From the reasoning of the Dawg name to the best comic book authors, from the history of the Hot to a timeline of industrial music, Cory has the trivia, and the opinions to mouth off about it.
I’m writing this on May 15th, Bike to Work and School Day. This is a cool day, where in towns and cities all over the nation people get on their bikes instead of in their cars and ride their bikes to work. It makes for an awesome time, seeing tons of people on bikes all over town, and having a safer than usual ride in to work. This lasts for a day, and everyone drives after that.
Yes, I am jaded.
I’ve always liked this event, but I do question how much good it actually does in the long run. After riding in this morning, I have a slightly more sanguine view of it. As I was cruising down a hill on my way in, I saw a couple of middle school aged girls riding up the hill. One looked like she knew what she was doing, and was getting up the hill at a decent pace. The other girl was suffering like a dog – but with the biggest smile I’ve seen in quite a while. This one girl made the whole day a success for me.
Martin Scorsese has shown that a song can epitomize a particular moment in a film, but real life often doesn’t work that way. Mr. Self Destruct by Nine Inch Nails was playing loudly in my right ear, but if it was a remark on anything, it’s me. She was suffering, but she was winning the fight, and having a damn good time doing it.
She may not ride to school on Monday. She may not ride to school again for quite a while, but she’s going to always remember that she had a blast doing it, and that’s going to pull at her until she does it again, and she will.
So, to everyone that rode to work or school on Bike to Work and School Day, congrats. To those that actually enjoyed themselves, double congrats! And if you’re going to do it again, you’re one of us.
Joe Schwartz ventures to the Altiplano in search of big descents and wicked Andean singletrack
Bolivia has always been on my list of must-go places, so needless to say I was excited to experience this remote, mountainous country. Not even five airports worth of traveling was enough to dull my stoke for this trip.
I finally flew into Bolivia as the sun rose over the city of La Paz, which is crammed in a giant amphitheatre, ringed by snow covered 16,000 foot peaks. Aside from the view, and ridiculously crazy drivers, the first thing I noticed was a severe shortness of breath, as my body tried to cope with the sudden exposure to the thin air at 11,000 feet.
The kind folks at Gravity Bolivia were there to pick me up, bearing gifts of water and altitude pills, two essential ingredients in coping with the high elevations.
We rolled into La Paz, dodging feral dogs and wild taxi drivers, and checked into our accommodations, where I met up with the rest of the internationally diverse crew. The other riders are, from Switzerland, Rene Wildhaber, and from Germany, Rob Jauch. The trip is being documented by the Italian lensman, Marco Toniolo. We are being shown around by Alistair Mathew of Gravity Bolivia (www.gravitybolivia.com ), which is not only an amazingly run guiding outfit based here in La Paz, but also the Kona Bolivia distributor.
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The latest Dr. Dew Files is out. The Scandium Story. We get all jiggly with Rossland, BC’s Juicy Studios who did an epic job on the series’ first stab at animation. Turned out beauty. Big ups to Freeride Entertainment who are killing it softly with the filming, editing and sound. Check out the whole series on Konaworld.tv
http://cog.konaworld.com/video/DrDewEP6.flv
In an un-edited outtake from or man h I r S c h’s blog (www.makesomedaytoday.blogspot.com), we catch up with the ever-wandering cyclist and his Kona Unit as he explores the magic burl of southern India
but, my little ones, when you’re donkey’ing around in the desert and the choice is no water or that water, you shuffle the deck and hope you don’t get jacked
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Here’s a sweet shot from Swedish photographer Mattias Fredriksson of three little rippers from Nelson, British Columbia, Canada. Looking good. Feeling good. Standing proud. Got to love the kids.
Photo: Mattias Fredrickson
Here’s a shot we found of Andreu Lacondeguy living the dream. Want to sign hot abdomen? Well, get a sleeve tattoo, maybe a couple of piercings, and, oh yeah, stick a double backflip in front of 15,000 people. See where that gets you.
Andreu looks a little nervous...
