MUSCLES NOT MOTORS

2010 Frozen Onion MTB Race

2010-02-17T10:14:00.003-05:00

PBR...is there anything it can't do?

2009-11-21T16:09:00.001-05:00

Yeah we're still riding bikes. Should be skiing by now though, but hey...

2009-11-11T13:35:00.005-05:00

A Bicycle Named Sofia

2009-11-02T09:49:00.002-05:00

Experienced bicycle mechanics, like heart surgeons and great cities such as Rome, for example, are not built in a day. It takes many, many years. Yes, there are schools in places like Portland and Colorado Springs, where in a few short weeks you can earn an official certificate stating that you are a “certified” bicycle mechanic, but you will be far from an “experienced” bicycle mechanic. To earn the “experienced” distinction, you need to travel down a long, bumpy road, full of rusty twists and corroded turns, recumbent-sized potholes, and frugal customers who need new drivetrains. Once you’ve reached the end of this road, you’ll have a skill that few people possess, and you’ll have a trade that you can use to make a living, sort of. Best of all, every once in a while, you’ll get to use your skills in the real world to make someone very happy. But first, there are some things you must do.

You need to cross-thread the bottom bracket shell of a custom steel frame. You need to grind your knuckles deep into a greasy chainring. You need to squirt Tri-Flo into your eye. You need to spend 20 minutes scratching your head, trying to figure out why the rear shifting suddenly isn't working any more, only to discover that you clamped the rear derailleur cable against the chainstay while installing the kickstand. A few years later you need to do it again.

You need to stab the end of your finger with a frayed brake cable. You need to wonder why, after cutting it twice, the steer tube is still too short. You need to have a tire, whose bead isn't properly seated on the rim, explode like an artillery shell in your face. You need to promise a customer that you'll remove that frozen seat post by the end of the day. You need to be able to fix a brand new Huffy for less than the customer paid for it. You need to spend an hour on your hands and knees searching the floor for the world's smallest screw. Only then, an experienced bike mechanic will you be. Or so I thought.

A few weeks ago, while hanging out with two of my best college friends, Carl and Puff Debby, and Debby’s pug Harley, I was able to put my experienced bicycle mechanic skills to good use. P. Debby showed me her old Columbia five-speed tandem that for years had lingered in a dark corner of her basement like a corduroy bean bag chair. She casually mentioned that she sure wished she knew a bike mechanic who could perhaps get it running. Bike mechanics love this kind of thing, and I am no exception, and I declared that today, this sweet Columbia five-speed tandem, which would otherwise make me cringe if it came into the shop, would roll.

We hauled it out of the basement through the bulkhead and into the light of a beautiful fall day. Puff Debby got a bucket of hot soapy water ready, while I dug through her husband’s toolbox, hoping for nothing more than an adjustable wrench. To my surprise, along with a proper set of screwdrivers, I found a complete set of metric box-end wrenches. Not only was this bike going to be clean, I thought, it was going to be dialed.

After I had adjusted the brakes and the shifting, tightened the bottom bracket and headset, and straightened the handlebars, I discovered something that in all my years as a bike mechanic had been a mystery to me: the purpose of the 11mm wrench. I’ve worked on thousands of bikes over the course of almost 20 years, and all that time, the shiny, unblemished 11mm wrench never left the hook on the tool wall. At last, on this day, I finally figured out that it is for tightening the fender bolts on a Columbia five-speed tandem.

When it was all shined up and tuned up, the moment we had been waiting for arrived. Carl named the bike Sofia, Harley grunted in approval, and we took a few photographs to capture the moment. Finally, Deb and I took it for a spin down the street, carved a perfect 180-degree turn around the cul-de-sac, and returned safely to her driveway. It ran as smooth as frogs’ hair, and the recently tightened rear fender didn’t rattle one bit.

As a bike mechanic, it is moments like these that give me a sense of fulfillment and satisfaction. I rescued an old bike, I put a smile on a good friend’s face, and I finally figured out what the 11mm wrench is for. And to think that before then, I called myself an experienced bicycle mechanic.

Room with a view

2009-10-26T17:27:00.001-04:00

Brewer's cousin (the one on the left) in a promo for a planned community in Vegas. Good stuff.

"McCarthy Decides to Say Hello" from the Best Honeymoon Ever

2009-10-20T08:14:00.004-04:00

Scootchline Blunt. right on

2009-10-17T14:52:00.000-04:00

October: Snow, Colors, John Paul Jones and Dave Grohl, Boston

2009-10-16T09:29:00.009-04:00

whoa

2009-10-09T13:45:00.001-04:00

We call 'em wind fairings. What do you call 'em?

2009-10-05T09:14:00.001-04:00

snowboards
deflector shields
billboards

Yoga or drink.. tough call.

2009-10-01T14:03:00.003-04:00

Savasana
Position of total relaxation.
Balasana
Position that brings the sensation of peace and calm.
Setu Bandha Sarvangasana
This position calms the brain and heals tired legs.
Marjayasana
Position stimulates the midirift area and the spinal comumn.
Halasana
Excellent for back pain and imsomnia.
Dolphin
Excellent for the shoulder area, thorax, legs, and arms.
Salambhasana
Great excersice to stimulate the lumbar area, legs, and arms.

Ananda Balasana
This position is great for massaging the hip area.
Malasana
This position, for ankles and back muscles.

