More of the Thos. Harper. God, I'm glad to be riding this bike again. It feels good.








Wifey and I celebrated our five year wedding anniversary on friday. My 'rents drove 650 miles (each way) to watch the Lads so we could have a bit of fun. We started with a nice little dinner at the Farm Cafe, followed up by a trip to Union Jacks for a bit of the old nekkid girl/brass pole interface. We came home drunk and smoky and slept on the porch.


Saturday night, she rode her bike up to the Bye and Bye to meet me as I got off of work. We ate chili and drank tequila and rode around in the dark. Then we went home and slept on the porch.

Not a bad weekend, over all.

It's OK to Cry.

So this is pretty rad.

Remember way last winter when I was whining about the hard-as-fuck stairway that was keeping me up nights?

No? Well, trust me, it was no fun.

Anyway, there I was standing in line at Freddy's with my mongoose ipa and my oranges and my baby wipes and wondering to myself if Stedman will EVER ask Oprah to finally make it official, when a new cover of Portland Spaces caught my eye.

Nice full spread of the house and a shit-ton of photos of the work I did.

It's a proud day for dad, bitches.


Also, that fat guy who kind of looks like me. Not me.

Some sweet carnage out at Alpenrose on Saturday.





Did someone say "Tracklocross?"

No?

I must be hearing shit...

I got a package yesterday. Actually, it was addressed to my sons. The return address was a "JC" in Laramie, Wyoming.

First of all, I'll be fucked if I know anyone in Laramie. But this person obviously knows me, and knows where I used to live (there were 3 forward labels on the box), and knows my kids names.

The strange part is that the box contained one 15 tooth Dura-Ace track cog wrapped in brown paper. And nothing else.

Can one of you lowlifes shine some light on this for me?

86 Degrees, Thunder, and Lightning.

Radical weekend.

I'm the best man.

This is Theo Bos motorpacing up to 140 kph.

Do the math, son.

Well, I've been busier than a set of jumper cables at a Mexican wedding.



Sorry for the long delay between posts. The weather has been fine, and the schedules have changed, which means less time stuck in the house, and more time out tearing shit up.

Much shit has been torn in the last two weeks.

Firstly, the new job. Nice to be in a busy bar full of non-fuckhead-type people.



The only person who has really annoyed me so far is the customer with "VEGAN!" tattooed, badly, across the side of his shorn head.

Ah, Portland.

Good times and good money and good goddamn Frito pie.

The wednesday series up at Mt. Tabor has been a fuggin hoot. I aint racing. I can barely ride up that hill the one time it takes to get to my rock where I sit with a bunch of other smelly lowlifes, drinking beer and heckling the riders. They love it.



It's been kinda sweet watching the messengers and the cat 2 roadies duking it out in the fixed class. There are some fast fuckers up there, no mistake.



Summer just came like a shot to the crown. It's only 80, but since none of us are really acclimated yet, it feels way too hot. Couple weeks though, my farmer tan will be in full bloom, and I'll be feeling it.

Shit just got real with the belated discovery of the taco truck on 50th and Division. Soyrizo burritos are fucking killing it. Trust me. I am the burrito snob of all burrito snobs. I've been burning a torch for the taco stand around the corner from my house in north county San Deigo for 18 years, and not even 15 years of SF Mission food has been able to douse that fire. I'm a picky bitch, and so far every "mexican" food experience in Portland has been some kind of cruel joke. I shall suffer no more. Gracias, el Gordito. Muchas gracias.

Big shouts to Jonny Hamachi (shootyoumyself.blogspot.com) for coming up with these clips. Adam5100 is no joke, and I felt like I needed to put these here to help get the word out.





Yes, I'm a bartender again.

You try to get away. You retire, You drink your last free shot of tequila and break up with your drug dealer and take that white towel out of your back pocket and drop it to the mats. You say goodbye to all the sad-sack dudes and the good-time girls and count out that big stack of wet stinky bills for the last time. You leave it. You move to the country, have a couple of kids, and start seeing the sun rise thru the windshield of your truck with a cup of coffee, instead of with a pool cue and a pack of exports and the last of the blow burning a hole in your shirt pocket.