This only happens at Sellwood Cycle Repair. A few weeks ago, the crapper parade—the daily in-and-out of the bikes: the newbies for sale, the oldies for sale, the slummy repair jobs—seemed a little light. It just wasn’t wasting enough of our time, ya know. I didn’t think much of it, even though I felt it in my big toe, kinda like how Sasquatch must feel the doom of winter’s first snow.
We got an anonymous phone call Tuesday. The fellow on the other end of the line said we had a bike stolen last month, and that it was now leaning up against a powerline pole just south of the shop. Matt hiked down the avenue and returned with one of our purple 2007 Unit 2-9 bikes (this one was half-converted to a retarde 3×1 drivetrain). We hadn’t even noticed it was gone! They’re hard to keep track of, and, well, it wasn’t the only one not selling: I’ve built up three of them, and here they still sit. Apparently, we can’t even give one away. Goddam thieves returned it! I guess one question is this: Do those frames need to dip lower than $165 wholesale?
But I bet I know the question Kona has for us: Is it really that easy to steal a bike from Sellwood Cycle Repair? Yes, it is. They’re all piled up outside, unlocked, secured only by our bottomless well of faith in humanity. It works, I tells ya. I’ve got proof, and now so do you. If these bikes could talk.
–Erik Tonkin, Head (caveman) Jerk, SCR
Our first bike ride in Japan sucked. Drafting a semi truck in the pissing rain down a pothole strewn road at 50 kmh I began to wonder what we were attempting to accomplish, besides coating our bikes and bodies in sticky black road grime. We had set out to film a beautiful sunset ride on the Japanese coast, but it didn’t seem to be working out as planned. Our local Japanese handlers had assured us that there would be great ocean views to be had along this road, but they were failing to materialize amongst the massive oil refineries and sprawling shipyards. With the already minimal light fading as quickly as our moral, we abandoned ship and stuffed our bikes into the chase van. A quick scan of our map revealed a faint grey line of a road tracing the coast line to the north of us, a glimmer of hope in the gloomy rain soaked expedition.
Everything came together as we unloaded our bikes and the sun broke through the stormy clouds. Our secret road clung precariously to the side of a steep cliff overlooking the ocean, dipping and diving in and out of lush green jungle and across spectacular exposed cliffs as it made its way up the island. Lit by that special golden sunlight that appears as dusk approaches and storms recede, the road glistened with the recent rain, beckoning us into its embrace.
Water began arcing off of our tires and diffusing into rainbows of light as we raced faster and faster into the sporadic mist from waves crashing on the rocks below. The next hour became a blur of optical mischief as we tested the driver of the chase van’s skills with the cameramen hanging awkwardly out of the windows and sliding rear doors capturing everything as we rocketed down the road. At every turn we were greeted by new vistas of sea, sky and storm fighting an epic battle to win our attention and spurring us on further and further into the spectacle. We kept at it until the batteries were drained, the cards full, and the last fleeting light was finally erased over the horizon in a brilliant red/green flash.
The van ride back to the hotel was filled with our silent contemplation and reflection of moments in that singular experience, appreciating those fleeting instances of beauty accessible to us via bicycle in a foreign landscape, and the idea that sometimes the best things come to us when we least expect them.
Our man hIrSch has been riding a Kona around the world for a couple of years now. Sleeping in chicken coups and grinding it through through the gnarlier countries of the world, recently Hirsch received a little spot of fame when his beard, bike and trailer slipped into the front page of a Hindu Tabloid. We can’t read Hindu, but are quite sure it espouses his spirt and fortitude quite eloquently.
Check out hIrSch in the bottom left
When I was a kid I used to watch Bob on TV. Remember his, “purdy little bushes” and his, “delicate little clouds,” up above the “quiet little lake,” and, oh yeah, “we can’t forget about this sweet little cabin.” I miss Bob. Bob died a few years ago. For millions, it signified the end of an era in public television. How a quirky dude with whacked paintings and a mega afro could become famous just by being happy. Oh, those beautiful sunsets of the past. Gone forever.