Don't mess with the Face

2009-10-01T13:26:00.004-04:00

Butt Face

Riding Back From the Sunset

2009-09-29T11:28:00.006-04:00

A single brown flip flop, a blue track jacket, 82 empty beer cans, and a black leather belt were just a few of the items scattered around G and Sue-per Brevis’s homestead after our most recent employee going-away party. This most recent employee going-away party was to honor two of our favorite fellow employees, Chuck and Chinch Bug, and it was the greatest employee going-away party we’ve had all year. In fact, it was so fun, and the reveling reached such a height, the Brevis’s, knowing that this party could never be topped, proclaimed that they will never host another employee going-away party again. Related pics.

Despite the good time had by our gracious hosts and by all, there was an undercurrent of sadness flowing like a cold river. We were losing two of our best employees, and even a thrilling team obstacle course challenge and a rousing tournament of Beer Pole couldn’t completely distract from the real reason we were all there. But we were happy for them, and we took comfort in knowing that Chuck and Chinch Bug are following their dreams and heading out west, and that this is a positive step in the right direction for them both, and that most likely, in only a few short months, they will have found that the grass is actually quite brown on the other side of the fence, and they will come right back home and ask for their old jobs back.

The boss likes to say that they always come back, which is very often true. I am no exception, having made the big break a couple of years ago. I was the General Manager/Service Manager/Marketing Director/Event Coordinator, and after a seven-year run, I could no longer summon the galaxy-sized amount of energy required to enjoy it any longer. “There just has to be something else I can do,” I said. “I have an English degree, and I need to use it,” I said. So I gave my notice, we had a big employee going-away party, and I rode off into the sunset, leaving behind countless empty beer cans, all of my favorite fellow coworkers, most of whom I had personally hired, and one very good job.

Two months later, at my new job, miserable and disheartened, I sent an email to my old boss asking if he needed anyone to sweep the floors. Within a week, I was back as Ryan 2.0, a new and improved version of my former self. Although that new job had been a horrible nightmare straight out of the deepest pit of hell, it was the best thing I could’ve done. In only two short months I learned how important it is to have fellow coworkers who you like. I learned how critical it is to have a boss who likes you. And I accepted the fact that the bike shop is where I belong, apparently.

Chuck and Chinch Bug, meanwhile, are still gone. Chuck is fulfilling her dream of living in Montana and writing, while Chinch Bug is in school learning how to put shoes on horses quickly and effectively without getting kicked or bitten. When they were working at the shop, Chuck graced the sales floor with her warm, friendly personality and vast product knowledge, and Chinch Bug hid out back and ordered bike parts and bike accessories and did bike repairs with the precision of a ginsu knife in the hands of a sushi chef. Unlike Chuck, his outward personality was a bit more on the cool side, but inside, he was a warm as a freshly baked dish of homemade macaroni and cheese right out of the oven. I hired them both, and over the course of their time at the shop, they ended up falling in love. And it was Chuck, recognizing a possible love connection, who introduced me to her “tall, beautiful, and smart” friend, whom she felt I might get along with, and whom, three years later, I married. We appreciated her work as matchmaker so much, that we asked her to marry us, and just about everyone from the shop was there as witnesses.

We have a truly amazing staff and the world’s greatest boss, and we are very fortunate. We become great friends. We fall in love. We ride bikes together. We descend upon our favorite watering hole together. We buy houses. We have babies. We sometimes go away. We often times come back. If Chuck and Chinch Bug are reading this, we miss you both, and we hope things are going great. In case they aren’t, don’t fret. We just so happen to have two openings for floor sweepers.

vegas 2009

2009-09-22T22:18:00.002-04:00

U2, Gilette Stadium, 9/21/09

2009-09-22T14:41:00.002-04:00

Car Rack Advice is Live!

2009-09-18T12:51:00.004-04:00

Hey folks, today we are launching a new blog that offers comprehensive advice on car racks. After countless hours of deliberations and gargantuan heaps of money spent on a team of marketing geniuses, we have settled on a truly unique and catchy name: Car Rack Advice.

It may not be overflowing with info yet, but our bloggers, Rack James, Racky Racoon, and Rack Dawg are hard at work, so before long, there will be more info than you can shake a crossbar at.

Without further ado, here it is: Car Rack Advice

Quite common, actually.

2009-09-09T15:19:00.001-04:00

Race to the Top!

2009-09-01T17:09:00.002-04:00

Slick, edited version-

unedited version-

Pint of Beer: $11. Rental Car: $547. Best Honeymoon Ever: Pricey.

2009-08-28T09:46:00.003-04:00

One of the hardest things about my job is, and will always be, the re-entry into the workplace after a vacation. It’s like waking up from a beautiful dream by falling out of the top tier of a bunk bed onto a cement floor. Eventually, the pain goes away—or just simply blends in—and you settle back into your routine, and life in the real world rolls along at a steady 55 miles per hour.

My most recent vacation was our honeymoon, and armed with that as justification, I got away with taking three weeks off in the height of summer without getting fired. It also rationalized having spent outrageous amounts of money on things like an $11 pint of beer at the airport and $427 for 300 euros at an ATM in France. Upon realizing the rotten exchange rate, my heart sunk all the way down to my queasy stomach, but after a few transactions, I was able to sweep the shock of the dreadful Dollar-to-euro conversion under a rug woven out of apathy and honeymoon bliss. Not until I got back did the shock re-emerge, covered with dust bunnies and sharp teeth.

