TIBOR!!!

You guys!  Huge news!  Remember a while back I said not to leave bikes locked up in Kensington?  And then quite recently I said that I was having recurring dreams about my bicycle that I'd had for over a decade that was stolen in Kensington in October?  Guess what!  I found Tibor!  Yesterday!  I found Tibor, seven months later!  I think this is a clear indication of remote viewing being a real thing.

Ok, some background.  I'm moving out of Philly at the end of the month, but for all I's and P's, after tomorrow, I'm gone.  I'll be out of town from Thursday to Monday, packing Monday, then leaving the city Monday night.  As part of my going away process, I've been having a lot of farewell meals.  Yesterday's was a farewell lunch on Penn's campus.  After the lunch, I walked my co-eater back to their office on Drexel's campus, and headed west on Market St, an intersection I seldom ride by.  I turned left at 34th, heading towards Spruce, when I noticed a shiny, silver bike locked at the corner to a light post.  Having been on the lookout for Tibor ever since he was stolen in October, looking at every bike I pass is not an uncommon thing for me to do.  Anyway, I turned back to get a closer look, and holy crap, it was Tibor!  Whaaaaaaaat???  He was stolen in Northern Liberties, what was he doing down here???

Tibor!!!

After some checking and double-checking I confirmed that it was, in fact, Tibor.  Almost all of the original components were intact, which I found funny because the thief had taken the time to scrape some of the turquoise paint off the fork and pinkish paint off the stem (not all, just some) in an attempt to disguise the bike, but left on the easily recognizable gold Salsa grips and wolf-insignia'd WTB saddle.  He was a little beat up, with a thoroughly rusted chain from being locked outside and a non-drive crank arm dangling from the bottom bracket, but nothing that couldn't be fixed.  I was so excited I could have exploded like a giant firework, spraying happy guts all over University City.

So I called the cops.  I'd filed a police report back in October and I wanted to resolve this the proper way.  I called back an hour and a half later after no one showed up.  After two and a half hours, two calls, and still no cop, a friend of mine came down with a hacksaw and we took Tibor back ourselves.  I couldn't tell if the cops weren't showing in the hopes that the thief would appear, a confrontation would ensue, and then they'd have something real to attend to, or what.  In any case, no one paid any attention to us slowly and unskillfully cutting through a cable lock with a dull hacksaw on a busy street corner around rush hour.

After ghost riding Tibor home from my three-speed Ross, I was able to take a good look at the damages.  The seat post had been cut down to accommodate a shorter rider, the chain was shot, the BB and non-drive crank needed replacing, my wooden crate and bungee net were gone, the brakes were worn to nubs, and most annoyingly, the steel fork that had been sanded down to hide his identity was now covered in rust.  Could have been way worse, as the expensive wheel set and high end tires were intact and undamaged, though woefully underinflated.

Based on his somewhat dilapidated state and the location of recovery, here's what I think happened.  Tibor was stolen by a Kenzo junkie looking to get high (I hope their veins fall out).  They sold him to some shady-ass pawn shop under the El for $10 (I hope their store gets broken into by a junkie).  That pawn shop then sold it to a Penn student for $50 (I hope they get buried in student loan debt).  Then, as Penn move-out was last week, that student abandoned Tibor when they left town for the summer.  Just call me Sherlock.

Regardless of everything else, finding Tibor in the 11th hour before my departure (leaving just enough time for repair work) was clearly my going away present from the City of Philadelphia.  Thanks, Philly.  That was a nice going away gift, even if it kind of was a re-gifting.

Is anyone in the market for a three-speed Ross?

Juniper: The Best Tree

Do you have a favorite tree?  I do, it's a Juniper Tree.  Ugh.  You're right, that opening question really was disingenuous.  I was just feigning interest in your opinion for the sake of segueing into my own.  That was pretty crappy of me.  Oh well, nothing I can do about it now except talk about the greatest trees in the land.

