Do you think that the migrating geese that landed in the Catskill Game Farm saw the rhinos and the giraffes and got freaked out?

hands off! my new iphone from Mad Kaw on Vimeo.

Brian: You know that doesn’t really do anything when you shout like that.

Me: I know, it’s mostly for myself.

Brian: Fair enough…

I’ve had the bike working for about three weeks now and aside from the weekly trips to the bike shop to buy parts that I should have replaced when I first put it together (axle, ball bearings, etc.) it’s been working like a charm. Now I just have to find some time to learn how to ride it properly…

Midnight rides are generally fun. Generally. Which is what I thought when I set out twenty minutes ago. Despite it being actually midnight, and thus dark, the full moon was directly over my head, bathing the entire road in a nice blue light. As I set out I felt refreshed, I felt exhilirated. Here I was, gliding down a dirt road with nothing but the moon to guide me. I’d spent almost the entire day (rain and shine) in the garage tearing parts off, afixing others, and generally being crabby and pissed. But now it was all paying off. I’d cleared the last obstacle before “rideable” and I wasn’t going to wait for Sunday morning…

My bike was eerily silent as I pedaled up gentle grades and then down into the fog banks collecting in the lowlands. Having a simple one-gear system makes for a very quiet ride, and I felt like a ghost gliding up and down those hills. Like something out of a Washington Irving story… Aside from the steel and rubber thing I was pedaling on, I really could have been drifting through the moors of colonial times. It felt so completely surreal.

Coming down the final hill, approaching the main road, I noticed a slight disturbance in the harmony that was man and machine. My left crank was pulling a little strangely. Odd, I though, as I approached the train tracks that represented the boundry between my own fantastical world and the modern one of macadam and reflective paint. My crank was pulling very strangly now, like the metal axle had suddenly warped. I slowed, I’d better check this out.

As I was pulling my left foot out of the foot strap I suddenly felt my entire foot go free, but not the kind of free I was used to. I looked down. Crap.

The entire left crank was hanging from my foot and swinging freely in the night air. And suddenly I saw my midnight ride for what it was: On a dirt road that sees one car an hour after midnight, if that. Away from my friends who were all going to sleep when I quietly sauntered out of the house, not even telling them I was leaving the house. On a bike that I’d just put together two hours earlier, that obviously had not gotten any type of inspection or anything before I rolled up my pant legs and took off into the darkness.

I was at least a mile from the house when I finally wrangled the bike to a stop and turned it around. Sadly, the hills didn’t look quite as enticing as I trudged back toward the garage.

Photos by Astrid.

About half way through the night is when things got interesting. The woman next to us stood up and began unpacking her camera. I sidled over to her, “Who we rootin’ for?” I said.

“Uh, #96,” she said, “that’s my husband.”

“Will do.” Greg said with a grin.

“He needs it,” she said under her breath. Greg and I glanced at each other.

Down on the track #96 was about halfway back in the pack as it slowly rounded the back stretch on its way for the rolling start. By the time the cars hit the starting line they were all running full-bore, tightly packed, two abreast. Suddenly #96 started to fish-tail, he was being bumped from behind by #250! #250 rammed one final time and sent #96 almost sideways. Tires chewing up the hard-packed clay, the engine roared, flames shot from the exhaust, and #96 roared ahead, straightening out and narrowly averting a first lap disaster.

“Aww crap,” said the woman next to me, “#250 really pissed him off.”

By the end of the second lap #250 had easily passed #96. (A little too easily.) The entered the first turn of lap three. #250 slid into the high banked turn with flawless efficiency, perfectly balancing the throttle with the clutch, the back end swinging out just enough to keep the wheels putting power to the ground. Next to me I heard a yelp of alarm and shifted my focus just fast enough to watch #96 come screaming into the turn. The car swerved and was suddenly sideways, sliding up the bank of the turn, and missed the rear-end of #250 by mere inches. I heard another yelp as the car almost slid into the wall. At the last second flames again erupted from the exhaust and the car lept forward, surging away from the wall and back down the banked turn.

“He’s not even tryin’ to race anymore,” I heard the women next to me say. I don’t know if she was talking to me specifically, or to anyone who would listen.

At the other end of the track the situation persisted. Again #250 entered the turn and again #96 sailed by, brushed the wall, and was off in hot pursuit down the front stretch.

I turned to the woman. She’d given the camera to her son and was crumpled against the bleachers, a lit Newport hanging from her mouth.
Back to the race: VROOOOM, slide, gasp, wall, throttle. This was getting amusing.

“Mom, what’s dad doing?” said the son holding the video camera, “I don’t think he’s trying to win anymore.”

“You’re right, honey,” said the mother, her head buried in her hands, “Daddy’s just contentrating on something else now, that’s all.”