The Spare Change Fairy Waves Her Wand

Rocking fore and aft, that track stand is impressive there chief, but it’s not going to pay the bills.  You think of stop lights as a momentum sapping inconvenience, a speed bump in your average speed, but I treat stoplights like a lottery.  Too many times you spend your time at stoplights trying to look P.R.O. sitting on the top tube with your forearms on the tops of your bars as you stare off across the intersection like The Lion King on a cliff.  Sadly no one notices that you’re flexing your left quad in an attempt to impress the people in the car on your left.  Like a drag racer watching the sequence of lights on the starting tree, you keep an eye on the cross traffic light waiting for the yellow to jump on your clip-in.  You didn’t even notice the 71 cents scattered on the ground below you.

71 cents…that’s a pack of bonk saving Lance brand peanut butter crackers my friend.

“It’s six years of interest on our checking account!”  My wife exclaimed as she scooped up the scuffed quarters, nickels and penny.  Sadly, it’s true.  Our checking account makes a penny or two a month in interest.  We have a little bank in our laundry room for the spare change we find on rides.  It’s a Jelly Belly candy bank made to look like an old soda-pop machine.  About the size of small brick, it’s half full of roadside change and weighs nearly 2 pounds.  Clink.  Clink.  Clinkity clink.  I haven’t opened it up all summer, but no doubt we’ve found close to four or five bucks in change since April/ May.  We’re pretty close to a free inner tube at this point.

The other day, my buddy Scott found a crisp $1 dollar bill on his ride.  Paper sticks to summer’s hot pavement.  There are no toll roads in Cincinnati, but we find more money at non-descript intersections: Delta and Columbia Parkway, Erie and Murray.  Take a look around at the light wherever you ride.  Maybe drivers lean out the window to pay the vendor at Mt. Lookout Square for a copy of the Sunday morning Enquirer fat and loaded with coupons.  Maybe somebody really tipped the valet at the Precinct steakhouse with change.  Maybe a quarter was fumbled for a McDonalds drive thru Quarter Pounder.  The change bounced off the door panel and lodged itself in the crevice under the door.  Now and then you accidently close your door on a long jacket or dress.  Occasionally, you don’t see the Door Ajar light on your dash till you get to a long stop light.  You open the door, the change falls out, and the spare change fairy waves her wand at an observant cyclist.  Clink.

Reasons I’m Not a Doc: Sponge Left in Body

If I were a doctor, I’d be world renowned as Dr. Oops.  Since I probably wouldn’t pass the exam, I’d be the guy injecting I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter into the lips of unsuspecting club-hopping duck-billers in a seedy office in a downtown Miami alley.  You can get away with anything in Florida.  Judging from what happened while installing a tire on Saturday, I’m convinced.  As a surgeon I’d break the tip of the scalpel off on the incision and mistakenly leave the piece in your brain right next to a sponge.  Oopsie.  Sorry ‘bout that.

I bought a new road tire on Saturday, a replacement Vittoria Open Corso EVO CX.  Three woots for this tire.  While pricey, costing five bucks more than the tried and true Continental GP 4000, I think the Vittoria’s have better cornering and descending grip and comparatively feel more supple on the road.  The trade off is they don’t last quite as long, but I still got well over a year of riding and racing out of it.  The red logo also matches my bike.  I probably could’ve got a few more weeks from them had I rotated the tires a 2^nd time.  The rear was the first to thin out and expose the threads under the tread in a small area.  After a slight LMFAO wiggle-wiggle-wiggle in the rain slicked early laps of the Harrison’s Tomb OSRS race last Saturday saved by what I described to another racer as steering with my nutsack, I headed up to the shop to replace Mr. Baldy.

The Vittoria Open Corso CX is one of those tight clinchers.  While its good to know the tire’s going to stay on the rim if you flat, its takes some serious man-mitts to coax it on and off the rim.  Not a very “quick change” friendly tire on a group ride.  Even slower since I don’t have man mitts.  After rotating the front tire to the rear, I got most of the bead of the new tire on my front rim with my thumbs, save 8 inches.  So I pried the remainder with a tire lever.  Tink!

The tire lever broke.  I swear I heard the piece fly and hit my spoke.  I was at BioWheels bike shop where they gratefully give team members who supposedly know what they are doing stand privileges.  After Saturday, I may be relegated to the stand outside of customer view.  Thinking the piece flew a few feet, I jokingly asked Bob working next to me, “Did I get you with that?”  “Nope,” he said with a chuckle as he handed me a second lever to finish the job.  With two torques of the new lever, I hit my tire with air and I was on my way.

Tire Lever Shrapnel 

It was in the 70's and sunny, so I took the long way home, probably 10 miles.  Approaching the stoplight 2 blocks from my house, the new front tire went squishy.  “Eh…new tire, old tube.  That always happens,” I thought.  It went down slow as I coasted to the light.  I walked the last block and put the bike in the Man Cave stand at home. 

My suspicions were confirmed removing the tire.  Behold!  The broken tire lever nugget stayed in the tire.  File that under “do it right the first time.”

#Vegan: The Cheesepocalypse is Neigh!

Sign off I-94 North of Illinois 

There is no cheese in our house, and I’m originally from Wisconsin.  I know.  I’m probably going to hell for that.  The only thing saving me from the eternal deep fryer is a box of Cheese-Its in the cupboard, which is certainly not a whole food and may or may not contain actual dairy products.  I’d have to squint too hard and they’re too damn tasty for me to bother to check the label.  Two weeks ago we began the switch to a plant based whole foods diet.  