That's a bold statement, I know.  Redwoods are an obvious answer for the greatest trees in the land, as they are large enough for cars to be driven through them (provided a large enough hole has been cut in the trunk, it's not like they have the ability to phase matter through themselves, though that ability would definitely steal my vote from the Juniper).  Other possible answers include Ash (baseball and America, right?), Birch (birch beer and America, right?), Maple (syrup and Northern North America, right?), and Poplar (solely on the name pun).  But the Juniper really does it for me, and I'm willing to defend my opinion.  Also, that first paragraph makes it sound like I'm regretful for not waiting on your opinion.  I'm not.  I was feigning regret as hard as I was feigning interest.  Sorry, it's my blog.  Go get your own blog if you want to shove your opinion down someone's throat.

What are those Junipers even growing out of?  Rocks?  C'mon, that's crazy.

Alright, defense time.  Here's what the Juniper has going for it:

1. Toughness/Curmudgeonliness/Emotional Unavailability - The Juniper does not need your love.  The Juniper does not need anything.  It is you that needs the Juniper.  Growing in some of the harshest climates, from the sun scorched deserts of the lower 48 to the permafrost tundra of the arctic circle, the Juniper is one tough tree.  And do you ever once hear it complain?  No way.  The Juniper is a hard ass capable of living wherever it damn well pleases, which ideally, is far from humanity.  Not just in locations that no one currently lives in, but places no one wants to live in.  On the side of sheer drops, in the middle of barren wastelands, anywhere people say, "eh, that's not for me."  And this distance-based inaccessibility is just the physical manifestation of its emotional unavailability.  It doesn't love you, making you love it so much more.  Junipers know how to play the game.


2. Masters of Self Defense - The Juniper is the only tree I know of that gets more dangerous in death.  While alive, its sharp needles will keep most people from getting too close, or at least learning a lesson that won't soon be repeated if they do.  But in death, it's twisting trunk desiccates and fractures into sharp, outward pointing daggers warding off any potential grave robbers.  Additionally, these wooden knifes have an increased density due to their dehydration, meaning you're going to break before they do.  What other tree boasts this ability?  Most of them just fall down and die.  Junipers are relentless, even in death.


3. Natural Sex Appeal -If there were an arboreal edition of Vogue, Junipers would be on the cover every other month.  First off, it's impossible to hike past a Juniper without checking out those curves.  Just look at how much that trunk swings to the left and then to the right.  Damn!  Next, look at the style.  The juxtaposition of hard, dull bark against bright green needles and soft, round berries.  So complicated!  Finally, no need to call the stylist, because the Juniper has style down pat.  Look at that rock it calls home.  If I'm not mistaken, that's Late Triassic Navajo with a splash of early-century Crypto.  Somebody's ready for the red carpet!


4. Inviting Aroma - Forget burning dried sage bundles, Juniper smells immeasurably better.  Well, it's probably measurable, but only on a personal basis.  Ok, in my subjective measurement, I'll give burning sage a 7, and Juniper a 100.  The next time you're camping near Juniper trees, find a dead one and rip off some limbs to add to your fire.  They burn fairly quickly, but the smell is divine.  Smoky and sweet, the scent will carry you off into an aromatic wonderland, doubling down on the desert wonderland you already occupy.


5. Gin - Gin is made from Juniper berries.  I don't feel I need to add any more to that.

Position defended!  Junipers rule!  Your favorite tree sucks!  Unless it's a Juniper.

Canyon Wren Doppler Song

Have you ever heard the call of the Canyon Wren?  It's probably my favorite sound to hear echoing through roofless canyon tunnels.  My least favorite sound would definitely be the rushing thunder of a flash flood.  Hypothetically, at least, as I haven't experienced that yet.  My current confirmed least favorite canyon sound is thunder.  Definitely have heard that before, sometimes while running top speed over erosion pocketed slick rock through a downpour on the way to a culvert trailhead that really seemed like it was closer but time flies and so does distance apparently.  I still have no idea how Quentin's phone survived that one.  The magic of bricks, I guess.

Canyon Wrens have a song that starts with a bland chirp not dissimilar from many other birds flitting about the landscape.  But their song takes a turn midsong, finding its own unique voice, and becoming distinctive from any other bird I know.  I'm not an ornithologist, though, so I may just be woefully underexposed to avian melodies.  If the song ended after two or three notes, it would just be any other songbird.  But it doesn't end at two or three notes.  Instead it starts with a chirp, and then goes into a long repeating tweet that seems to fade off into the distance, even if the bird is standing directly beside you.  Like its song is a toy train speeding by, down along the canyon floor.  My description is not doing that little bird's song any justice, so here's a clip:

Isn't it great?  Have you ever heard a bird call like it?  Maybe doppler isn't the effect I was looking to describe.  Listening to it now on a computer vs. in a canyon, it sounds more like an engine or turbine quickly slowing to a stop.  As if the song was a fan blade after the switch on the wall had been flipped in a room where inertia was disabled.  Or maybe the laws of physics weren't bent, but the axle connecting the rotor to the motor was.  Maybe the motor's about to fail.