You hang out at the feed store, and drink beer at home under the big oak.

And, because they mostly always do, things go to shit. So it's another city, another group of friends. Different ways. Different means.

I got no room to bitch. The world has been kinder to me than I ever deserved.

Fuck it, I'm going back in. Wish me luck, bitches.

And still it rains.

I've been in the shop for the last couple of weeks, and man, has it been nice. Riding my bike to work every day instead of getting on the freeway has been a revelation. I did have to put $20 in the tank of the Saturn yesterday. Got a whole 4.3 gallons, too.

In a way, I'm sort of happy this whole gas crunch is finally here. It's not like none of us knew it was eventually going to come down like this, and I figure the short, sharp, shock is probably the best way for it to be. Which is easy for me to say, since I don't really have to drive much, love being on my bike, and have excellent public transit at my disposal. Not so for the great majority of people struggling to stay afloat in rural areas nationwide.

The hope is that this may be the beginning of the consolidation of resources, and a way to rethink how transportation, especially as it applies to our food, is managed on the whole. Many, many people are going to suffer while these transitions are made, most of my family included.

Strange times.

0Oh yeah, speaking of strange times, gObama! (tm)
Looks like my man from Illinois has wrapped things up as of today. We'll see if what's her name actually concedes tonight, or if she's going to continue to screech about the Michigan and Florida delegates.

Don't go away mad, Hil. Just go away.

Horrifying accident in Mexico.
I've driven thousands of miles in Mexico over the years, and any time the thought has ever entered my mind that I might take a bicycle out onto those treacherous ass roads, an image something akin to this one has flashed into my mind:


Bad fucking deal, all around I'd say.


So, I'm talking to a guy tonight about taking on some bar shifts. I don't really want to, but I also kind of do. Mainly as a social outlet and to make some friendly connections in my relatively new city-- But also for the scrillas!
Pefect bar, too. Great space, cool owners, pile of bikes by the front door, hotrods in the lot, vegetarian menu. Working there would up my cool-factor 6.37%. Which is alot, considering where it is right now.

A belated congrats to Portland's newly elected mayor, Sam Adams. We here at the pleasurefucker couldn't be happier that you're taking over the helm.
Just another reason to love living here.



I hosted the first pdxfixed wrench night in my basement on tuesday night. I happened to run into a guy I knew from my bartending days in Sf, who also happens to be a pretty good wheel builder, so we held a seminar. We drank beer, trued up some hoops, put people on the rollers, and generally created havoc in a small space. Hopefully somebody learned something.

The G's came to town and beat my liver to within an inch of its life. I miss you guys, but we gotta stop cramming 6 months worth of booze into two nights. I just can't hang.

We bowled, and it was not pretty. Hamachi 1, Pleasurefucker 1. Rematch soon, bitch.

Layed off again today, and the weather is grey. I'ma load the Lads up and go check out the nurseries. Seems like a good way to kill time until wifey brings home the Pok. Anyway, I've got bonsai on the brain again, so time to start looking for some suitable stock. Figure it takes between 10/20 years to train something up really nice, so I better get started. Funny about undertaking a thing like this, knowing you may be starting a project that will not be finished while you are alive. It gives one a sense of place. These hands will manipulate. These hands will grow. These hands will be gone sometime soon.

Monday is like a slow suicide, without death's sweet release.

I ran out of work at the shop today, and it's looking like I might be layed-off for the rest of the week. We can by no means afford it, but I could use a break, and I have numerous other projects that are calling my name.

The weekend was just as fucked as I predicted, though we took a nice stroll through the Bonneville fish hatchery and sturgeon center on sunday. Man, sturgeon are some big, gnarly looking things.

I've eaten of those bitches, too, with their creepy eyes.

Looking forward again to the velodrome on wednesday. I suppose it would help me if I bothered to train at all, but what the fuck you gonna do? Life is short, and filled with stuff (thx Lux), so mostly I just try to grab a taste here and there since I don't really have time to pull up a chair.

Ory-gun is about to be inundated with presidential candidates, and Oaklanders. You know who you are.
I already know the Obama got no roll, but how bout you, Hamachi?



Not much else new around here.

