It’s a jungle out there

My knobby bicycle tires purr softly as they claw the carpet of freshly plowed snow on my way to work. I’m a pussycat with pedals in the midst of ferocious beasts that grumble ominously at my back when the narrowness of the road doesn’t allow them to pass at will. Given the opportunity to barge by, they growl loudly with their internal-combustion lungs and spew foul odors at me, clearly showing their disgust that they had to share the road with me for as much as a heartbeat and, undoubtedly, determined to intimidate me from ever impeding their progress again. That’s more than just flowery prose. It’s science. Recent research has shown that “ If a Toyota Prius just looks too friendly for your tastes, you’re not alone. People readily see faces and traits in cars, and a new study suggests that they prefer cars to appear dominant, masculine and angry.” In other words, people want to be behind the wheel of a vehicle that helps them feel like they have a chance at winning in the survival-of-the-fittest drama that plays out among herds of stampeding cars and trucks every day. People want to be in cars that say, “Watch out or I’m going to kill you and eat you.” Now that I understand that, of course, I’ll pretend to be impressed and act scared when an angry-looking car pulls up behind me. I mean really, f that’s what motorists need to feel good about themselves, I’m happy to indulge them. Poor, sweet babies.

Chilled grease

Not to be confused with grilled cheese, chilled grease is the topic of this blog entry. Feel free to anticipate a less-than-inspiring read here, but I’m presenting a semi-scientific inquiry in an attempt to explain why I find bicycle-pedaling more strenuous in cold weather than in warm weather. My hypothesis (harrumph) is that when grease, or some other lubricants used on mechanical parts, are subject to changes in temperature. I think they must stiffen up, even if ever-so-slightly, in cold conditions and become more fluid in summer-like conditions. (Gee, that’s like cheese, isn’t it?) Thus, when it stiffens up, say, in my crank, the pedaling becomes more difficult than when it’s warm. The higher the quality of the lubricant, I assume, the more resistant it would be to thickening and thinning due to the temperature. I believe that’s called “viscosity,” or whatever. The only other explanation I can come up with for the increased difficulty I find in pedaling when it’s cold outside is that my muscles, not my bike lubricants, stiffen in cold weather and loosen up when it’s warm. Maybe it’s both. In any event, as with any scientific hypothesis, I’m open for rebuttal ... which is a nice way of saying “Feel free to tell me I have no idea what the h*ll I’m talking about.” You’re even welcome to toss in a “... you, butthead,” or any other epithet of your choice. As far as grilled cheese, however, you’ll never convince me those sandwiches are not better with bacon and tomato. Now I'm getting hungry. Class dismissed.

Ghidorah revisited

You can’t believe everything you hear on the news, but a few weeks ago WBZ 1030-AM radio reported that CEOs from the “Big Three” automakers showed up in Washington, D.C., to make their plea for bailout bucks, and that they hadn’t gained much sympathy from lawmakers because they’d each used private jets to make the trip. After having been publically scolded for that extravagance by one Congressman, the trio made another trip to the nation’s capitol earlier this week. This time, it was reported, they each arrived after having made the 520-mile Detroit-to-D.C. trip in hybrid cars. I’m no Congressman, but I’m still not impressed. I’d have been mildly impressed if they’d carpooled, but here’s what my dream scenario would have been: I wish the three CEOs (who I’ve come to refer to collectively as “Ghidorah,” an allusion to the 1964 Japanese film about a three-headed monster by that name) had bicycled to Washington, D.C. And I wish their most recent restructuring plan, to justify a bailout with taxpayer dollars, included a complete retooling of their assembly lines to start making nothing but bicycles, while admitting that cars powered by internal-combustion engines are a blight on the planet. Then I’d like to see any leftover bailout bucks given to automobile owners in the form of coupons to redeem for two bicycles for every car they turn in. OK, maybe I’m getting a little carried away here ... but I still like the idea of the 520-mile bike ride. In the meantime, I wonder if Congress would bail out America’s Big Three bike-makers -- Trek, Cannondale and Specialized -- if they face bankruptcy someday.

Fear factor

This is not going to be the most upbeat and encouraging entry I’ve ever made here. Last weekend, I had what could be called a philosophical discussion about fear with my girlfriend. It started with a spot on what I consider the only must-see TV show on my list – “Sunday Morning.” It was about businesses that are selling the ultimate in thrill rides – launches into orbit around the Earth for about a quarter-million bucks. If I started saving every penny I make, lived in a refrigerator box under a Mass. Pike overpass and start eating nothing but insects and wild berries, it would still take me until 2017 before I could afford a ticket. I mentioned, to my sweetie, that even if I did have that kind of money, I still have the sight of the 1986 Challenger tragedy burned in my memory, which turned our topic of conversation to fear and risk. I mentioned how she takes a pretty big risk when she zips down Route 95 on her morning commute in her Mini every day. She countered that I’m not exactly enhancing my safety by cycluting, especially during the winter. Good point. Truth is, fear occasionally clutches my throat while I’m biking to work. For no apparent reason, the thought of getting rear-ended by a car sneaks into consciousness and I start playing a video clip of the accident in my head. At the moment of imagined impact, my real body tenses, I put a death grip on my handlebars, and I go breathless for a moment. Ultimately, it’s the risk I’ve chosen to take, counting the joy of biking as worth the possiblility of becoming mangled in an accident by an octogenarian who had a mini-stroke behind the wheel, a teenager who was text messaging, or someone “only had a few” and misjudged his sobriety. Even as I type this, planted safely in an office chair, I’m giving myself chills. Be safe, fellow cycluters, and be vigilant.

