I've had the idea to do a tour from Pittsburgh to Cleveland. I think I'm gonna do it the next time I can get maybe three days off.
No road support--just me, a bag, and this old, old bike I'm riding.
The alleycat race I was in yesterday really sold me on the idea of seeing more of this country on a bicycle. It was probably one of the best things I've ever done, darting around the city, riding the trail on the north side, seeing the sunset on Hot Metal Bridge, and just having a good time with people.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Sorry I've disappeared off the face of the planet for awhile, but I recently underwent possibly the busiest and most stressful time yet at the restaurant.
Yes, it was another trendy fusion prix fixe menu, complete with pinot grigio spelled wrong on the fucking advertisement. I cooked over 76 of them one night, some terrible amount for the rest of the time. The entire array of courses was unbalanced completely; all on saute, nothing for the other cooks to take the load off. It was just me cooking the shit out of some food, really fast. As usual. I need a change of scene, to put it mildly.
Today I had an interview with a man named Trevett; a fellow food-lover and veteran line cook. He and his wife are opening up a tiny, tiny bistro in Regent Square with emphasis on French and Italian country cooking. This is my opportunity to serve pate de campagne to a few people at a time--and in a brand new kitchen with one or two other guys, nonetheless. I've just got to fill out his application, but being the first interested cook, I think I may have the job if I want it. He says he'll match my wage. Closed Sundays and Mondays, dinner only from five to ten. Jesus motherfucking Christ, this is so exciting! I can get away from that evil corporation and their Mexican restaurant chains once and for all!
Yes, it was another trendy fusion prix fixe menu, complete with pinot grigio spelled wrong on the fucking advertisement. I cooked over 76 of them one night, some terrible amount for the rest of the time. The entire array of courses was unbalanced completely; all on saute, nothing for the other cooks to take the load off. It was just me cooking the shit out of some food, really fast. As usual. I need a change of scene, to put it mildly.
Today I had an interview with a man named Trevett; a fellow food-lover and veteran line cook. He and his wife are opening up a tiny, tiny bistro in Regent Square with emphasis on French and Italian country cooking. This is my opportunity to serve pate de campagne to a few people at a time--and in a brand new kitchen with one or two other guys, nonetheless. I've just got to fill out his application, but being the first interested cook, I think I may have the job if I want it. He says he'll match my wage. Closed Sundays and Mondays, dinner only from five to ten. Jesus motherfucking Christ, this is so exciting! I can get away from that evil corporation and their Mexican restaurant chains once and for all!
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
god, it's windy today
Urban cycling is hard.
And I don't mean as an athletic challenge, which is the least of any city biker's worries. I mean acting like you're a driver. The price we pay for weaving in and out of traffic, mocking single passengers in Hummer H3s, and paying nothing for gas and next to nothing for maintenance is being easy targets for two-ton hunks of steel hurtling past us at twice our speed.
You can't stay to the right. You can't ride on the sidewalk. Unless you're in one of those modern cities that actually has bike lanes, you must be an element of traffic; signaling to other drivers, making eye contact, moving and letting move, and getting the fuck out of the way when cops and ambulances drive the wrong way at 100mph.
The bike you ride must be an extension of your body, and especially if you ride a city that's a mess of hills. If you're at a stoplight with ten cars behind you, and you've got to make a start going uphill, people are not going to want to wait up for you to do so. Shift into low gear and get your ass moving before you're flattened into the pavement.
Of course, most of the time, you can navigate through relatively calm streets to get where you're going on a bicycle--being an alley cat is one of the benefits of being small, after all. But sometimes, the only way to get down the hill is the way everyone else is, and you find yourself drafting a Port Authority bus at 40mph with a Buick on your ass, and you start thinking about your 30 year-old caliper brakes and crumbling pads, and whether or not it's time to replace that chain.
Speaking of the bike, I was doing some research today, and found out that mine may be a vintage piece of material... a Concord Pacer from as far back as the 70s. It's obviously been through a lot before me, considering what it looked like before I did some serious work on it. Just like my old Schwinn, it's fun to ride a piece of history like that.
And I don't mean as an athletic challenge, which is the least of any city biker's worries. I mean acting like you're a driver. The price we pay for weaving in and out of traffic, mocking single passengers in Hummer H3s, and paying nothing for gas and next to nothing for maintenance is being easy targets for two-ton hunks of steel hurtling past us at twice our speed.
You can't stay to the right. You can't ride on the sidewalk. Unless you're in one of those modern cities that actually has bike lanes, you must be an element of traffic; signaling to other drivers, making eye contact, moving and letting move, and getting the fuck out of the way when cops and ambulances drive the wrong way at 100mph.
The bike you ride must be an extension of your body, and especially if you ride a city that's a mess of hills. If you're at a stoplight with ten cars behind you, and you've got to make a start going uphill, people are not going to want to wait up for you to do so. Shift into low gear and get your ass moving before you're flattened into the pavement.
Of course, most of the time, you can navigate through relatively calm streets to get where you're going on a bicycle--being an alley cat is one of the benefits of being small, after all. But sometimes, the only way to get down the hill is the way everyone else is, and you find yourself drafting a Port Authority bus at 40mph with a Buick on your ass, and you start thinking about your 30 year-old caliper brakes and crumbling pads, and whether or not it's time to replace that chain.
Speaking of the bike, I was doing some research today, and found out that mine may be a vintage piece of material... a Concord Pacer from as far back as the 70s. It's obviously been through a lot before me, considering what it looked like before I did some serious work on it. Just like my old Schwinn, it's fun to ride a piece of history like that.