg into Georgetown.
Some (other) important information:
• This loop is approximately 80 MILES long. Adding in a couple hours at the brewfest means that this is, essentially, an all-day event, even though we will be back before sunset. No promising the spouse you'll be home--sober--in plenty of time to shower and make dinner, yeah? (S)he ain't buying that shit, not again.
• The pace will be moderate, with short breaks each way as necessary. Though not a fast-paced ride, this one isn’t for people with questionable endurance. That said, no one will be left behind.
• The terrain varies from crushed limestone hard pack (C&O Canal Trail) to smooth asphalt (W&OD and Custis Trails). A ‘cross bike or similar with size 32 tires or wider is recommended, though if you have a plump ass, by all means, use it and go with skinnier treads.
• PARKING is available in the public (free!) parking lot at Teddy Roosevelt Island, just off the George Washington Memorial Parkway. The parking lot is located on the Virginia side of the Potomac, near Key Bridge, and is accessible only from the northbound lanes of the George Washington Memorial Parkway. Northbound traffic: the entrance to the parking lot is located just north of the Roosevelt Bridge. Southbound traffic: take Theodore Roosevelt Bridge to Constitution Ave. Take a right on 23rd St. and cross Memorial Bridge. Once on the bridge, bear right to return to the GW Parkway.
• The closest METRO STATION is Rosslyn, less than a mile away. Metro permits bikes, so this is a good option if you can't bike to the start. Once off the metro, simply head toward Georgetown (Key Bridge), take the Mount Vernon Trail a very short winding distance downhill after the bridge and when the trail levels, you’re in the parking lot.
• There is a FEE to attend the brewfest. Tickets online are $22.50. If you’re not sure you can attend the ride, I suggest buying your ticket at the gate and not in advance. Also, there is a FEE of $1 to ride the ferry across the Potomac.
• Drinking and biking can be dangerous. Drink and bike responsibly! The brewfest is a sampling event, not an all-day bender. Neither I nor The Bicycle Escape (nor any employees thereof) assumes liability for anyone participating in this ride and/or in the activities surrounding it.  Participation in this ride and/or in the brewfest is entirely voluntary.
• The RAIN DATE for this event will be the very next day, Sunday, June, 26—tickets are good for either day, so if you buy a ticket in advance, no worries there. All other details remain the same.

Okay, that covers the ride and brewfest, for the most part. Now on to the second stage. Because I don't tolerate schedule conflicts very well, and because I have a predeliction for acting, then thinking, I'm tacking on another 10 to 15 miles roundtrip to attend the highly anticipated Dinosaur Jr. performance of "Bug" at the 9:30 Club in NW DC that night.

Now, the 9:30 Club has a pretty impressive line-up of beer on tap (see below). Add these to the stellar offerings I'm sure to encounter for most of the day, 4 ounces at a time, at Leesburg's version of Bacchanalia, and you can bet my liver is gonna be calling my brain all kinds of nasty names--some of which may confuse other parts of my body (think pelvic zone) who think they are being summoned--well into the early morning hours of Sunday.

DRAFT BEER:
ABITA CHRISTMAS ALE
ABITA TURBODOG
ANCHOR STEAM
ANCHOR LIBERTY
BASS ALE
BROOKLYN CHOCOLATE STOUT
BUD LIGHT
CLIPPER CITY BALTO MARZHON
CLIPPER CITY GOLD
DOGFISH HEAD 60 MINUTE
DOGFISH MIDAS TOUCH
DOGFISH RAISON D'ETRE
DOS EQUIS XX
GUINNESS STOUT
LEINENKUGEL SUNSET WHEAT
LINDEMANS FRAMBOISE
NEWCASTLE BROWN ALE
OLD RASPUTIN RUSSIAN STOUT
PILSNER URQUELL
RED HOOK E.S.B.
ROLLING ROCK
SAINT LOUIS KRIEK
SHOCK TOP WHEAT
SIERRA NEVADA PALE ALE
SMITHWICK'S
STARR HILL STOUT
WOLAVER'S INDIA PALE ALE
WOODCHUCK CIDER
YUENGLING LAGER

Like Greyhounds in the Slips...

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bar, heat lightning flashes in the near distance, just over the top edge of the curiously perdurable Inns of Virginia hotel across the street from Mad Fox Brewing Company, where I sit alone among what could only be optimistically and loosely called a crowd. Still, they are a persistent, noisy lot, and one can only hope that their livers, like mine, are exceedingly forgiving.

The Vaya is all but built. I have only to cable up the derailleurs (what an alien undertaking!) and wrap the Woodchipper in fine Cinelli cork, and it's all ready for a ride. It's about damn time, isn't it? Should be fully beta-tested before RamJam next weekend, where I can better experience how it shines as a randonneuring rig.

Slightly related, I recently picked up a new IRO Phoenix frameset (linked pix are not mine)—due for delivery sometime this coming week—in black for $199 online, to go with the workhorse high-flange hubset (pink is the new pink, which is to say it's the old black) I all but stole from IRO for $40 a while back. This because, well, dammit, I absolutely need another bike!

