By: A Call to Mediocrity Sunday August 15, 2010

Wind
Tension
Black
Sky
Boundary
Line
Blood
Pull
Spit
Compression
Sweat
Distraction
Endless
Spin
Hurt
Exhaustion

“What is left over if I subtract the fact that my arm goes up from the fact that I raise my arm ?… When I raise my arm I do not usually try to raise it.” (PI, 621-622).

“Writing is a voluntary movement and yet an automatic one. And of course there is no question of a feeling of each movement in writing. One feels something, but could not possibly analyze the feeling. One’s hand writes; it does not write because one wills, but one wills what it writes. One does not watch it in astonishment or with interest while writing; does not think, “What will it write now?” (Zettel, 586).

~Wittgenstein

When you look at your hands and you want your fingers to move, your inner monologue doesn’t shout a command for the rest of your conscious to hear, “hey hand move, pick up that copy of US Weekly and flip the pages.” You may decide that you want to pick up US Weekly and ogle the practiced flippancy of the nuevo riche but your consciousness is not managing all the duties the body performs in order to make the action happen, the interconnect that occurs in order to complete this seemingly simple task. The medulla oblongata controls the automated functions of the body, important things like breathing and keeping the heart beating and while we can control some of these things either directly, like holding our breath, or indirectly, by going for a run we know our heart beat will rise. In the end, and for most of our lives, these functions are out of sight and consciousness, taken care of by our built-in autopilot. This is an over simplification to be sure – there are so many functions that the brain performs that we would never be able to consciously experience. Fine, what I am interested in is the way our conscious mind can usurp the unconscious functions, in the way that athletes the world-round do every time we exercise.

You are in the middle of a tough ride. The road or trail keeps climbing up in front of you – never ending, or maybe you are in the middle of a race and the other competitors, those bastards, are pushing the pace. Your legs are screaming and on the edge of collapse, your lungs burn like a magnesium fire, the whole of your body is sending out distress signals that things are not good, things are bad, and things are in fact on the verge of collapse. The wonderful bit is that you don’t give in, that you don’t stop, instead consciousness keeps everything going, and the body keeps going, one pedal stroke after another despite the burning warnings. That this is the evolutionary result of millennia of life-threatening harassment across the rift valley by more adept and agile predators is obvious. What is not so obvious is why, in first world existence, an existence without the razer teeth of the ravenous muscles machines on the Serengeti, without the pointed projectiles and scarce resources of the third world, there are those of us who make a choice to experience this feeling?

It’s not just one or two mythic individuals or even a sect of rash sadists. No if you are reading this then you are most likely in the club. We seek out this pain, the point counter-point interplay between the conscious and unconscious, and we look forward to pushing the limits, to constantly find and break our bodies threshold. To get there takes work, and each time we reach it we push it back a little further, like a shimmering mirage on the distant blacktop that continues to reappear and exist just out of reach, an ever-increasing hurdle to conquer. The explanation for this phenomenon, at its most basic has to be boredom, or the rejection there of. The primal need to do and act, to find something new. That some of us choose to be blinded by exertion really has to do with some sort of hyperactivity or undiagnosed ADD. This is the drug that keeps us sane when facing life’s daily banalities, it’s where our mind wanders during the tedium of a workday or while toiling over the grout in the bathroom. We keep coming back for more ad nauseum. This is escapism or better foundism, we are hoping for an endless supply of more fruitful future challenges. Carpe Diem, Memento Mori, buy the sticker, wear the t-shirt, get the tattoo, just get out there on that bike or whatever and thank those primitives for bounding in unparalleled fear through the savannah, thank them for escaping those big cats with those big teeth, above all thank them for being here. It was there fear of death that allowed them to get more out of their body, to keep pushing despite their body’s objections. This is the gift of history and we exist without live lions, and yet rather than relax we create our own, conjure them up from the ether. In this way are always behind you, might as well give them a run for its money.

