Those of us who look at bicycling as more than a kid’s endeavor, and more than a sport for super athletes, want to tell everybody about it.

The Diana Bijou

About a year and a half ago, I was coming up on my mom’s birthday. I planned to see her the week before at a yearly family gathering in Yosemite, and I’d not yet figured out what to give her. My mom is a self-proclaimed “Book Woman,” a wild-haired, imaginative, intelligent, often spacey jewel of a person who I’m extremely fond of. She saw my passion for cycling grow and was proud of what I was doing. So when my partner found a classic white ladies bike on Craigslist branded “Diana,” the name of my mother, I knew I had found her gift.

I still remember pulling the bike out and showing it to her. “This is one of those gifts I will always remember,” she told me, and I believe she will.

I later convinced my dad to get a bike and now the two of them bring their bikes along when they hit the road with their tiny teardrop trailer, beach-hopping around in their semi-retirement years.

I put out a call on the ZPG facebook page for people to share their own stories. Quite a few great ones came in, like Joaquin of WeKeepGoing, whose 82 year old father still rides the bike Jo got him, and Matthew, who tweaked, polished, and fine tuned his dad’s old bike, putting in upwards of 100 miles of test riding until the bike just sung. I was reminded that we’re in the company of some pretty amazing people.

Whether you just use your bike to get to work or you’re a hardened road cyclist, you are making an impact with those around you. No matter how dubious they are of you when you walk into the workplace decked out in your winter regalia (seriously guys, put another sock over the top if you’re going to wear grocery bags on your feet), there is a nagging realization that you’re onto something–that being climate controlled, cruise controlled, and bluetooth ready isn’t really as rewarding as the millions in advertising would have us believe.

Bicycling like we do isn’t for everyone, and we’ll end up disappointed if we expect the whole world to join us. But there are a lot out there just waiting to be awakened to the efficiency, comfort, and sheer pleasure awaiting them on the other side of two pedals. Let’s keep modeling it for them, shall we? We’re making an impact.

alleycat acres, an urban farming collective

A few months back, I got a question from a fellow by the name of Sean about where I source my stickers and patches. He told me he was starting up an urban farming collective in the Seattle area. What’s more, he said they were going to be bike powered! Being the highly trained investigative journalist that I am, I set up a puff-piece interview propagandizing exactly how awesome I think this Sean guy and his cronies are. So without any further ado, here’s the story of Alleycat Acres!

Kit: So tell me about Alleycat Acres. What’s it all about?
Sean Conroe:We’re an upcoming urban farming collective here in Seattle. Right now, we have 10 amazing alleycats involved in our group, Sustainable Seattle as our fiscal sponsor, and an ever so gracious homeowner who is letting us farm his roughly 1/5 acre of land here in the city.

Our plan is simple: dig, plant, eat, repeat. And we aim to do that by creating a network of gardens within certain neighborhoods on vacant spaces. The food we grow will eventually create a bike delivered, sliding scale CSA model for those in the areas we farm. We’re focusing on areas that can be considered food insecure — where access to fresh, healthy nibbles is limited and/or unaffordable to those who need it the most. We aim to really redefine what eating local means — why shouldn’t we be growing food in the city?

KK: You mention on your site that city laws in Seattle make things somewhat challenging for urban agriculturalists. Can you tell me how?
SC: That’s about to change. Really rapidly. For us, there’s legalities surrounding land use and zoning permits as far as selling food. For time being, according to these laws, we can’t sell the way we want to sell what we grow; we can donate it. So, we’re planning on donating to neighborhood food banks in the area, and have also toyed with creating unique drop zones where people may have an easier time getting to so they can have some of our fresh goodies.

But considering that Seattle just announced that 2010 is the Year of Urban Agriculture, the outlook is promising that we’ll be able to create what we set out to do, and many other projects and programs can be launched that couldn’t have been before.

The challenge now is to mobilize all of us who are involved in urban agriculture so the city can really find out what types of urban ag activies are and have been already occuring throughout town.

KK: So this all sounds pretty great, but I do feel obligated to ask this question on behalf of Zero Per Gallon’s founder, Jonny: Do you plan on using goats at any point in your urban gardening strategy?
SC: Thanks to the Goat Justice League, it is legal to own goats in the City of Seattle. We also have multiple rent-a-goat programs out here where you can hire goats to clear space. No lie!

