I can’t figure out what I’ve done with the comments. They’re busted. I think this blog needs an overhaul, anyway – it’s been ages since I did the templates. Probably also need to update to new MT. Or new blogging tool.
News:
– We are biking tourista grande! We are riding our bikes everywhere. I am trying to find a nice way of putting them on a map. Bikely isn’t very helpful (it has a craptastic site). Am considering special cycling blog. Nerdy enough? NO! But we have discovered some lovely river-side bike paths (Cooks River) and some sneaky off-road shady tree lined bike paths (somewhere in… Petersham? Parallel to… Hewson Canal ?). We have also decided we don’t like riding through stupid Darling Harbour (well, across that bridge – the Piermont? – it sucks) because not only are pedestrians dumb, but tourist pedestrians are stupidly dumb. I am also having brought home to me just how un-bike-aware Sydney drivers are. It’s like they freak out when they see a cyclist – they swing out really wiiiiide to get around us. Or they crawl along behind us. Melbourne motorists have mad cyclist-aware-skills. Also, Sydney drivers pull up at traffic lights at the very last minute. This is terrifying if you’re just in front of them, pulled up with one leg down, waiting for the lights to change (but also makes the point: do NOT hug the curb at lights – TAKE THE ENTIRE LANE).
If you’d like to come bike riding with us, drop me a line. I am very unfit atm, so we go slow. Especially on hills. We have taken many friends for their first-in-10-years bike rides. They’ve liked it. We’re kind and are quite happy just to poodle along, chatting and sticky beaking.
We also avoid busy roads and we like to explore and ‘just have a look’. We like a combination of urban streets (lots of windows to look in) and leafy bits. We’ve been surprised by how leafy Sydney is, and how many nice, quiet streets there are right here in the inner suburbs. There are also some really great bike paths. Even the city (on a Sunday) isn’t so scary. Though I don’t ride on the actual road.
We also like to stop regularly for cake.
– It was recently very hot here in Sydney. But now it is only quite warm and incredibly humid. It’s been drizzling all afternoon. That’s good, because we rode to Bunnings in Ashfield today (via Harbourfield) and bought plants. When we got to Bunnings we were (once again) shitted off by its shitfulness: no bike loops (well, duh – it’s like _the_ most car-centric place ever… after Ikea), inept staff, etc etc. But we bought plants. A grevillea and some sort of native climber (whose name I can’t remember). I wanted Telopea and Protea, but they are fuck-off expensive (as in $50 for small pots). So we said “fuck off!” and got the common-as-muck moonlight grevillea and cheapy native climber. Then we rode home. It was so hot. It was overcast, but I got burnt badly. Because I am a dickwit.
When we got home we rested. Then we cleaned our house. Then we planted the plants. I actually supervised (because I am still injured – and will be for at least another couple of months, if not forever (the future isn’t looking too good for my poor foot injury, but I don’t want to talk about that because it makes me cry. A future without dancing will do that.) The Squeeze dug. In the light rain. He was sweating more than it was raining because it’s so warm. The holes are great, though. And the dirt drains nicely. Anyways, we planted those suckers.
Now we need another grevillea. I did see something I liked: some sort of grevillea (or was it a narrow-leafed banksia?) which had dark purpley/marooney leaves. It was neat. I was thinking a couple of those with a bunch of knee-high purple grasses (which were just near by) would be wonderful. But I can never go past the grevillea. And I wasn’t sure the purple one flowered – it didn’t have a very useful tag. I did want to get something indigenous to this area, but, frankly, we’re a bit short of accessible nurseries here. You have to have a car to really get sweet lowdown. I am going to check out the Marrickville markets some weekend soon – I need a cheaper source of plants. And I also want to stay away from the Bunnings type plants. I want something that’s not force-grown in big green houses or big plantings. I want tough plants grown in some poppa’s back yard in cheap pots. Something street-wise and rough.
