Free Bike Happiness

I never realized how cheap I was until I was sifting through the clothes for sale at the house across the street from mine. The old guy had died and his kids were having an estate sale.

I didn't want to pay fifteen dollars for a sheepherders jacket that really would have looked pretty cool as I whittled away the miles on my vintage motorcycle. I like it and all but I'm really trying to not be a major part of this consumer cycle so much. I'm going Freegan! Sort of.

That being said, I did manage to score an excellent very cheap oversize chair for only ten bucks, complete with oversize ottoman. On the way home with the chair over my head, I asked if I could have the bicycle covered in bird shit and dust under the overhang next to the garage. The oldest son looked estatic. "Take it." That was all I needed to make my weekend.

I grabbed my trusty Home Depot bucket and some soap and cleaned the heck out of that dusty old Schwinn. It started to reveal a very nice and shiny undercoating, and pretty soon I was looking a pretty decent free bike to add to my arsenal of cheap/free bikes. After about 10 minutes scrubbing and then lubing the chain, I was ready to test the tires.

Weather worn and showing cracks on the sidewall, the tires managed to work with the tubes in symbiotic apprehension and agreed to hold air. This first pedal around the block was all I needed to commit and decide to buy new tires for this underutilized machine. Free bike!

I flipped through all the gears, adjusted the brakes and then cleaned the bearings in the wheels and steering stem. Fresh grease really loosened up the ride and pretty soon I was breaking away across Monroe with the second best free bike I have found to date. This 10 speed was fun with a bullet however, and I couldn't seem to skate to the store anymore. I had to ride my free bike.

After spending $10 on tires and $6 on new handlebar wrap, I guess I can say that the bike is no longer officially free. But the spirit of this journey lies in turning one persons trash into another persons free transportation, and that is the root of Freeganism. Use it or pass it to the next person. Share the fun, share the wealth and stop bringing over containers full of shitty crap made in China. If you need a bike and think this one will work for you, it's yours. I just hate to see perfectly good things go to waste.

BTW: Free bikes are everywhere. Spend a little bit of time looking and you'll be stoked. The best part? If it gets stolen, you're not out any real money. Chew on that.

What does it feel like to be stoned?

I used to be a bit of a stoner. Aside from being a major booze bag to boot, I usually had a nifty little satchel of the green wax tucked away somewhere next to my pocket pipe. If I didn't have a beer in my hand, I was usually baked and enjoying life. Aside from the accompanying nasty habit of choking back Camel Lights all the time, being stoned was pretty fun.


Now I find myself falling into this orbit around a "job." I'm watching the clock instead watching the weather channel. I'm looking at my bank account instead of at my forward lean. I'm dressing like a complete doid instead of not giving a fuck about anything other than cold beer, big jumps and pussy.

I'm not sure when it happened, but the switch went off in my head that perhaps it was time to settle down, find a "real job" and build a future for myself. This notion is chewing away at me a bit today, as I always lived like each day was my last. Pound that fucking beer, take another bong hit and grind that corner before you pass out. I still can't remember most of the 90's, and the whole cluster of the early part of 2000's is a bit hazy as well. Shit, I can't remember last week let alone last year.

My point is that while I'm being handed easy money every other Friday for "marketing," I still yearn for the balls to the wall full on assault of guerrilla tactics which included throwing a contest, throwing a party and throwing up. It isn't all about getting fucked up and being wasted. That was secondary. The primary purpose was the revelry, the rambunctiousness, the noise, the shit talk and the comaraderie. We only only do nice things here at this job. I used to only do nice things when I absolutely had to.

So this program, this plan, this current rotation around my pension, 457 and so called light at the end of the tunnel feels hallow. If I yell I can hear it echo, devoid of any passion and slowing wearing away my drive to be innovative and outspoken. I guess than keep beating me down with boredom, meetings and the mundane with more money. It seems my spirit has gotten fat enough on the easy pickens to resist resisting. I am slowly becoming the douchebag I hate.

So what now? Do I dive back into action sports and learn how to sell, design or market things I love, toys of excitement, planks of pleasure or funsticks? No. I've been down that road. Reducing your fun to a priced producable product may have it perks, but you see how it's made, where it's made, how much it costs and how it all works. That takes away a bit of the shine.

No, I think I need something weird like a marketing job for an Alaskan fish hatchery or to move to Europe and follow the World Gran Prix motocross circuit in a camper. Either way it would be a good mix of the new with the totally strange. That might be just what I need.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I'm gonna go off on a rant here, but I'm not going to feel bad about it. I just had my first annual review at my job and received a score of "fully proficient." This is a bit of a let down for me. I'm choosing my words carefully.

I'm fucking irate. I am so angry that I feel like a kid who wanted a bike for Christmas and got a bunch of new underwear. Fuck. Fully proficient? Are you serious?

Every monkey that punches a clock at this place scores "fully proficient." I wanted and thought I achieved the coveted "exceeds expectations" status as a first year employee. I can't throw a tantrum. I can't whine or bitch. I have to smile, say thanks and take it in the tank. Fuck.

I work with a bunch of great people, but lets face it, not too many of them are pushing the limits of marketing with their cutting edge posters and brochures. I brought new media to this agency to the point where the marketing manager presented a Power Point on the subject (that I wrote for her, nonetheless). Fully proficient? Fully cutting edge I would counter.

