The Bianchi conversion...or vintage road bike mutilation?

As I sit writing this blog, the taste of ground steel in my mouth, I can't help but think I will eventually incur the wrath of some vintage road bike fanatic saying, "How could you take those beautiful, old, Italian road bikes...and, and, and...do THAT to them!?" The that being: grind off all unwanted derailleur stays, cable guides, and other extraneous nubs and parts not necessary for a custom single speed bicycle. Strip off all those coats of still perfectly good Italian Bianchi white paint and decals down to bare metal. Then transform this former elegant mainstay of Italian 80's road bike into a sleek, judiciously customized greyhound-like two wheeler non-geared eunuch bicycle thing. Well...yeah, I can. And, I am.

Just like thousands and thousands of old Chevys and Fords have been resurrected from the junk yard and made into customized roadsters and other hot rods, the same is happening to unwanted, forsaken road bikes...formerly 10 speeds. So, here is the beginning of the first Bianchi project, a complete bike and frame purchased last summer.



Edoardo Bianchi may be rolling over in his grave. Then, again, he may appreciate my maintaining the name on these nice, vintage, steel frames. More images here.

Bad Schwinn Super Le Tour

Just some pics of my near-complete 80's Schwinn Super Le Tour Mother Road Custom Single Speed. Many, many hours of metal brushing, sanding, grinding, priming, sanding again, undercoating, sanding again, black metal flake top coats, then clear lacquer coats. It still needs a final clear coat, then bar tape. Another Super Le Tour, a vintage Bianchi, a vintage Fuji, a vintage Trek, a vintage Schwinn Continental (original restoration), and a Schwinn Le Tour are in waiting. All leading to me being able to "finance" my dream vintage bike, a Colnago road bike (they're expensive and hard to find). A full gallery of the Super Le Tour can be found here.

The Poopatorium

Even though Englishman Thomas Crapper (yes, a plumber by trade) is erroneously credited with inventing the modern day toilet in the 1800's, historical kudos must go to Sir John Harrington and his flushing system from 1596. In a related misconception, the word crap is not derived from Mr. Crapper either. This word comes from the Dutch krappe, or kak. The German schijt may conjure a just as oft used English word for something similar. I digress. This blog is not a history lesson, but a tribute to The Poopatorium.

We all have poopatoriums. It's just that some us have elevated its status to more than just a small room in the house where the water closet resides. Mine is also referred to as the library, where, among others things, I read. I also play solataire on my iPhone, and, most often, think. Rodin's (pronounced like Godzilla's flying nemisis, Rodan) The Thinker is obviously sitting on the crapper...thinking. Once again, I digress into a history lesson.

So, do you truly have a poopatorium or is it just a crapper? In other words, while on the throne, do you read, or play crossword puzzles, or ponder? Or, do you just...well, take a crap and get out?

Here is an accurate transcription from a conversation I had with an ex-spouse many years ago, who, by the way, took the quickest craps in recorded history. She was in and out in less than a minute. Check that...half a minute.

Ex-spouse: Let me ask you something. When you're in the bathroom on the toilet "reading", do you read then crap? Or do you crap then read? Or, is it an on-going combination of both, ie, crap, read, crap some more, read some more, repeat, etc?
Me: If you have to ask, you'll never understand.

Of course, I'm sure many spouses and moms have accused their husbands and sons of doing other things for long periods of time in the poopatorium. But then it would have to be called the Mastabatorium as well. Fodder for another blog, another time.

My poopatorium has a magazine/book "rack". It's more of a decorative, cloth-lined container. It sits right in front of the commode for easy access. In my "library" at this very moment: several copies of Bicycling and Food & Wine, a couple of photography books, and a newly acquired used copy of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People (found last weekend in the "free" pile at a garage sale). Years ago, Playboys and Penthouses resided but went away when children were introduced. I've read many books in there from cover to cover...not all in one sitting of course.