Switching topics again, in a blatant by-proxy effort to roam and experience, I've started reading Roads to Quoz: An American Mosey, by a gentleman with the unlikely name of William Least Heat-Moon. (The titular Q-word denotes “a noun, both singular and plural, referring to anything strange, incongruous or peculiar; at its heart is the unknown, the mysterious.”) The book is a lengthy travelogue of sorts, full of colorful accounts of small town Americana, from what I've gathered. Heat-Moon, accompanied by his wife, to whom he gives the curious appellation Q (quoz?), makes a journey by car in a series of short trips that trace the itinerary of the 1804 Hunter-Dunbar Expedition (the wha? Yeah, me too). This route takes him through the small towns and lesser trafficked backroads of Arkansas, Louisiana. Florida, Maine, New Mexico, Missouri, Montana, Oklahoma, and Texas, if the Publishers Weekly and Booklist are to be believed. Since I haven't read the book, I can't really comment from my own perspective, but it seems like Heat-Moon's search for the holy quoz is a gasoline-powered variation on the dérive so enthusiastically and refreshingly endorsed by the SI, may they drift about in peace.

I am probably making a small mistake here, both in sequence and in preference, as Blue Highways, Heat-Moon's first literary undertaking, and the first of his books I perused, preceded this book by 16 years and is more highly regarded by the vox populi willing to peck at the keyboard to share its opinion. Finally getting it right can be a blessing and a curse, because expectations set the bar high. Still, moderate success beats failure any day, and I have a feeling I'm going to enjoy this book. It was, admittedly, an impulse buy. That's often how I find the best reads.

Specifics about my promotion at work remain nebulous; again, it's realization is a certainty, only the start date and salary remain unknown. Yeah, I think I fucked up, you don't have to say it. I am still restless; more so than ever. But there's still much left to do in the readying, much that is mandatory (the rest must be left to fickle Fate—anything overplanned is, almost by definition, sterile and lifeless and poisonously predictable), and I'll use the time wisely. On another front, I somehow managed to pass a background check required to volunteer my questionable mechanical and social skills to support Phoenix Bikes, a nonprofit LBS located at Shirlington Village in South Arlington, and dedicated to providing "affordable bikes and bike repair service to our community." It's a once-a-week gig. I'll be meeting with one Kelly Auer next Tuesday to kick it all off. I met with her briefly last week, and was surprised to learn that she, through at least one of the extremely young mechanics toiling there, had heard of my clan, the Single Speed Outlaw Factory Team (SSOFT). According to Kelly, the young wrench had recounted a race (my guess is Big Bear) he witnessed, describing us as "a bunch of older guys who were kicking ass on the younger guys," or something to that effect.

Older.

Yeah, okay.

Punk.

So, suddenly, I'm a fucking self-appointed saint. Expect the end of days to follow shortly. I can only hope the staff at Phoenix don't judge me by my lack of head protection when I roll in on my commute home next week. Until then, I leave all 14 of you followers (the blog is dead...long live the blog!) with a salty salute. Happy life!

P.S., do I drink this beer the chick tending bar just bought me? I don't ignore the irony that answering such a question requires lofty contemplation among the warm, loving, effervescent company of yet another beer, but this one is free. Is there really a choice here? And beyond the brim of the pint glass, through the window, nestled up and away in the velvety plushness of approaching night, the lightning continues insistently its pyrotechnic posturing, mocking the continence of the clouds.

And no one notices.

We are but a flash. Burn brightly.

P.P.S., just because:

Lovely the suns were in those twilights warm,
And space profound, and strong life's pulsing flood,
In bending o'er you, queen of every charm,
I thought I breathed the perfume in your blood.
The suns were beauteous in those twilights warm.
—Charles Baudelaire, from "The Balcony"

Here's to Now...

This is the world
Why are you waiting?
Everyone's standing by hesitating
So many people halfway there
Between two points in the middle of nowhere
And all those things you thought you'd be
Did you know that it doesn't come free?
Have you seen yourself of late?
[...]
Can you hear the sound of?...
Machines all breaking down
The fuel is running out
Severed lines
Destroyed by too much time spent down
My head forced down
My hope forced down
Between my legs I've come unwound

All my preaching stems from fear
You're my concern, I hold you dear
You must break out of this old cage
Do it now, this is no longer safe
—Jawbreaker, "Down," Unfun

[...]
Yet when we meet we seem in silence to say,
Pretending serene forgetfulness of our youth,
"Do you remember but then why should you remember!
Do you remember a certain day,
Or evening rather, spring evening long ago,
We talked of death, and love, and time, and truth,
And said such wise things, things that amused us so
How foolish we were, who thought ourselves so wise!"
And then we laugh, with shadows in our eyes.
—Conrad Aiken, from "The Nocturne of Remembered Spring" (1917)

The good times ain't so bad, and even the bad times have their secret charm.

It is illusion, of course.

