guest sermonettes

. . . . .

a guest preacher in the pulpit delivering today's sermonette.

the topic precisely aligns with the basic philosophy

of this place:

"ride because you must,

and because you love it."

thanks, brother jason.

First Love
By Jason McCartney
In the late '80s I bought my first Italian racing bike-

-white, $150, with a bent head tube and Campy Nuovo Record-

-in hopes of becoming part of the roadie scene in Iowa City.

The locals were a legendary crew of characters:

Parman, Bananas, Blockhead, Lillig, Dogbait, Mez, Klemm, Lloyd, Rat,

Mongo and Kirlin (the last two, respectively,

the largest and smallest men to ever saddle up,

they would occasionally switch bikes midride for a laugh),

and a bunch of others who all had cool jerseys and looked smooth as silk.

The first time I rode with them, we headed north into the hills,

on Sugar Bottom Road. I was lost, so I had to hang on-

-streaming out into the country, flying along, no stoplights, no traffic,

the smooth rotating of the group,

all easy and relaxed for the first half hour,

then game on, hammering to the last sprint sign, Iowa City limits.

I was hooked.

That ride still goes off, every Tuesday and Thursday at 5:30 p.m.,

from College Green Park.

As a pro for Discovery Channel, I've ridden all over the world,

with some of the best cyclists alive,

but that group ride--my first--is unforgettable.

. . . . .

[stolen from bicycling magazine. so sue me!]

. . . . .

and then there's this, from c.j., also in iowa city:

. . . . .

"dead spots in your commute"

You know what I mean.

It doesn't have to be your commute;

it can be your little urine trail to various group ride meeting points.

Every one of these treks--

-unless the meeting point happens to be in your driveway,

or, you only have to go to your mailbox to collect your unemployment benefits-

-has those spots where you know, as an experienced rider,

that you're likely to be either hit by a car,

or pulled into an altercation.

I have various little urine trails either to roads outside of town or to work.

In particular my ride to work I have about 4 branches I can take,

but, each one of them has drawbacks,

and each one of them has dead zones.

The route I primarily ride is straight down Benton street.

I've found that going through Heights on Melrose is no less friendly,

and because of the frequent improvements to the area,

lanes are blocked off, traffic is stupid and impatient,

and I'm probably more likely tobe crushed.

Benton has this odd little spot right at the crest of Benton Hill, Eastbound.

For the majority of the ride there is a bike lane.

Yes, a glass, muffler chunk, crap-filled, too narrow bike lane.

Except at that crest.

At the crest the road jogs in about 2',

pretty much the exact width of the bike lane.

Where does that leave me?

And by god I had better be in that god forsaken FPOS

[fucking piece of shit bike lane--the rev.]

for the entirety of my commute because

some stupid impatient-best part of him ran down his daddy's leg-idiot

is going to let me know about it.

I've had them roll down their windows and holler.

The more passive aggressive honk, and do the brush off.

Of course the burley trailer I pull has no real effect.

I'm not another human, I'm an obstacle.

I'm no longer a soft pink fleshy kin that, unfortunately,

shares a spot in the gene pool with these idiots.

I'm about as close as you can get to a squirrel or a dog

running out in front of them.

In fact, I know that they'd hit me while swerving

to miss a dog, cat, ground squirrel, mollusk.

Let us not lose sight of the fact that the *one* spot that every car

tries to hurry up and zip around me, is right at that spot

where the road narrows.

Right at the spot where they cannot see what is comingup the hill-

-I can-

and they cannot be bothered to realize that if they pass me,

they had better break the speed limit all the way down the hill

(there is an elementary school on it-20mph posted limit),

because I go 35-40. The burley tends to pickup lots of speed.

Where does that leave me?

That leaves me moving out of the worthless bikelane

that threatens to smother and crush me,

about 20yards or more before the hill top.

How fast am I going?

Why, the speed of traffic, the posted speed limit (20-25).

And what happens at least once a week?

So, I get the passive aggressive honk.

Then, the brush off *right at the road narrow bit*.

I wish I had the forethought to place earmuffs on the spawn before we left the house,

for the sheer stream ovitrolic filth that came from me

would have made your dead grandmother blush.

If I'd have had a tire iron,

I'd have beaten the window in and taken a swing at the guy's head.

He stares coolly ahead while I unload.

Obvious to how much of me is half on the curb,

half on the grass, half on the road.

I follow him all the way down the hill,

actually hoping he doesn't think to tap the breaks or slow to turn,

as I'd have bounced off his bumper.

He seems uncomfortable with my proximity. He rolls the red light.

He is obviously some sort of smelly, oily discharge

from a dying mammal caught in the flotsam of an oil tanker spill.

Why do I commute?

Mostly because I hate driving,

though, having a bit of smug (see South Park episode)

to carry around and lay on people is nice, too.

I'd rather just carry around a croquet mallet and hit them with it.

Had to vent.--CJ

. . . . .

thanks for writing, man.

stay cool, and good luck with the road rage croquet.