And we’ve thought about it. Really really really thought about how rad it’d be to actually have a goat on a future site.

More realistically, though,  if we get land in the future that needs clearing, perhaps we’ll hire some of these “party time” goats to get the job done while we kick back and throw down a cold one and munch on some carrots.

KK: Uh… I think we’d better avoid that line of conversation, but you do like bikes, too, right? I noticed that they seem to be a pretty integral part of your plan. Can you tell me how you plan on using them, and how they’ll make things easier and better?
SC: We’re aiming to craft nifty bike carts to attach to some of our two wheelers to deliver the treats we grow in the gardens. Bikes make for a more efficient approach to providing “farm fresh” food all around. And I don’t know if you know, but many a fruit and veggy secretly love going for rides on bikes, where they can enjoy the fresh air and the sun, akin to reasons why we love bikes.

We’re trying to minimize our impact over the long term. A bike is the hands down, easiest, wisest and most efficient choice for us to use as a mode of transportation. Plus, not being cooped up as a rat in a 7,000 lb metal cage allows us to interact more with people we pass on the streets. So tack on building community building as another reason why we believe in pedal powered produce.

KK: So are you all like, gnarly, bad-ass bike messengers?
SC: Nope. We’re just plain bad-ass.

You know, this question made me think of a speech that Mikael Colville-Andersen from Copenhagenize.com gave not that long ago about what a “cyclist” is in Denmark was — he defined it as being a person who rides a bicycle, which means that if grandma rides a bike, she’s a cyclist…whereas here, we have this cultural belief that cyclists are rebels, mischief makers. We don’t consider grandma a cyclist even if she rides a bike…

But for us, we’re a group of students, computer programmers, business owners, scientists, landscape architects, gardeners, bakers… I’m sure theres more labels you could slap on us. In fact, you I don’t think you could throw together a more diverse group individuals and have them get along as well as we do. All of us, however, have a huge passion for food and believe that everyone, regardless of economic status, should have access to it — and I bet that’s why we all work so well together. The tie that binds, if you will.

KK: Describe your favorite bike for me, as you would describe a lover.
SC: sleek, simple..and built to last. what more do you need?

KK: That reminds me, my brother-in-law is single and living in Seattle. Do you suppose you could help me hook him up with someone up there?
SC: Does he like boys? Girls? Bikes? Goats? I’m sure I can hook him up with someone. If I can’t come through, there’s always OKCupid, which, according to this guy I can hear at the coffee shop, is apparently the rage jam packed with hotties..

alleycat acre's plan for their beacon hill farm.

KK: That’s nice of you. I’ll pass those sage words from a loudmouthed Seattle coffeeshop patron along. How about any advice for people thinking about starting their own urban or community garden?
SC: Just dig it. No, really. Just get out there and do, errr..dig  it. You’d be surprised at how supportive people are and how many people will want to help you. And chances are there are many groups doing what you want to do, but you just don’t know about them.

And there’s lots of money out there for these types of projects. Don’t be afraid to ask for it.

KK: Can we really make a difference?
SC: Isn’t that how change has historically happened — because we made it? It’s the only way it ever happens. From the bottom up. You gotta start somewhere, and we’re starting by getting our hands and feet dirty.

Many of us have engorged ourselves on the trimmings of the season and the year is finally at an end. 2009 kind of stuck it to a lot of people, many close to me, so I can’t say I’m sad to see it go. 2010 marks a new beginning for a lot of things, including Zero Per Gallon. Jonny will be sailing off into the sunset, beginning his mission to eradicate Sea Goats from the Pacific. Meanwhile back on land, I will be moving forward with Zero Per Gallon’s mission to continue to encourage people to get on the bike, and to feel even better about getting on the bike than they already do. Which is a pretty darn tall order.

The holidays consumed a lot of my time with a trip back east. I’ve fallen behind on my inventory of 53 Miles Per Burrito shirts, but by early to mid January we should have the Large and Extra Large shirts back in stock. Also in 2010, you should expect to see some new products popping up on the site. In the hopper as well are some limited edition collabo’s t-shirts that you stylish folk may be excited about. I’m also working an angle on another collaboration that may result in a new jewelry line.

