Bicycle Liberation Front
Blaze ever brighter the flames of proletarian struggle in our homeland! The beacon of emancipation is with us!
Bikes and Sex
Bikes must be freed from their shackles. Huffys, Murrays, Pacifics, and even Diamond Backs must unite in glorious epiphany.
The best way to accomplish this is with a 20 year old craftsman drill, a titanium drill bit, and a bag of bolts. Bolt the proletariat together, unite them under the common cause of building the most dangerous bicycle ever (though at the same time conforming to all the laws and statutes of the city of Boulder). Fuck you Sgt. Trujillo, expert witness my ass.
Officer Trujillo is the Enemy The seeds of bitterness were laid early. I can't remember how many times I nearly died biking to school. One time, after I was nearly killed, and then viciously honked at, I was ready to draw blood. I followed the white car up to the Fairview parking lot, but there were at least five white cars. They all looked the same, and I wasn't sure whom to beat senseless. I did nothing. College came along, and I became infatuated with track bikes. I wanted to have my own, but the only thing at my disposal was the twenty-year-old KHS mountain bike in Seth's garage. I purchased it for the modest sum of $20. I took the KHS to Propelaton, and they installed a fixed cog in place of the freewheel. The crank must have been made of tin foil. After a week of riding it had met its demise, so I ordered some vile Sugino garbage from Supergo. The Sugino still functions to this day. The KHS, as the first direct drive mountain bike, was begging to be ridden off road. I took it up to North Boulder, and got my ass kicked by those crazy single-track stairs. Nearly died, but I made it. The chainline is bad. Very bad. The chain used to come off coming down the hill, until I realized that it must be very tight. Now it makes an odd grinding sound as it rotates, but doesn't derail. The rear cog kept unscrewing, but that was made all better with a little epoxy. It doesn't unscrew anymore. This was all before the fateful day I met officer Trujillo. I had seen him around town before. Riding no hands down the bike path, he would scream at me, but I paid him no heed. He couldn't catch me with his donut fed fat ass and cop issue trek 800 with 50lbs of killing equipment strapped to it. That day, it was noon, and I was late for class. I was cruising down 11th, and the light turned yellow. No big deal, I cruised through the yellow light, and all was good. Then he started screaming at me. Deciding I should probably go figure out what all the fuss was about, I pedaled over, and did a spiffy cyclecross dismount next to Trujillo and his lard-ass cop buddy. He proceeded to scream at me. Screamed some more. The first order of things was to check if my incredibly shitty bike was stolen. I pleaded, "Who would steal this thing?" to no avail. Trujillo searched desperately for a serial number, but was unable to find one. He took his rage at my bike's lack of serial number out on me. By this time, most passerbies were smiling insanely at me and giving the cops dirty looks. At least someone was on my side. Trujillo said he was going to let me off, but wanted to write a warning. He took down my name, but due to some bureaucratic fuck up, it didn't cop up in the database. Trujillo started threatening to cart me off to jail for lying about my name. Just when he was getting really excited, someone on the radio decided that I do in fact exist. He quieted down a bit after that, but decided to write me a ticket for $60. At the tender age I 19, I was still hopelessly na´ve about just how blind American justice (and probably other justice as well) is. I decided to contest my ticket. My court date was at eight in the morning on a Monday. I had class, but decided the pursuit of justice outweighed the merit of listening to my idiot classmates. After sitting through an hour and a half of cases against the homeless (they were sleeping in the park again, well, where are they supposed to sleep?) it was my turn. I went up to the judge, naively thinking that innocence would protect me. The judge let me tell my story, much as I just did, but with less profanity. Then the cop got up. With his buddy silently nodding, the cop proceeded to tell a tale of how I ran a red light at 11th, and then swerved onto the mall. Unable to stop, I tried to hit the cops, before stumbling to the ground where they heroically apprehended me. Trujillo listed off various credentials that made him an expert on bicycles, and then it was time to talk to the DA. The DA had never seen the ordinance I got busted for. It states, "All bicycles must be equipped with a brake mechanism capable of stopping the bicycle from a speed of 10mph in a distance of 25ft on dry, level pavement." The KHS does this due to friction in the drive train; actually exerting force is another matter. Back in front of the judge, I showed her my bike, demonstrated how it worked. Trujillo interrupted me to say it was physical impossible to stop a direct drive, that even track riders couldn't do it. We proceeded to have a little argument about how exactly all those San Francisco couriers stop. Then the judge told me to shut up, and found me guilty. I had to pay the miserable $60 ticket as well as $20 in court fees for all the pain I had caused the judge, DA, and officer fucking Trujillo, a name that will live in infamy for as long as I continue to complain. -ben