bi [sic] le

Well, this just has to about beat all. On my bike, I’ve been left-hooked, right-hooked, cut-off, short-stopped, tailgated, shaved, flipped-off, shoaled, poached, thrown at, laughed at, yelled at, cussed out, threatened and derided by all manner of motorists.

Never before — nope: NEVER EVER — have I experienced direct derision and disdain from someone so much further down the ladder than me until this morning when the very embodiment of Some Homeless Guy (SHG), looking about as fresh as he probably smelled, saw me as I rolled to a stop at Wilshire Boulevard, while southbound on La Brea, and decided to let the world know he thought I was just about the stupidest thing on the street.

Watching the pedestrians cross in front of me I didn’t catch that the tirade was in anyway directed at me. All I saw and heard mixed in with the din of the rush-hour cross traffic was the shaggy and begraggled SHG on the corner to my right with multiple duffel bags looking my way and incomprehensibly yelling — the latter being something that street people are pretty commonly and loudly known to do.

This tirade went on for the better part of 10 seconds, and I was doing pretty well at respectfully ignoring the gibberish right up until he ended his rant with something along the lines of “…and here’s this idiot on the street riding a motherfucking bicycle!”

Above image of SHG culled and photoshopped from video of the encounter, viewable after the jump.

(more…)

Well after a quiet start to these first few weeks of 2010, I made up for lost flats last night. Got three — count ‘em: three! — on the ride home from work. Silly me: Earlier in the day I’d actually dared to consider that I might get through the first month of the new year without one. Jinx!

But before anyone gets all preachy about a flat’s occurrence being in direct proportion to the cheapness of the tire involved,  understand that I finally took that sage advice and instead of my usual $14.99 brand I have been rolling on a pair of $40-each Continental Gatorskins since the latter third of December.

I’m no stranger to flats. Over the course of the 6,741 miles I rode in 2009 I had to fix 31 of the suckers — and a lot of them had to do with the crappy tires I used.

But with last night’s first two flats even the touted Gatorskins were helpless to prevent them. Witness my assailant, newly developed on Centinela just west of Sepulveda thanks to last week’s rains (click for the bigger picture):

Sure, you’d think something this gargantuan as this freaking crater of doom could be avoided by a cyclist even half as alert as I usually am, but the problem began with a broken patch of roadway just out of frame to the left that I’d dodged to the right.  Coming past that hazard I came left to get out of the debris-filled gutter and with no room for oversteering I ended up zigging a little too far back into the lane and the next thing before me was this monstrous black hole looming. At about 15 mph all I could do was roll through it. And pray.

Dropping in the trench was no problem. But coming out the other end over what amounted to a sheer continental shelf? Problematic. It was like trying to climb over a sword’s edge. I felt and heard the clang as the  front tire compressed and the pothole’s edge came into contact with the wheel’s rim. Then came the inevitable POP!-sssshhhhhhhhhhh.

Little did I realize that when my rear tire followed the front over the sharp edge of asphalt it couldn’t help but do the same thing. And since it popped only a micro-second apart from the front I didn’t know I’d double-flatted until I came to rim-riding stop about 100 yards down the street.

Wow! My first-ever double flat. Never in my long history as bicycler had I experienced such a predicament. Had it happened in front of a bar I might’ve gone inside to celebrate the milestone, but instead in that desolate and dark no-man’s land I just grumbled, turned the bike wheels-up and got busy swapping out the popped tubes with the two spares I’m never without.

Thirty minutes later 8Ball was mobility-enabled again, and after returning to the scene of the crime to snap the above shot of the culprit, I got the hell on my way.

Not more than three miles later, on the Ballona Creek Bikeway approaching Overland Avenue, I feel my rear tire going flat, and as I slowed cursing, my first thought is that the existing patch on the replacement tube, which had been salvaged from a previous flat, had failed. So I pulled over, and called Susan to alert her as to why I would be home much later than I’d hoped.

She graciously asked if I wanted her to come pick me and the bike up, but I was game to do one more flat fix, and while on the phone with my hand spinning over the rear wheel, I chanced upon a protrusion from the allegedly bullet-proof tread of the Gatorskin. Telling her I’d take her up on her kind offer if I had a fourth flat, I soon extracted the organic little demon pictured below, partially pissed that the 1/8th-inch bastard had breached the tire’s touted defense system… and partially relieved  that it wasn’t the previous patch that had failed (click  for the bigger picture):

In short order I’d applied a glueless patch to the puncture, and after immortalizing the pointy thing that caused it got on with the rest of the ride home — flat free.

UPDATE (10:38 a.m.): As expected, I found the rear tire flat this morning. Glueless patches should never be considered anything more than a temporary fix. Even if the tire was still full this morning I would have deflated it and replaced it with a far more durable glued patch.