Aiken is dead, and having become an authority on the subject almost 38 years ago, speaks no more of it. He roams the aery halls of the House of Dust now, takes tea with The Tsetse, sups with the devil-bearded Rabbi Ben Ezra. His words, his poems, his opus vitae, as with any great writer, are only as immortal as the mind of man, which is to say they are increasingly volatile.

What is the past to a present hellbent on reinventing itself every minute? It is only valuable to the extent it can be plundered, rebranded, and put up for sale. And even now, even the present, isn't good enough, though its proximal horizons are as far as anyone is willing to look.

No rest for the wicked, hurling ever onward to the next big thing, the next upgrade, as long as it's right around the corner. Endless, limitless progress. The American way of life is not negotiable. Yeah. Let's pretend...

And Baudrillard, too, is belly-up. But there is good news: The facade he so dispassionately spoke of, like Borges' beloved map, is falling apart, and with it the neglected structure behind it. It's all makeup on a dying actor, a mix of Dorian Gray and Faust. But if you don't look too hard, if you keep it just on the edge of periphery, if you don't think, well then, it almost looks, almost feels, natural, doesn't it?

This is the calm before the chaos, the plush interlude between the faux idyll of the recent past and the implacable vengeance of a future that is learning how to sprint backwards to catch up with us. The "devil's due" is a concept little acknowledged by Homo Avarus. We get it, but we love to ignore it. Some other time, Old Nick, when your spikes sprout velvet and you're heart swells with sentiment. You see, we're a little short on funds just now, and, well, you understand, don't you?...

But Lady Nature is tired of the shakedown, the strong-arming, the sterile, myopic emptiness of a civilization driven by rampant self-interest, molded by market forces, and immersed in an artificial reality it loves to create and tweak and improve, one so accommodating (if you have the cash), so instantly accessible, so easy that it makes the real thing—with its archaic and intransigent insistence on presence of body and mind and its immunity from complete commodification—almost unbearable to most people. We contain the seeds of our own destruction, and we are sowing them like there's no tomorrow. And this is becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. Nous finirez tous par crever du confort.

Sadly, and not without a hint of irony, adding to the abyss is looking more and more like the appropriate strategy. Partake rabidly, belly up to the bar, storm the trough, abbagnarisi la pizzu, embrace Jevon's paradox. It all accelerates a noveau retour a la normale (Sous les pavés, la plage!), one that likely will lack an articulate observer to study, assay, judge, rewrite, and "improve" upon it.

Oh well.

On a lighter, slightly less profound note, I got this bag of bones out on some dirt a couple weekends ago for the Swill d'Ville, an annual mountain bike ride on the trails surrounding UVA in Charlottesville, starting and ending at Mellow Mushroom. Absent minded fool that I am, I forgot that I had set up the Monkey with a road-sized gear (44:19) to use as a foul-weather fixed-gear commuter. So about a mile into the SdV, I notice my rear tire rubbing rudely on the chain-stays every time I lay into the pedals with mean intent. I take a moment to try to pull out whatever little bit of slack exists in the chain, with the hope of moving the tire back far enough to stop the rubbing, when another rider asks me a question. The conversation went something this:

Him (staring at my upended bike): Hey, man, what size ring you runnin' up front?

Me (distracted): It's a 32.

Him: No way that's a 32.

Me: Huh? (Takes a look.) Fuck!

So, I run what I brung, worked a little bit harder than everyone else, and did damn well, all things considered. I even managed to win the derby with a novel strategy composed of 9/10 avoidance and 1/10 luck.

Since then, I hit Rosaryville with a proper fixed gear (but, alas, sans helmet—oops!) with Baler and crew, rode to a flick with Bootch-wah and G-spot at the Arlington Cinema & Drafthouse, and did a 75-miler (out-n'-back) to support some SSOFTies and vicariously experience the mucky mayhem—thanks to a ton of rain—that was the Leesburg Baker's Dozen race this weekend.

The Vaya is creeping along toward completion and should be up and rolling before RamJam comes around at month's end. The shutdown (er, lapse in appropriations, hahaha) ain't happening, and with that nonevent is the nonevent of my forced vacation that I was really looking forward to. Damn, it never fails: if you want something too much, it never happens. On the flip side, this should open the gate on the new job, if I understand things clearly.

Should have gotten out when the getting was good.

Ah, well, here we are. And I am just winking dreary thoughts into a tiddle cup. The posts will take a turn toward the upbeat now that spring has arrived. I'm off tomorrow, and the weather is supposed to border on obsequious. Enjoy the week.

"No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible.”
—Voltaire

One Fine Morning...

"Who gives a shit what the Holy Grail is? It's the quest that's what's important. The transformation is within yourself. That's what's important."
—Yvon Chouinard, explorer, environmentalist, climber, founder of Patagonia Inc., septuagenarian bad-ass

Time turns and then it flies
A waterfall of lullabies
A smiling girl with crying eyes
Forget her

Will we turn loose at last
The schools of thought from nets we've cast
And let our boats go sailing past
Untethered?
......
One fine morning
One fine morning
The machines...are gonna cut us down
One fine morning
One fine morning
The machines...are gonna cut us down
—Mason Jennings, "Machines", 180° South soundtrack

So, power in Wisconsin gets its way again (surprise!) and the Democrats can pretend they really tried and, well, just got fooled by those sneaky Republicans, darn it! And continue to perpetuate the myth of two opposing parties to undermine the reality of one class.

