11/1/10.

Gravity-Powered.

The "Gravity Powered Vehicle mini craze" was long dead by 1988, but I'm not surprised to find the mantle raised again and burning brightly in Portland, Oregon, 2010, just ten blocks downhill from the Zoobomb pile.

Saturday night, my cousin Trey and I happened upon this fellow parked at Voodoo Doughnut, and I instantly identified his custom "GPV" as a DK SOB.

"It was the heaviest frame I could find," hippie Clint explained (as per the gravity-powered premise).

Although it's a confusing sight at first, the bike is sitting right-side-up, with a seat welded to the chainstay wishbone. The handlebars underneath turn 90 as knee rests, and you can see disc weights hanging down below.

The handlebars (SBC 4-piece Strips) also turn 90 but remain inverted, with curved tubing tack welded in place for additional hand positions. (Also note the vintage S&M Ditchforks.)

Clint says he stopped riding bmx around 2001, and after we waxed bmx-nostalgic for a few minutes, asked if I knew of anyone selling a complete bike for cheap. "Nothing too light," he said. I said I would put him in touch with someone who might be able to help and took down his email address.

(Caleb, I'm looking at you.)

...

Two nights later, Trey and I were out on another late ride when the red foldie suddenly fell apart in Trey's hands. He avoided crashing, but I confess that his look of bewilderment was priceless, as the bike slow-motion folded in half beneath him. Serendipitously, we were just then directly in front of Voodoo, and so were Clint and his taxi, reggae gently bumping. He was quick to offer his help and the use of his tools. The confusing repair took our combined concentration more than ten minutes to work out, bending and hammering and furrowing our brows, everything finally slipping together effortlessly in one fabulous aha moment. A cotter pin from Clint's tool bag clipped it all permanently in place.

The satisfaction of the experience was palpable, not to mention the value of Clint's tools, the cotter pin, and not having to walk a bike home. We expressed our gratitude and insisted on tipping him a few bucks, against his protests.

Foldies.

These dorky little bikes are unbelievably fun and even somewhat practical.
When Jaime (my wife), in search of a simple bike with upright riding position, purchased this black folder a few years ago, I became immediately obsessed with it. The tall handlebars, high center of gravity (almost directly over the rear axle), twenty inch wheels, and narrow wheelbase create a geometry that is addictively nimble and comically twitchy. Carving and swerving produce wonderfully pronounced g-force sensations; because you're sitting straight up, the full force is transmitted squarely through the seat, not the leg or arm muscles.

It is bliss.



Minimal: just a front brake cable and coaster brake.
Fenders, rack, kick stand.

But scarcely a week had passed before Jaime wisely forbade me from riding her bike. (She caught me practicing front brake endos in her mother's driveway.) I would have to get my own.

The red bike was cherrypicked from the cluttered yard of a rural junk sculptor, who was delighted to get twenty bucks for it. The handling is even more squirrelly and thrilling than Jaime's bike, for one major reason: sixteen-inch wheels.


The fundamental circus bear ridiculousness is further enhanced by the bike's generally rickety condition; the complicated folding mechanism, with its countless pivots and connections, is incredibly creaky. You can clearly feel the frame flexing beneath you as you pedal. On two occasions, I've accidentally folded the bike in half while riding.



(Note the black bike's single, sturdy hinge.)
The final reason the red bike is so great is its utterly practical three-speed hub. (Jaime's bike has a one-speed coaster brake.) After a little research, I got the shifting dialed in, and the thing climbs mountains like a ski-lift.
...

Post-Script: A Little Story:

My teenage brother-in-law Trey and I have been systematically exploring Portland's nether regions late at night. The foldies are so easy that we basically just pick an interesting spot on the map and ride.
Trey on the left.

One recent evening, we were exploring the sprawling, paved, industrial peninsula on the Willamette River's East bank called Swan Island, hoping for a closer view of the massive cargo cranes looming in the distance. At the dead end of a winding road, we came upon a bewildering construction site. I stood on a bike rack and propped my camera on the fence, trying for a stable shot down the gaping maw of a strange, alien war vessel.


As I hopped down, security approached. "Taking pictures of anything in particular?" he asked.

"Just trying to get a decent shot of that crazy ship," I answered.

"That's a navy ship," he responded. "You definitely can't be photographing that. I'm supposed to take your camera from you now..."

But he was overpowered by our wholesome, innocent faces. "Aww, I guess it's alright," he said. "Have a good night."

We pedaled away, glowing with victory and a sudden ravenous hunger. Hit up the Voodoo Doughnut maple-bacons on our way home.
Immediately googled "FSF 1" and read all about it. The thing is awesome.

