This was behind a peewall paywall, now it’s not:
You’re welcome, you cheap bastards.
Speaking of garvel, Mazda is harnessing its awesome marketing power with their latest ad campaign:
The video features some garvel riding:
As well as the riders marveling at how being inside the car feels just like being outside in nature, and how they can even check on their bikes through the sunroof:
Driving on garvel roads while admiring your bikes on the car is totally going to be the next big thing. They can call it “garvel driving.” And sure, I know what you’re thinking: “Driving on garvel roads has been around forever, it’s called rally racing, duh.” Well, if they can create a whole new genre of cycling that’s basically just watered-down road and mountain biking on a neutered hybrid, then why can’t they create a whole new genre of driving that’s just non-competitive lukewarm rally driving in a car with an automatic transmission, climate control, and a whole suite of safety features?
Meanwhile, you’re tired of hearing about it by now, but I took yet another ride on the Pink Meh-Strosity today:
Normally on a Friday I prefer to point my bike in a northerly direction and leave the city, but it’s important to hone your urban cycling skills now and again lest you grow soft. After all, you don’t want to wind up like that teddy bear:
Also, since assembling the Faggin I’d incurred no fewer than three (3) flats; in fact, excluding short test rides up and down the street, I hadn’t yet completed a single ride on the thing without a puncture. So I knew I couldn’t consider the bike “finished” until I’d had at least one flat-free ride:
Clearly the bike called for more robust tires. I’d resolved not to spend money on it, but this morning I remembered I had pair of “urban” tires somewhere in my tire pile, and after some digging I was finally able to find them:
They were the tires that came on my Milwaukee way back in 2015:
Which now belongs to my son:
Though as soon as he outgrows it I’m taking it back.
Anyway, as I mentioned yesterday, the streets are teeming with unregistered motor scooters these days, though many of them sport novelty license plates:
If you see “Brandon” on a pickup truck you know it’s a political statement, but on a scooter in the Bronx it could go either way:
Once again I wound up on Randall’s Island, though today I noticed something that either I’d missed or that simply hadn’t been there yesterday:
The box (technically a repurposed drawer) contained candles, and there were coins at the statue’s feet:
It faced North Brother Island–where, as I’ve mentioned before, the General Slocum ran aground in 1904. I always contemplate this when I visit, and the presence of the shrine lent the scene additional poignancy. Not to go all weird on you, but between the dour history of this spot, and its current views of Riker’s Island, and the airships screaming into and out of LaGuardia airport, and its natural significance as the confluence of several water bodies, the whole place feels imbued with a certain power that, if nothing else, demands a certain amount of reflection and respect.
Indeed, before leaving, I erected a temporary shrine of my own:
And insomuch as I made it home without a single flat, I hereby consider the bicycle duly christened.
Now I can finally go ride something else.