And on my birthday, no less. Eugene Debs must be redlining in the mother of all sepulchral spins right about now.

The wealthy in this country are our moai; we cut down everything, consume and waste, while they quietly build themselves up. And when they stumble, when the market fails them, we bail them out. They take and take as we line up to give it to them. In return, they offer us promises, rhetoric, and lies. And in the emptiness, we pretend to see hope. We close our eyes and drift off to sleep. Until one day, we wake to find there's nothing left on our little island. All of it gone. Plundered, pinched, pilfered by privilege.

Everything is not all right.

The only consolation is that it has to end sometime, has to fall victim to its own rampant avarice. The totems will again turn to stone—soulless, meaningless—and topple. As it should be. That's called poetic justice. Take and take and take from a pool with increasingly less and less and less to give up, and it won't be long before you're knotting your own noose in a rope donated by the downtrodden. Or, to quote a sign from the protest in Wisconsin, "Screw Us and We Multiply." Time to make like rabbits. The tide is turning.

I, for one, can't wait. Pop the popcorn and pour the beer. It's showtime!

Rant over. For now.

Okay, so the greater—some might say grandiose—idea behind this cross-country bicycle trip is to write a book about it, based on notes written along the way (yes, it’s been done before).

From the cozy comfort of my seat in the bar (as the spring limps in slowly on frost-numbed feet), beer in hand, I conjure an eclectic but cohesive mix of impressions and reflections, poetry, prose, art, philosophy, beauty, love, luck, loss, narcissism, nihilism, sublime success and unforeseen failure, euphoria and misery, surrounded by—and sometimes set against—cogent, by turns discursive, descriptions of token towns and rural roads and urban avenues and the impersonal interstates that link them all together, sprinkled liberally with local history and color, transportation issues, environmental politics, and the general bliss and bane of traveling by bicycle. And oh yeah, I'm committed to spending every one of my nights inside a tent, regardless of weather or weariness. And the idea of making it an out-and-back grows ridiculously stronger every day.

In the meantime, some more bad news: yesterday, my boss told me the new position is pretty much a done deal. The only thing in question is my start date. Seems the uncertainty about the potential (and purely symbolic) government shutdown looming on the outside edge of the periphery is putting on the stall, so I'm left in a sort of limbo until the script plays out. If I'm still hanging by the end of April, I'm throwing a leg over the saddle, thrusting two defiant middle fingers heavenward, and pedaling to the west. If things are resolved before then, I'm sitting tight and doing it all next spring with a little fatter wallet. Got a rider who is interested in accompanying me if it doesn't go down till next year, so that's kind of cool. The months between will measure his sincerity. Guess we'll see. Regardless, time rolls on, and so will I. But tonight, I've got blisters on almost everything I need right now. Enjoy...

Orange is the New Brown...

"If I had to live my life again I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once every week… The loss of these tastes is a loss of happiness, and may possibly be injurious to the intellect, and more probably to the moral character, by enfeebling the emotional part of our nature."

—Charles Darwin

Damn. As if the improbability of my bike trip going down this year isn't bad enough, Salsa had to come out and twist the blade. The second generation Vaya is now available, and it's not only new, but arguably improved. First, the clever bastards have added a replaceable derailleur hanger. That's a "nice-to-have" (more so on a mountain bike), but obviously not lust worthy in and of itself. The real bite in the bully bag, to me, is that they changed the color from butt-coffee brown (okay, it's not that bad of a color) to opulent orange.

I love orange frames, never mind the fact that I've never owned one (which just makes this accidental near-perfidy that much more difficult to stomach). And damn, that appears to be a really fine shade. To add invective to injury, to make me rue my unruly impatience, they even improved on the graphics, with edgier down- and seat-tube logos and the substitution of a new chain-stay catchphrase, "Adventure by Bike," for the slightly less apt, "Ride & Smile" that adorns the rear quarter panels on both my Vaya and my Casseroll frames.

This is my luck. I think the Mayans might have been off a year in their eschatological estimations. Twenty-eleven just ain't cutting it thus far and seems poised with outstretched arms and open heart to embrace the apocryphal apocalypse and bring this hyperreal horror-show to its ineluctable end. But, of course, there's still plenty of time left in the year to turn things around, to salvage the sordid seconds that have already slipped past, to betray the banal, to ditch the diabolical diorama of everyday life, to make a prison-break in a blurred-legged beeline across the gallows grounds, to dart past the Dule trees (index finger tugging absently at a necktie already nixed), to ditch the Maxwell's demon who manipulates the script, casting doubt, causing questioning, pulling me back into the mold.

The days drag on, but this ever-present me is homeomorphic to the man on the bicycle pedaling ever toward the west. I am changing, becoming myself, almost him already.