You can always buy a new car, or a house, or huge tracts of land, but you only get one shot at an extravagant honeymoon. Ten years from now, when we pay off the last of the credit card debt incurred from our trip, will we regret having taken it? I’ll let you know. But until then, I will stand by my assertion that we most definitely will not. Let me tell you a bit about our honeymoon, and perhaps you can decide.

Our first destination was Ile de Porquerolles, a Paradise-Island-kind-of-an-island located in the Mediterranean, 12 miles off the southern tip of Hyeres, France. I owe a world of thanks to the couple who came into the shop and told me about the place years ago. Back then, I was going on my first European trip, and they insisted I go there, but I never made it. This trip however, I did, and, after 24 hours of traveling on two planes, three buses, one train, and one ferry, we arrived. The place was as amazing as they had described: seven miles long and three miles wide of nature preserve, vineyards, glorious beaches, mountains and cliffs, all caressed by a gentle breeze and the constant pulse of cicadas, which from sunrise to sunset relentlessly chirp with the rhythm of a freight train carrying a cargo of zippers and baby rattles.

For five days, we would rent bikes and cruise the canopied dirt roads around the island, eventually settling down at one of the beaches, where we would break out a bottle of wine, bread, cheese, and of course, olives. Our favorite beach, La Plage Blanche, had umbrellas, comfy beach chairs, and towels available exclusively to the guests of Hotel de Langoustier. We were staying in Hotel les Medes on the opposite side of the island, but if anyone from Hotel de Langoustier ever asks, please say that we are indeed the Boulet couple from room 450, and that we really appreciated the amenities.

The next stop was Marseille and the start of stage three of the Tour de France. The thousands of people that lined the street near the start line were held back by four-foot-high barriers that were as easy to step over as mounting a horse on a carousel. Once inside the VIP area, we made our way to the Astana team bus to catch a glimpse of Lance Armstrong. We waited outside the bus for 45 minutes, and finally, after almost being run over by team cars and crushed by the fan/media circus, the bus door opened. The anticipation of seeing our hero was at its zenith, and there, in the flesh, in living color, only an arm’s reach away, with the reflection of camera flashes lighting up his face, was none other than Ben Stiller. The guy we were really waiting to see came out last, and as he was making his way to the start line, I managed to pat him on the shoulder. The debate continues as to whether my shoulder pat was the good luck he needed to hold onto third place, or the bad luck he didn’t need to lose his first tour in eight attempts.

After Marseille, we traveled to Arles and finally Nice, which were both very amazing and very French. On our way back home, we swung by Ireland for four days. The verdant countryside, the English language, the delicious Guinness, the cool, overcast weather, and an abundance of ATMs capped off the best honeymoon ever. Who needs a house anyway?

FaszinationKunstrad

2009-08-27T11:44:00.003-04:00

Wicked cool... but, really, there's actually an Indoor European Artistic Cycling Championship?

Jean Lacroix, Onion, wins Beverly MA

2009-08-21T11:04:00.000-04:00

Gran Prix of Beverly 08/13/09 from Mark Lovett on Vimeo.

Hmmm..

2009-08-19T13:00:00.001-04:00

LINK

Trashin' Hipsters

2009-08-17T14:19:00.001-04:00

Muscles Not Motors Gear Review

2009-08-12T16:51:00.004-04:00

GIBBON SLACKLINES

At your next barbeque, when you’ve played enough Bocce, Corn Hole, or Beer Pole, set up a Gibbon Slackline. Before you know it, everyone will be taking a shot at walking in air on a two-inch-wide stretch of high-tensioned webbing. The Gibbon Slackline, with its simple ratcheting system, can be set up in minutes but will provide hours of fun. Best of all, unlike most barbeque pastimes, slacklining will help burn off those burgers, dogs, and kebobs, as it engages multiple muscle groups, while building strength and improving balance and mental focus. If balance and mental focus are lacking among the guests at your particular barbeque, you can set up your slackline nice and low to the ground so when your cousin Lenny takes a digger attempting to walk across the line while drinking a beer, he won’t hurt himself too much. To really get the party going, set one or two up over the pool and let the fun begin.

KLEAN KANTEEN WINE KARAFE

They may not be able to spell, but the folks at Klean Kanteen sure can make a great beverage container. Made from fully recyclable 18/8 food-grade stainless steel, Klean Kanteens are lightweight, durable, and BPA and toxin free, and, as any bottle should be, are 100 percent safe to drink from. The Wine Karafe is a 750 ml bottle designed to transport a bottle of delicious wine safely to the top of a mountain, the edge of an island, or the middle of nowhere. Best of all, it won’t leach or retain flavor, so although you may find notes of citrus and green pepper in your Sauvignon Blanc, you won’t find notes of Cabernet Sauvignon in your Klean Kanteen. The wide mouth makes it easy to fill up and pour your favorite varietal, and when you’ve emptied it, cleaning only requires a quick rinse with some mild, biodegradable soap. And as always, please enjoy your delicious wine responsibly.

Don't say she lost...

2009-08-06T17:28:00.004-04:00

Fight like Susan!

