fast brad

I’m a writer! Really. Well, sort of…

A short story I wrote for Bicycling was just published in their Jan/Feb issue. Now, to be clear, I don’t really think I’m any kind of journalist, but it is a pretty good feeling to see your name on a byline for the first time.

For many of my friends it isn’t a big deal—they’re on the creative end of “the business”, journalists, writers, authors, and editors, publishing stories, magazines and writing books. My editor on this story is one of the most talented writers I know and I wouldn’t dare to suggest—or believe—that my name belongs among the pages with his, but it’s a start. Hopefully I’ll be able write another story some time.

If you happen to see a copy of the Jan/Feb issue, check it out—on page 54. My story accompanies six pages of fantastic race photos by Charlie Samuels.

I did it every day this week. I’m not bragging, or proud. It’s just that I like to do it. Sometimes I do it with friends, sometimes by myself. I’m not a role model—I don’t use protection. I’m aware of the risks and it’s my decision. I don’t care if you think less of me.

I’m sure you know I’m talking about something else, and that this isn’t particularly clever. But the fact is, I like to ride without my helmet. Up until last year, I wore one without fail from the time I started racing.

Now I work for a company where I can get out for a lunch ride. Between the bike, clothes, bottles, shoes, towels, spare tubes, helmet and everything else being shuffled around, something is bound to get left behind. Eventually the day came when I forgot my helmet, so I just rode without it. It wasn’t a big deal. Some time later, it happened again, but it took three or four times to stop feeling naked, and well, start to realize that naked feels better.

I’ve ridden with a helmet for more than twenty years. I don’t hate it, I don’t like it, I hadn’t really given it much thought. I just put it on because it’s required for racing, and of course, for my own safety. But, before I started racing, I was just a kid. I grew up without helmets. I raced around on home built choppers, bmx bikes and later ten-speeds. My friends and I scavenged lumber from carpenters working on homes in the neighborhood, building ill-engineered ramps that made local legends of the fearless among us. We raced down hills with tears streaming from our eyes to see who could get to the bottom first. We learned about hand brakes. We played bicycle tag that invariably ended with someone scraped up and bloody. We lived on the fun, excitement and freedom that our bicycles gave us—masters of our own destiny, at least until dinner time.

It’s not that a helmet deprives us of that exactly. But that layer of insulation, protecting us from the dangerous world out there dulls our senses. It frames the top half of our view of the world, an ever present shell we peer out of. I hadn’t noticed the wind, the rain or the sun become incomplete experiences—but they had. I hadn’t noticed, until I left my helmet home a couple more times.

The weather this week has been clear, cool and sunny, some of the nicest days so far this fall. It’s on days like these that I forego the helmet. The crisp fall air and the awareness that these might be the last nice days for a while, somehow make it feel more “right.” There is a simple perfection in pedaling, the wind in my hair stirring the life inside me and a pure, uncluttered view of the world that makes the experience whole—or perhaps wholesome is the word.

It’s not about taking risks or adrenaline, it’s not about independence or rebellion and it’s not about looking euro. It’s about feeling every sensation that makes me remember why I love riding my bike.

Two races into cross season and the legs are starting to feel good, finally. Cross racing is the kind of effort my legs seem to be built for. They feel better than they have in months. Earlier this week we ended up climbing a bit on the lunch rides, and it just seemed effortless—like there was no chain, as they say.

So, it figures that the first bout of allergies this fall are followed by coughing fits, producing lumpy, gelatinous projectiles—looks like bronchitis. Beautiful. The way this goes for me, I’ll feel crappy for a week then cough and hack for a month. Ever feel like you can’t catch a break?

Last night was the last night of the training crit, and I was hoping to go. The way my legs have been feeling I was thinking I might score some points, but figured it would only aggravate the bronchitis. I needed tires for my truck anyway, otherwise it’s not going to pass inspection. Since the local garage I had been using tried to screw Tracy out of $1000 last spring, I haven’t found anyone else I trust. I opted for the WalMart Super Store, thinking at least the tires will be cheap. Well, they were, and it’s good to know you can get crappy service anywhere these days.

Spend two and a half hours in WalMart some time, I dare you. A friend sent me this link the other day, enough said: PeopleofWalMart.com. Anyway, it was about two hours longer than I had hoped and honestly, I could have done the two tires by hand myself in that time. At least they’re done now, but I missed having a beer with the guys after the crit. It’s probably for the best anyway—doubling up again in the masters and elite on Sunday, so I should try to get over this bronchitis, or at least not make it worse.

Alright, I just got back from the supermarket and I have get this off my chest. I know there is some rule for women about wearing white, Memorial Day and Labor Day—at least I think there is, I’m too annoyed to go look it up. Let me be perfectly clear, there is no time that is appropriate for men to wear open toed footwear.

Sandals, flip-flops, whatever—don’t do it.

Men go and get proper shoes because they do, well they do man stuff. Men do not have pretty feet, they have feet I don’t want to see. You shouldn’t either.

For the sake of clarity, men should not wear open toed footwear:

• to the supermarket
• to the office
• to the bar
• to the mall
• to a picnic
• to the beach (wear shoes and then take them off, be a man damn it)
• to the pool (see “to the beach”)
• when riding a bicycle
• when riding a motorcycle (you just girlie-fied that whole Harley image)

 
If you insist on wearing them, do us all a favor. Go get a pedicure and put your skirt on.

Fast Brad. The name was not my choice. It was laid upon me by Bill Strickland, in his blog “Sitting In”. People have given me various nick-names over the years—Beardy, Hell Boy, Mad Scientist, Baron Von Ford—but none have stuck. I haven’t resisted, or encouraged this, perhaps that’s why, I don’t know. Fast Brad is as good as any.

I’m involved in way too many pursuits, or at least too involved in a few. You might say I have creative ADD. At any given time I’m a graphic artist, designer, videographer, welder, painter, carpenter or craftsmen. Currently, I’m attempting to build bicycle frames. Which brings me to another outlet for my engery—I’m a cyclist.

“Hello, my name is Brad and I’m a cyclist…” I can admit it. I ride my bike just about every day, rain or shine, cold or hot. It’s a need, a requirement, an addiction. There is a certain completeness to the day if you’ve managed to do the thing you enjoy most. I also compete, racing road, mountain, track and cyclo-cross. For this reason I have about a dozen bikes.

It has been suggested that I might have something amusing to say. When the Fit Chick insisted that I must have a blog, “Are you sure? I thought you had one.”—I decided, that maybe I should. Most of my friends have blogs. But then, I’m situated in the middle of a creative social circle, full of designers, writers, artists, editors and photographers. I guess it’s time to join the club.