By: A Call to Mediocrity Monday May 24, 2010

Last week I lost my phone to a bicycle ride. It was over the crest of a speed bump. This speed bump was not the kind over which you need to be going less than five miles per hour; the kind of speed bumps that litter the parking lots of strip malls and government buildings, the kind that cause spilled coffee and chipped teeth. No, it wasn’t that kind of speed bump, because that kind of speed bump forces you to be aware of it, I’m talking a slow down or I will scrape the transmission off of the bottom of your car kind of awareness. The speed bump that sent a jolt through my bike, through my body and ultimately through my phone as it was ejected from my back pocket was one of those barely rounded asphalt hummocks that crop up on roads with a common interest in wealth and incline. At first I didn’t see my phone so much as heard the thrashing grating hollow sound and then I saw it, the little black piece of plastic sliding along the rough surface of the street, coming to a halt just this side of the center divider. We had been descending and my guess is that little miracle of science hit the macadam doing at least forty miles per hour. Done. The little screen was shattered, the silence switch refused to yield an affirming buzz, and for a moment, for a brief moment I was upset.

The thing I found interesting about this moment is just that, it was a moment. I wasn’t really to upset. Yes this was going to have to be something to fix, money to spend, but I wasn’t that affected. Lets avoid getting to deep into diagnosing this feeling; capitalism, privilege, and the constructs of the first world. I want to chalk up this quick turn around to sunshine and exhaustion. Portland has just had its first week of what felt like summer, and even though it has decided to briefly regress in the form of monsoon rains, there remains the undeniable feeling that summer has arrived. Portland summers are fantastic. When summer finally happens here it’s like waking up in a musical – everything seems to be perfect and in sync. This euphoria, when combined into a physical state of exhaustion, leaves one in do-no-wrong blissful stupor, making what had the potential of becoming a depressing “why me?” situation nothing more than an excuse to muse about the wonders of exercise and vitamin D. In the end it’s the freedom from the machinations of our minds that lead us to push ourselves to do the things that we do, because as the action becomes tougher and the enjoyment level become higher everything else is pushed away, the nagging begging little shitty things that clutter up your mind are banished. All that is left is the rudimentary feelings of hurt and desire like great big balloons inflating to fill the whole space forcing everything away. We search these feelings out because that is what we are hard wired to do; it’s bedrock, its fight or flight.

I have a new phone and the world or what I choose to see of it still passes through that little device filters on blinders running, I don’t expect this thing to last forever. I guess in retrospect I am just happy to be able to have some sort of choice as to when the hurt comes and the bliss takes over.

By: A Call to Mediocrity Wednesday May 5, 2010

I do not consider my self an athlete; rather I prefer to think of myself as more of a fitness hobbyist or an exercise layman. An athlete in my mind is akin to an ascetic, roaming the forest primeval finding sustenance in hope, constantly searching for the answer to their ultimate question. In the case of a true athlete, and this is only an assumption, the ultimate question has to be how far can I push myself, what are my furthest limits, when I find them will I by able to surpass them, repeat? Ego, over-bearing parents, and self-esteem issues can help to get one started, even work to sustain ambition but in the end the athlete’s purity is his or her own curiosity as to what is possible. To those out there that follow this path, my hat is off too you, fortunate or not I do not consider myself to be one of your ilk.

Why wax philosophical about the tenants of athleticism? The other morning I found myself not wanting to go for a bike ride; not wanting to get out and pedal, face the wind, the traffic, and the hurt. I realized that for athletes, true athletes, this must happen with horrible frequency. I am out on my bike, pedaling, musing and yet each moment hurt, even the downhill hurt. The wind felt like it was tacking against me, my tires felt low, children seemed to be running out of their houses to point and laugh, adults seemed to be walking out of their houses to point and laugh, (note that they didn’t even care enough to run), underage girls paid no attention; underage boys felt no threat. On top of all of this I got lost in the land of a couple acres, tin storage shacks, and hobbyist chainsaw artists. I should point out that I use the term lost here loosely. I wasn’t transported into the middle of the Taiga amongst the slender pines and the white snow. I had my little computer phone and I was still nominally inside the Portland metro area. I am not talking about being physically lost, I didn’t really know what I was doing and why I was out there. While Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich bantered about the physical realities of sound, the bone to water to hair connection that lets us listen, I was zoning out. Their radio show just another hum on top of hum on top of hum. I was instead thinking about the next hill, the next light, the next turn. I was at the point where you begin to hope for red lights, when you are ready to quit after each pedal stroke. I was just shy of defeated.

