Didn’t I mention the splendiferous hues of autumn yesterday?
As the seasons change the fo–LOOK OUT, JORTS COMING THROUGH!
It’s the new “On your left.”
Jarring, isn’t it?
Oh, and would you look at that, I got a new bag!
See that? I didn’t have to resort to the Electric Techno-Paranoia after all:
The bag is “out of stock,” but when you’re me nothing is out of stock:
Let’s just say I’ve got connections in the Waxed Canvas Mafia.
See, you’ve got your Regular Mafia:
Your Velvet Mafia:
And your Waxed Canvas Mafia:
I probably shouldn’t say any more or you’re liable to find me chopped up and stuffed into a HappiSack:
[Photo: The Waxed Canvas Mafia]
If you see one of those bouncing along on the OCA with a single foot hanging out of it you’ll know it’s me inside:
As for my new bag, it may be too small to conceal a body, but It’s exactly what I need–just big enough for snacks, gloves, and that sort of thing:
Or maybe a book and some toys when I’m taking kids to the park on Columbus Unmentionable Day:
And yes, that book does contain cycling references:
Of course the constable would have been fine if he were riding a Rivendell, a bike so stable even a Scottie couldn’t knock you off it:
My infatuation with this bike remains as exuberant as the foliage, and it’s at home on everything from smooth roads:
To terrain of about this degree of roughness:
So do you call this a “trail?” Or is it technically a gravel road surfaced with extremely large gravel?
Either way, anything beyond that on the Roaduno and I guess you’re doing what these spoiled Gen-Zers today call “underbiking.”
Speaking of so-called underbiking, you may recall I did some in Vermont on the Roaduno’s polar opposite, George Plimpton’s Y-Foil, a.k.a. The Charity Ride Destroyer, a.k.a. The Pumpkin Spice Nightmare:
In the comments on yesterday’s post, which addressed the subject of yielding, there was some discussion of gravel roads and giant trucks. As an inveterate city-slicker, when I find myself on a gravel road, I of course just assume it exists entirely for the sake of quaintness, and that I can count on it being relatively motor vehicle-free as a bonus:
“Wow, look at all that pristine gravel!,” I thought to myself. “And nobody else is even riding on it!” But what I soon realized is that not all gravel roads are created equal, and that some of them are heavily used by farmers. Moreover, one of the gravel roads I chose was just such a thoroughfare:
While the drivers exhibited no outward hostility, I’m sure they were thinking to themselves, “What’s this asshole doing?” Anyway, all of this is to say I duly moved aside and dismounted when necessary, though in retrospect I probably should have made a video and ranted about how rural roads need more protected bike lanes. Regardless, I made it to the ferry alive and intact:
And I didn’t even have to squeeze a boob!
That may or may not be a win, depending on how you look at it.