world car free day

Today is officially world car free day. There seemed to be slightly fewer cars around but perhaps this was just a normal school holiday. There were certainly a lot of people out on their bikes along the bike trails – streaking at speed through the puddles and spraying their backs with water and squished worms after last night's rain. If kids walked to a nearby school or rode bikes, would the morning peak-hour traffic always be lighter?
I feel sorry for the worms that ended up decorating my rear brake caliper. There must have been about half a dozen of them. And there were several more sliced by the spokes and decorating the fork crown. Poor things.

La France

For better or for worse, here are some minor thoughts I digitally jotted down during a recent trip to Paris.

Sculpture. In the gardens of the Louvre is a bronze sculpture of a reclining female nude. A succession of (mostly but not exclusively) male tourists are posing for photos embraced by her arms and legs. How many times has she endured this as she stares passively into the space just beyond her outstretched hand? What is she reaching for? Tourists?

The new tourists. All around Paris I see groups of well-groomed American girls. Are they out of school on a communal gap year? They are polite but their accents grate through no fault of their own. "Yeah... Like... Yeah... Mercy. Or rev-woir". They are practicing their French just like me. I bet my accent is ghastly to the locals :-)

Baguettes. The French certainly love their baguettes! At breakfast and at lunchtime, I have seen them walking the streets, brandishing their sticks of bread by a sheaf of wrapped paper. Much of the world has succumbed to practicality and carries a compact loaf. Still, there is something comical about a handlebar-mounted pannier with a baguette thrusting it's nose into the air ahead of the rider. This makes their perseverance endearing.

Velolib. I watched a guy pedal his bicycle from the hire racks down a cobbled lane. His girlfriend was perched cheerfully on the handlebars, facing him. This didn't improve the steering any, but the view was always to his taste.

Tour de France reporters. The sport presenters discussing the TDF this morning were two gorgeous, eye fluttering, posing blonde dolls. Why do we get Mike Tomalaris? SBS should import some European talent.

Foreigners in hotels. It can be funny leaving a foreign hotel frequented by tourists. This morning I was greeted by an American on the stairs in French. Later, a Chinese man and I awkwardly smiled as we passed in the corridor, unsure how to greet one another. There was a good chance he was Australian.

on making up your mind with clichés

During a recent discussion on creativity with a colleague (there's quite a bit of that going around at our lab lately), he made a remark that I interpret as "You can't hope to change the mind of somebody who has made up their mind". That's not exactly what he said, but that's how I am going to interpret it for the sake of this post. He felt that only fence-sitters could be swayed. Once you're on one side of the fence, there's no way you'll be able to haul yourself back to the opposing side, even if the grass is greener over there. Personally, I feel that whether or not you can climb the fence again depends heavily on how much you have invested in your back garden. Sometimes its hard to write off your investment and run into foreign territory. Also, I suspect, some people are better climbers than others. How's that for a string of lousy metaphors to start the ball rolling?

So where am I going with this? We have all heard the cliché that we must "accept change". This grates like a block of cheese. Change, instability and complete and utter (to quote Paul Sherwen) chaos are steps on a steady decline. This is not how the universe works. Let's take the evolutionary process for example. It doesn't just throw away things and replace them with novelty! It selects the successful strategies and slowly weeds out those that are less so... in nature, evolution has shown itself to be superior to revolution. I don't see why anybody in their right mind would adopt "accept change" as their personal motto. According to my theory, either those who live by and spout such nonsense are not of right mind, or I am simply a poor fence climber.

One argument I have heard in favour of accepting change runs, "change is inevitible so you may as well accept it". There's no point in fighting a losing battle... get onside and move forwards. This sounds to me like a cop out. If you are opposed to something, the hardest thing to do is stand up and fight. This approach could cost you your life, or the lives of those around you. An unfortunate consequence that too often holds true. The easy, and often peaceful, way out is to accept change. Sit silently. Say nothing. Maintan the status quo. Resistance is futile. Be at peace with the world.

Is the fight ever worth the cost? How much have you invested in your back garden? How green is your neighbour's lawn? This is a question that only an individual can answer. There cannot be a "one size fits all" solution to this problem. I will make up my own mind and I leave it to you to make up yours as the need arises.

on old age and evel knievel

A couple of days ago, Richard Hammond Meets Evel Knievel screened on local TV. Like Hammond, I had played with the Evel Knievel fly-wheel driven motorcycle as a kid. Perhaps I still have some bits of it lying around. I knew little of the man himself, having invested most of my childhood days jumping pedal-powered bikes off dangerous concrete landings and dirt piles, rather than watching motorcycles hop cars and buses. Still, I switched on to have a look...

Evel was frail and very ill. He sucked on his oxygen mask unhealthily as he was driven around his small-town American home and asked to reminisce about footage of him crashing and injuring himself. Strangely enough, Evel reminded me of Frank Booth, the bizarre and frightening character from Blue Velvet. The hovering body guards, the unpredictable turns in Evel's demeanour, these radiated unease. It was as if the whole situation would turn violent at any moment. It didn't seem like Evel ever really got along with Hammond and the most pertinent questions often went unanswered. All the same, his character (well, at least two characters) came through. Perhaps Evel was too concerned with his own health at the time to take to the British interviewer. This is hardly surprising given that Evel had suffered a stroke just a couple of days before.