When I got home I didn’t feel like Conan the Barbarian wielding his death-bringer, a solitary warrior brooding atop a throne, depressed at the thought that all foes have been defeated. Nor did I feel like the worlds treadmill, to be walked over time and time again wholly destroyed. I felt satisfied and inspired knowing that I would go ride against my better judgment again, athlete or not.

By: A Call to Mediocrity Tuesday April 20, 2010

The first time I quit cycling I was a sophomore in high school. I spent the late winter and spring riding a red and white polka dotted Pinerello in the mountains around my house, my kit consisted of black shorts, long white socks, black shoes, a bright red Specialized Sub Zero helmet and a jersey representing sponsors such as Taco Bell and No Fear. That’s right, NO FEAR. Lets make it clear that this was just a jersey and that I do indeed have fear, so if you feign a punch towards my face and I flinch I am not going to be violating any contractual obligations; past or present. I wouldn’t say that I am always scared, but I am definitely not a fan of getting punched in the face.

This jersey was not tastefully put together, the logos appeared to be arranged by a former brick mason, each sponsor stacked upon another; the bright colors were a collection of everything that had been on ski slopes and bathing suits at the inception of the nineties; think Zinca and Aspen Extreme. I am talking about hot red, hot yellow, hot purple, hot green. It was as if the jersey was designed to make you color blind by simply overloading your retinas with colors not seen in nature, it could have also been an attempt to tap into something lingering in the hypothalamus, a primordial message that says “hey do not mess around I am poisonous, this is natures sign language so read it” would have been great if I was competing in leprosy, but not so great as part of an attempt to legitimize hick town teenage road cycling. That spring I was the only one in my little mountain town pedaling a polka dotted bike through the streets and out to the hills, a striking antithesis to the Wrangler-wearing, Copenhagen ring in the pocket, huge belt buckle set that populates my home town.

I grew up in Bishop California, a very small town high up in the Eastern Sierra. For a curious young man the town is conveniently located five hours from any large city and by large city I mean a town of anything over 50,000 people. In addition the movers and shakers of the town had decided, or so the rumor goes, that the weather channel would be a better use of cable bandwidth then MTV, thus giving my fellow generation Y’ers and me the gift of being even more out of the loop than our isolated location had already determined. Example: the first time I heard Pavement was in 1998, all that being forced to listen to Puff Daddy and White Zombie could have been replaced by paramount slacker ennui.

Bishop is known for a couple of things; the Annual Mule Days celebration which brings people from Los Angeles to town dressed in their best brand new cowboy gear and turquoise accoutrement, quite the spectacle of tenderfoots in unbroken in boots and frilly western wear. Bishop is also the largest town in Inyo County, the county which had the dubious honor of having the highest teen pregnancy rate per capita in the US during the late nineties, which I see as a bit of a mixed blessing, as I missed out on being another statistic in the young fatherhood category and I chalk this up, at least partially, to the horrendous jersey and penchant for bicycles previously mentioned. What I am getting at is that Bishop is known for many things but bicycle riding is not one of them.

I understand that there are many places that are not known for their bicycle affinity, I am going to go out on a limb and say most places, and that this shouldn’t be the reason for quitting something you love. It shouldn’t be the reason but it was, you see the definition of Bishop does not include bicycling but it does include getting some, the statistics show this to be true, and like everyone in their teens I wanted to get some. I did what I thought I should do, drop the spandex and the road bike, buy a beat up car, hustle here and there for a warm six pack, experience – passing out, vomiting, rejection, rejection, rejection, get beat up, and pine. Looking back I realize that that life wouldn’t be that much different had I stayed on the bicycle, it would just have been one more thing kicking my ass.

