This morning on my way down Mass Ave, rather than potbellied cops on motorcycles waiting to give mild mannered cyclists unnecessary tickets, I came upon  some kind of huge DPW truck siphoning water from the nearby hydrants. The truck was in the left lane, across the road from the hydrants, and the 3″ thick hose was unavoidable. They expected traffic to go over it.  Yours truly, assuming they had taken ‘bicycle traffic’ into account when setting this up, expected the hose to give even just a little, allowing me to stay with the flow of traffic. Nope. It rolled instead, causing me to capsize in the street, completely wracking my left elbow and knee and smooshing my bike bell beyond repair. I guess my five mile run is out of the question now, as is going more than 8mph on  my bike for the rest of the week. Thanks a bunch for thinking of the cyclists, City of Cambridge!

Dicks.

So yesterday I made a post, and while putting on the finishing touches (after-post typos), it inexplicably disappeared into the ether. This has happened with a few of my posts here, which is one of many reasons I haven’t been committing my experiences to blog post in a while. Happily, I was able to salvage the text of the post via my Greader. Sorry if this post is a repeat for those of you with a feed. It wasn’t my fault, blame the gremlins!

Gloves. They’re fucking everywhere in the winter. I have many fantasies in which I pick up every glove that I see lying in the road or snugged over a fence post and open a small warehouse (sort of like the Garment District’s Dollar-A-Pound) where people can come hunt for their long lost glove or mitten. Or in some less frequent instances, shoe. Sadly, I am too lazy. However, I do feel as if there is some kind of mystic force that keeps me from ever having to buy a pair for myself. My last pair was given to me by my mother, who found them in a snowdrift by the side of the road in Gloucester, MA last year. They are now however much the worse for wear.

Exhibit A

If you think the outside looks bad, you should feel the sticky, shredded inside. Yeck.

So for a few weeks I have had my eyes peeled for a stray pair in need of a new home. I had decided, literally TODAY on my ride to work, that I would have to suck it up and buy a pair of new gloves as no karma gloves seemed to be forthcoming, when these beauties appeared on the sidewalk between my office and my cafe in the little village of Brookline.

I looked around but there was nobody in sight. Just me, and my new pair of cosmically bestowed handwarmers.

Thanks, universe!

The Cambridge PD can suck it.

So it finally happened. I proceeded carefully through a red, after stopping, along Mass Ave in Cambridge and lo, two buzzcut headed bullies in blue stopped me and tried to ticket me. Natch, I got out of it, though I’m not going to say how. What I will say is this; don’t try to out run them. They have motorcycles, and they will be pissed if they have to exert themselves, the chubby bastards. Also, don’t try to out talk them. Like most authority figures, it’s a lost cause to try and reason with them logically. Just out think them. It’s not that hard.

Good luck, my fellow rogues!

Ok, I really gave it a shot.

When I was hit by buses on my daily commute, I complained to the MBTA, the police, and our local “Bike Czar”.  ZERO ACTION

When I was repeatedly hit by cars while riding in the bike lane, adhering to the regulations of the road, I followed the same trail of bureaucracy and it led NOWHERE.

Remember this? I filled out quite a few of these complaint forms, and filled them with details of each violation and violator.  NO ACTION

I have repeatedly reported violations, to the point of  going on television (human interest, haha) to showcase the shortcomings of MBTA operators. Since then, the rampant negligence, hostility, and sometimes murderous intent of operators has remained unchanged. This tells me that though reports are being made, they have NO IMPACT on the daily lives of MBTA employees.

Now, the rumor is that Cambridge Police are stepping up cyclist-oriented ticketing. I’m sorry, what WHAT? If you, like me, ride these streets daily, you know that motorists make the monster share of traffic violations. Left on red, running through red, double parking, illegal u turns, harassment of other motorists, hit and runs – give me ten minutes and I can go out and grab at least ten examples on my phone camera. Between Brookline and Somerville, I’m hard pressed to see 5 cyclist run reds, but I have to witness motorists break the law at EVERY CYCLE OF LIGHTS AT EVERY INTERSECTION.

Again. WHAT THE FUCK, Cambridge Police?

If you want to protect cyclists, maybe you should TICKET MORE MOTORISTS.