The Clean Up

2009-08-04T12:19:00.004-04:00

From the host:

"Here are some stats on last nights' revelries (Aaron and Caroline going-away party) for your amusement (or mine,
really, to make the the cleanup in progress more interesting)."

52=total number in attendance assuming I didn't leave anyone out which I
probably did.

13=number of guests under 21 (Moxie wins with the age closest to birth)

4=number of unopened cans of beer found basking in the sun this morning

21=number of unopened beers left behind for the cleanup crew (25 if you
count the sun-warmed cans!)

1=number of brown flip flops found in the back yard (single, not pair)

1=number of men's belts found in the back yard

82=number of opened cans found in yard and house

66=number of opened bottles found in yard and house

?=number of slugs who were slaughtered when they unwittingly tried to
consume remaining bears in said opened cans

2=number of men's baseball caps found in yard (one camo UPS-or the present
bus, as Scarlett calls it- and one with a "P" on the front)

2=number of wine bottles consumed

1=number of honey pepper vodka bottles left behind (gross!)

2=number of men's jackets left behind (one L Banana Republic-black with
white and blue trim and one M Marmot raincoat- blue)

1=number of men's blue Brooks' Basics button-down shirts found hanging on
porch

9=number of hours the farewell lasted (7 1/2 with Aaroline present)

?=number of ski poles and inner-tube ties that were found in the yard and
might belong to someone else

1=number of toilets I am afraid to try to unclog this morning

2=number of tenants I hope aren't too mad at us.

10:23= time your daughter finally got out of bed this morning!

Hope you're having a good first day back. See you tonight.

Your loving and awesome wife

More pics here.

First broken bone from the Biking...

2009-07-28T16:06:00.000-04:00

... so proud!

Things Change. People Change. Pass the Cheeseballs.

2009-07-24T16:45:00.005-04:00

Recently I did something that would make my younger self roll over in his wave. The wave being that of blissful ignorance and youthful exuberance upon which he surfed. After a particularly long and exhausting day at the shop, a nightmare kind of day of trying to make dreams come true, I went home and took a walk with my lovely wife. We held hands and talked and made our way to a nice spot where we sat down and watched the sun set behind the Adirondack Mountains like a giant electric cheese ball sinking into a wool blanket. My younger self would cringe and possibly throw up if he could have seen me sitting there, illuminated in the warm golden light of maturity, especially considering how content I was to be doing exactly that. Horrified, he would then rush back into his time machine and b-line it back to 1995.

My younger self, the single guy who worked at the bike shop, drove a beat up car, didn’t have his finances in order, and drank a lot of beer—compared to my current self, the married guy who works at the bike… well, let’s not get off track from the story here—would have no interest in pleasant strolls and all that lovey-dovey mucky-muck. As soon as he punched out from a long day of trying to keep dreams from turning into nightmares, he would ride his mountain bike until he was a sweaty, dirty, bloody mess. His only concern regarding the sunset would be trying to get out of the woods before it occurred, so as to avoid riding into a tree.

But quality time with my nice lady is something that I enjoy a lot these days, and if I don’t ride my bike every single night, then so be it. People change and things change and that is okay. My younger self was too dumb to understand that—compared to my current self who is… well, no need to get off track again—but these days, a pleasant walk with my lovely wife is not the only excuse I have for not riding my bike every night after work. There are other forces at play. One of them involves throwing Frisbees at trees, a game we call Frisbee Golf. The other, the thrilling game of Bike Polo, involves riding around on a clunker bike chasing a ball with a mallet. Even if it is a stretch, Bike Polo can at least be called bike riding, technically.

If you’re not aware of the exciting game of Frisbee Golf, it is played a lot like regular golf, only with Frisbees instead of golf balls, trees or rocks or the doorways of sheds instead of holes, and instead of a bag of golf clubs, a bag of beers. This is not to be confused with Disc Golf, where instead of Frisbees, they use regulation “discs,” instead of trees or rocks or doorways to sheds they use official looking structures made of chains and metal, and to further separate them from hacks like us and to further legitimize Disc Golf, or “Disc,” as a legitimate sport, they carry around much fancier bags for their beers.

The slightly more active game of Bike Polo was introduced to us by Bart, one of my favorite fellow coworkers, and has since become very popular with all of us and our group of hardcore mountain bikers. Only a few short years ago, we would all be racing to the woods to hit the trails after work. More often these days however, we are all racing to the beer store on the way to a parking lot to hit a duct tape covered ball around the parking lot with a piece of plastic tubing bolted to a ski pole shaft. Like Frisbee Golf, it may be viewed as a shameful thing to do on a glorious summer night, while the singletrack waits for action like a snowmobile buried in tall grass, but at least we are turning pedals. And as Chinch Bug pointed out after a game the other night, it is a good workout, especially when after two or three games you’re the one chosen to ride down to the beer store for more beer.

To Bart’s credit, although he is responsible for the Bike Polo craze that has swept us all off our mountain bikes, he is the most dedicated when it comes to riding bikes for real. But people change and things change, and it won’t be long before he is spending more evenings taking sunset walks with his nice lady. Only in his case, he’ll be pushing a stroller. His younger self would most certainly cringe, but his not-in-the-too-distant-future self may enjoy it, warm golden light and all.

Honeymoon in Provence!

2009-07-16T19:15:00.002-04:00

Check it right around minute 1:33!