I feel pretty comfortable posting these pictures up, since it's not, in fact, classified...

Proud Day for Our Unkillable Volvo.

To Grandmother's house we go, December 2008.


I had big plans for our 1992 Volvo 240's 200,000th mile. Wanted to go for a scenic drive up the Gorge, document the numbers rolling over, snap a portrait of family+car, dramatic vista in the background or waterfalls or something. But we had errands to run, and the miles just kept coming.

At least I anticipated it. Shot this shaky, unfocused, unremarkable home video yesterday.



For the record, we were actually passing directly over this, just as the 199,999th mile appeared;
...

Related:

Previous blog posts featuring the rig;

Bmx brickhead Jeff Z's defgrip interview and 240-peppered blog;

Youtube deathrock Volvo drifting;
...

See you at 300k. Markie darling--fourteen years from now, this is the only car you'll be learning to drive.

For the Grandparents.

Been working on this for a while. New video of our beloved daughter Markie, eighteen months old.

Click the button in the bottom right to go full-screen...

The Bins.

In earlier chapters of my life, I spent a lot of hours here. Visited last night for the first time in a while and shot some photos, something I've wanted to do for years.

"The Bins" is the colloquial name for the massive Goodwill outlet store just beyond Portland's southern border. It's where items that fail to sell in the store get a last shot before being routed to the third world as a corporate tax write-off. You rummage through the blue bins and pay for most items by the pound. It's just the kind of rare, cool, grimy, authentic place that can never stay unknown for long. For Portlanders, the place is old news, but I've not heard of another place like it anywhere. Up until a few years ago, the facilities were housed in a comically run-down warehouse, with a permanent homeless encampment on the banks of the creek that ran by the parking lot.

The new location shares the same pricing structure, but gone is much of the original charm: it's safe, well lit, clean(er), and organized. Still, it's an unusual place, worth visiting for people-watching or occasional good deals.

Books go fifty cents a paperback, a dollar for hardbound. That price seems steep to me, because not five years ago, the prices were half that. Here, Jaime digs for kids' books. It's mostly just Bibles, cookbooks, textbooks, Danielle Steele, and John Grisham. But good stuff trickles through.



After a while, the bin is removed and another is wheeled in, sort of like turning a compost heap. Folks line up in anticipation...


... Then start throwing elbows. Pretty weak photos, I admit. But they're the only photos I've ever seen, since cameras aren't allowed inside.



Many hardcore shoppers seem to be immigrants, looking for scores that can be flipped for a profit. Some come every day. I've never taken it too seriously as a place for necessities (What do I need anyway?), but my cousin Paul and I were, for a time, obsessed with hoarding other people's personal ephemora: photos, journals, home movies, letters, etc. Last time I moved away from Portland, I took two full cardboard boxes filled with the lives of people I'd never met. Eventually I took the time to weed through it, photographed everything, jettisoned all but the meatiest pieces. I think I sent someone's orthodontic retainer to bmxboarder DBZ in the mail. Paul still possesses, to the best of my knowledge, probably the most impressive score: a private vhs sex tape of two homely biker wives.

Looking for that kind of junk was always a pretty relaxed venture, just sifting through the detritus.

For a decade now, the fellow below has been the arch-nemesis of the record collectors in my family. A regular fixture at the Bins, he gathers up all the desirable vinyl in the entire building, loads his cart, and then listens to each album on a portable record player brought from home. According to family musical authority Gary Kyle and his sidekick, my uncle Tim, the guy makes no purchase decisions until listening to every last item in his cart.



Click this last image to go big. Solid State.

I don't know if he's a businessman or recreational collector. But it seems like kind of a dreamy life to me. He didn't mind having his picture taken.

Mainstream media coverage here, some interesting reviews on Yelp.com, and a blog post from my cousin Connor.

Familiar Manifestations of Other People's Cabin Fever.

Ha!

Following two similar posts in a row here, this appeared on the Deliverance blog last night.


Creativity's gotta go somewhere. At least his posts are somewhat bike relevant.

(Cute kid.)

bilding.

As predicted, here's another tower of blocks, assembled over the course of a very lazy New Year's Day.



I didn't quite use up all the blocks in the bin. Perhaps the next one will be taller. It's pretty satisfying when the tower gets high enough that you can just stand and build at eye level.

Snow day.

I liked my first tower better, but it fell down. That red triangle block in the bottom right was on top of the green rectangle but got knocked off while I was taking the picture, I guess.

There will probably be more of this stuff.

Chicago to Portland

I set this down in writing mostly to cement my own memories, but also to share the experience with anyone who might be interested. I had intended to blog/journal every day, but I never seemed to have the time. So it goes, travelling with a newborn, I guess. As I write this tonight, all in one sitting, the trip is not quite completely over.