Maybe this is community backlash brought on by the significant increase in T fares that seem to be on the horizon. Fellow cyclists, have you ever ridden by a 66 bus in October, the people inside sardined against the glass, and really taken a look at their faces? You can tell they’re seething with hate inside, choking on their projected image of the smug, healthy and happy cyclist cruising to work at their own pace every day. I can see how that kind of human wreckage could be feeling significant schadenfreude over this ticketing barrage.

We do not deserve it, and I for one will not fucking stand for it. I will not accept a ticket. Nor will I accept driver’s harassment, threats, taunts and assaults. I will defend myself in whatever manner I see fit, and do everything in my power to avoid street attention by our corrupt and misguided group of overlording institutions.

I gave it my best shot, I really did. Now I guess I’ll be dedicating this blog to the daily thrill of my rebellion. Stay tuned!

Greetings, dear readers. Sorry I left you stranded for so long. It is once again September, which means another summer is over, I am a year older, and the Burning Man cycle has drawn to a close. It’s been alternately a very fun and exciting year and a slow, stressful, painful one. I’m happy to say that I learned a few things, though I won’t bore you with the details. What I will do is show you some pictures from the Burn. Hopefully I’ll be able to keep up this blog a little more consistently this year. I’m still working on the same activism issues I was last time around, but at this point bureaucracy has ultimately failed me. You may be seeing fewer interviews or email correspondence and an increased number of mug shots. I’m sure there won’t be any complaints. Anyhoo, let’s roll this pumpkin!

This was my favorite Mutant Vehicle - a giant scorpion with flame-throwing claws and stinger.

This one isn't bigger on the inside, but it was big enough for our purposes.

Reunited with the kids of Camp Here. You can't find a better group of people on the playa.

Reunited with the beloved hammock where Crash and I fell in love. <3

Squirt gun: check. Boffer sword: check. Bring it.

Gutternaught the chopper returns to the desert in all her creaky, badly lubed glory.

This year I camped with some of my old friends from SCUL. This edifice is the brainchild of MegaSeth, second from the left.

I truly wish that the Hero video camera I was trying out to document my commute had been powerful enough to take quality video/audio for more than 20 minutes at a time. I see some weird shit on my daily journey, and it’s inconvenient to whip out my cell phone, since weirdness is fleeting and phone cams take forever to boot.

On Monday, I believe it was, I nearly rolled over a hand grenade lying in the middle of Mass Ave between Porter and Harvard.

This one, to be exact.

I didn’t think much of it beyond, “oh hey, that’s a hand grenade. It’s probably fake”.  Apparently more cautious folk reported it as ‘suspicious’ later on.

A day later, while cruising through Harvard Square, I witnessed a dogfight. Not that interesting except that the dogs in question were in two separate cars, stopped side by side at a red light. I laughed my balls off at that one.

Today wasn’t very interesting aside from the caravan of entitled asshats who were parked in the bike lane outside 65 N. Harvard St. in Allston. That’s right, the causway of death, which even on a good day is lousy with giant, jangling trucks, speeding yuppies and oblivious Harvard jaywalkers.

This is the last car in a line of three parked in the bike lane waiting to pick up their special snowflakes.

I had a bit of time to kill, so I spent it calling the BPD and reading off make/model/plate, while the drivers berated or begged me. My favorite was the european woman in the gold Toyota minivan, who shrieked, “Yes, yes I was in the wrong but I see that now, I won’t do it again. I swear I won’t do it again!”. Adorable.

I waited for a good ten minutes, while the traffic beeped and cursed around these model citizens (I blocked them off so they couldn’t leave, and why not, they blocked me first.) but when the police hadn’t shown up by then, I gave up. I’d say “There’s never a cop around when you need one.” but that is entirely untrue. Just last week, on this same stretch, a man got out of his car to rant at me and call me a prick for calling the cops on him. As we were shouting at each other, a calm and collected Harvard cop strolled up next to us to observe. During a break in our diatribes, he simply stated, “Sir, she’s right. Please move your car.”  I could have hugged him, I was so happy. But instead I thanked him profusely as the gentleman went on his way. Small miracles, right?

I’m not sure how to ultimately combat illegal parking on this strip aside from constant diligence and aggressive vigilantism. It won’t work, because I rarely see the same drivers twice, but at least it gives me something to look forward to during my commute.

Just when you thought it was safe to have a nice day.