The art of bike racks.

2009-07-14T16:18:00.001-04:00

LINK

Got to love the Swedes

2009-07-14T16:15:00.001-04:00

Maybe if it was PBR...

2009-07-14T16:13:00.001-04:00

Spotted at the Breck Epic

2009-07-10T17:41:00.001-04:00

Bigger pic

Zen and the art of Paceline

2009-07-07T14:39:00.001-04:00

Paceline - I from Ben Silberfarb on Vimeo.

A ride with George

2009-06-23T10:37:00.001-04:00

Filed under - "What ever happened to....?"

2009-06-18T11:53:00.002-04:00

LINK

nuf said

2009-06-17T17:38:00.001-04:00

"I will counter with team Gerolsteiner.."

2009-06-15T14:31:00.001-04:00

1 in 8 million

2009-06-12T13:30:00.001-04:00

Cool story. Check out The Bar Fighter

Corrections ala French

2009-06-11T17:00:00.001-04:00

LINK

Rider blames wheels for crash: but has anyone considered possibility that it might have been socks?

2009-06-10T09:24:00.004-04:00

Velonews article LINK
Panache LINK

"They were cones!"

2009-06-09T08:37:00.000-04:00

Famous Frank

2009-06-08T14:30:00.001-04:00

Armstrong # 4

2009-06-05T12:34:00.001-04:00

Max

Ruining Your Vacation Ruins My Day

2009-06-03T10:17:00.003-04:00

Without fail, every year a few customers come into the shop, their heads hung and their shoulders slumped, to tell us that they did something that they feel is so stupid they are ashamed to admit what it is. After looking around to make sure no one else can hear, they fess up and explain what they’ve done: they drove into the garage with their bicycle on the roof of their car. Sometimes, this tragic event occurs on the very day they purchased their shiny new bicycle, before it even went on its first ride. Within an hour, a brand new bicycle went from hanging from its front wheel on a display hook in the shop, to hanging from a bent handlebar wedged between the garage and the garage door.

In these situations, it is up to us, the friendly shop employees, to tell them how much it will cost to replace that bent fork, that mangled brake lever, that crunched roof rack system, or that their bicycle and rack system are regrettably destroyed beyond repair. But a more important role is to try to make these customers feel better, while their bicycles and their hearts are in pieces.

I have a method that has proved to be quite reliable. I just tell them that I, too, have done the exact same thing. Three times, in fact. Doing it once is a bit careless, maybe a tad scatter-brained, but not stupid. Doing it three times, I tell them, as I have done, is remarkably stupid. And, as a result of three times having my racks ripped off the roof of my car, my roof is so dented you’d think someone went up there and practiced juggling bowling balls while hopping on one leg. I also tell them that aside from having driven my car into a garage with my bicycle on the roof multiple times, I’ve also driven my car out of the driveway with my bicycle under the rear wheels, and have twice driven away from a gas pump with the nozzle still in the gas tank. At this point,if they still feel bad, it’s because they now feel bad for me.

Trying to placate upset customers is just one of the many things we shop employees do in the name of good service. And delivering good service is something that we try as hard as possible to do with every customer, every single day. Sometimes, however, it doesn’t work out that way, and despite our best efforts, we end up causing a tremendous amount of grief, and profoundly affecting, in a negative way, someone’s life, such as ruining his or her vacation. And nothing makes us feel worse than having a customer say that because of us, his or her vacation was ruined. How does this happen, you ask? Well, let’s say Mr. Smythe brings in a bike that needs a new handlebar and rear shift lever because he drove into his garage with his bicycle on the roof of his car. He needs the bike fixed by Friday because he’s leaving for vacation, and he wants to take his bike with him. In order for this to happen, many, many things have to go right, and sometimes one of those things can go wrong. Maybe we didn’t have the proper shift lever in stock when it came time to work on his bike. Dinosaurus Rex assumed we’d have the part in stock, so he didn’t bother to check inventory to make sure. In an attempt to meet the Friday deadline as promised, Chinch Bug orders the part from the only distributor who has it in stock, which, of course, is in Seattle. He pays a premium (please don’t tell the boss) to have it shipped over night, but when it arrives on Friday morning, it is the front shift lever instead of the rear shift lever. And just like that, Mr. Smythe’s vacation is ruined. And someone gets to call Mr. Smythe and tell him so, and that someone is usually me.

I feel lousy when a customer is upset due to something having gone wrong, or for any other reason. Occasionally, a customer will be insulted because of the way I said a certain something and will refuse to ever step foot in our shop again, regardless of whether or not I am even there. And this can happen to the best of us. Recently, one of my favorite fellow coworkers, Chuck, who is so sweet she makes a sweet pea taste like a lemon, caused a customer so much grief by saying a certain something, the customer composed a lengthy, handwritten letter to the boss describing this grief. Fortunately for Chuck, however, there was no mention of a ruined vacation.

wow

2009-06-01T09:08:00.003-04:00

Menchov's teammates reacting to crash. At about 1:35 minute

2009-06-01T09:06:00.001-04:00

Amen

2009-05-29T13:42:00.001-04:00

german cool

2009-05-28T14:02:00.001-04:00

fixed city | Trailer updated! from fixed city on Vimeo.

These kids will 'rule the world'

2009-05-28T13:48:00.002-04:00

"The place is like a museum. It's very beautiful and very cold, and you're not allowed to touch anything."