So, wednesday I got to try half-lap pulls in an 8 man paceline around Alpenrose.

My weakness was apparent to all.

The track is a ball-busting motherfucker. Nowhere to hide.

Wifey's schedule is changing in the next couple of weeks, so friday night racing isn't far in my future. I have some serious work to do...


Mother's day is on sunday. If you don't get something great for your wife who is the mother of your obnoxious children you have little hope of getting any nookie before father's day.

Not a problem for me, since I'm building something out of old doors and discarded baseboards for wifey. Trouble is, I gotta get up at 4 tomorrow to get down to the shop to finish it before we take a trip to Grandma's House of Weird Food and Strange Ideas.

Here's hoping your weekend is better than mine is shaping up to be.

Titty-Heaven

Well, I figure my three regular readers must be thinking that I've died and gone to titty heaven. And they'd be right. It's been Springy! Worky! Sicky! Bikey! All wrapped up into one sweet little package of benign misery.

I haven't really been feeling self-important (read:drunk) enough lately to bother sharing all of the boring shit that happens in my self-aggrandized little sphere, but since the local NPR station is in the middle of their spring pledge drive, and quarts of Pyramid hefe have been on sale at Fred's, I think I can finally put aside a little time to update you.

Thing one: Track Racing, bitches!

Yes. Slow, old dad put some drop bars on his bike and took it out to be used for its intended purpose. This week's track developement class at Alpenrose was cancelled on account of shitty weather, but I toughed it out with a couple of my compatriots and was able to get in a few hours of practice time. Practice meaning, go left, slowly, hyperventilate fom gulping icy air into bronchitis afflicted lungs, take too many puffs off of speed inhaler and have mild heart attack, puke in infield grass.

All in all, a successful first day out, though I'm hoping for less puking this wednesday.



Thing two: Restricted Diet, bitches!

In a last ditch effort to save me from the surgeon's blade, I am attempting to complete 30 days of my life without consuming lactose products. So, no milk, no yogurt, no cheese, no butter. That pretty much leaves beer and puhgliese dipped in olive-oil. Should they, at some point during this ordeal, recommend that I stop drinking beer, I think I shall go completely mad. I have a feeling the bastards are going to cut me open anyway. What other reason could a person have for going to medical school other than getting the chance to look at people's innards?



Thing three: The Lads.

Oh, The Lads.
One word: Haywire.

The worst part is knowing that soon they will be lazy, boozy, sex-obsessed teenagers, and I really don't need the competition.



Thing four: I hope you're bringing your ball, Hamachi, because I came to roll.



Thing five: All our dead homies are swirling around us in clouds of pink cherry blossoms.

Hi Lu. Hi Grandpa. Hi Jesse. I miss you guys.

Good times under the Hawthorne bridge.

tetris

I robbed this up from Trackosaurus:




I had a little talk with Jordan Hufnagel yesterday concerning a bit of bicycle repair for me, the building of some cabinets for him, and what I'm sincerely hoping is the eventuality of me scoring one of his delicious frames. Young fellers' only had his shingle out for 8 months, and is apparently inundated with work.
Make no mistake, his work is of the finest kind. He unwrapped a couple of outgoing goodies for me to ogle, and I swear to god, I've rarely seen finer craftsmanship.

Dude couldn't be nicer, either.

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

I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. This whole upper respiratory infection bullshit is the worst. This is what I get for quitting smoking, drugs, and soda pop. An endless hack and bloody boogers, like I've been living under a bridge somewhere. Thank god getting shit-hammered on beer is still considred a relatively benign habit, and one that the doctors never seem to ask you about while they're surreptitiously checking your arms for track marks. I got a weeks scrip for antibiotics and an inhaler, but hot doctor #2 (who is only appreciably different from hot doctor #1 by her 5 month pregnant belly, and a 3 carat rock that spurred the briefest fantasy of me mouth-fucking her while i managed to get that diamond off her finger) only laughed when I told her that I was in real physical pain, and couldn't she give me something stronger, like, I dunno, morphine?

Fuckin doctors. What do they know?

It's in French.