In any case, lying on a slab of sandstone listening to those calls bounce off the fins and mushrooms of a staggered Utah canyon is just about one of the nicest ways to spend some time hiding in the shade from the summer sun.  I'd recommend trying it some time.  Canyon Wrens can be tough to find, but if you're really quiet, maybe you'll get lucky and one will find you.  In the meantime, just set that video to repeat for the next hour or so.  Your coworkers will love you for it.

Riding Music: Spiderman of the Rings (Dan Deacon)

It occurred to me that I don't give nearly enough credit to musicians for helping me out on tour.  Between brutal climbs and monotonous farm flats, music helps keep my mind occupied when it needs distraction most.  I'm mostly a podcast guy on tour (safer since they allow outside noise in past my headphones), but there are times that the savage beast needs to be soothed.  So before I head out on tour, I make sure my music library is stocked with some music for when I need it most.  That said, here's one my usual picks:

Dan Deacon - Spiderman of the Rings (2007)

http://carparkrecords.com/

Spiderman is transitional Deacon, residing somewhere between the completely absurdist cassettes and the more traditional (relative term) Bromst.  It is frenetic, ridiculous, and spectacular, and packs enough energy to push the most exhausted butt up a climb.  It's also complex and nuanced enough that if you're able to zone out and fall completely into the album, you'll catch bits and pieces of patchwork sounds you'd never noticed, even after dozens of listens.  If you've never given Deacon a listen, here's a good start:

The intro to "Snake Mistakes" was the ringtone on my phone for a while.  

It was not a popular ringtone among my co-workers.

Spiderman has a few things going for it that make it ideal for my rides, the biggest being crescendos and absurdity.  The first one, crescendos, are what pack the punch for getting me through the worst parts of a ride.  My favorite track on the album, "Jimmy Joe Roche", is a constant interweaving of rises and falls that lead to an auditory tidal wave crashing down and drowning out any outside thoughts, good or bad.  Almost a forced meditation by yelling louder than any voices bouncing around in my skull.  Maybe it's not a tidal wave.  Maybe each build up adds light to a ball of energy glowing in my chest, and the final climax ignites an internal explosion that breaks down ATP bonds and blows away lactic acid.  Yeah, it's one of those two.  In either case, it works.  Just listen for yourself:

Not many better riding songs.

Then there's absurdity.  Absurdity should be something we all embrace every day.  We are all absurd people, each living absurd lives, but instead of embracing the fact that life is ridiculous, we try our hardest to normalize and fit in.  There is freedom in absurdity, in admitting that the things we do don't make that much sense.  That life itself doesn't make that much sense.  Why does it make sense to dress intentionally ugly to attract a mate?  Why does it make sense to spend $3 on a coffee that cost $.20 per cup, and then tip an extra dollar for that barista to buy more ugly clothing to attract a potential mate?  Why does it make sense to trade the 40 best hours of the week (at a minimum) to someone much wealthier than us in exchange for money to buy overpriced coffee that we need to make up for the lack of sleep we get because we've sold over a third of each day to the highest bidder?  It's completely ridiculous, but we think it's normal.

For that reason, you need Spiderman of the Rings.  Life doesn't make much sense, but we still try to make up a story to fit all the disjointed pieces of reality together, ignoring the fact that the end result is just a shitty Mad Lib.  Instead of forcing incongruous pieces of sound together in a way that sounds the most "normal", Deacon puts them together the way he wants to hear them.  He's willing to follow his ear's heart and making something that sounds beautifully and absurdly honest.  And that really strikes a chord with me on tour.  There is nothing "normal" about riding bicycle through the middle of the Smoky Mountains in the middle of the night, but goddamn does it feel good.  If feeling good isn't normal, then I'll take absurd.