2009-05-28T13:33:00.003-04:00

Ferris Bueller house for sale.

Innovate or die!

2009-05-21T13:07:00.001-04:00

Very sad

2009-05-20T14:34:00.000-04:00

LINK

ahh, not the snuggie!

2009-05-19T12:04:00.001-04:00

Between a Rock and a Running Shoe

2009-05-12T10:01:00.004-04:00

Sometimes I think I have a rock in my head. A fairly large one—granite perhaps, or maybe Gabbro—lodged in the part of my brain where reason is broadcast. My lovely fiancée disagrees, or pretends to disagree, but she’s a sweetheart, so she has yet to convince me otherwise. Here is an example of why I think my rock theory may be true: The other day, I thought it would be a good idea to go for a little run. It was a foolish idea that had no logical purpose, one which I can only attribute to a chunk of sedimentary deposit in my head. Why else, on a dreary spring day, while in a dreary mood, would I decide to engage in an activity that I am in absolutely no condition to do and have no right doing? I guess I figured some great suffering would pull me out of the doldrums, like fighting fire with a flame thrower.

I am a biker, a snowboarder, a skier, a paddler, a hiker, and a retail junker, but I am not a runner. I have no running gear. Nonetheless, I was going for a run, so I had to do my best with what I have. I threw on my UMaine sweatpants, which if nothing else seemed like a better choice than my snowboard pants, my bike shorts, or my wet suit. It was drizzling a bit, so I grabbed my lightweight, breathable rain jacket, and to keep my core warm, I wore a Capilene top and a micro fleece vest. I laced up my cross trainers, which I use for day hikes and which have as many holes as a regulation golf course, but were more appropriate than my hiking boots, my flip flops, or my dress shoes. And to really look like I knew what I was doing, I grabbed my iPod, which compared to the iPods I see strapped to runners’ arms, looks more like a cassette player. When I was fully “outfitted” I looked more like that guy at the ski resort with the jeans, the New York Jets Starter Jacket, and the lift ticket flapping in his face than a runner.

I went outside, took a few warm-up steps, and started running, at a pace I felt I could maintain—a pace that may or may not have been noticeably faster than walking backwards. I ran for 20 minutes with the elegance and grace of a dump truck. When I was done, I felt exhilarated—mostly because I was done—and for a brief moment I felt like I understood why someone would actually want to do this on a regular basis. That understanding vanished an hour later, when I felt as though I had ridden and been trampled by a large and very irritated bull.

My nose can run, and my mind can run. My mouth can run, and I can run out of words. I can run up a bar tab, and I can run out of money. I can run into someone on the street, and I can run a car into the ground. I can run a bike shop, and I can run a fever. I can run a set of rapids, but I cannot simply run. And as well, I cannot offer sound advice on running, so when a customer comes in needing help with running shoes or running apparel, I run away.

Some people, like Bruce Springsteen, were born to run. One of my favorite fellow coworkers, Chuck, is one of those people. When she runs, she glides effortlessly along with wings on her feet. Her special man friend, Chinch Bug, runs with her, but instead of wings on his feet, he just has shoes. He’s not so much like The Boss, but he apparently shares the same philosophy as David Bowie, who once said, “If you say run, I’ll run with you,” and to express his true loyalty and affection, he one-upped The Thin White Duke by sticking to his promise of, “If you say let’s run 50 miles in a single day, I’ll run with you.”

To all you runners out there, my hat is off. In my mind, I have nothing but feelings of awe and admiration for you. I mean that with the most sincerity, even though in my mind, I also have a rock. I gave running a shot, but I have conceded that, unlike you, I cannot run. And now I’ve run out of room.

"Let me tell you something, you're suspect..."

2009-05-11T11:46:00.002-04:00

New kit in action - Brevard NC

2009-05-07T09:04:00.000-04:00

2009-05-06T10:23:00.000-04:00

More swap

2009-05-04T08:49:00.004-04:00

Kip - Bike Swap Pimp

2009-05-02T12:46:00.006-04:00

WT...

2009-05-01T17:44:00.001-04:00

Patient 'zero' identified

2009-04-30T15:09:00.003-04:00

Most useful tool.

2009-04-26T17:24:00.002-04:00

Find out whose sandbaggin'?

(Sandbagging) "was a term used in the old days to describe how to keep man carrying hot air balloons on the ground. Sandbags were placed in the basket to help hold the balloons down. Once the ballooneers were ready to get airborne, they would toss out the sandbags and "take off".

So, in other words, someone who holds back until the finish, and then flys past everyone to win a race, for example, is 'sandbagging'."

2009-04-26T17:00:00.001-04:00

Capitol Racing!

2009-04-26T16:40:00.001-04:00

Urban trials riding is so lame...

2009-04-20T09:37:00.002-04:00

Example:

Where's the lycra? So very lame.

We call 'em crossbars. What do you call 'em?

2009-04-16T10:25:00.004-04:00

tubes

poles

rails

bars

long things

load bars

crossmembers

spans

???

no reason

2009-04-15T17:52:00.000-04:00

Click

In our backyard!