No word on the new job yet. Got my fingers crossed in a counter direction.  Soon the verdict. But right now, the bottle over the bike...

I claim proneness to exaggeration
But the truth lies in my frustration
The children of the night, they all pass me by
Have to drench myself in brandy
In sleep I'll hide
But however much I booze
There ain't no way out
There ain't no way out
I don't care what you say, boy
There ain't no way out
* * * * * *
And the night comes down like a cell door closing
Suddenly I realize that I'm writin' now more honestly
While sitting here all alone with a bottle and my head a-floating
Far away from the phone and the conscience
going on at me and on at me
And I don't care what you say
There ain't no way out
—The Who, "However Much I Booze", The Who By Numbers

Of Fate and Foible, Faustian Bargains...

...and dreams deferred. Okay. Fuck. It appears I'm about to take a big bite out of a huge shit sandwich McFate has graciously and with loving care prepared for me, garnish and all. No easy way to put this so I'll just come out with it and say that my trip by bike across country this spring will very likely not happen.

Cue the shit storm.

It comes down to this: I've been offered a promotion at work to a job that, in addition to affording me more brass in pocket, is much more interesting than my present one, and has the sweet little bonus of occasional travel to such places of personal interest as Hawaii and California, among others. I can't turn it down.

But there is at least one roll of the dice that could save me: it all hinges on whether my employer scores the contract. But these dice are loaded, the pips leaded for boxcars, and that is almost certain to happen. And get this: if it pans out and I take it, it all goes down in April, the very month I'd planned to begin pedaling my sorry, self-disappointing ass across this nation.

Thus, this felon will likely do more time.

The flip side of accepting it? More cash to pad the coffers for next year. Yeah, that's right. I am going to do this cross-country voyage at the same time next year, come hell, high water, or Hyperborea. The contract would be guaranteed for a solid year, with a high probability of stretching into more. Be that latter bit as it may, my ass will be in that seat no more (and actually less) than 260 business days, regardless of what happens in the meantime, and will be on a saddle shortly thereafter. Another year also means more time to "train" (i.e., drink more beer), more time to "plan" (i.e., procrastinate), more time to make contacts out west (i.e., mooch with payback), and a little more time to spend with the people I love on this coast before embarking for the other. Plenty of solid plusses there.

The downside? No fucking bike trip across country this year. And no fucking bike trip across country this year. Lastly, no fucking bike trip across country this year.

No fucking bike trip across country this year. Are we clear on this?

Plusses and minuses, yeah. So how come bittersweet tastes like straight-up shit?

* * * * *

The boozy warmth of the Curieux slips in and envelopes me from within like an overcoat beneath my skin. It is the best part of the bargain, the beginning of the buzz, when anything seems possible, save the salvation of a self-replenishing bottle. Delusion and illusion give birth to epiphany and illumination. The walls are pliable, the bars chimeric, shimmering like waves of heat from summer asphalt. If only for the moment...

It takes more than it gives now. The muse, once manic and mirthful, has passed out in the corner, vomit-breathed, with mouth agape and eyes rolled back like blank slot reels into a head as empty as a broken bottle. He's finished, too, played out and paid out. No new ideas. He pissed it all away, squandered it on his own phony promise to himself of endless tomorrows and plenty of time. But time has run out, and truth bangs its bony knuckles upon the only door in the house. It's mostly regurgitation or flat-out effluvia now. Take your pick and don't complain and hurry home for the evening. Straight home to sleep it off. The dawn brings new lies. It's too late for talk, and anyway, when did talking ever do any good? Hemingway had it right. Best to keep it all on the inside and let the fingers finish their work.

The maenad stoops once again. She whispers into my ear with a slurred tongue, swaying on wine-weary legs, lying to me, until I almost believe her. But I see the lines in her face, filigrees, like flaws in a diamond, stealing her beauty with each passing day. The devil always gets his due, and the hour approaches. The best liars, the ones who believe their own bullshit, go down hardest in the darkness. And they always manage to act surprised. Know thyself, yes. But knowledge is only prelude.

* * * * *

So much of what we give our lives over to is only fiction, a contrivance we've created for the sake of what we mistake to be comfort, make-believe that transcends fantasy only with its very real consequences. We buy into it, returning everything we extract back to the machine one way or another. And it is all-consuming, this ritual. It steals time from—indeed, is the opposite of—Love. We know this. And still we get in line for it to battle one another for the best parking space, the pole position. Every day we place a bet against blackness, blind to the fix. I am lucky enough to be fortunate enough to have enough to complain about it all and, at least philosophically, reject a large part of it. A paradox with a punch. But it all rolls on until it doesn't. Until grit and rust and dross bring it to a standstill.

There's something to solipsism. The truth is out. I've likely fucked myself for another year to avoid being fucked by others.

It's 1:30 in the mourning, and I'm just drunk enough right now to go to bed.