Anyways, I’m going to get those natives happening down the front, in front of the main bedroom windows. The climber will climb up the railing on the front steps (but I’ll clip it to stop it getting onto the top rail). I’d really like to plant up the grass down there with some taller native grasses, but I don’t think our land lord would like that. I’m also thinking about veggies and herbs again. I just can’t live without my herb garden any longer. And this weather is so plant-perfect. We’ll see.
– Today we saw something awesome. As we were digging in the garden (well, The Squeeze was the one actually digging – I was standing under an umbrella in his crocs supervising and carrying the watering can) a bunch of rowdy cockatoos landed on the facade of the olden days flats on the opposite corner. There were about six or eight of them and they were obviously feeling their oats. Feeling all charged up by the cool and wet (after a little research, I’ve discovered they like to flap about in the rain to bathe themselves). They clambered about on the front of the building shouting for a while. Then they flew over to the olden days garage on the other corner. That’s when things got good. They’re such big, flamboyant birds. All yellow combs and huge white wings. They were very loud and social and clambered about all over the place, using their beaks and claws to get about. They were also digging about in the cracks of the buildings and the power pole. They spent some time pulling the power pole to bits (literally – they pulled great chunks off the top and threw them on the road) and shouting. Then they started pulling bits off the garage’s facade.
They started just digging in the cracks and pulling off bits of plaster. Then they started pulling bricks out of the facade. Real bricks. The big chunks of masonry and plaster and brick fell down with big crashes and the cockatoos shouted and laughed and called across to each other. They were spread out all over the facade and the power lines and power poles, upside down, ride side up, combs up, wings out. It was awesome. Eventually the guy in the flat above the garage stuck his head out the window to see what was going on. The cockatoos kind of sneered and shouted at him and carried on. Until one pulled a massive brick out of the wall and nearly dropped it on another who was trying to pull the window awning off. Then they got a scare and had a shout at each other, then flapped up to the power pole. And then down the street. It was like a rowdy bunch of… large, rowdy birds… were moving their way down the street, shouting and talking and pulling shit to bits. It was fully sick. I didn’t think to take a photo til far too late. So just take my word for it, ok?
It’s nice to live in a city with lots of native trees and plants, and, consequently, lots of native birds. Unlike noxious-weed-Melbourne, which is chock full of stupid introduced plants.
– Today we rode up the bike route to a little cafe in Dulwich Hill. It was full of skanky yuppies. The food was ok. Then we decided to ride on to the Bunnings in Ashfield via Harbourfield. I got burnt. We both got freakin’ hot. We rode back from Ashfied. We are badarse.
Yesterday we went in on the train to Town Hall station to collect The Squeeze’s bike from his office. Then we rode across Piermont Bridge, down the side of Darling Harbour. We spent some time looking at a ship. That was neat, but not as neat as the books in Piratica. They’re the best because they’re pirate ships. Captained by women.
Then we rode along the beach, looking at yuppy warehouses flats. They were boring. We rode past the park where they were having Jazz On The River. The grass was all brown, crackly sticks.
Then we rode on to the Fish Market. The market was hot and crowded and The Squeeze didn’t like it. So I foraged some sushimi, prawns and octopus. Then we rode on.
We were pretty freakin’ hot by then, and I was feeling weak, so we caught the light rail (which is just like a kind of piss-weak tram, but with REAL conductors (so you have to buy tickets) and which you can TAKE YOUR BIKES ON !!1!). That was a nice, short trip to Lillyfield.
From Lilyfield station we rode up the hill across Paramatta Road, then up a little hill and taking a right turn at a little cafe (which was called something like Lily and Somebody or something. It had its name written in white in ‘American Typewriter’ font on the window and was closed). Then we rode along the bike lanes to an old building which looked a bit like an old train station or some sort of feed station (a sort of Victorian loading or despatch dock).
Then we kept on riding along the ridge til we got to… um… a park.
Then we turned left on a road which had no cars at all.
Then we… rode a bit. Then we went down the Hewson Canal bike path, which is very nice and shady, but made me think ‘don’t ride here by yourself ever, ladies.’ We saw no one on that very nice bike path but three tiny little girls with bright white hair and one giant, bald dad.