Haiti’s got me dwelling and waking up. The quake, it’s terrifying devastation and its chaotic aftermath have all served  to show me how ill-equipped our household is and will be when an epic disaster strikes Los Angeles.

When. Not if.

Sure, we’ve got emergency food/supply backpacks in each of our cars. Plus there’s an emergency container in the backyard. We’ve got sturdy shoes and flashlights and a transistor radio and spare batteries and about five gallons of drinking water. But we are so seriously lacking in other essential aspects and a comprehensive emergency plan that for the first time in my life as an L.A. native who’s been through every temblor since the 1971 Sylmar quake, I am just now finally recognizing how such an abject lack of planning and preparation can make a bad situation worse and a catastrophic situation potentially devastating.

So now it’s time to go full-stop and reverse that trend. It’s time to quit allowing all that negative potential the opportunity to be realized, and instead go about covering all the bases as best I can. Not so much for any peace of mind beforehand, but for the chance at a better ability to cope and survive in the inevitable nightmarish aftermath.

UPDATED (01.17): On this the 16th anniversary of the Northridge Earthquake, I secured our first bookcase — the one that stands inside the front entrance. My original intent was simply to dust it and its contents for the first time in waaaaay too long, but in the course of doing that I realized attaching it to the wall to be a simple matter of driving three long screws through a crosspiece supporting one of its shelves into the plaster behind it. Voila! One down, maaaaany more to go.

I fought the law and the law won.

I gave it a solid effort, but I knew getting my case dismissed would be a longshot if the officer was present — and he was.  Sure, the judge listened to the officer’s statement, listened to mine, which directly and relatively convincingly contradicted the officer’s statement, giving me a glimmer of hope that things might sway in my favor. But then the judge asked the officer some additional questions before allowing me to further rebut the officer’s statements. Then he found me guilty of failing to obey a stop sign. And that was that.

I refrained from any contemptuous outbursts because in the end it was — as it always is — a simple if infuriating matter of my word against that of a sworn officer of the law. And I’m sorry, but there is no way — without indisputable unimpeachable evidence — that any sitting traffic court judge is going to find for a civilian — worse: a civilian bicyclist.

Had I been in possession of my video camera sunglasses at the time I woulda coulda had that evidence. But I didn’t then and thus don’t now, thus: GUILTY.

My argument throughout this whole six-months since the ticket and in front of the judge this afternoon has been that the officer did not have a clear and unobstructed line of sight. This because when I made my right turn eastbound onto Clinton from Larchmont he was heading westbound on Clinton Street, away from me, watching either from his side or rearview mirror. Watching while in distracted motion and unable to see the stop I made.

On the citation and in front of the judge the officer claimed he was stationed near the limit line facing east on Clinton at a full stop and had been for some time, which was a fabrication. On top of that the officer initially testified that he was situated in his vehicle immediately behind the limit line, but then later changed his testimony to indicate he was parked some 50 feet behind the limit line.

The judge paid no attention to that discrepancy.

I asked the judge to consider that the officer should have been able to stop me almost immediately, had he been in either of the two positions that he claimed, but that instead it took two blocks for the officer to apprehend me — the reason being because he was in motion and headed in the opposite direction and had to turn the vehicle around.

The judge, pained by my contention then somewhat sheepishly asked the officer to answer my charge and the officer demonstrated upon a chalkboard that he was where he said he was, because in this case the burden of proof is not on the prosecution, but on the defense.

The judge asked if I had anything final to add and all I could do was remind him what I’d said at the outset of my defense: that the officer was misrepresenting his position and he was not stationed at Larchmont and Clinton. Having passed me northbound on Larchmont less than a block south of Clinton, there was simply no physical way for the officer to arrive at the intersection, execute a left turn onto Clinton, then make a three-point turn-around, and fully park his patrol vehicle in the few seconds it took me to arrive and stop at the intersection.

But it was all just a waste of air blowing out of my lungs past my gums.

“I find the defendant guilty,” the judge said, burying his face in the paperwork, unwilling or unable to look me in the eye.

Yeah Judge, well I find you and the officer guilty, too.

UPDATED (01.12): The question has been raised: Did you in fact make a full and complete stop at the stop sign, and if not just STFU? Fair enough. While I can waste time qualifying my answer by saying that I made what I consider to be an entirely appropriate “stop,” one that involved my slowing from 15 mph to a crawl through the crosswalk, giving myself enough time to look left and right and clear the intersection before proceeding with my turn, the truth is according to the strict letter of the law: no, I did not make a full and complete stop as defined by the California Vehicle Code. Some will see that as the end of the story, and that’s fine. In fact, had the officer been in the position he insisted he was, I wouldn’t have wasted a day from work going to court to fight it. But I simply could not ignore that the officer so drastically misrepresented his location of observation to his benefit and my detriment. In fact I felt it was nothing less than my obligation to stand up in court and point it out. If nothing else, the officer knows what he did, and might think twice before so failing in his duty again.