Getting tire-d

With hints of snow and ice sneaking into the Massachusetts weather forecasts, many cycluters are about to put their bikes in hibernation for the next four or five months. They’ll try to compute the amount of money they saved by not driving to work, ponder the amount of pollutants not released into the air and, of course, the consider the health benefits accrued. They should be congratulated for their dedication to warm-weather cycluting, and have the right to make their cold-weather commutes more comfortably.

Some other cycluters, blessed with more obsessive tendencies or less sanity, are bracing themselves for biking straight through the winter. Tires are likely to be a cycluter’s primary concern when Old Man Winter fixes his icy stare on New England. I don’t claim to have all the answers on what tires to use, but I can assure you that road bike tires are worthless.

I use a mountain bike with wide tires that have “aggressive” treads, but a new cycluter friend of mine pointed me to a Web site that explains how to put studs in your own tires (http://www.silentsports.net/stud_your_own_bike_tires.html). If that seems like too much work, you can always plunk down $150-200 for a pair of Nokian studded tires.

In any event, newly recruited winter warriors should beware the following: 1) Thick ribbons of snow left by plows that have come out of side streets. Usually I can just accelerate through them and keep my balance, but they're a challenge; 2) Deep slush, which is like pedaling in a mixture of sand and Crisco; 3) Thin coatings of snow concealing patches of ice; 4) Black ice.

And don’t forget to keep an ear and eye out for plows coming up behind you when the snow falls. When one's coming, I quickly dismount and launch my bike and myself into a snow bank until it passes. Reality check: Don't mess with plows. Most drivers just don't care.

Getting horn-y?

That headline isn’t entirely misleading, nor was it used as a tawdry way of grabbing your attention. (Well, maybe it was a little tawdry.) In any event, in Massachusetts, the law governing bicycle use includes a lines that require us cycluters to get horny, in a manner of speaking. It reads thusly:

Massachusetts General Law, Chapter 85, Section 11B.2
"The operator of a bicycle shall give an audible warning, whenever necessary, to insure safe operation of the bicycle; however, the use of a siren or whistle is prohibited."

When I was a kid, I used to have one of those clown horns mounted on my handlebars. Squeeze the rubber bulb and you got the sound of a pre-adolescent goose. I stopped using it, though, about the same time I stopped hanging plastic streamers from my handlebar grips and clothespinning playing cards to my rear wheel frame to make fake engine noises as they slapped against my spokes. (With all due respect to Harpo Marx, of course.)

Anyway, I’d love to hook up a siren or hang a whistle between my lips but those are, apparently, illegal in the Bay State. Without some kind of other device to make noise, we’re on our own to “get horny” by making whatever “audible warning” we need to “insure safe operation.”

I suppose that includes “HEY, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” which is my audible warning of choice to inattentive motorists, lately. According to the law, it appears there’s no restriction on language, so feel free to insert your favorite epithet (at your own risk) in the blank after “HEY, _____.”

OK, OK ... I suppose I shouldn't be using valuable blog space to encourage rudeness. We cycluters, after all, shouldn't stoop to the level of motorists who are emboldened to engage in roadrageous behavior by wrapping themselves in a ton or two of metallic armor.

But if a motorist yells something back at you after you've yelled the pleasantry of your choice to insure your safety, just explain that you’re required by law to make an audible warning and pedal merrily on your way.

Or you could get a clown horn.

Hey buddy, got a light?

In another month, Daylight Saving Time goes bye-bye, a departure I find more difficult to deal with every fall. Fortunately, our esteemed legislators in Congress in their infinite wisdom (yes, I’m being facetious) saw fit to delay autumn’s turning back of clocks until November 2 this year. I’ll take it. That gives me a little longer before I have to start keeping my headlight battery charging every night. In this part of the world, it won’t be long before it starts getting dark right after lunch. Or so it seems. OK, that’s an exaggeration, but there are weeks upon weeks during the winter when we’re all leaving work in the dark. Some cycluters I know use the end of DST to mark the end of their cycluting days for the year. I’m more stubborn than that, of course, so I’ll be firing up the headlight, putting new batteries in the taillight and making my way through the dark. So, I’m open to suggestion about lights. I’ve had very good luck with the Turbocat line of headlights. I have a battery pack that tucks right into my water bottle holder and connects to a halogen lamp strapped on my handlebars with Velcro. There’s no way an oncoming car won’t see me. I’ve thought about adding a light to my helmet, just for added visibility, but I’m not sure I want to go with the coal-miner look. Your turn. Have any suggestions or recommendations for seeing and being seen once we have to pedal hope in the pitch-black?