Then we rode on and up til we got to the road that goes under a bridge – the end of Marion Street (which I think of as the road near the corner where I nearly stacked it on our first Big Ride).
Then we continued on and got onto another bike path past a giant dog park with about a squillion dogs roaming about.
Then we rode on to the bike path that runs along the canal that goes into the ocean.
Then we rode on. I can’t remember what happened there, but we ended up coming out on Old Canterbury Road at that weird stop sign. Then up Old Canterbury Road to Dulwich Hill. I was especially badarse on that last bit.
Basically, I am badarse because I’m not scared of hills any more. The Squeeze is badarse because he rides his one-gear bike very slowly, just behind me (but not too close or he gets yelled at). Going slow is harder than going fast.
Category Archives: bikes
waaaaaah
In the two weeks I was in Melbourne I read three of these young adult books. They’re called ‘Pretties’, ‘Ugglies’ and ‘Specials’ and they’re by some guy whose last name starts with W. I want to read the last one, ‘Extras’. They’re not very good, but they’re quick reading. I am very into young adult fiction (YA for those of us in The Trade) atm, mostly because of ‘Titus Groan’.
Now I am reading this other dumb YA book called ‘City of Bones’ or ‘Bone City’ or whatever. It’s kind of crap. No Diane Wynn Jones, that’s for freakn’ sure. Also, finishing off ‘Tehanu’ the other day (go Ursula Le Guin, go!) has ruined me for anything less. Jeez, that’s some good shit. Also, has anyone read the other ‘sequels’ in the Earthsea series? I think I might.
Basically, this big binge on books (I’m also reading ‘1984’ for the first time) is the product of a trip to that giant second hand book shop in Newtown and some time in Melbourne with Galaxy. She made me buy books (well, I bought the two Buffy season 8 volumes I was missing, but didn’t go with the Angel because it was all FREAKING EXPENSIVE. No more Minotaur bookshop for me). I also went to a game shop and bought some more Cheap Ass games (NEED GAME PLAYING FRIENDS! NOW! min. 2 players for my 3-player games). And I bought a broach. And then, because I was obviously ridin’ HIGH on the crazy horse, I stopped. But the ride, while it was on, it was so good.
So now I am all about buying books. Usually I wait for The Mother to bring up a shipment or I re-read, but I can’t re-read those bastards any more. I can’t even count how many times I’ve read them, but we’re over 10. So now I’m buying the buggers.
Also, I am thinking about emusic again.
And, I haven’t bought anything for anyone for christmas except my little brother’s kids. Because I am crap. But I’m not sure anyone but me wants Chronological Classics CDs, jewelry by local artists, squids of YA fiction (actually, I’m not sure about that one – I think one of my nieces is into books. Because she is into adolescence, almost, and has turned into the nerd of the family. Finally – another nerd is born. She aims to be a chef when she grows up, so I figure that’s a win).
Anyways, I hate buying christmas presents. I’d rather make them, but the fabric shop is TOO FUCKING FAR AWAY. It makes me crazy.
And, I have injured my plantar fascia, so I am hobbling around in pain or sitting on my arse watching DVDs (Heroes is less than A1 second time through, but it fills the gap). Or reading YA fiction. Can I just say: YA was better in My Day. Which was about the 70s, apparently, as that’s when all the YA books my Ps had were published. Considering I was born in 1974, I guess they were planning ahead. Phew.
Have I mentioned the pain in my foot? Physio has hopes for me and a big dance camp in January, but I’m not so sure. It’s a lot of pain. I blame MLX. I can’t walk without pain. I can only just walk without a limp. Most days. I do the exercises, though, and I hope. I’m not sure about this getting older thing. It was better when I could just drink drive and get into pakour. Now that I am old, I am reaping the effects of my ill-spent youth. Which, actually, was mostly spent wearing docs and shaving my head. Oh, and going nuts in the university library. With the books. Because, you know, the UQ library had a fair few more books than the Sandgate High library. And you could just _borrow them out for free_!