It’s been purty quiet around these here blogparts this first few days of the new year/decade. Not a lot going on but chores ‘n stuff: de-cluttering of the yards, de-decorating of the house, re-vacuuming of the floors, recycling of the Christmas tree, laundry, revisiting of the Costco, reviewing of the Rose Parade, along with a couple replacings of electrical outlets from ancient two-prong to far more contemporary three-prongers. On the entertainment tip we extended our streak of not seeing “Avatar,” while instead allowing ourselves to beoh-so-visually and morally assaulted seeing “Bruno.”

Generally these first three days were filled with stuff so ultra-compelling I thought it best to refrain from subjecting you to such awesome fascinatingness.

Was I right? Or was I right?

But now it’s time to look forward to a couple happenings I’m planning to start planning, so if’n they interest you getchur pencils sharpened and calendars out:

Long ago in the final September of the naughty aughts, I conjured up the Five Presidents bike ride, but stopped short of doing it or attaching it to a specific date. Since then it’s happened only in my mind, but two things are getting it out of my head and into reality:  1) the upcoming Presidents Day weekend in Feburary, and 2) the chance discovery last week/year/decade on my way to work of two other semi-residentially, full-presidentially named streets in Culver City (Madison and Jackson) that can be incorporated into the route, thus necessitating the ride’s renaming to the “Seven Presidents” ride.

That’s friggin’ unpresidented!

But whoa: better make that “Eight Presidents” because I just found a Van Buren Place in the vicinity of Madison and Jackson. Somebody stop me!

We now pause for a moment of clarification because I can hear some of you saying “Yo Willy, what’s the big whup pedaling along seven or eight or however many streets whose names happen to be the same as past presidents?” To that I first say, don’t EVER call me Willy. Secondly I say there is no big whup. It’s just an excuse to ride bikes with other people along a pre-determined route, connected by a certain theme that coincides with a certain day related to that theme. Was there ulterior motive to the “10 Bridges” ride? No. Existential depth to my Frank Lloyd Wride? Nah. It’s mainly just a chance for people who like to get together and ride bikes to do so. So don’t hurt yerself looking for meaning or relevance where there is just a reason to have fun and perhaps a chance to do something trivial that’s never been done before in the history of civilization as we know it.

More details to come posted here, and crossposted at LA Metblogs, Midnight Ridazz, Twitter, et cetera (but not MyBook or FaceSpace), but for now the most important thing you need to know if you’re thinking of joining me is that it will happen the morning of Saturday, February 13.

Nextly, in the wholly appropriate month of March (tentatively scheduled for Saturday the 6th, but that could change), I’ll be doing the next in my occasional series of urban walks, this one involving Jefferson Boulevard between the Shrine Auditorium and the Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook Park.

Stay tuned for further, less sketchy details.

And in the meantime before getting my ass in gear and back into work mode, here’s my first photo of 2010, whose subject is brought to you by our potted tomato plant who worked hard these past few months nurturing this proud little fella until it dropped this weekend. Clearly the plant doesn’t know the concept of seasons or the meaning of the word quit. Ladies and gems I bring you:

Wintermater

Susan’s still working on her collection, but got her awesome pix up here, and I managed to cull some 185 snaps from the more than 400 I shot during our three days in Yosemite — such as this one, taken by a kind gentleman who offered to snap Susan and me backdropped by Half Dome beside a snowman in a meadow we didn’t build so much as stand back up and add a misshapen noggin after I’d discovered it tipped over and headless.

PS. My mom was stalked by a mountain lion, but I’ll save that strange tale for another post.

For the last two college football seasons I’ve endured LA Times sportwriter Chris Dufresne’s snide anti-Alabama bias. Throughout the 2008 season, even though the Crimson Tide amassed a 12-0 record, he veritably — and rightly — predicted an SEC Championship mauling at the hands of the Florida Gators. Bama went on to the Sugar Bowl to lose to Utah, a source of pain for me and a source of validation and hilarity for Dufresne.

It was the same again this year. Early on he predicted another perfect regular season — not out of respect for Alabama, but out of disrespect for their schedule. In his weekly rankings, the Tide crept up slowly never rising  higher than 4th, despite always being ranked 1,2, or 3 in various national polls. And in the end, he said,  Alabama would be Sugar Bowl-bound after meeting up with the Gators and going home the SEC Championship losers once again.

Well that vindicating end came yesterday and my Tide proved Dufresne dead wrong by swamping and drowning the Gators, 32-13.

And this morning in his report does Dufresne even come close to saying “Wow!” or admitting he didn’t see that coming?

Nah. He just wonders what all the noise is about.

So I grabbed a cuppa coffee and told him why:

You ask “What’s all the screaming about?”

