On the Velocipede (or, with apologies, Zen and the Art of Bicycle Maintenance)

So I bought a used bike on Craigslist. My last bike was stolen when I was in 11th grade and I've been wanting a new one more and more in recent years. I could use the exercise, and I could use the activity to help with the doldrums of an isolated summer at home trying to make progress on my Master's thesis (more on that another time, maybe).

When I want to buy something, I research it to death. On Craigslist, my options are more limited, but I ended up buying a really good used hybrid bike I wouldn't otherwise be able to afford new. Of course, I also had to research to death a helmet, multi-tool set, mirror, bell, kickstand, lock, cyclometer, etc.

There's a hole-in-the-wall bike shop down the street from me where I went to pick up some parts. My experience corroborated the refutation of the fallacy of of of of of... HELP! I'M MIXING UP ACADEMIA AND MY BLOG!

Well, what I was trying to say was that some people believe that abundant options are an indicator of happiness, or freedom, or fresh breath or something. We talk about "Freedom of Choice" and about not being constrained by limited options. In America, one can choose to do or be anything they want! In actuality, people are easily overwhelmend by an abundance of choice, it causes anxiety, panic, and uncertainty (a source of anxiety).

So I realized that though Amazon might make available 218 types of bike lubricant, I can be much happier and at ease deciding between the two brands in my local bike shop (LBS). What's more, I can be out on my way that much sooner.

Using the awesome videos at bicycletutor.com (including one on "How to Choose the Right Lubricants" - I guess that guy would be the Lube Guru, helping anxious, confused, unhappy people make the right choice), I quickly learned my way around the morphology (uh-oh, it's happening again!) and maintenance of my bike. I got my hands dirty and felt like a real bike mechanic. So, I was ready to ride. Today, after the thunderstorms cleared up, I climbed in the saddle and took off to the Hudson River Greenway. Here's the round-trip route I took:

Now, early on I came to realize what starting off a ride in Washington Heights means- you better be sure your brakes work for the initial steep downhills, and that your knees and thighs don't give out on the return's uphills. Here's an elevation map of my trip:

I'm proud of myself, but also realized I have a lot yet to re-learn about biking.
Any suggestions for saddle-soreness? I'm hurtin!

Playing with fire

מועדים לשמחה
Last week, I went to burn our chametz behind a local shul where, as every year, they have set up a couple garbage can bonfires. (When I used to work near the UN, I just threw my chametz into the East River.) I hung around after tossing my 10 rye bread cubes into the inferno because it wasn't much of a conflagration and needed some help. The fires were so confined and so many people's chametz just choked the flames.

I understand people throwing in their dried out lulavim as kindling, but last year's afikomen? A few people tossed in the remains of their Chanukah paraphernalia, wick holders and wax candles. Most infuriating was the person who threw in moist, raw dough. All that does is put out the fire, it'll never burn. Most perplexing, though, was the pair of BVDs. Huh?

So I stayed around to try to keep the flames alive and keep people safe (leave the plastic bags out of the flames, please!). Maybe we Jews are just pyromaniacs at heart. I conclude with a cautionary video of a biur chametz from two years ago. Thank God, no one was hurt, but those in attendance learned that water sometimes spreads fuel rather than extinguishing the flames. Be careful out there.

Prophecy

I was driving along this morning to clinic for practicum, like any other Wednesday morning, amidst throngs of other commuters in the urban haze of summer. I certainly hadn't been preparing myself for the moment, but out of nowhere, a vision appeared before me. I was surprised and scared, but also rapturous.

I never really expected to merit prophetic endowments, let alone to perceive the image with such clarity. I reproduce it here:



When the vision presented itself, the world went on around me. Traffic continued to ebb, and I continued to drive while experiencing this epiphany, lest someone crash into me.