I found much else unusual about this documentary also. The way Evel hovered between being "the legend" and the reality of his current existence was unsettling. Certain triggers caused him to roll out the old bravado, whilst others seated him firmly in his past and present woes.

Why is it that former celebrities seem convinced that they mustn't "let their fans down"? This is a common remark made by today's elite cyclists as they are suspended for doping infringements and led tearfully to waiting cars. Hammond's wander around Evel's town during a festival of bike stunts revealed to me the extent to which some of the locals idolised their fallen and broken-boned angel. Or was this only the kids who never grew up? Did the true youngsters really care about this man? Could they reconcile his appearance with the daredevil their parents insisted he had been? Without him their town would be just one of thousands. Evel was the icon that put them on the international map... long, long ago, before many of these childrens' parents had themselves been born.

"Jump for Jesus"!? A modern Knight Templar and former bodyguard of Evel, dressed in white with giant red crosses emblazoned on his bike and leathers jumped through a flaming board. The announcer on the P.A. claimed it was something to do with Jesus and Satan. He was so earnest. The Knight's followers were so serious and were moved to tears by his words. For them, this was a religious experience. As a viewer from far away, this was a chance to see the U.S. of A. in all its technicolour glory.

"Live for your dreams", proclaimed Evel near the conclusion of the show. Quite likely his own poor health prevented him from dreaming too far in advance. Nevertheless, he had prepared his own tombstone. This of course is the limit point for the dreams of those who don't cherish anything that carries on without them. His last dream was to be buried in the middle of town, the centre of attention at least in this tiny location, so far from the centre of anywhere.

bagel safety warning

Tip of the day: When slicing your bagel, keep your digits out of the hole.

the death of j.g. ballard

Crash. Until I'd read Ballard's book, I had no idea twisted metal, burning plastic and shattered bones could be considered by anybody to be erotic. I remember diving into the text on a flight home from Canada 15 years ago. The air hostess thought I was reading about aeroplane crashes... "Ahhh. Ummm. No. Actually the book is about sex in car accidents." I think that stunned her. She didn't pose any more questions apart from those she was paid to ask. "Tea or coffee?"

"J.G. Ballard died of cancer on the 19th August, aged 78", I read over my morning toast. The first thing that sprang to mind was Crash. Then by chance my eyes fell upon the water level indicator on the front page of the paper and a vague memory of The Drought returned... people travelling miles across barren salt plains created by desalination plants to capture sea-water with paddles and sweep it homewards... it has been a long time since I read this book. Concrete Island is fresher in my mind... an architect becomes trapped in a concrete space between freeway lanes. Unable to escape, he spends days, then weeks in the company of a couple of other outcasts who call the tiny island in urban hell their home. Shades here of one of my favourite books, Kobo Abe's The Woman in the Dunes. Ballard was that kind of writer.

I only know a half dozen of Ballard's books, but of those, I'd call Crash and Concrete Island "great" works of disturbing fiction. His comments on human psychology, the bizarre but believable views he takes towards humankind's future and that of our planet, all ensure I am saddened by his passing.

compact gearing

Not that long ago (well, maybe 20 years ago), the default pair of chainrings on a road crankset was 52T x 42T. Of course there have always been variations made depending on the application. I've got a pile of rings ranging around that general vicinity from the 80s. Come what must have been the mid 90s, I was convinced by the thought of the Victorian Alps that I ought to have a 39 onboard. 39 with 21 on the back got me up Tawonga Gap, Falls Creek, Tawonga Gap again in the opposite (steeper) direction and then up Buffalo. 21T — what was I thinking!?

Late 90s and along comes a 9 speed rear cassette with the luxury of a 23T cog. Up front a trusty 39 spun me up and a 53 geared me down the hills in the Tour of Bright. I've not been back to Bright to ride now for more than 10 years. Time flies! But when I do get out that way again...

I will be sporting a new combination, 50T x 34T and 11-25 on the rear. I am a recent convert to compact gearing, having been lucky enough to secure an 11 speed Campag. groupset in Australia last year (thanks to the guys at Mascot). At first I was unconvinced. I seemed to spend a lot of time fidgetting with the gears, fumbling over the little ring paired with the little cogs, or the big ring with the big cogs. Things fell into place like the chain onto the little ring of my new groupset. Now I wonder if I'll ever love the 53 x 39 combination again. On the compact cranks I can spin up the steepest slopes with ease, faster and with much less effort than on my 39 x 23. With the 50 x 11 I can tear down the steepest slopes, passing more inches per stroke than on my old 53 x 12.

Long live compact gearing and wide cassettes. I can go slowly pedalling quickly, and I can go quickly pedalling slowly. What's not to like about that?