I tackled old people, young people and one very angry middle aged women. Add all the hoops I jumped through just to get here and I think I did an exceptional job. I am so mad I could spit fucking nails through the wall. I can't really call bullshit on two bosses who are smiling when they say this, but how is it that I'm the one with all the projects and the rest of the team is going on vacation? Fuck.

You got a raise, right? Sure, I got a raise. I got the token 3.3% raise that everyone gets. But let me fill you in on something: I'm not everyone. I am a marketing fucking machine. If you can't keep up, then maybe I'll pack up. This is bullshit. Fully proficient. Eat it.

At one point or another a scooter became a priority. I hardly ride it, and when I do it doesn't go very fast. I can't remember what bug bit me and gave me scooter fever...

Well, after spending pretty much the whole weekend cleaning, rewiring my bathroom fan (not a new fan, mind you, a new fan motor and fresh wiring) and bleeding brakes on one of my four stroke girlfriends, I took the old Honda C-70 passport out for a spin. Despite sitting in a motorbike coma for five months, it sputtered to life, coughing through the dust and was eager to please. "Ride me."

I zipped down the street and clicked up from first gear into second. It was getting dark and the Bap Bap Bap Bap rhythm of the motor seemed a good match for the night. I twisted the cute bitsy throttle to the stop and clicked up into third gear. I think I was clawing my way past 30mph but I couldn't tell because the speedometer light is out.

My little town of Monroe is much different at night. The hustle of cars heading to the lake or the mountain fades quite a bit. The neon hum of Hwy 2 still burns through the remains of dusk but really arrives at full brilliance in the dark hours. Truckers are lured to fish sandwiches, pizzas and other cheap eats. Toursists fuel up, piss and head on their way. Monroe did itself a disservice be becoming a rest stop on the way to better, funner, glossier destinations.

It is this underdog, under appreciated status that gives Monroe an authenticity I dont' find in say Woodinville. Feeder communities that thrive on being able to look down their noses at the podunk shouldn't be so quick to judge. Monroe is at a crossroads, pun intended. I hope that my community sees fit to revamp itself and seize this chance to be more than a slurpee stop.

Time will tell. But as I whizz around town with my 70cc's of retro Japanese thunder, I dig the fact that nobody bugs me and nobody cares. Everyone is too busy in Monroe to worry about what everyone else is doing. That totally rules.

I don't know too much about Grindline, but I can say that they are fun merchants of the highest order. Leaving a concrete wave of construction in their wake, Grindline has blessed me with four ripping parks within twenty miles of my house.

The Carnation, WA (murdertown) is a delicious mix of deep end trannies with bowled corners, mellow shallow end and over vert pocket. It will let you be lazy if you need to bang out your mini ramp tricks, or push you out of your comfort zone with all sorts of hips, coping and speed for your fix. It also sits in a really nice setting, with a playground, BMX jumps and grassy field as immediate neighbors. Wanna bring the cooler and the grill? Carnation is the ticket.

Duvall is the best use of space I've seen at a skatepark, period. The street course have everthing a street monkey would want: ledges, rails, street gap and more. A jewel adjacent to the street course is the left hand kidney bowl with stairs in the shallow end. Unlike a real pool, I can grind this one. The first time over the stairs I felt like Salba. The pool is challenging yet not impossible to skate. After a few carves you need to either tackle the stairs or dump speed somewhere. There is plenty of room but it isn't a trench... It is such a good example of skateboarding terrain. Check it out.

Whoever thought up the aggregate coping for that bowl is a genius. I was trying to deduce the thought process on that one. "Hey, let's put pool coping in." "Hey, how about we try something different. I think this will work." "Cool, let's do it."

I don't know how they arrived at the final decision or how they tested the product, but I am so glad they did. It absolutely rips! Grindline: thank you. If I knew who you were I would shake your hand. As it is now I feel like I owe you a case of PBR's. Swing by to collect.

Border crossing back into hell

A couple of winters ago I scored a coveted chopper seat on way up to
Baldface lodge. Shotgun has the best view, and you get a headset.

The shredding was epic. I was rolling deep with talented industry types, but I'll spare you the name dropping. It was the trip you always dream about, and I was finally on it. The helicopter ride from Nelson up to the lodge was my first, and the terrain was beautiful.

It was the anniversary of Craig Kelly's death, and even though I never got a chance to meet him, he was definately there in spirit and still held in high esteem among the guides, cooks, patrons, owners, etc... The experience was surreal and wonderful. I can't wait to go back.

Rolling back through the border, crossing from ultra mellow friendly Canada, back into the United States (Nazitown, USA) shouldn't have killed my stoke, but it did. The border guard gave us an hour long hard time. Searching for contraband we didnt' have, hoping to find drugs we had already smoked, eager to justify his detention of our group with some key discovery.

We're not dumb. Of course we're not going to smuggle drugs across the border. That is why we went to Cananda in the first place: personal freedom. After all the bullshit, we were allowed to pass with a warning about registering laptops and camera gear. Lame.

I followed the road around a tight bend and slammed at 40mph (60kph Canadian) into Bambi. The poor little fawn was uplifted from her paws and punted into a nearby ditch. Dead on impact. We stopped the car and I fell into hysterical laughter. I know it is no laughing matter. I had just killed a deer with the rental Tahoe, but couldn't shake the irony of being so free in Canada and so scrutinized in my own country.

Muzzey took the photo we headed back to Stevens Pass. I was a little less stoked. Sorry Bambi.