Dreams die today
(Do you call this living really?)
Too much hassle, too much risk
(Inside the hole you're digging)
Dreams die today
(Do you call this living really?)
No more disappointments

Please remain seated
Your number's coming
Do not question these commands
Just walk the dog
Be a bump on a log
Watch TV until you're blind

Dreams die today...
—Jawbreaker, "Equalized", Etc.

forgetters, "Not A Track Bike"...

Blake's got a new band. Lots of energy, I dig it. Live at The Barbary in Philadelphia, September 25, 2009.

Hope this one stays together a little longer than the last few, ha.

Subject to Change...

We're too smart to watch TV
We're too dumb to make believe
this is all we want from life

And I'm too dumb to talk to you
You're so quick to listen to me
Saying nothing you don't know
Nothing you don't know

Walked out and I won't be rerouted
If I don't go outside today, I never will
Too old not to get excited
About rain and roads, Egyptian ruins, our first kiss
—Jawbreaker, "Jinx Removing", 24 Hour Revenge Therapy

I rode down to the tracks
Thinking that they might sing to me
But they just stared back
Broken, trainless, and black as night
Climbed out onto my roof
So I'd be a poet in the night
Beat the walls off my room
I saw the big room that is this life

This is my condition
—Jawbreaker, "Condition Oakland", 24 Hour Revenge Therapy

I own an SUV.  I own a TV. Both sit idle, have languished unused now for quite some time, the difference being that the TV has the benefit of shelter from the elements and is thus in a better state of visual appeal. The truck, on the other hand, is on the fast track to eyesore status, having been peppered by pollen and pounded by precipitation in all forms while resting in the driveway. Amazing, what just a little neglect brings. We would do well to remember that when it comes to living, breathing, warmth-producing things.

But the truck and the TV? Done with them both, at least for the nonce. The truck disappears as a donation this year, not likely to be replaced anytime soon. The TV goes out the window and over the fence, figuratively speaking (Arlington County will recycle it, or at least go through all the appropriate visual motions to make me feel like they are recycling it. I have my doubts).

I am becoming boring, I fear. At least to all but the alcoholic, bibliophilic bicyclist. No talk of Mad Men or the Superbowl, no spur of the moment day-trips to lands too distant to be practicably reached by bicycle, none of that good stuff. But I am, I feel, the better for this, somehow. Certainly no worse. The TV (a pandora's box if ever there was one) can go straight to fucking hell, do not pass go, do not collect etc. Television, like radio (including most satellite stations), is, in so many words, shit, pure and simple. This is not revelation. Invasive, ubiquitous, vapid, unimaginative, addictive, insidious, selfish, imposing, wasteful, let it slip from memory, disappear, become to me no more than a fuzzy hircocervus (now there's an animal!). As for the automobile, I won't go cold turkey anytime soon. I am, right now, still that most contemptible of propriétaires immobiliers: a suburbanite. I make do as necessity dictates.  And sometimes I defy it.

So, what does all this have to do with my all-too-quickly-approaching cross-country bike trip? Not a damn thing, really. But how much can I write about something that hasn't happened yet and is, at the moment, relatively unplanned? Well, this much, at least...presented for your perusal, my tentative itinerary, pinched from the Adventure Cycling Association web site:

Yorktown, VA, to Astoria, OR (4,262 mi.)

Yorktown, VA, to Christiansburg, VA (367.5 mi.)

Christiansburg, VA, to Berea, KY (381 mi.)

Berea, KY, to Murphysboro, IL (410.5 mi.)

Murphysboro, IL, to Girard, KS   (411.5 mi.)

Girard, KS, to Alexander, KS   (333.5 mi.)

Alexander, KS, to Pueblo, CO  (292.5 mi.)

Pueblo, CO, to Rawlins, WY   (390.5 mi.)

Rawlins, WY, to West Yellowstone, MT (349.5 mi.)

West Yellowstone, MT, to Missoula, MT  (332 mi.)

Missoula, MT, to Baker City, OR  (419 mi.)

Baker City, OR, to Coburg, OR (340 mi.)

Coburg, OR, to Astoria, OR (234.5 mi.)

Coming up next: a breakdown of the gear I'll carry. Oh, a thrill for ya!

I've been there and gone there
I've lived there and bummed there
I've spinned there, I gave there
I drank there and I slaved there

I've had enough of the way things have been done
Every man on a razor's edge
Someone has used us to kill with the same gun
We were killing each other by driving a wedge

My life's a mess I wait for you to pass
I stand here at the bar, I hold an empty glass
—Pete Townshend, "Empty Glass", Empty Glass

Two Wheels and a Will...