Anyway, with that and all the disco dancing, I think I damaged myself a bit. The physio reckons fracturing something in my ankle horse riding when I was in my early 20s is responsible for a dodgy ankle today. At the time, I shrugged it off. Today, I suffer. Also, the once-fractured right wrist is also giving me trouble. So this is the lesson: breaking limbs has long term consequences. Which SUCK ARSE.
I am not coping well with the enforced home-stay. I want to go out. Into the world. I hadn’t realised just how much walking I do in my day to day life. To the train station, down hill (excruciating on the home trip). To Ashfield for groceries (returning home to empty house, home alone til the weekend, local shops CRAP for veggies, partner working full time so can’t go to shops: shitful!). To Marrickville to explore the local fabric shop. To the train station for a 2 part trip to the fabric shop in Green Square. Around Circular Quay, just to look.
Not to mention dancing.
Anyway, if I had a car, I could probably get around. But I’m relying on the bus, and it’s not so good. It’s just about driving me MAD.
A trip to Burwood yesterday to see a (terrible) film was really hard. I wanted to look in the Burwood shops and eat dumpling. No. Go straight to the cinema. Once I got there, I was in real pain. Then I had to stop off in Ashfield for our veggies. That was ok, but by then I couldn’t imagine getting home from the train station in Summer Hill. So I caught a cab. It was so frustrating and painful – ordinarily the 20minute walk to our house from Ashfield would be delight. I’d walk through the park and pick some rosemary. I’d sticky beak in people’s gardens. I’d think about things. But yesterday, it was a big piece of crap. Getting a cab felt like a failure.
The physio says riding a bike would be a bit less painful. But I have this stupid left over cold from MLX which is also making me very tired and weak. Which is probably why yesterday was so hard. But I’m also still scared of the traffic.
Fucking hell, this sucks. Injuries: be over! But the physio says we’re in for a month of work before I can dance. Which makes me cry. No christmas performance :( No social dancing at three christmas parties. Nothing.
I think I’ll buy myself another book. Or perhaps a few million more songs on emusic. I deserve them.
round up
Enough of the random posts. Just join them all together and make one long stream of consciousness post.
Right now my stomach is feeling unsure. It began feeling unsure yesterday after I had chicken salad from the joint in Summer Hill. I wouldn’t have eaten there if it hadn’t been 4pm and I hadn’t forgotten to have lunch. I’d also walked to the hardware store (again – I freakin’ love that place) and then round the long way to the shops, mostly so I could look at the flour mill that’s up for redevelopment. I am fascinated by the fact that there’s a giant flour mill just down the street, and that it’s joined to another flour mill in Dulwich Hill by a special-duty train line. That one’s been made into flats, though. But I’m still really interested in it. It seems I’m not the only one into flour mills. There’s always someone leaning over the railing on the bridge over the railway, staring at the giant white flour mill (the one in Summer Hill). It’s a pretty good view – a long view, from a height. And it’s so freakin’ big. And you just know that the people having a stare are thinking about what they’d do with the site if they owned it. I don’t know why they’re bothering – it belongs to a gang of crows who’ve been terrorising the pigeons in that neck of the woods, and they’re not likely to cede it to a bunch of no-winged two-leggers who’d like a little light industrial inner-city living.
So yeah, my stomach feels a bit odd. I can’t decide if it’s dodgy chicken salad or anxiety. It could quite possibly be low level anxiety. This is the first day I’ve had to myself in the new house with no real jobs to do. I guess I need to go up to Ashfield to get groceries (we have none). I’d really like to get into the city to a) go to see some Art, and (more importantly), b) find that tapestry speciality place. But I’m apparently crippled by… that thing that makes it difficult to leave the house. I think I might chalk all this up to hormones, as I’ve actually been feeling quite wonderful ever since we got here. I really like traveling and I love being in a new city. I like all the walking. Plus Sydney’s fabulous weather is making me feel so good. I hadn’t realised just how draining Melbourne’s grey skies and nasty cold were until we left. I am remembering how nice it is to live in a warmer climate. But I’m not so struck on the increased humidity – I am also remembering its effects on my allergies.