By: A Call to Mediocrity Wednesday March 24, 2010

Today I was moping around the shop, wondering if my life had reached its apogee somewhere in the past, that this high point, being not of note and hidden within the mausoleum of my poor memory would, at some point, present itself. I could be riding along in a taxi, listening to Slanted and Enchanted, or just simply sitting alone in a room quietly watching paint dry and bam, there it is. The fear being that this memory would be less than superlative, that this being the highpoint, this being the moment that if pressed, God would use to define the essence of what I am to him and to all of you would not, could not be considered a highpoint at all, at most God would describe the arc of my life as being like a ground swell on the prairie.

I am not one to be a bummer, we all have these days don’t we, when self-doubt creeps in like a greasy haired man in stained sweat pants and just bums out your whole day? Of course it happened to be Monday and that white castle on the hill, the lovely weekend was yet again perversely far off, this could have accounted for part of the loathing but I can’t imagine it was just the day of the week. I missed the whole rave scene so I am not able to point the finger at a mind rendered diaphanous by obscene amounts of MDMA. Rather, I lay today’s case of the Lows on a missed morning ride.

I would love to be a morning person, a no coffee thank you I am made of motivation kind of person. Many times I have imagined my self as a classic morning go-getter, you know that guy in the lettermen’s jacket home from school for the holidays, up early to make the Folgers for his parents; because not only is he the best Ivy league quarterback the east coast has seen in years but he is taking his senior year off from throwing the pigskin to be a Rhodes Scholar? This of course is fantasy, I can barely throw a spiral or read, let alone wake up in the morning, and the only time I drink Folgers is when I am on camping trips and it’s cowboy coffee or nothin’. My alarm is set and like clockwork, of course, it goes off. Usually I am reaching around my wife or one of our cats while the Temptations belt out one of there high energy numbers, but neither the adventure of the reach nor the syncopated vocal harmonies are enough of an advertisement for the sunrise. In my defense I have to say that the post alarm REM dreams are an addiction of which one is not easily cured.

The above being said I still manage to sign up for early morning rides and when I am able to pull myself out of hibernation and those amazing Conan the Barbarian meets F1 racing meets Oscar night meets spring break dreams and actually get on my bike for a ride I enjoy it. I really f*#king enjoy it. Your senses coming to life while your legs warm up, that wonderful light you have in the morning clean and bright like a fresh sheet of paper, the subtle silence as you climb into the ether and of course the early thrill of a fast descent. Damn I love those morning descents. To use a phrase that’s going around these days, “So Good.”

By: A Call to Mediocrity Friday March 5, 2010

As I write this, sitting at my dining table in the late afternoon, a glass of red wine at the ready just off the port side of my laptop listening to the new Dios “Cosmic Rays” album, feeling my breath move across my chin, which happens to have been freshly released from a winters beard, our main man at Embrocation HQ, Jeremy Dunn, is trolling the aisles of the North American Handmade Bike Show. I know that to most of you my current situation sounds ideal. Truly an afternoon hammering away at these silver keys is enough to satisfy most, but I must admit I am little jealous. The twitter feed is going crazy as each show attendee starts to weigh in with photos of their current discoveries and obsessions. I am not going to start listing all the heavy hitting items, I have a feeling the big boys in the industry will bring you all the best replete with winning captions. If you are like me you are holding your breath for both James Huang’s and Road Bike Action’s coverage; really those two have set the high water mark for our industries journalism.

