On Wednesday, I towed six 102cm x 204cm (4' x 8') sheets of 19mm (3/4") tongue-and-groove plywood flooring to my house. The carpenter helping me with my remodeling project estimated a weight of 160kg (about 350 lbs). The salesman at the lumber yard thought it was closer to 180 kg (about 400 lbs). High-speed cornering and rad manuevers were kept to a minimum.



Yesterday, I rode home from the office (about 25 km) with 4.9 meters (19.2 ft) of bike, trailer, and cargo (copper pipe, plumbing fittings, framebuilding supplies, CroMo tubing, and aluminum flat stock) averaging 25 kph with the help of a cooperative tailwind.

Haulin' can be fun.

Little Tyler was a strange boy. He liked to be alone, perhaps because his odd behavior earned him no friends. He ate dirt on a dare once when he was 4, and it was all downhill from there. He ate glue and paste and newspaper and ball bearings and anything else that would make people respect him, sort of, even if they didn't like him.
One year his parents noticed that Tyler began acting differently after the season opener. He seemed more uptight, shorter tempered. He wasn't hungry either. At first his mom chalked it up to something he ate. Which was true.
By the end of the week Tyler still was not eating and was increasingly irritable, so his mom took him to the doctor. He gave Tyler a strong laxative and told the family to wait.
When the time came, Tyler, who had remained silent on the subject of what exactly might have led to this, knew the seriousness of what was about to occur. Instead of running to the bathroom, he wisely ran outside, to the back yard, and went to work. After 15 minutes Tyler's mom phoned the doctor, who assured her everything would be fine. After 25 minutes she called a priest.
By evening, the task complete, Tyler lay exhausted but smiling, and fell asleep near his prize. It was all newspaper reporters and college scholarships after that.

*************************************************************************************

In actual news, the Cyclera fat tire ralleye and Critical Dirt (Ride Them Humps) is happening in or around Germany this June, thunk up and put on by the good dudes over at RetroVelo, who know having fun means rolling up your sleeves and doing it. Dig the pig. It's all about the fat.




*************************************************************************************

And finally today, Jean Claude, chief correspondent at our French beaureau (which happens to be Surly's distributor there, Alternative Bicycles), wrote a month ago to let us know this:

Just a little message to inform you that the Surly Pugsley has rode the Antarctica white ice.
Effectively, Alternative Bicycles have established a partnership with a French artist who also likes scientists things.
He rode his Pugsley independently across the Antarctica last month, to make a movie and to catch many ice samples for the Paul Emile Victor foundation.
A Bolex mechanical camera is mounted on the Pugsley fork and powered by the front wheel.
This run was called Sunfest, a real adventure without helicopter or journalists on snow scooters. You can see the bike on few pictures attached and see more here.

I play this little game while riding to and from work where I memorize the license plate of a passing car. When the next car drives by I memorize that one, and so on and so on. If there is an altercation, I've trained myself to look at the license plates first. So rather than use my middle finger to tell somebody how I feel, I can find out where they live based on that license plate and send them a letter of gratitude.

Flashback 10 weeks to Valentines Day in February. I'm riding within the law and hugging the curb as much as I safely can, doing about 20mph down the street, when a car lays on their horn for a good 10 seconds. They pass me, I memorize the license plate, approach them at the red light one block down, and stare into her window. No words said, no middle finger needed, I had her plates.

I "obtain" her name and home address (don't ask how) and write her the following letter:

"Dear Nancy,
Thanks for the extended horn honk this morning. It reminded me that today is Valentines Day and my wife just loves red tulips, the same red as your Cadillac. So thanks for the horn honk. Happy Valentines Day.
- Cyclist on 66th St."

I also enclose a fake traffic ticket and a copy of the Minnesota Department of Transportation rules of the road. No threats, other than she knows I know where she lives.

Fast forward to last Wednesday. I'm riding to work as usual, signaling my turns, flowing with traffic and abiding by the law when a car honks. I see the familiar license plate and verify the same red Cadillac with an older blonde woman driving. I wish you all could've seen her face when she pulled along side me at the red light and I said "Hi Nancy". All she could do was grip her steering wheel, look straight ahead, and figure out how she was going to get the poop off her panty hose once she got to work.

Score one for the cyclist.