Over the years, I have had the "crap and read" conversation with many people. And, for the most part, I've found that you are either a reader/crapper or simply a crapper. There doesn't seem to be a gray area. You either are or you are not a poopatorium person. One doesn't understand the other. Like that mars-and-venus, men-and-women-are-not-same book, neither are these two types.

My lovely spouse is a simple crapper. She is in and out in no time. Me, I'm a reader/crapper. If we head to the bathrooms at the same time, she's flushing before I've chosen my first read material. I think at least one of my two children take after me, I'm not sure. In another movie referrence, Miles Raymond (Sideways) was a reader/crapper...taking time to read or do crossword puzzles even when late for an upcoming meeting.


What's the ratio of crapper/readers to crappers? I have no idea. I'm betting O'bama is a reader/crapper for the simple fact that he is probably a multi-tasking, over-achiever who must be doing several things at once. As for my reasons...I just find the solitude of those moments in my day to be extremely rejuvenating and relaxing. Nothing more, nothing less.

At least twice a day (I'm very "regular"), I retire to my poopatorium and do more than just...poop! I emerge just slightly more enlightened than when I entered. And, of course, much lighter!

Three Days of Peace and Love

I really need to post a few thoughts about this weekend forty years ago.

It was August 15th, 16th, and 17th 1969. The Woodstock Music and Art Fair was going on in upstate New York. The iconic, historic gathering of more than half a million young people represented my generation in many ways. I was nineteen. That summer weekend yours truly was sequestered in the U.S. Navy Recruit Training Center in San Diego...boot camp.

Not only did I not attend Woodstock, I couldn't have gone if I wanted to. And, truth be known, would probably not have made the journey anyway. Not due to lack of desire, but because of simple geographics and practicality (I'm a California kid). I wasn't at Woodstock, most of us weren't. But, we were all there in spirit, especially after the soundtrack and documentary came out in the theatres (in cinerama) a few months later. It is still a big part of my DVD library today. And, I dust it off every few years and watch the director's cut, usually solo. In fact, I still have several tracks from the soundtrack residing on my iPod.



For most folks under 50 years old, Woodstock is simply an old news story. A short feature on the evening news documenting music artists playing a concert in front of 500,000 hippies wallowing in mud and squalor, bathing naked in a nearby pond, smoking pot, and dancing like Elaine on Seinfeld. Everyone had long scraggly hair (male and female) bell bottom pants, tie dye t-shirts, love beads...and, a smile on their face.

Director Ang Lee's Taking Woodstock is coming out soon. I haven't heard or seen any reviews yet, but most of us are looking forward to seeing it. At least most of us who are over 50. In the meantime, I highly recommend renting or buying the documentary Woodstock (director's cut) for an excellent representation of this event. I can't say for certain that the upcoming movie or the doc film are accurate considering I wasn't there in person. But it's worth a look.

Something to think about. Most of the artists who spent time on the Woodstock stage are still around and are still playing and selling music...Carlos Santana, Crosby, Stills, and Nash, The Who, Joan Baez, Neil Young, Joe Cocker, Grateful Dead, and others. Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin were there as well. The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, and Led Zepplin declined invitations for attend.

It was just a few moments in time over forty years ago, but for some reason, still represents something about that time period more succinctly than anything else. Woodstock was and is simply Three Days of Peace and Love. With all those people in one place, the logistical mess, the weather, the mud, the lack of food and facilities...there were no riots, no fights, no melee, no nothing like you see today at the most modest music festivals. Times have changed. I only hope the new movie "gets it" like it was meant to be.



Thanks, Max!

Just a note about this economical mess we ALL are in...

We have some friends who, in the past year, have joined the ranks of the unemployed...twice!

They shall remain anonymous.

This couple, empty nestors for the past year or so (one son recently moved back), worked for many years for the same companies. The guy was laid off late last year after more than 25 years with his company. He was looking forward to and planning for retirement in seven or eight years. The lady was laid off a few months ago after more than 12 years with her company. Both employers closed their doors of late. He searched for work and drew unemployment until a few weeks ago when he was hired at a new job. It was a lesser-paying job, but in a similar (but lower) position than before. She moved right into a new position with a big company, a bit different than what she was doing previously...but a job.