There is one thing though that I don’t think is getting nearly the attention that it deserves. This is the trope of the attractive decidedly non-cyclist model on a bicycle-poster. So far, all of the NAHBS feeds have missed or skipped over these poster boys and girls. I don’t believe that a bicycle show can truly be a bicycle show without poster models, and if this is the case then let NAHBS be warned, they are on thin ice as far as this habitual bike show attendee is concerned. To be fair, I don’t think that the standard girl in bikini, guy in briefs model is necessarily the right method for the hand-built show, but honestly I think some men and women clad in the latest Brooklyn inspired Americana meets Beatnik fashion would be a boon to any builder looking to get her or his brand some additional publicity. Think of it, the photography could be fashionably crossed, processed or possibly shot as a Polaroid, and maybe there is a little story about how this person is not only a model but also a photographer/sculptor/engineer/doctor/barista/etc. Listen builders, this technique is really going to move some numbers. I for one would be happy to see the sex sells model applied in more sophisticated way and I think that NAHBS is just the place to do it. As a side note, every time I ready a caption or hear some one refer to a piece of bicycle equipment as sexy it enforces my understanding that our schools are failing. I can understand if someone refers to a Real Doll as sexy, strange but understandable, but a bike part, that’s just completely missing the point.

With the information super highway, the ol’ internet, at the beckon call of our collective finger tips any one of us, unless you are under the unfortunate rubric of parental controls, has the ability to access countless sophisticated images of good looking people, but this would be missing the point. The attractive person shop poster is a staple item of any bicycle shop, carried back from Interbike as if one were a crusader carrying a relic back from the crusades. This is an intrinsic part of bike shop ephemera, as important as black grease under a mechanics fingernails or a three way Allen wrench. Sexy posters will always be in bicycle shops, so instead of the same rehashed models borrowed from monthly Mini-Truckin’ shoots set to stand over some beat beach cruiser in a terry cloth bikini while smiling out from under what appears to be an indoor water fall, whose source seems to be just out of frame. Let’s do this thing right and lead the next generation of shop employees down a path towards a higher aesthetic, because in the end sex sells isn’t going away, but we can do our best to make it look better.

By: A Call to Mediocrity Wednesday February 17, 2010

At this point I have spent the majority of my employed life working in bicycle shops. I do not regret a single minute of it. I say this honestly, and for those of you who read this dribble, those of you who are neither my wife nor my mother, I have to tell you that it’s been worth it, despite what you may have heard me say in the past. Yes each and every one of those days in the past that I happened to be working at a shop, I know I said I hate it. Bikes shops, like many other types of shops this world round are an agora, a place where people of like mind can come to exchange thoughts and ideas, and though these thoughts may lean more towards the scatological in the environs of the velocipede we none the less spend our days in the market place of knowledge, dealing in the currency of ideas… ah yes I am happy with the sentiment behind that concept, sounds good, the currency of ideas, no matter what comes next, hold on to that lofty ideal will you?

There are some out there who might look at bike shop as just a refuge for the Peter Pans of the world. A never-never land of grease and crassness that one may think, from an outside perspective, could easily be filled by any one of the crater cheeked boys and girls from the local malls Hotdog on a Stick, and to a certain extent this is true. We bike folk, like our epidermically challenged brethren at the food court have the privilege of dealing with the general public – yes, we work in retail. I am going to guess and say 60% of the time we are engage in simple retail transactions, much like a transaction you would have when ordering food, you see the menu, note the number, tell the clerk, swipe your debit card, and wait for your tray of slop to arrive while becoming part of the Petri dish of Americana that is fast food.

What sets us bike shop peons apart from hordes working the registers at food courts across this great nation is the amount of time we spend on average with a customer, assuaging their egos, gently steering them away from the miss-informed website or the ideas that their “friend who used to be a bike mechanic” has led them to believe is bedrock. The reason we bike folk go to such great lengths to steer our flock of riders in the right direction is not simply that our reputations are at stake, nor that the hassle of trying to explain a return policy to a customer who has thoroughly destroyed a product because it was the wrong fit in the first place and they insisted is was correct and now they want to return if for a full refund is in all cases better if avoided. The reason is that like any agora or think tank or chat room, it is the sum of the parts that perpetuates ideas; with out the input the agora dies, with out the haughty roadies or the sullen commuters bike shops would be nothing. The symbiotic nature of capitalism, the constant push and pull is the reason we take the time, and yet in the end it would be a joke to think that heroes at your local shop are in it for the money.