Well if you heard any noise coming from the Silver Lake area Saturday afternoon it was me as a Bama fan exulting, not to mention turning out the lights on the last two years of your deathlessly dismissive snark.

Sure, you’ve been saying all along that the winner of the SEC was going to play in the national championship, but you were also saying all along that it would never be Alabama. That even if they kept winning, they’d eventually meet Florida and — last verse, same as the first — repeat last year’s defeat.

It would have sincerely surprised me this morning if I’d read any sort of apology — not to Alabama, oh hell no! But to your readers for leaving them so unprepared for what happened in Georgia last night.

But of course you didn’t. Instead, in the wake of such a definitive start-to-finish upset victory the best you could admit — and probably painfully — was that the Tide “soundly defeated” the Gators. Then to make yourself feel better you had to lamely cherrypick from Nick Saban’s post-game comments and giggle about its pro tone. Finally to justify the Longhorns’ tickets to Pasadena you had to go and weakly reference our 12-10 win over Tennessee as some sort of comparison to the victory Texas squeaked by with last night.

Yawn. Of course you did.

And of course you’ll be forced to move Alabama up in your rankings this week, but any higher than one spot to No. 3 (behind TCU and Texas no doubt) and I’ll be shocked!

-Will Campbell

UPDATED (9:45 a.m.): Dufresne digests my email and comes back with — surprise! — a characteristic self-servingly obtuse response:

I should apologize that my No. 4 team, Alabama, beat my No. 2 team?

Ok, then, Im [sic] sorry.

Chris Dufresne
chris.dufresne@latimes.com
@DufresneLATimes

Loser says what?

Let me introduce you to this adorable little chiropteran fella:

(You’ll wanna click it for the bigger picture)

Don’t fret. It’s sleeping, not dead. It may look like it’s flat on the ground, but its clinging vertically to a beam under an eave next to the Amargosa Opera House. Susan and I found two others nearby. Just hangin’. In perfect position for me to get my camera all up in its tiny little grill and snap some macros. Either it was a sound sleeper or I was pretty good in not disturbing it.

And I do mean tiny. Its body wasn’t more then two fingers wide and maybe as long as my index finger from tip to tail. A search on The Google for “bats of the southwest” eventually showed me that we’d gleefully encountered representatives of the species California myotis, sometimes called the California bat even though they can be found throughout western north America from southern Alaska down to Guatemala, and they are the most abundant bat in desert scrub habitats, which is what Death Valley Junction is.

And I do mean gleefully. Bats to me are one of the planets most amazing and fascinating animals, and the fact that for the first time in my life I was able to be this close to one was a dream come true.

Plus it was so damn cute I wanted to pull it off its perch and put it in my pocket. But I didn’t.

Later on, I’ll introduce you to the wild horses who came close to where we were camping to check out who us humans were encroaching on their watering hole.

UPDATE (12/01): Courtesy of Susan, here’s a look behind the scenes at how I got this post’s shot that puts things in proportion. The rest of her great photos are here on Flickr.

In the aftermath of Tuesday’s gull encounter and the amazing reaction it subsequently generated both here and at the post I made about it over at LA Metblogs, I just need to say how deeply moved I am by the outpouring of kind words and appreciation.

That things played out as they did — and so successfully — is something that’s still a bit shocking to me. As some of you may know I fancy myself a roving solo Random Animal Assistance League (oooo, catchy title!), and though a few of my critter encounters have been positive (be it at my house, near downtown or in the wilds of South Los Angeles), most of the animals I come across are sadly not receptive of me. Obviously that never stops me from reaching out, but never in my looniest dreams did I think it would include such a scenario. I’m glad I was there for the gull and able to visually document it as it all unfolded.

Each and every one of you who took the time to award me with your support and encouragement blew me away and made my day, so from the bottom of my heart: Thank You!

Somewhat in no particular order:

• Scavenge some long-coveted discarded wood with Susan (more on that later if successful, or not) - DONE
• Take Susan up to the Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook (since the scavengable wood is nearby) - DONE
• Have breakfast up there - DONE
• Buy new deadbolts and use them to replace the existing deadbolts in the side and back doors - DONE
• Buy a big enough pot and potting soil within which to transplant the backyard queen palm - DONE
• Uproot and transplant the palm - DONE
• Coax the backyard sunflowers to start blooming - DONE
• Haircut
• Take Ranger for a nice walk (then take Shadow for a short one)
• Give Shadow a good brusha-brusha (then give Ranger a pretend one)
• Mid-range recreational out-and-back bike ride (either down the LA River a ways or out Whittier Boulevard to the San Gabriel River)
• Relax with a cigar and some tasty beverage watching the sunset from the porch
• Usual housecleaning stuff
• Test our studfinder to see if it works and if not go buy a new one - DONE
• Maybe get started hanging the dressing room’s closet components. Maybe.

UPDATED (07.12)