"It would be strange if, while one too often obeys without a murmur a discipline that one does not understand and does not feel, we were not able to act according to a course of conduct that we ourselves have helped prescribe and keep rigidly consistent."
—Antonio Gramsci, La Città Futura, February 1917

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) “Ever to confess you’re bored
means you have no
Inner Resources.” I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
—John Berryman, from The Dream Songs

It all boils down
to not hanging around
gotta keep moving in front of the
gravity, gravity, gravity, gravity
Fugazi, "Long Distance Runner", Red Medicine

The front wheel is built and I am now in the first delicate stages of truing the assembly. I went with Phil Wood disc mountain hubs^* because, in some small part, I have yet to learn the finer points of frugal economics, but mostly because they best fit the bill. Stout, robust, disc, 36-hole, black, bolt-on, field-maintenance friendly, and oh-so-easy on the eyes. I paired an Alex TD17 disc-specific rim with the hub, attaching it in a three-cross pattern using Phil's own black, double-butted (14/15) spokes, which should ensure a nice, tight fit between spoke head and hole (let's agree for now to ignore the obvious bawdy extrapolation of those last few words to other sine qua non couplings in life). Should prove to be a relatively bomb-proof wheelset.

So the anatomical shakedown goes like this (everything in black, where available):
Salsa Vaya frameset, 56 cm
Thomson setback seatpost
Thomson X4 stem, 120 mm, 10 degree rise
Selle Italia Max Flite Gel Flow Saddle
Salsa Lip Lock seatpost collar
Crank Brothers Eggbeater 3 pedals
Shimano 105 crankset, front and rear derailleur, 10-speed
Shimano Dura-ace chain, 10-speed
Shimano bar-end shifters, 8-speed (10-speed compatible)
Shimano 105 cassette, 10-speed
Shimano Tiagra/Sora brake levers
Avid BB7 road disc brake calipers
Salsa Woodchipper handlebar, 31.8 mm center diameter, 42 cm width
Cinelli cork bar tape, black
Chris King headset
Schwalbe Marathon Supreme tires, 700x35c
Alex TD17 rims, 700c, 36-hole
Font de Jante Velox rims strips, 22 mm
Phil Wood MTB disc hubset, 36-hole
Phil Wood double-butted spokes, 14/15, with brass nipples

For a minimum of two months (and up to five, potentially) beginning this spring, this bike is going to be my best friend and constant companion, assuming all goes well. This trip is long overdue. I am neither particularly young, nor materially wealthy, nor excessively fond of risk, be it financial or physical. What I am—right now—is weary of routine and wary of responsibility. And exceedingly selfish. These are the raw materials that forge my will to temporarily abandon what is my life and seek something else on the roads that criss-cross this country, balanced on two wheels that slice the scenery into still lifes and landscapes. From a physical, physiological standpoint, it isn't exactly epic, it's not an Odyssey, it isn't even mildly hardcore (how's that for an oxymoron?), though surely there will be trying moments. The difficulty comes in the initial commitment, the irrevocable decision to abandon (if only temporarily) so much of what so many consider necessities, without some guarantee in the end of a consolation prize. But to dip into cliche, it's that kind of risk that makes life interesting and worth living. No regrets. That's where life lies, raw and real and a little bit ragged. And immensely rewarding. Gravity kills.

I can't wait.

M-Y-T-H is
belief in a game
control that keeps us
in our box of fear
we never listen
voice inside
so drowned out
drowned you are
you are, you are
a furry(every) thing
and everything is you
me you, you me
it's all related
and what's a boy
to do?
Pearl Jam, "Faithful", Yield


^*At the time of this writing, Phil does not manufacture a disc touring hubset per se. The idea of using disc mountain hubs came from a Phil representative, who stated that were they to design disc touring hubs, these would essentially be identical to the disc mountain hubs.

Barn's Burnt Down --

now
I can see the moon.
— Masahide

De Omnibus Dubitandum...

"Radical doubt means to question; it does not necessarily mean to negate. It is easy to negate by simply positing the opposite of what exists; radical doubt is dialectical inasmuch as it comprehends the process of the unfolding of oppositions and aims at a new synthesis which negates and affirms.   Radical doubt is a process; a process of liberation from idolatrous thinking; a widening of awareness, of imaginative, creative vision of our possibilities and option."
—Erich Fromm, Introduction to (Ivan) Illich's Celebration of Awareness

A heart that's full up like a landfill/a job that slowly kills you/bruises that won't heal/you look so tired and unhappy/bring down the government/they don't, they don't speak for us/I'll take the quiet life/a handshake of carbon monoxide/with no alarms and no surprises/no alarms and no surprises/no alarms and no surprises, silent, silent...
—Radiohead, "No Surprises," OK Computer

"Culture is not your friend."
—Terrence McKenna

"I suppose I was here because this was something I had to do; not just dream about it, but do it."
—Richard Proenneke, Alone in the Wilderness

In April of this year, I will embark alone on a two-wheeled odyssey across this nation in an effort to discover something more about myself and a land that is mine only by a brilliant accident of birth. It is a running away, an escape, a prison break undertaken when the last wisps of sunlight streak the evening sky as the day begins to die, when the shadows of countless buildings and trees and everything that is creep quietly across courtyards and county seats to dissolve in the dimness of a night that slips in with the slow subtleness of a sedative.

I am restless. I don't fit. I have difficulty accepting things as they are, even if they seem to be functioning perfectly well (at least for most people). I can think of no better reason not to do something than because it is always done that way. Tradition, to paraphrase the late, great Terrence McKenna, is not my friend.