Last week, they were both laid off again. She after only a couple months. He after only a week or two.

This is not an unusual tale, just very close to home for us. And as both of us can attest from our own personal (and professional) challenges, heartbreaking to hear about.

Us and our friends are all approaching the back end of 50. Us and our friends are still very vibrant, enthusiastic, competent, capable, and hopeful. All of us have skills and the wisdom (of age) to offer someone. I have a job and am extremely grateful for it. It's not what I was doing before and it certainly isn't paying anywhere near the same as previous positions. But, it's paying me.

I was told many times by bosses, "Sometimes, we all need to reinvent ourselves". Well, I'm no Thomas Edison. But I have certainly "invented" something new in the past year: me.

The fate of our friends is yet to be determined with any accuracy. However, the prognosis for their future is bright. They are good people with good attitudes. And that's a valued, shining commodity in these times.

Perhaps, he just doesn't resemble any of us!

Rowan James Gonzales, my grandchild, may not look like, act like, or grow up to be like any of his relatives. He will most likely be his own unique person, like most of us.

There are children and grandchildren who are the spitting image of people from their genetic pool, perhaps Rowan will evolve into a facsimile of a distant relative none of us have ever seen.

Going through a few old photos today, I did realize a couple of familiar things about Rowan that may indeed resemble folks from my side of the family. His smile seems reminiscent of others.























Eh, maybe not so much as I thought!

Sunday Morning Boo Boo Shots

Sunday morning shots. Didn't get motivated to take any shots of anything other than Boo Boo. Kind of lost interest in the floral thing for the time being. Flying insects, as well. No patience waiting for them to land right now. Bicycle-projects-in-various-forms-of-(un)completion will come next week. Off Monday and Tuesday. One frame is primed, ready for final sanding then final coat...gloss black on the first one. Candy Apple Red (if I can find it) on the next. In the meantime, our little Boo Boo dog...


























Our old man, Sparky, is recovering from a visit to the vet yesterday. No pics of him this morning, he's still sleeping. Had to have the dog doc yank his right rear hip back into the socket (we think). Seems the aged blind guy twisted his leg in the backyard sometime the other day and had been whining and outright crying. $120 later, he seems better. No budget this week for bike parts now!

Bumps in the Night

It's 12:58 am.

The small fan is whirring its whir behind my head, oscillating back and forth. On one end of the cycle it rattles a plastic cover still on our end table lamp.

Haven't been up this late in quite a while...nine o'clock is usual for me.

I tried to go to sleep around nine...no luck. I wasn't really even thinking about anything in particular, like work, or projects, or writing, or vacations. Just lying awake. Wait...I was thinking about something, but it wasn't anything worth losing sleep over.

A strawberry Ho Ho and half a pint of water helps pass the time. The movie on cable I've seen a couple times, not really watching it.

It's not hot right now, but still a little warm...I'm sweating a bit here on the living room couch in my boxer shorts. One o'clock now.

Awake, alone in the middle of the night. Even though she is fast asleep in the bedroom, I feel a alone. The movie on cable...the volume is too low to hear anything, don't want to wake her up. A little spooky. The fan continues to whir behind my head, rattling the plastic on the lamp shade every few seconds. A single bead of sweat runs down my side from under my arm.

I've always wondered whether or not there are things that go bump in the night. As a child I used to sleep with my head under the covers every night. As I got older, whatever fear I had lying in my bed gradually went away...for the most part. That boogey man in the closet, one of my biggest concerns. What about those boggey men outside, in the yard, in the middle of the night? I'm still a little worried about them.

Guess I'll try hitting the sack again. I'll turn out the kitchen light first, then smoke one last cigarette on the backyard patio. It's dark out there, but there is a full moon tonight. I pushed open the sliding door and went outside.

I never came back.