2009-04-14T12:55:00.000-04:00

Onion River Racing crit series - race #1

Can't beat this guy

2009-04-13T09:39:00.002-04:00

LINK

My Cousin Lenny got Thrown out of a Motley Crue Concert: An Open Letter to Motley Crue

2009-04-09T09:17:00.007-04:00

Dear Vince, Tommy, Nikki, and Mick,

My cousin Lenny, whose heart is a lot bigger than his brain, recently got thrown out of a Motley Crue concert for carelessly tossing an empty plastic beer cup on the floor. His buddy Marty got thrown out with him, apparently for being an accomplice to an empty beer cup thrower. In case I forgot to mention, they were at a Motley Crue concert, not a James Taylor, or Yo Yo Ma concert. And he threw an empty plastic beer cup. On the floor. Not an empty 40 oz glass bottle, which coincidentally was hurled into the air the first time Lenny saw you guys, and it struck him in the head, almost knocking him out. Fortunately, aside from a headache, he suffered no noticeable brain damage.

So there they were, a half hour after they arrived, before you had even played the opening lick of "Kick Start My Heart," standing outside the Verizon Wireless Arena, heartbroken and completely aghast. Lenny and Marty had seen you guys twenty years earlier in Old Orchard Beach, on the 'Dr. Feelgood Tour,' and this was their chance to relive the glory of the good old days while rocking out to "Girls, Girls, Girls." It was also Lenny's chance to rock out without a throbbing headache caused from being smacked with a airborn bottle of Colt 45.
.
After a futile attempt to plead their way back in, two cops came and told them to beat it, which they did. But after standing around on the sidewalk, wondering what to do for the rest of the night, Lenny decided he would give it one more shot, so he went back to talk to the door guy again. Clearly, he felt, they didn't deserve to get thrown out, and surely this nice door guy would empathize with their situation and say, "Sure you can go back in. And hey, just for the trouble, here are two backstage passes."

As soon as Lenny opened the front door, he was immediately grabbed by the same two officers, handcuffed, and tossed in the back of a large white van. Two hours later, he was released from the police station with a citation to appear in Manchester District Court to face charges of a violation of criminal trespassing.

Alone and lost on the cold streets of Manchester, NH, Lenny wandered around looking for Marty, who immediately after his good friend was carted away in the paddywagon, had gone to the bar. Eventually, Lenny found the bar where Marty had taken residence, took him back to the hotel, watched him pass out on the floor, lifted his drunk carcass onto his bed, and took his shoes off.
Not to be defeated, Lenny then went online and purchased two tickets for the show in Portland, Maine the following night. The tickets to the second show totalled almost $200. For my cousin Lenny, that is a lot of money, but as Lenny says, "You can't put a price on redemption."

If you heard one voice that rose above the roar of the crowd in Portland, it was him. And if you recall the most exuberant cheering while you boarded the tourbus, that was him too. So I just wanted you to know that you've got die hard fans out there, who just like my cousin Lenny, will do whatever it takes to throw the devil horns in the air along with you. After all you've been through, this should make you feel pretty good. Next time however, after finishing his beer, my cousin Lenny will gently place his cup on the floor.
.
Sincerely,
RJB

Spontaneous

2009-04-08T14:55:00.001-04:00

Montpelier Bike Racing !!

2009-04-08T11:08:00.002-04:00

Spring Criterium training series! Click here for more !

31st Annual Sugarbush Triathlon

2009-04-06T07:12:00.007-04:00

31st Annual Sugarbush Triathlon. Caroline, Mark, Nick and Hugh win the Mixed (coed) Team with Kayak class, and 3rd overall! Caroline wins the womens run!

Results here.

Caroline at the start

Caroline on her way to the fastest women's time of the day !!!

Handing off to Mark

Mark sets off...

...Meanwhile, Nick warms up in transition.

Mark finishing 4th fastest!

The hand off.

Muscles not Motors! Nick is 4th fastest!

Hugh outfoxes most by using classic skis in the soup, nets 3rd fastest!

Hugh finishes!

We call 'em bar ends. What do you call 'em?

2009-03-31T11:03:00.008-04:00

Horns

Extender bars

Aero bars

Bull horns

Bike shop owners’ favorite accessory of the nineties

Grippers

2009-03-27T15:44:00.001-04:00

About right

2009-03-27T15:38:00.000-04:00

Dumb and Dumber

2009-03-20T16:21:00.008-04:00

what to do in-between skiing and drinking beer

Repost. Needs no explanation

2009-03-18T16:43:00.000-04:00

LINK

2009 Mad River Glen TeleFest

2009-03-09T15:59:00.001-04:00

Grueling.

And some old favorites...

Six Degrees of Ed Sullivan

2009-03-06T09:40:00.003-05:00

I haven’t always been a retail junkie. I was once a paperboy. In fifth grade, I decided that I wanted to play the saxophone, so my parents, in an effort to instill an appreciation of expensive things, as well as enlighten me to the fact that life wasn’t the delusional joyride I had thought it was, decided that I would have to pay for the saxophone myself. The allowance I was receiving for mowing the lawn in the summer, shoveling the driveway in the winter, and doing the dishes and babysitting my little sister year round wasn’t nearly enough to cover the monthly payments for the instrument, so if I truly want to be a saxophonist who owned a saxophone, I would have to get a real job. So I did.