On any given day at a bike shop there is point when a man with a skullet parks his recumbent in the doorway knocking product off of the sales hook with his backpack while price shopping patch kits and incessantly talking about all the miles he puts in during the week. Hoping, I guess, for some sort of celestial merit badge to be bestowed on him for his one-man battle against carbon monoxide pollution. The bestial part of us, of any of us, is straining against our super egos; the id in this situation is like a Viking berserk. Yet we stand there behind the register or next to the sorry man going over the benefits of each patch kit, smiles set as the bullshit piles up, why? Is it because in the end we are here to sell you something, or is it that the worlds of insanity that customers bring in may just be the fuel that keeps us going, keeps us laughing, wondering and hoping for whatever is going to come next.

By: A Call to Mediocrity Wednesday January 27, 2010

Despite my love for Mad Max I am no road warrior. It has been hard for me to assimilate all the miles and tactics, heart rates and calories, disposable razors and the general pumping and flexing that takes place. I am biased, having worked in a shop on and off for over a decade. There is nothing like witnessing an interminable retching of hubris to turn you off of something. Before the arms are up about painting with a wide brush I would just remind everyone that Type A and road cycling are not tautological, it is only that the link between the two is seemingly made of Adamantium. Taking a step back I get it – I am not here to illustrate yet another example of the ego’s love for generalization. Outside of the bike world, other less-than-desirable individuals exist, take note of your local gym or while waiting in line for coffee, the globe is covered with the sprinkling of God’s bitter tears. Anywhere people compete, one could argue that this is all we do, someone is liable to view the successful coddling of the ego as a step towards species procreation, an atavistic nod towards the high five hunters on the walls Chauvet.

Up until a week ago, I hadn’t been on a road ride in fifteen years. Looking dead into the eyes of the big three O I can honestly say it has been half a lifetime. It’s not that I don’t spend time riding on the road, I go here and there, work, bars, food, etc. I ride my bike almost everywhere; it is so easy here. The city of Portland, Oregon is truly a city of Pedal-philes. Needless to say since re-locating to Portland five years ago I have taken up bicycle commuting in earnest, the move to the nation’s number one cycling city led me back to the joy of being on a bicycle, first back to mountain biking, then to cyclocross, and now road. I have to say I had a blast. We are a far cry away from the time where my downhill bike is sold for yet another skinny tired street predator but now is see there is room in the stable for both entities.

It wasn’t that I found myself out on the tarmac lost in the orgiastic delirium of up-hilling, wondering why it had taken me so long to return to the blacktop. I think my return to road cycling came at just the right time. Like anything else having an enjoyable experience out on the road has as much to do with the people with whom you share the ride with than anything thing else and this certainly holds true for solo rides. I don’t know who else to blame if you piss yourself off. Find some people that are pissed at the same thing you are, go find some steep hills and beat yourself up on them – at the very least you won’t have the same energy to keep being such an ass. For the rest of us I wouldn’t let the prize of the amateur ranks spoil your fun, it’s quite a thing to go slaughter yourself on a hill and to be able look back in amazement that you were actually able to will your all and everywhere aching body to keep pedaling. In road cycling the hills do end and the boulders disappear.

By: A Call to Mediocrity Wednesday January 13, 2010

The season is over and you know what that means: time to start pedaling excuses for the past season’s failure and drawing up grand plans for next year. My season was lackluster; I knew going into it that this year would be a tough one. I would be getting married mid-season, this alone would be enough to derail even the most devoted disciples training regime. You see this is the time for your favorite one to be all the princess that she can be and it is your job to make it happen. This is how it is, and when it happens it is happiness non plus ultra. The thing is I didn’t have the focus to direct all my attention at this one perfect woman, truthfully she didn’t needed it. My trite and commercial ideas of what would transpire on our day were no match for the myriad handlers she had at her disposal. Throughout the process I felt more like an aging physician with only rudimentary skills left to on call reserve, sent for to handle only the most basic operations, think lifting and moving objects.

