A couple of weeks ago I posted an innocent little blurb about riding my bike in the snow to deliver some christmas presents to the post office. I included a picture of my beloved singlespeed “townie” bike that was used for the purpose. The thing is, the bike’s frame is whimsically called the “Il Pompino”. It’s made by a company in the U.K. called On-One, and it’s a great, bombproof bike frame, perfect for the task. Perhaps because the company is in the U.K. they don’t realize this, but the phrase “Il Pompino” means “blow job” in Italian. Eh, probably they do know.

I knew of this alternate meaning when I bought it, and I sometimes refer to my townie bike as the blowjob bike. It’s all fun and games until someone gets inundated with spam. See the thing is, ever since I posted that story I’ve been getting Italian porn spam, and Italian porn sites are even linking back to my story. I don’t know much Italian, but like Potter Stewart, I know porn when I see it, and I could see that some of the text of these spam emails was just dripping with hot, italian fellatio.

Yes, I clicked some of the links. Hot!

Anyway, here’s the thing: the only place that the word pompino shows up in the entire post is in the alt title of the image of my bike. The title of the image is “pompino-snow.jpg”. Now, I ask you: who among us has gotten a blow job while lying in the snow? Have we all forgotten the lessons of the infamous “Shrinkage Episode” from Seinfeld?

At any rate, regardless of where you get your freak on, I thought this was interesting, how a single word buried in a blog post could spark such an (admittedly automated) reaction from so many sites around the world. And I’m sure that after this post, my inbox is gonna be scorchin’ for the next few days…

Repeat after me: “Maxxis Locust CX tires are the greatest thing since coldcuts.”

After the third friggin’ 12+” snowstorm in as many weeks, it was time to get the last of our Christmas packages mailed off since we could not deliver them in person, but today, Brenda had the car. So, with my packages loaded in my messenger bag and my tires pumped to 75psi, I slowly rolled out on the Skunk Creek Path, slipping a bit but generally biting into the slushy icy muck. By the time I was at Scott Carpenter Park, I was passing mountain bikers and plowing through the worst of it, recalling the salient message of my very first bicycle lesson from thirty-three years ago: the faster you go, the easier it is to stay upright.

I have now mentally mapped out every single turn (especially the off-camber ones) on the Boulder Creek Path, and have a new desire for disc brakes on my everyday bike, but overall today’s ride was one of the most enjoyable rides I’ve ever taken.

P.S.
I got more coldcuts. Pending a favorable second tasting, I will post a review.

Hey. Sorry. Been a while. I am in the process of moving to a new host, probably to be completed this weekend. Look for updates soon. Cold as something very, very cold around these parts these days. Meanwhile, ponder this, brought to you by the good crazies of Boulder:

No spandex bike race

You bundle up; it’s cold outside. The scarf keeps the drafts out of that ill-fitting collar; the gloves come ever-so-close to covering your wrist, but when you stretch out to reach the bars an annoying half-inch gap forms and exposes bare skin to the cold, but you’re used to it.

You throw a leg over the bike, and with your left glove on, you use your right hand to fire up the taillight. Flasher mode works best.

Pedal.

Rolling away from the parking lot lights, you join the bike path; the moon is almost full, and it casts a base glow on the path before you, but even the leafless trees block enough of it to warrant the headlamp now. You switch on the light and the path ahead reveals itself to you. It’s as if your bike has a jousting sword, poking ahead as you ride. Your world funnels down to the patch of bike path currently bathed in the warm glow of your light.

Joining the Boulder Creek Path, you pick up a tailwind; the wind noise disappears, and all you hear is the thrum of your knobby tires on the pavement. Picking up speed, you’re all alone in the dark. You turn on the other headlamp, peering deeper into the darkness.

Another bike approaches from the other direction, flicking its light at you. Moments later, he is gone, a silent passing in the night. You wonder who it was, what he was riding.

The path curves and undulates; at times you almost follow some light-colored grass right off the path. This is fun.

You enter a stretch of path that is illuminated by nearby streetlights. Your world opens up, your peripheral vision has something to do once again, and then just as quickly, you leave this zone of light; darkness slowly flows back around you leaving only the little puddle of light from your headlamps.

Over the bridge at Scott Carpenter Park, your wheels rattle the wood boards that make up the roadway, making noise in the night.

At the Confluence, you peel off to the right onto Skunk Creek Path, ducking to clear the low branches of that tree at the apex that you know are there but can’t see. You hear them go by. Now you’re on familiar ground, and go even faster. You look at the mountains, bathed in moonlight, and smile.

Rolling through your neighborhood, you switch off your headlamps and pedal through the blackness, savoring every pedal revolution of those last few hundred yards.

Sometimes you look out and it looks like a postcard… I’m motivated by the mountains. For some people it’s the ocean, for me, it’s the mountains. – Scott Moninger

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, I haven’t hiked a step since our Long’s Peak ascent three weeks ago, but rest assured I’m still here and loving every second of Colorado living. Been on a few bike rides, and every time I go I’m awed by the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains’ Front Range. What really hit home for me though, what really smacked me in the face and told me that I’m lucky to be here, was the arrival of the new Colorado Cyclist catalog on Friday. This is a catalog that I used to get regularly back east in my Hoboken apartment, my Glassboro dorm, and my Blackwood home. And when I’d look at the pictures of the models wearing the cycling clothing they’d invariably have these unbelievably beautiful mountain backdrops behind them. I used to wonder who these people were, and what they did to deserve to live and ride amidst such beauty.

And now I live here, and ride the same roads, and stare at the same mountains. I still can’t believe my luck.

The pictures in the Colorado Cyclist catalog took on a whole new dimension for me this time around, because now they were actually familiar. After twenty years of staring at those pictures and wondering who those people were, on Friday I realized that now I am one of those lucky people. And the article in the latest VeloNews—the one that contained the Scott Moninger quotation quoted at the beginning of this post—was fun to read, because it essentially pegged Colorado as the great cycling state that it is. I felt a sense of pride knowing I was a resident. After just 15 short months, I feel a deep attachment to this state, its scenery and its people. I think that says a hell of a lot.

Cyclocross, that quirky combination of cycling, cross-country and steeplechase, was always a curious mystery to me back east. In two weeks, the inaugural event in the annual Boulder Cyclocross Series will take place, right across the street from our house. I have access to miles of bike paths right outside my garage door. My neighbor across the street is the head mechanic for the Trek Mountain Bike Racing Team. Can you believe this shit?

I’m surrounded by mountains and cycling culture and loving every minute of it.

Floyd Landis won the Tour de France, and Brenda & I hiked our first “12er” in what was a beautiful day. So much to process, I think I need to get out of the house. More later, for sure.

A year ago, I would have been affected by this: “Power Failure Snarls Commuter Traffic”

A year ago, I would have been one of those poor bastards shuffling along for a MILE to get to some other mode of transportation, cursing the whole way. A year ago, today’s latest regular dismal failure of the northeast corridor railway system would have likely hatched a profanity-laden tirade about how shitty my day was, followed by several gin and tonics.

But today, I rolled out of my house and took pictures of the goats (yeah, that’s right, goats) trimming the field across the street from my house, and arrived at the office 5-10 minutes later after dodging prarie dogs on the bike path and watching the occasional hawk.

So instead of complaints, you now get gloating. Sorry about that.