Eleven days ago, we said goodbye to Chicago and set out for the West. We had sold all of our furniture; returned anything for which we happened to have a receipt; donated to Goodwill anything without resale value; and sent everything else across the country via Amtrak freight, at the extremely reasonable rate of 41 cents/pound.

To transport ourselves, we paid a hundred dollars for a pop-up camper, dirty but in good working order. We spent a week customizing and cleaning it: discarded superfluous racks, brackets to nonexistent accessories, a pair of rusty propane tanks; from the interior, temporarily removed the cabinetry, tore out the linoleum flooring and ragged panelling; put down new pad and carpet (taken from Markie's bedroom), installed new paneling (the only out-of-pocket expense); re-installed the pair of bench cabinets, ditched the rest; replaced the decaying kitchenette tabletop with one from our patio furniture (which J stained to a shade of mahogany); scoured every surface inside and out; and laundered the curtains and upholstery; did not have time to follow through with our plans to paint it. Perhaps in the future.

Some befores:

Afters:

As you may well know, moving can be a chore. The final stages seem absolutely unending. My mom came up from St Louis and watched Markie while J and I focused on our projects for the final forty-eight sleepless hours leading up to our departure. Our goal was to pack light as possible and bring along nothing unnecessary, but at a certain point, we gave up on doing it all perfectly and just wanted the hell out of our apartment. We crammed everything into the trailer, the trunk, the back seat, left the house keys by the fridge, and hit the road, pulling a trailer for the first time.

...
Day 1. Sunday, September 16

As the sun rose, Mom tailed us to Dunkin Donuts for 5 a.m. coffee and sugar charge up. We all exchanged hugs, and then Mom drove South for St Louis, and we peeled off onto the 294 tollway, westward. We tried to work up some nostalgic sentiment for our last views of Chicago, but the thrill of being done with it all was too great. That excitement was enough to keep us from conking out for approximately twenty minutes. Eyelids crashing, heads lolling, we exited the highway and pulled into a hotel parking lot where we slept deeply, upright in our seats, for five hours. Not even beyond the city limits, the liberated sensation of travel was strong. The randomness of our spot made us invisible, and after the car nap, J put a blanket on the grass and laid down with Markie for a while. The dogs roamed. Markie burped up; we changed her outfit and diaper. Someone had dumped out a cooler on the lawn, and so I scooped the free ice into our own cooler.

Getting out of the apartment had been our final responsibility. No job waiting for me in Portland, no rent due (We'll be staying with my aunt and uncle, once we arrive in PDX), no school, no homework. Huge, unnatural freedom. Furthermore, at just ten weeks old, the demands made by Markie are at their lifetime minimum, and her capacity for sleep is at its max. No schedule, no plans, no itinerary. Watch the weather, check the atlas, drive when we're in the mood, stay an extra night when we find a good spot, so on, so forth. See how Markie handles long stretches of driving, see how livable the camper is, see what the Volvo is capable of.

Concluding our heavenly pit stop, we promptly found ourselves disoriented and confused, choosing between poorly marked on-ramps, atlas locked in the trunk under the fully loaded bike rack; little dog Murphy spontaneously vomited a stomach-full of dog food and putrid scrounged mystery liquid, coating car seat and Markie, now squirming and screaming. On the shoulder of the freeway entrance, I ineffectually wiped off the car seat with paper towels while J changed Markie's clothes for the second time in twenty minutes.

Markie didn't seem to mind the stench of her car seat, so we trundled off, frazzled but not disheartened, all the more eager to get some miles behind us.

We used the De Kalb Oasis free wi-fi to make reservations at a KOA just beyond Des Moines. Made it there around ten pm, set up the camper, took showers, bathed Markie, decided to spend the next day organizing the camper and car, examine atlas and guide books, enjoy the campground. Slept with the “windows” open, let the night air blow through the mosquito netting.

...
Day 2. Monday, September 17.

Slept late. Cooked a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast on the Coleman stove. Organized the living space, consolidated boxes. Loaded the trunk with all items that didn't have to do with the trip. Patched a tube. Drank coffee, read the New Yorker in the shade. Once the sun reached its full height, we zipped the rubber windows and tried out the AC. It works.

...
Day 3. Tuesday, September 18.

Got in touch with J's friend Liz in Omaha, made plans to meet for lunch on our way through. Liz invited us to stay the night, so we did.

...
Day 4. Wednesday, September 19.

Ate a ridiculous complimentary breakfast at the French delicatessen where Liz works. My first time eating caviar, I think.

Headed North for the Badlands. Sunset rest stop.

