Chef Cycle

For a while now I've been looking at getting some clipless pedals. For thems of you that don't have heads full of two-wheeled freedom, clipless pedals are like ski boots: You have snug shoes that clip in for increased control and efficiency.

Way, waaay back in the early days of my bike riding (meaning last July) I wasn't really excited about clipless pedals. I wasn't really excited about much of the dorkiness having to do with cycling. I didn't see how the difference between a strap across the top of your foot and clipless pedals would be all that much and/or worth the money. The same still holds true for spandex pants and any clothing with "aero" in the description (although I do love the man Aero immensely).

Saturday I endured six hours of moving rich people's useless crap in and out of trucks and up and down stairs, all in the cold rain on a single donated Clif bar from my man Jeff, who also brought me in on the job. Why would I do this, on my day off, in the rain, for people I don't know? Fifty bucks an hour is why my friend. Money talks, and David walks boxes.

With cash in pocket and eyes big, I thought of all the things this wad could bring me: Perhaps a pair or two of knickers? T-shirts? Movies? The list just kept growing. I did buy myself an awesome new zip-up hoodie (my favorite clothing item EVAR) from my local bier garden spur of the moment, and it was thirty-six dollars very well invested.

Then I remembered the Crank Bros. eggbeaters and Cannondale Carves I had been eying for a few months now. A bike shop in my area was having a sale on both, and with fresh cash in hand and an okay from the accountant I soon sauntered out of there with both for ninety-eight dollars. Woo!

I installed them as soon as I got home but didn't get a chance to take them out for a spin (ha) until my commute this morning. Although, I did get to fall right over in my living room while the gal was in the shower, so that's good.

Man, these things are slick. Man and machine combined into one efficient pedaling monster. When I pull the pedal up, it comes up. No wasted space or movement. It feels the way pedaling should be.

I didn't fall over on the road because all the stops I had to make were well broadcast and I had time to remind myself, "Okay, rotate the foot out, rotate out, rotate out..." But I'm sure it will happen one day. And hopefully only once, on some deserted stretch of road, with only one of those dogs with the flasks of whiskey under their necks to witness it and bound over to provide assistance.

In other news, I'm fundamentally sick of work. And not work in general, my work. It must be the same thing that nurses and police officers and fire fighters feel: "Good lord I am tired of fixing broken things." I know it's my job, but some days it's just really a pain in the ass when every phone call is, "I fucked something up, fix it!" Fix it yourself, ass.

Speaking of, I need to get to work. Got some stuff to finish up before I bike over to the Apple store to get Emily Three-Eighty-Six's DVD drive replaced.

Have a good one, be safe out there tonight.

- David