Not having much of a resume, the only real job that I was qualified for was as a real paperboy, with a real paper route. For four very long and formative years, I delivered newspapers early in the morning, seven days a week, 365 days a year, with my loyal dog Gonzo at my side. Somewhere during that stretch of time, I hit a homerun in Little League, kissed a girl for the first time, and paid my saxophone off. I remember sending in the last payment as vividly as I remember knocking that ball out of the park and that magical electric feeling from that first kiss.

Although my paper route taught me the value of a strong work ethic, it was a miserable experience. Even now, 25 years later, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, thinking that in only a few short hours, I will have to crawl out of bed, get dressed, and head out into the freezing cold darkness, with a heavy sack full of newspapers hanging from my shoulder. It was also an extremely lonely experience. With the exception of Mrs. Seaf, an elderly lady who lived alone and was the last stop on my route, and who was a high school classmate of Ed Sullivan, and had the yearbook to prove it, I had no one to talk to. But Mrs. Seaf, or “Seafy,” as she preferred to be called, loved to talk to me. She also loved to talk to her parakeet, “Kitty,” but I didn’t mind, because she fed me all the Oreo cookies I could eat. Each morning, while I delivered the world to the doorstep of the people, I looked forward to those Oreo cookies, every step of the way. Mrs. Seaf became a great pal of mine, but as far as developing a working relationship with a fellow coworker who wasn’t a dog, that was something I would have to wait years to do.

These days, those lonely days of slinging newspapers are over. I now work at a bike shop, and I sling everything from bicycles to spoke nipples. Instead of trudging from door to door one hour each day, I bounce from customer to customer eight hours each day. And instead of looking forward to a plate of cookies served up by Mrs. Seaf, I look forward to a cold pint of beer served up by a guy named Brutus.

And contrary to those lonely days as a paperboy, I now know all about relationships with fellow coworkers. Fortunately, I like the people I work with. In fact, many of my fellow coworkers are among my best friends. We get along well, and we have a lot more in common than the inherent need for a paycheck. We’re all active folks, we’re all English majors, or might as well be, and we’re all broke. But above all, the most common characteristic that truly binds us is a profound and unwavering love of beer. In fact, the entire outdoor industry shares this affection.

Nowhere is this love of malt and hops more apparent than at a trade show, where vendors use free beer to draw dealers to their booths. Throngs of dealers come from all directions towards the keg, like zombies caught in a tractor beam. It is impossible to resist, and without fail, a few beers later, you’re stuck listening to a sales rep, pretending to act interested in a product that you will never sell. Speaking of trade shows, next week I am going to a trade show in Providence, RI. We’ll see if I can resist those seductive kegs while I’m there. Maybe I should bring some Oreo cookies.

Stowe Derby craziness

2009-03-04T15:28:00.002-05:00

Wicked first 8 minutes of the Stowe Derby via boot cam!!

Stowe Derby Boot Cam from colin reuter on Vimeo.

Awesome.

2009-03-02T14:05:00.002-05:00

Tour of California -
All we see is Lance valiantly trying to hold up a guy who's slipping and falling on the ice.

New Hierarchy!

2009-03-01T14:09:00.004-05:00

ORS happy to present Kip, the new GM, and Caroline, the new assista... well, you get it..

The Kip

2009-02-27T20:15:00.001-05:00

Newflash - Real TdF cancelled for virtual Tour!

2009-02-21T08:55:00.005-05:00

"USA Cycling sanctions about 20 roller races, most in the East Coast and Midwest (and).. considers the events to qualify as races, that keeps new licensed riders interested in competing..”

There you go - The Tour of Cali folks could've saved lots of time and money by having Levi TT on a trainer. You can actually earn upgrade points by riding rollers!

LINK

We call 'em cargo boxes. What do you call 'em?

2009-02-20T08:31:00.003-05:00

Ski Racks

Car Racks

Pods

Clamshells

Bubbles

New Bike

2009-02-17T12:58:00.001-05:00

Getting a new ride. Should we get SRAM or Dura Ace? Compact or regular rings?

This Beer Sucks

2009-02-15T20:50:00.004-05:00

More norkorking demo

2009-02-15T09:44:00.002-05:00

Tele Demo

2009-02-06T09:24:00.004-05:00

more to come...

Refinement

2009-02-04T14:46:00.001-05:00

Word of the day

2009-02-03T16:46:00.003-05:00

Notit!

Rep. comes in the door and asks to speak with whomever is in charge of buying really expensive sleds - "notit!"

2009 kit version XV

2009-02-03T16:17:00.003-05:00

Regression

It's a Wonderful Job, Eventually

2009-02-03T11:57:00.002-05:00

Good stuff

2009-02-01T09:16:00.001-05:00

LINK

Better than the Tour?

2009-02-01T08:20:00.004-05:00

Armstrong, Leipheimer, Sastre, Basso, Cancellara, Boonen, Freire, Vande Velde, Hincapie, Floyd Landis, Andy Schleck....

Tour of California LINK

Kit version XIV (or something)

2009-01-30T14:50:00.002-05:00

Let the fun begin..

Live!

2009-01-28T12:06:00.003-05:00

Seen live at 11:53 EST on the Playa Palms (Mexico) beach webcam. Over to the right.. that's an ORS bag on the chair.

LINK

Best of Winter Outdoor Retailer 2009

2009-01-26T12:10:00.004-05:00

First person to spot someone at Sugarbush wearing this:

in combination with this:

wins, like, infinity dollars.