I’m also planning on hitting the ground running on my search for some worthy bicycle shops across the nation to begin carrying our product. The response to the 53 Miles Per Burrito shirt really is phenomenal, and I know anecdotally that as soon as the shops start carrying our shirts, they start flying off the shelves. If you know of a shop that you think is right for ZPG, let me know.

I’ve got a lot of high hopes for 2010, and I hope you do too. The cycling community is unlike anything I’ve ever known. Its appeal spans from neon-lycra wearers to hipsters, from dot com geniuses to fanatically conservative Texas Republicans. We’re all just linked together around the chainrings of this thing called a bicycle, and yet most of the time, that is enough. You folks are the reason this little business works, and so you’re who it works for. So raise a glass to yourselves–you’ve earned it.

May your 2010 reveal new routes that take your breath away (literally or metaphorically, your choice), may you put more miles on your pair of wheels than ever have before, and may you have warm tailwinds in all your pursuits. Happy New Year.

But I’ll keep this G-rated, so as not to offend the toddlers out there.

So:

ZPG sponsored an alleycat in Sioux Falls a few weeks ago. Check it:

ZPG is also a big fan of this take on the “one less car” shirt, courtesy of Josh.

Thanks, amigos!

That’s me! That’s me! I’ve written an awesome interview with Evan P. Schneider, the awesome editor of the awesome “Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac.”

Buy a copy now and save it for your great grandkids! Send it to me for a real live autograph! Or just read it, cause it’s great.

Here’s another teaser (without the vowels removed):

…Is a symbol enough? No way. It’s just a symbol. I mean, I can’t eat the word CHEERIOS for breakfast. For god sakes, I’d much rather live in a world in which everybody rides bikes and nobody buys my stickers because they’re just so damned obvious. I’d love to see the day when, riding hands-free, some girl checks her email on her iPhone, clicks on a link her grandma emailed to her, ends up on ZeroPerGallon.com, and is like, “Geez, grandma, the symbolic gesture here is so L-A-M-E,” and then watches the latest Justin Timberlake Jr. video and is like, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” and then puts her hands back on the bars to take some wicked tight turns on a crazy descent.

But thanks for calling it powerful, ubiquitous, and semiotically-interesting. I appreciate that. To take a Kindergartener’s approach, “If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?”

But really: the numbers do speak for themselves. That’s why my stickers keep selling. The loading of anger/contempt/etc. is only done by my words, on my website, and intended as sort of a comfort — a soft welcome mat, or a clean, dry bench in a heavy rain — for bicyclists who visit my website. “Aha,” I hope they’ll say. “This guy understands my situation. He feels like I do. He’s just like me. Except hairier, and taller, and better looking, and more awesome.” (Just kidding about that last part.)

Click here to view the embedded video.

Say what you want about the performance art, or the music, or the temperature of your coffee this morning, but that’s Miranda July doing those poses, and that’s Blonde Redhead making that music, and the thing that brought it all together, or at least to my attention, was bikes. Serendipity doesn’t get any better than that. Huzzah! As Brendt likes to chant wherever he goes, BIKES ROCK!

So I spent the last 143 hours watching bike porn non-stop, and now I can barely feel my fingertips or blink my left eye. I saw a dozen short movies, including”Anima D’ Acciaio” (“Soul of steel”), a crisp profile of Framebuilder and mechanical poet Giovanni “Ciocc” Pelizzoli.

Anima D’Acciaio Trailer Ver5.1 from Cinecycle on Vimeo.

There was also “Made in Queens,” a short, funny window on some New York teenagers turning bikes into 300 lb music machines that topped out at maybe 2mph. But by far the best movie was called “Where are you go,” and it was directed by the illustrious Benny Zenga, who oversees the BFF in Toronto, and made the fantastic short movie “Ski Boys.”

Here’s the really cool part: Benny was in SF for the festival this year, and I couldn’t help noticing that he was riding one of my ZPG Anti Hero skateboards. I’m a fan of him, he’s a fan of me, and while the movies were showing, we made out in the back on a big squishy couch. It was friggin awesome.