It’s not so much that I’ve been shouting at innocent blokes, but more that I’ve been trying to rub my nose off my face and had trouble concentrating. It could be PMS, but I actually am pretty sure it’s allergies screwing with my mood. I’m trying not to take antihistamines as I seem to be on them every single day, but it’s not really making me feel nice.
I’m also at home because I’m waiting for tradesmen #62 000. Actually, it’s more like tradesman #9. Really. I am liking living in a house where the owner actually fixes things. The things we’ve needed fixed have been fairly inconsequential… well, except for the River of Effluent… but they’ve been fixed immediately.
1. windows painted shut? fixed (Charlie, from Greece – my favourite)
2. fence built? done (whatsit from Malta – initially my least favourite, but later one of my top 5)
3. forgotten bathtub spout? done (young fulla who’s name I can’t remember. ok)
4. garage door doesn’t close? not quite fixed, but at least a couple of blokes came to look at it (one of whom was Mal, whose parents were from Italy).
5. garage door still not closing? still not fixed (another bloke who failed to return and give me his life story, though he did provide a few interesting tips on the tensile strength of various metals).
6. sound proofing? quotes done (including…. can’t remember his name either. But he was Greek by descent and he lives in the outer suburbs but works in Marrickville. He recommends the cakes in Leichardt)
7 and 8. River of Effluent? dammed. (“Maria! Send tradesmen, please! The garden is full of effluent!” 2 young fullas of skip descent, up to their knees in human waste, giving our drains a good routing. White neighbour-cat carefully discouraged from helping)
9. Today it’s another sound proofing guy. Apparently the owner is going ahead with it (which is wonderful). He was supposed to be here between 9.30 and 10, but it’s 10.39 now. He and the garage door guy have failed to return.
Part of me is worried about all this tradesman action. I don’t want to use up all my credit now when I’ll certainly need it in the future… or will I? We have obviously moved up a rental bracket, to that wondrous place where wiring isn’t illegal and life-endangering (we have a trip switch! No plug points have caught fire! We have had electricity for at least three weeks!) and where plumbing is generally sound, barring the usual hiccups of a house that’s over 100 and recently had new pipes installed. No water mains have burst, filling our veggie patches with boiling water. No windows have broken, letting in arctic winds. And the stove works wonderfully. There are no mice (knock on wood), but I have seen one large cockroach in the house. I remembered why I actually wear thongs. After I dealt with it The Squeeze proceeded to sing ‘la cocka roacha!, la cocka roacha!’ around the house for about five minutes in a Tom Waits voice. It was entertaining, but perhaps too entertaining so close to bed time – it was difficult to sleep with the thought of Tom Waits serenading me in a Mexican cantina.
So I’m wondering if we’re tempting fate with all this tradesmen action.
This hasn’t stopped me asking if it’s ok to dig up the garden and plant zillions of herbs. Ordinarily I’d just do it, but the landlord seems pretty house-proud, so the rules are different. Our back neighbour (who lives in the back part of this federation home) is a chef, so he’s also quite keen on a herb garden/veggie patch. He is now My Friend, partly because I am still in post-move aggressive friendliness mode and will not allow otherwise. He is also the owner of aforementioned friendly white cat (Alby).
Alby is convinced he actually lives in our part of the house as well, and follows me around all day. He divides his time between sleeping in front of the front door in the sun, trying to climb into my laundry basket, romancing me with quite lovely accapella and playing in Rivers of Effluent. I am mightily allergic to cats, so there’s no physical contact, a lot of “No! Don’t go in there! Get out of there!” This has, of course, made me both the most interesting and the most appealing part of our neighbourhood.
The other day Alby was joined by Fluffy Tailed Black Cat from round the corner, and they both proceeded to play in the mulch and attempt domestic incursions. Alby failed (I think he’s a bit dumb – he’s very pretty, being white with pale blue eyes and a pink nose – but he’s not so smart. He’s also quite young), but FTBC had a little more luck. I was making the bed when a pair of large black ears was followed by a goofy black face over the other side of the bed. As I picked him up (physical contact! Aaaargh!) he let out a sort of ‘mrprrft’ purr-burp and kept up the chainsaw action as I clamped him under the armpits and hefted him outside.