We still have a few meat, dairy and processed food items in the kitchen.  However, when the Cheese-Its are gone, the needle on my cheese-o-meter will be at zero and the seven signs of the cheesepocalypse will begin, starting with my name being put on some sort of black list at the Wisconsin border.  Personally I think it’s kind of fun that the only sausage in our house is in a package with a label ending in “furky.”  Furky is funny, as is Tofu.  Still, I attest.  I’m not a Vegan.  I'm not doing this to save the animals, to better the environment, to cleanse or challenge myself.  While those are admirable noble pursuits, when it comes to food I'm a selfish idiot.  This is for me.  

My Lunch: May Be Vegan  

So don’t refer to me as Vegan.  You got that punk?!  However I do like the sound of vegetarian.  It's sort of smart sounding like librarian.  This may come off a bit ethereal, but I can’t live within the walls at 123 Vegan Street.  It really struck me when I washed the egg container from the fridge and stored it away in the pantry for good.  Even with no more eggs in the house, I have no goal to be Vegan, vegan...whatever.  The label sort of annoys me.  


To me, this change in diet is not a final destination.  I’m not quitting meat, dairy and processed food.  I like to see things more positive.  I’m simply trying to eat a plant based and non-processed food diet.  You don't quit smoking.  You put more fresh air in your lungs.  To me, even as a bike crazed dufus, giving up entire groups of foods is like a New Year’s resolution to exercise everyday, a maddening premise destined to disappoint, a recipe to over promise and under deliver.  The way I see it, I equate this change in diet more to yoga.  You’ll never be perfect.  The benefit lies simply in the practice.  While there may come a day when I wish there would be a cheese-patch to deliver a steady stream of melty-gooey goodness into my veins, eating this way is simply a day to day, meal to meal exercise in being healthy. 

Furky...that's funny!

Seriously, I’m not Vegan or vegan, and I'll struggle with the capitalization issue and the fact that the word vegan has the same amount of letters as pagan for the rest of this article.  Regardless, to me, being vegan implies judgment.  I can’t live with that over my head everyday.  For goodness sake I grew up Catholic.  I may not be able to handle guilt, but I can eat a plant based whole food diet and reduce my risk of stroke, heart disease and cancer.  Easy peasy.  It’s not about whether I’ll eat turkey on Thanksgiving, have a meat drawer full of fruits and vegetables, have a homemade Christmas cookie with real butter or whether or not I'll be able to finish that never-ending big 'ol tub-o-mayo in my fridge by 2019.  If the question is can I be Vegan, the answer is: maybe.  If the question is can I give myself a better shot at living a long healthy life, the answer is: certainly.  There are more than 20 stages in the Tour De France.  You don’t need to win them all to take home the yellow jersey.  

Not Phat on Fat Tire Ale

Any minute now I expect Joe Breeze and Tom Ritchey to barge into my living room and beat me senseless followed by every other beer drinking mountain biker that reads this blog.  Have I lost my mind?  My taste buds?  Do I need to see a doctor?  Should I remove the bottle opener from my workstand?  I feel guilty, like I've sinned against bike-manity.  I’m a mountain biker and I can say without a doubt that I do not like Fat Tire Ale anymore. 

I know!

Oh I used to.  Like every other knobby tire knucklehead, I was seduced by the spritely red cruiser on the label.  From the first sip off the bottle, this beer would forever be the perfect end to a perfect ride.  It used to be synonymous with our trips to Colorado; partly because that’s the only place we could buy it.  Aside from getting winded walking up the steps to the post office on the first day of vacationing, I used to day dream about Breckenridge.  Not only because I love mountain biking on the Peaks Trail, but because I’d be able to enjoy a Fat Tire Ale from New Belgian Brewing Company on the deck overlooking the 10 Mile Range afterward.  

Then, like an amber hued light from the display case, I saw the red cruiser label at the store right here in Cincinnati.  Late on a warm Friday afternoon, after hastily putting away groceries, we cracked ‘em open and retreated to the rooftop deck.  Happy Friday!  Cheers!  We knocked back the first swig.  Hmm, my eyebrow rose.  Like it just talked back to her, my wife gave her bottle a questioning look.  Sheepishly, I asked, “Does this not taste the same as I remember?”  “I was just gonna ask that,” she replied. 

We got into a whole conversation about taste buds, how cells die and regenerate.  We looked up taste bud stuff online.  Clearly the beer couldn’t have changed.  It’s a beer recipe.  That’s more protected than nuclear secrets or KFC’s 13 herbs and spices.  Dear God!  We’re getting older and losing our Fat Tire taste buds.  I knew about gray hairs and wrinkles, but this…losing the taste for my favorite beer…this is awful. 

But, wait!  There was a Sierra Nevada, a Guinness and a lone Magic Hat still in the fridge.  For 2^nd’s, she took the Sierra.  I took the Magic Hat.  Crack.  Mmmm.  Still just as tasty as ever.  What’s up with the Fat Tire?  Clearly if it’s not me, it’s you.  So we looked it up online. 

I found an answer on Beerutopia.com in an article called, “Does Fat Tire Taste Funny To You?”  Yes.  Yes it does taste funny Mr. Beerutopia.  Not bad.  Not the same either.  He talked about hops, quoted an expert, and yada yada yada, concluded (allegedly...however you wanna put it) that something having to do with creating more beer to meet demand may have forced Fat Tire to reduce it’s brewing time and consequently the flavor may not be quite the same. 

Whatever it is, my mountain bike universe is off axis.  It needs to go back.  I’ll play extra.  Do whatcha need to do Fat Tire.  Heck.  Fat Tire used to cost me a $600 plane ticket and a $125/night condo on top of the 6 pack price. If that's what it takes, I'm completely prepared to go back to the way I used to enjoy it…with an annual mountain bike vacation to the Rockies.