Actually, that’s a lie. The couch was very firm. But anyway, “Where are you go,” features some spectacular moments. One subject of the film, a Dutch rider named Jos Kaal, summed up the time on his bike this way: “Sit, stand, drink, eat. You know, look around.” That, to him, was the essence of the 12,000 km Tour d’ Afrique, from Cairo to Cape Town. It was a 4-month endeavor, and another guy compared it to a time warp. There was talk of how such a ride makes you redefine your basic needs, and how, eventually, what was once really exotic can become routine. Another rider summed up the race this way: “It would be great to be home, but there’s a lot i enjoy: the company, the serenity, the riding.” Aint that the truth. My hat is off to you, Benny, for again making the finest movie of the festival.

Click here to view the embedded video.

I know, I know, I too I was under the impression that the demand for sex (and alcohol) was inelastic. Apparently some idiot/genius named Thomas Goetz, who probably didn’t go to a liberal arts college and instead got a far more valuable education running a brothel, decided to offer a discount, and screw up the whole damn theory.

And I know, I know, I was once under the impression that Reuters actually reported news, but that’s only because I went to journalism school and had a whole bunch of purist old-timey crap shoved down my throat. Most of you probably know way better than to believe that tomfoolery, which is why you’re reading some jackass biking blog instead of your local newspaper. Ha! That was a joke! You probably don’t even have a local newspaper anymore, and hence have nothing to wipe your ass with! Ha! Now it’s sad and funny, like so many things in life…

And I know, I know, the headline of the story — “Take off your bicycle helmet, big boy!” — couldn’t be more flame retardant. The least the Reuters editor could have done is made some dumb pun about riding hard or coming as fast as you can or the village bicycle or any number of other PG-13 sleezeball lines. But no, instead we get hard-hitting neutral verbs like “negate,” “arrive,” and “alleviate.” Shakespeare had the cajones to say it like it is, or at least allude to it. Shit, the spam I get is raunchier, and it’s in Russian!

That’s it. The current “media climate” depresses me too much. I’m going back to putting “everything” in quotes and looking for a life-sized inflatable goat. What, is that weird?

It was a white truck with a camper top, off-white, pearly perhaps, and boxier than any new model. Maybe a Toyota. We were both on Powell street, heading west. It was drizzling, and almost dark. He hit me from behind, and didn’t stop, even when I screamed. I never saw the driver.

For a split second, flying through the air, I wondered how it was going to turn out.

My glasses flew off my face. My water bottle launched into the road. My bike lay sideways, the chain all jangled up in the wheel. By the time I looked up, which was pretty damn fast, the truck was 100 feet away, and I couldn’t make out a license plate. I was angry before I was in pain.

Because Powell st. is a dead-end road, I knew I had a chance of catching the hit-and-runner.

I yelled HELP, hoping that I’d find a witness. Nothing. I limped to my feet, and stood in the middle of the road, and flagged down the first car to come by. The driver didn’t speak English. No help.

I called 911, mildly astonished that I was able to move my arms, hands, fingers, and wrists with such fluidity. A broken wrist is the injury I dread most. Broken wrists would mean no biking, no climbing, no writing, no banjo playing, and no jerking off. I’d probably figure out a way to jerk off, but still, it terrifies me that someone could take such a simple, basic pleasure away from me. Life is that delicate.

A few minutes later, when the police officer arrived and asked if I needed an ambulance, I wasn’t sure, because you still can’t really assess how it turned out, even though that instant of flying through the air is long since gone. You’re up on your feet, sure, but you’re shivering, frantic, hyped-up, and all rubbery. You don’t trust your faculties.

The officer asked me to move my bike off the road, then asked me questions and took notes. He asked for my ID and my phone number. I paced back and forth, wincing in pain. My left knee was stiff, and swelling up. My left hip bone and left elbow seared. “Any other injuries?” he asked. “My elbow. I can tell because it’s wet. I can feel the blood in my sleeve.” He asked me to roll up my sleeve, which I did, slowly. After that, he asked about my bike, and whether it was damaged. It seemed such an unusual question, like things were proceeding too fast. I put the chain back on, and flipped it over, to see if the wheels still spun. I felt drugged, sluggish. I was in no condition to focus on logic, mechanics, or machinery. But the bike seemed OK. I had to spell out P-I-N-A-R-E-L-L-O for the officer. “A ten speed?” he asked. “Twelve speeds, actually,” I said. Why’d I correct him?

