Dirty Words: Aimless Rants and Crazed Ravings on a Filthy, Stinky Day

A weekly Bike rant by Sal Ruibal

By Sal Ruibal

Aimless rants and crazed ravings on a filthy, stinky day:

Rant #1: These are the dog days of summer and summer isn’t even here yet. The East Coast isn’t the best coast even on its best days. That’s because the humidity is greater than the humanity. Oh, the humanity! The best reason to ride your bike to work here is to avoid the stink of a thousand nasty armpits shoved in your face on the D.C. Metro.

Last Saturday we did a video shoot at the local racecourse, where the armpit heat index under the power lines was about 143F. You know what that F stands for.

The thing about doing photo or video shoots is that the ratio of time spent shooting compared to final product is about 12,876 to 1. Which means that the 16 trips I made up and down the big berm section will result in three seconds of action.

The other thing is that no matter how famous or skilled the photographer, he or she will find that they did not bring the proper lens, battery, toilet paper or hot sauce and we need to start over. From the top. Yes, again.

Another thing you can count on is the random rider who always happens to wander into the action, such as the guy on the hoopty bike who is looking for the “green trail” while you’re knee deep in a rock garden descent. From the top, yes, again.

I’m not doing backflips or nose wheelies. Just endless close-ups of mountain bike tires rolling over rocks, skinny wooden bridges and mud puddles. Transition shots. My bike shoes will get much more screen time than my face. And that’s probably a good thing. Look for my soles when you walk down Hollywood Boulevard.

Rant #2: My own stupidity. I’ve been riding Time ATAC clipless pedals since Canaan 2001. You would think that after all that time I would remember that when the cleats wear out, they tend to get stuck in the pedals. Also, they tend to pop out easily when you get back to the truck, but stick like a male dog in heat when the difference between a dab and a fall is about six stitches. I’d go pinner, but after tattooing my right calf with the wife’s Crank Bros. 5050s while taking her bike out of the truck, I’m better off with the evil I know.

Rant #3: They may be banning soda in cups and bottles over 16 oz. in New York City, but they’ll have to pry my cold dead fingers off my 75cl (25.3 oz.) Westmalle Abbey tripel ale. World-class refreshment.

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