There is no reason why 2011 is the year, but there is equally no reason why it shouldn't be. Perhaps it has taken this long for the ennui and uneventfulness of everyday life to finally penetrate my being like some parenteral poison, sickening me against myself and servility and same-old same-old; a personal and cultural curare, so to speak. Perhaps, in the end, I am only running away. Better to run now while the legs are strong, n'est ce pas?

Whatever the real reason, so be it. I'm thinking hard about an out and back. Guess I'll make that decision when my wheels stop turning—temporarily—in Astoria. Until then, I plan to blog the whole process as it unfolds, starting with the bike build and moving through the planning, until I arrive at the moment of departure, on the shore in the erstwhile tobacco shipping mecca of Yorktown, Virginia. Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt.

(Tangentially related: if you've never heard of Richard Proenneke, do yourself a wonderful favor and check out Alone in the Wilderness. Mr. Proenneke, as you'll soon discover, is one tough motherfucker.)

Half-hearted, Half-assed Half-terthought...

Took the pic at left recently in Old Town, Alexandria (Virginia). Nice placement. Not the motorist's fault, this time. Seems the city saw fit to paint a sharrow in the parking zone, where it shines like an embattled beacon of hope beneath the belly of parked vehicles. North of this spot, they've painted a bike lane smack dab in the open car-door zone that stretches all of a couple blocks before terminating abruptly and mysteriously, leaving several more blocks with neither bike lane nor sharrow, until the abomination in the pic makes its less than majestic appearance. All of this on Union Street, a high-pedestrian area where the average vehicle speed is about 20 mph, and where there's an all-way stop sign at almost every intersection. Absolutely no reason at all to place any bike markers along this street, as doing so not only endangers cyclists who play by "the rules," but also underscores the widely held, misplaced belief that bikes aren't true vehicles and shouldn't mingle on the road with automobiles.

It's half-hearted, half-assed efforts like this half-terthought that really burn my ass, because someone somewhere who is clearly overpaid really, truly believes that (s)he reached out to cyclists in a meaningful way. Yep, clearly.

Well done, city planners!

Scorched Earth Scurry...

Putting on a little SSOFTeam ride this Saturday. It’s a double-loop, fat-tire, fixed-gear ride over the rollickin’, rollin’, asphalt-smooth dirt trails at Rosaryville in Uppah Marrahburrah, Merylin. All are welcome. Here’s the official four-one-one:

Scorched Earth Scurry
Sponsored by The Bicycle Escape and Single Speed Outlaw Factory Team
Location: Rosaryville State Park, Upper Marlboro, MD. First parking lot on the right after the gate.
Date: Saturday, December 4. Meet at 9 am, wheels down and rolling at 9:15 am
Terrain: Mild. The loop is hardpack singletrack with plenty of whoop-de-doos. Short up- and downhills. Fixed gear and singlespeed friendly.
Ride level: Moderate to advanced, depending on the players.
Description: A 20-mile fixed-gear dirt ride. Fixed gear recommended, but all mountain/cross bikes are welcome. What better way to warm up the winter engine and prepare for the onslaught of cooler weather than going coast-less in the woods of (moderately) wild, (moderately) wonderful Upper Marlboro, MD? Come on out and pedal every inch of the 10-mile dirt loop in one direction, then hit it again going the other way to double your pedaling pleasure. This route is pure bliss, a veritable roller-coaster ride guaranteed to have you grinning from ear to ear without feeling like you had to suffer for it!

Beer, Bikes, Be-attitude...

It is finished. The Fifth Annual Bootlegger's Bliss is over. I'll pause a moment to give you all time to grieve.

. . .

Now that all the wailing and gnashing of teeth has concluded, here's a bit of good news: there are a few souveniers floating around in cyberspace. For example, Arne of Log Posse fame was kind enough to capture a few minutes of the Ass-fault Derby™ and Tabletop Trials™ events, and kinder still to unleash them on an unsuspecting and largely somnambulant world.  Submitted for your consideration, one expertly produced video of some of last Satyrday's sot-ridden shenanigans:

Bootleggers Bliss 2010 from arne fleisher on Vimeo.

We were forced to skip these two vital points of the Sacred Estoile (the other three being the ride, the homebrew, and the home-made food) last year, and it's good to see them return again, along with a new one: Jungle-gymnastics (see 2 pix near bottom).

Thanks, Arne!

Ass-fault Derby™...

(Above photo credits: Arne Fleisher)

Tabletop Trials™...

Jungle-gymnastics™...

Colossal thanks to everyone who came out to (again) make this such a fun and unforgettable event! Write-up (and more vids) coming soon, I hope.  Until then, ¡Salud!

12 Hours and Counting...

The Bliss is on like the eponymous video game gorilla.  Everyone who can't make it, well, in every game, there has to be some losers, n'est ce pas?

Bliss turns five this year.  Still just a baby, but what an appetite for all things hedonistic!

Time to rediscover my mountain bike. As for the bottle, let's just say I've got that down pat...

473.176473 milliliters...

Born in the USA. Like the beer it will soon hold.

No Title Necessary...