Though the image was clear and persisted for the duration of my journey (until I parked and turned off the car), I realize that gleaning its interpretation for myself or mankind is the challenge. What do I make of it? How am I to understand the word "CHECK?" Should I skip dessert and get the bill? Is it time to reorder my Donald Duck checks? Am I about to be slammed up against the glass? The numerical value of CHECK is 30 or 3 (3+8+5+3+11 = 30 = 3+0 = 3), but what does that mean?!

And what of the glyph? Maybe it's a four-winged seraph trying to convey a divine message. Is it a map or schematic? Of what? Which way is north? Maybe it's a studio with walk-in closet and two balconies.

My intuition, my gut sense, takes this as an ominous portent of things to come. I'm still not sure, but it fills me with foreboding. I can do naught but sit and wait for another sign to appear and guide me. Maybe it's on YouTube.

Update (or, The Oracle)- So AutoZone will check your car's diagnostic codes for free with a scanner that plugs into a port in your car (in my car the port is on the steering column- who knew?). What was the problem with mine? Code P0442- a small fuel vapor leak in the Evaporative Emission Control System. Most common cause? Loose gas cap. Indeed, care of the gas station attendant in NJ (where competent self-service is illegal), my gas cap was not fastened tightly.

A satisfying solution to a perplexing mystery.

City Gripe #956

I suppose this one really doesn't have to do with living in the city, although alternate-side parking rules add to the anxiety. So it snowed over the weekend. Well first it rained, then it hailed, then it snowed, hail again, then back to rain. The long and short of it is that my car was blocked in by a foot of what used to be snow on Shabbos but later froze into one massive ice shelf.

It took me two hours using the shovel and ice plunger/breaker/thingamajig I borrowed from my super to get to a point I could pull the car out. Along the way, I discovered that it wasn't ice all the way down. If I cleared out the hard packed snow underneath, I could break the ice with less difficulty into chunks. I carried/threw/shoveled these chunks (the larger ones weighing 30-40 lbs) onto the sidewalk. It was long, arduous work, and I almost gave up a few times, but I stuck with it. As the sun began to fill our little valley of a street, it made the ice a littler easier to break.

As I was nearing the back of the car (after discovering and partially dismantling the solid ice shelf that also ran underneath my car, blocking the rear tires' path), a man came up to me. He said very politely and articulately that he wasn't going to take my time and beg, but would like to do some honest work for a few bucks, not even 5 or 10. So I let him finish the job and instruct me to take a breather. He made sure I could pull into the street and I gave him $8. I asked him where he lives, but he said he doesn't have a home. I told him to come say hello if he sees me around.

City Living Gripe #483

As my friend Arona already noted, we city folk don't always have it easy. Urban dwelling brings with it some surreal protocols and implications we must confront. Here's one that bothers me.

We are lucky enough to have a laundry room in our building (the fact that we don't have to schlep to the laundromat makes this a distinctly NY type of luck) that has five washing machines. Our building has 60 apartments. You do the math.

We're vigilant enough to catch a machine when its wash is done. The washes' owners, however, are not always so vigilant. What this means is that, as per building's consenual, tacit etiquette, we take the other person's clean laundry out of the machine and put it into an empty dryer (if there are no empty dryers, the wash goes on a table in the room). Now I know that these are freshly cleaned clothes we're talking about, but still- I don't want to be handling someone else unmentionables! There must be some evolutionary advantage to being repulsed by others' clothes (a.k.a. xenovestiphobia), but what could it possibly be if we're even disgusted by clean clothing? I'm open to hearing all forms of conjecture, speculation, and MAS on the topic.

We also had to deal with an urban laundry excursion when we were in San Francisco for vacation. Being soon after the 9 Days, we packed dirty laundry to wash at the beginning of our trip. We asked at our hotel and they directed us to the Brain Wash Cafe & Laundromat. We realized we weren't in the tourist part of town anymore when every storefront was a body shop- alternating car's and women's bodies (if ya know what I mean ;). I've never seen such a trendy laundromat; I guess that's the point. Our load was way under the minimum weight, but the heavy-lidded hipster behind the counter, apathetic and detesting of her bosses anyway, didn't even to try and make us pay the higher fee to meet the minimum.