Two more officers showed up, and drove to the parking lots at the end of Powell street, looking for a white truck with a camper top. I locked up my bike on the nearest pole, then got in the officer’s car, to go ID the truck that had hit me.

It was hopeless, and frustrating, and confusing. Short term memory is a bitch. There were two suspect trucks — one far too curvy and shiny and bright white, and one with a big silver and red stripe across the back. It’s a toss up, I said. “It’s gotta be one hundred percent,” the officer said.

I wanted to press pause. I wanted to consult a lawyer and cry and rest and breathe and drink something and come back to the scene more focused. I had the officer write down both license plates because I didn’t know what else to do.

I asked for advice. He told me he’d seen cases like this where the driver had gotten off. “If he plays his cards right,” the officer began. I couldn’t believe it.

I jumped out of the car, and touched the hood of the second truck, hoping it’d be warm, so that I could make up my mind. Detective Waldman was frantically searching for clues.

The hood was cold, and slick with raindrops. There were no marks on the font fender. No smashed light, or bent side mirror. I gave up, deflated.

The officer reminded me that I was pretty lucky. He’d seen bikers sent to the emergency room after collisions involving windshields. He was right. I couldn’t really complain. I hadn’t been wearing a helmet, and I’d gotten away with cuts, scrapes, and bruises. My bike was fine. My jacket was ripped at the elbow, my sweatshirt a little bloody, and my cell phone a little scratched – but that’s all. Even the groceries I’d been carrying in my bag were OK. Not one of the two dozen eggs was broken, and the loaf of bread was not squished, and the jars of tomato sauce were not broken, and the quart of milk was not punctured. Only three cans of soup were dented, which makes me wonder if they somehow saved me further injury. What if the side mirror collided with my giant grocery-laden bag, and the cans absorbed the sudden impact, so that I was launched, somewhat more softly, ass over teakettle? Is that possible?

Years ago, a good friend sustained a terrible climbing fall that would have killed him if not for the helmet he had been wearing. Another friend, taking a stroll on a dirt road, nearly died when a truck slipped out of gear, rolled down a slight incline, and trapped him beneath it. I just don’t understand risk.

I know I ought to wear a helmet, and I almost always do. Sometimes, though, like when it’s just a short ride on one mellow road to the grocery store, I don’t bother, as if I’m relieving myself of some sort of burden. I didn’t feel like it. I got complacent. So much for that privilege.

The officer dropped me off at my bike, gave me his card, told me I’d have a report in seven to ten days, and drove off.  I sat down, called a friend, and tried to calm myself. It didn’t work. The officer hadn’t let me down, or neglected his duties in any way, but I didn’t feel like I’d been helped. I felt like I’d been served, and no more. Like a transaction had taken place, something robotic, inhuman.

I unlocked my bike and walked through the parking lots. I wrote down the license plate numbers for myself. I also discovered a 3rd truck — a white Toyota with a camper top — that I hadn’t seen before. I wrote that license plate number down, too, and called the officer to tell him. I felt a surge of determination and hope, and also of fruitlessness and despair. How had the cops missed that car — the very thing I had described — in their search? What must the officer think of that biker now? Awfully meddling, no?

I spent an hour sitting in the shower. The hot water stung my wounds at first, but that didn’t bother me as much as my bruised knee, which refused to bend beyond 90 degrees. Afterwards, I had a hard time put my socks back on.

I thought about sticking a note on the three trucks: “A bicyclist was hit at 8:20pm on Friday, May 1 while riding westbound on the 3300 block of Powell street by a white truck like this one. Please contact the Emeryville Police Department.”

Would that help? Is that legal? And what do I want? I want to find the driver, and…I don’t know.

I wouldn’t mind a new jacket. But that’s not it. I’m not eager to capitalize on my position.

I wouldn’t mind pressing charges, but what for? I’m sure the hassle isn’t worth it.

I think I just want the driver to see me. I want the driver to see me cry, and scream, and vomit, and shit myself at the same time, and for him to know that’s what he did to me. That’s what he’s done to me. I won’t be the same out there for a while.

Josh, at Carectomy.com, digs the ZPG vibe.

For all you excellent drivers out there, a little awareness test.