Documentaire sur Paris Roubaix Partie 1
Uploaded by lafouine2229

Documentaire sur Paris Roubaix Partie 2
Uploaded by lafouine2229

There's nothing quite like the first warm day.

I worked up in the 'Couv, and was home by three. Fed the Lads, and threw them in the trailer.
We hit the east bank esplanade, and then hammered down the Springwater Corridor to Sellwood. Lots of bikes, lots of pretty girls, lots of smiles. We clocked a meager 16 miles, but the little fuckers are getting heavier by the day, and trying to maintain any kind of pace with them attatched to my rear axle is becoming torment of the rudest kind.

The fuckin city and the river looked beautiful.

We finished doing our taxes. "We" being "the marital we" meaning Wifey did them all by herself. The rent is paid, there's two more Laginitas ipa's cooling, and the weather is supposed to be fine all weekend.

Just now, just this minute, most things seem pretty right.

Old German what? Socks? Jockstraps?

Ugh.




Yes, bitches, I build staircases. They fuck with my head, but I do it. Not because I want to, but because I need to try out every $3.99 sixpack I can find, and the only way to pay for it is to make dem stairs.




"We put the meat on the pole, not on your plate."

The Delivery

All right, Hamachi. You wanna roll? I trust you're not forgetting about the little red book that lives on my nightstand? The one you've never read?
I thought so, Hamachi. Don't you worry about my game. Worry about YOUR game, Jonny Hamachi!



First I'm gonna do a little bit of this:



And then I'm gonna do some of this:



And ten frames later, you might see one of these:




All in all, I'd say you'd better watch your back.

Apparently, the senator from Illinois can't roll for shit. Too much to ask for, I guess.



Not like this guy. Sure, he was a criminal. Paranoid and strung out. Should have spent the rest of his life in a concrete hole somewhere.

But the fucker had game.

The Pok, The Little Red Pill, and a Story of Homecoming.

You wish you were me right now. See that orange grease? That right there's the grease of the gods. This is what was waiting for me when I got home from work today.

No I can't go ride my bike because it's hailing, and then sunny, and then snowing, and then hailing sideways and the Lads are sick and wifey's at work and I desperately need to take a shower and go to bed but first I have to make dinner for the sons and wash some bottles and do some laundry and finish this beer and then open another. I gotta put some bag balm on my ruined hands and send my Grandma a card and I might as well call my mom.
My feet stink, my hair stinks, I have hemmorhoids and I can't sleep.
I need to buy new shoes, but gas is $3.40 a gallon and I can't eat fucking gasoline. My lips are cracked, my knees hurt and my head is pounding. Just let me open another beer and I'm sure I'll feel better.

You wish you were me, bitches.

This has been looong overdue. http://www.pdxfixed.com/
Finally, a place to argue about brakeless bikes, fakengers, and which $400 track bike will look best with an arrospok.

Actually, the good folks over there seem like they are into hanging on to a positive groove, and it looks good for making fast, fun, drunk things happen this summer. We here at the Pleasurefucker wish them all the best.

The weather has been dericulous the last couple of days. Nothing like a little snow at the end of march to cool down your springiness. It's alright, really, since I haven't been on the bike all week, and am feeling like all of the gains I've made recently have been drowned in a fucking gallon of pissy beer.

I'll bounce back.



No, really.

Just got off the phone with my old pal 43. Big changes a brewing over his way.
Not to get all into talking about his personal life, trouble, and strife, but he's taking a leap into a new venture and I for one am mighty proud of him. Nothing like shaking off the shackles of the workaday world and putting on the much larger, more painful shackles of the un-gainfully self-employed.
I've been there a few times, and I hope to go back soon. As nice as a regular paycheck and health insurance can be, sleeping until 11 and starting the short workday with a bong rip is just so much sweeter.

Anyway, best of luck to you friends. I wanted to get you a card, but nothing could possibly convey the feelings I have for you right now like this picture I found on the internet:

I keep forgetting that there are kids just killing it on track bikes. Backward circles were like, a really big deal a couple of years ago. There's something both irritating and pleasing about the misuse of bicycles...


council of doom: official full-length trailer from wolfgang on Vimeo.

Bless those dirty, dirty, bmx kids.