Arrived at the Badlands around 1:30a.m., found a campsite, tried to set up quietly.

...
Day 5. Thursday, September 20.

Toured the Badlands by car. Lured prairie dogs with gravel.

Wall Drug.

...
Day 6. Friday, September 21.

Woke with the sun.

Mt. Rushmore. Refused to pay the $8 parking lot entrance fee, so these are the pics we got. Watched the landscape change from pure farmland to wooded foothills of pine.

Crazy Horse.

Set up for the night at a mediocre RV Park in Worland, Wyoming. Fixed chili dogs on Coleman stove.

...
Day 7. Saturday, September 22.

Woke early, romped with dogs in nearby field. Forecast in Yellowstone called for snow, so we decided to skip it.

Crossed the continental divide.

Buffalo.

Drove South through ridiculously beautiful Wyoming. Stopped at some anonymous body of water for a picnic roadside brunch of pancakes, bacon, and eggs.

Looked around after brunch...

Found this. I'm not sure—does the graffiti date itself? King Diamond, Bon Jovi, KISS, Judas Priest...

As the below pictures make clear, hips and berms aren't my everyday terrain, but this discovery was perhaps the peak experience of my bike riding life. Thanks to J and Markie for enduring the blowing sand and for snapping the pictures.

Sweaty back and torn jeans, onward to the next stop: Preston, Idaho, the real-life setting of Napoleon Dynamite. Arrived very late in chilly Preston, rang the motel doorbell, and got a room. Cast and crew for Napoleon stayed here while shooting, turns out.

...
Day 8. Sunday, September 23.

Napoleon sightseeing all morning. I wouldn't call myself a Napoleon “fan,” but I also wouldn't say my taste in movies is very sophisticated. Sad to report that the restaurant where Kip and Uncle Rico eat is no longer extant.

Preston High School:

Summer's house:

Napoleon's house:

...I couldn't believe Idaho's natural beauty. Large-format Hasselblad would be appropriate, but I just went ahead with my compact digital point-and-shoot and fired away through filthy windshield. These shots were all taken while driving, as J and Markie slept.

Tumble weed. Temperature dropping as we climb.

Made camp in Mountain Home, Idaho. Coffee pot ramen noodles. Did laundry.

Rented a dvd to watch on the computer. Here's a hot tip—sign up for a new account at Video Gallery, get a free rental!

...
Day 9. Monday, September 24.

Started the day with an oil change for the Volvo. Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, the transmission gave us trouble for the first time ever. The automatic transmission just didn't want to upshift or downshift, had to go way above or below the usual shift points. Checked the fluid (as I had at every other gas station stop), and it was fine, as I knew it would be. Checked with four local mechanics, none of whom had a spare second, and none of whom knew anyone that worked on Volvos. I decided that since the transmission wasn't actually slipping, maybe it wouldn't hurt it to continue driving. Got back on the road and the car was normal within thirty minutes. Fixed itself. I'm planning to share my story with Car Talk this weekend...

Beautiful day, beautiful Eastern Oregon, beautiful wife.

Arrived in Medford at 11p.m.
...
Day 16. Monday, October 1.

We lingered in Medford, Oregon, had a fully satisfying visit, and made sure that Markie got plenty of Grandma time.

After a week, we packed up and said our goodbyes. Rather than a straight, five-hour shot North to Portland, we opted for Highway 101, the scenic two-lane that hugs the coast. We dipped down through the California Redwoods and then hit Brookings, the southernmost town on Oregon's coast. It was already mid-afternoon when we stopped to check out the Brookings public beach. When we found that the park included a campground with vacancies, we happily concluded the day's driving.

This was the greenest campground of the trip, and the spot we chose proved the shadiest, soggiest of them all, appropriate for our official arrival in Oregon.

Set up camp, watched the gray sunset.

At just $17/night, we decided to stay the next day, too. Hung out, edited video, let the dogs run.

Rather than spend $8 on two cans of Coleman fuel, I bought an electric skillet for fifteen; only wish I'd done it sooner. Sausage links and french toast for dinner.

...
Day 17. Tuesday, October 2.
Drove north. Pit stop at the Oregon Dunes, ocean visible in the distance.

Couple hours later, stopped for a cold-water swim. J stayed dry.

When it was time to find accomodations for the night, we decided not to stop. Instead, we called our family in Portland and let them know that we would be arriving late that night, and they said they'd have our room all ready with clean sheets.

So we drove and drove, made a late sunset photo stop in Depoe Bay, where we honeymooned three years ago.

Arrived in Portland just before ten.
...
Day 18. Wednesday, October 3.
Slept happy, woke happy. And this is home now, for the next long while.