While out to pasture I found time to focus on other points of manning to which I needed to attend. Portland winters are dark, long, and wet. To translate; Portland winters are all about becoming adept at drinking and like everything else in order to be good at something you need to train – no one wants to be the first shaved and tan-lined strong-man vomiting out in front of any pub, club, or bar. This of course draws attention to my definition of strong-man to which we will devote a future musing; some of the more sophisticated out there might already be developing a foggy idea. Suffice it to say, being the one outside of your local, showing all your cards would immediately disqualify any applicant. To be clear, I am by no means advocating the life of a drunk, drinking is as much about control as it is about anything else, let’s just say that this is just one of the many skills I value as part of the quiver.

Ah, but there is so much more to life than drinking, and the off-season affords plenty of opportunity to explore this wonderful thing we’ve got going. How you get along and what you do will vary and while we collectively master Halo and trim our Bonsai, race slot cars and revisit the classics, engage in push-up competitions and gorge ourselves on the holidays, in the back of our minds we are thinking of next year like a mad Rumplestiltskin still looking for his gold and the fulfillment of a promise, next year we think, it is time to collect.

I am not going tire your eyes and dull your mind with my training regime. Why would I? So you can develop the false notion that you might one day beat me, go power tap yourself to the max? It’s not going to help, your base miles can run to hell and back for all I care, lose yourself in a delusion. I have a feeling I am going to live forever, and forever always has a next year.

By: A Call to Mediocrity Friday November 20, 2009

If my name was Tamino and I was on the hunt for my ultimate and one true love, and if I were squired with a man named Papageno who though a little short on brains but big in heart was also searching for the love of his life, and we happened to be living in a fantastical sing song version of 18th century Austria then this magic flute would probably be the wrong magic flute. If I were being guided by the at once helpful and mischievous Queen of the Night towards a vile and evil foe, then I might have to look for something a little more musically oriented. It’s true, the Portland Design Works Magic Flute mini pump doesn’t expel operatic villains into an eternal and unforgiving light nor does it save heroes and heroines from trials of fire and water, but what it lacks as a LARP’ing sex symbol it will make up for the first time you are stuck in the middle of Egypt or some other unknown far away place with a flat tire.

I could go on about how this pump lets you use CO2 cartridges in addition to good old time tested arm power to inflate your tires. The PDW Magic Flute has a bamboo handle that uses hidden magnets to keep the handle snug to the pump body when not in use – but seriously that kind of talk can get to be a bit boring. The fact of the matter is that the great ideas these PDW guys have are not just focused on bicycle products.

Let me give you an example, Portland Oregon has the beautiful Willamette River flowing right through the heart of the city. This river is an environmental treasure trove and attracts literally dozens of swimmers each summer. Dan and Erik have dreams, and one of them is to own a cigarette boat that they can use as their daily commuter. What better way to concept parts and accessories for bicycles then by screaming up and down a recreational waterway in boat designed for running drugs across the Caribbean? Its this kind of fast-forward thinking that comes up with a hand pump at once universally functional and visually appealing. Now you may be thinking that the gas-guzzling, no-holds-barred rampant disregard for nature approach is diametrically opposed to everything that our sleepy, mid-sized, green, platinum rated, bike-loving, city represents. By nature I am not one to argue, but what I am here to tell you is that it took the threat of a communist sky, instigated by a flash point I like to call Sputnik, to get our American ass to the moon. I believe the analogy should be clear enough.

Take a look around at the PDW website, though they don’t have the top spot on a Google search yet, that number one belongs to the Wikipedia site dedicated to the other PDW or Personal Defense Weapon. I think that with the help of the Magic Flute, the 3wrencho, and an awesome soon to be released commuter light range it is only a matter of time our PDW will be all the personal defense weaponry you will ever need.