I have also seen a giant orange and white tom with a mangled up face. Both Alby and I gave him a deal of distance as he marked out the new trees as his territory. We were both willing to concede him sovereignty.
On other fronts, I am working at Gleebooks doing functions (thanks Glen!). I like it a LOT. I was too late for sessional teaching this semester, but have lined up some contacts for next year. I have already DJed one set here in Sydney and am set for a blues set this Sunday. It seems there aren’t too many DJs here, which is a shame. But I’m really enjoying dancing, so I’m not sure I’m ready to DJ a whole lot. I will set limits.
Last weekend we went to Canberra for Canberrang, the Canberra lindy exchange. I bought a Tshirt and DJed one set. We stayed with an old school friend of mine and only attended two night’s worth. I think I prefer shorter events – Fri, Sat, Sun nights max. Any more is kind of too much. We went on the bus and it wasn’t too bad. It was also very cheap. On the way back it snowed and snowed and snowed and snowed. It was like Europe. With eucalypts and kangaroos. We had a good time, over all.
We have quite a few friends here in Sydney, and have already had interstate visitors. Next week we get more. And the next week The Squeeze’s matriarch arrives, so we will get our tourist on, big time. Which I’m looking forward to. I feel like the OPERA HOUSE is out there doing fun things without me every day. Then we have people coming up for SLX in September. Then my mother in October (perhaps). Then we’re down in November for MLX. Then it’s christmas, which we may spend in Melbourne, but we aren’t sure. So it’s all systems go. Sydney is apparently one of those cities people really like to visit. Partly because it rocks – there’s just so much to do. And also because the weather is nice. Which is where it pwns Melbourne.
I like Sydney, but I am a bit sad that there are so few fabric shops. I have seen two in Marrickville, and I have been given the sweet lowdown by a dress making Hollywood lindy hopper, and will get on into the city (Haymarket) to find more. Then there’s Cabramatta, but that’s miles away. At any rate, none are a short bike ride away, so it seems I will have to find new hobbies. Or rediscover old ones. I have also found a yoga studio quite near by, but it is some sort of arty made up bullshit yoga, and not straight out iyengar. I need to get on that ASAP as I miss yoga already. Also, I haven’t ridden my bike once. This means that I’m getting more exercise, but I am missing my bike. Poor blacky, stuck in the shed all day, bored and lonely. The Squeeze has been riding to work in the city and comes home with stories about having his arse kicked by the hills and making friends with other bike riders. This city is disturbingly friendly. Everyone seems so delighted that we’ve left Melbourne for Sydney – there’re lots of “How do you like it?”s and chats with strangers about cake. There are fewer conversations about the weather, but I suppose that’s because it’s so nice here there’s really nothing to say beyond “pwoar – another freakin’ beautiful day, hey?”
Alright, that’s enough blathering. I have to go…. well, not do anything, really, but I might as well think about doing something other than making internet. You know the rules: get out of bed, change out of your pajamas (or pa-yamas! if you’re Tom Waits a la cantina), leave the internet alone after a couple of hours. It is, unsurprisingly, a beautiful day, and there’re fabric shops to stalk.
i made a good post
but the computer eated it.
How do I feel about gearupgirl? Not too happy. Cycling should be so easy we don’t a special ‘get girls into it’ site. But cycling in Sydney is scary. I haven’t done it yet, but The Squeeze is doing it after dinner.
steel is real
(Originally uploaded by fixedgear on flickr).
One gear nerds are everywhere. But this is the first time I’d seen one getting all recreationist with it.
These are neat pics.
egads!
Read this article.
The bit that kind of blows my mind is this:
Transperth’s cycling integration manager Jim Krynen said a car park survey found 60% of motorists drove less than two kilometres to their preferred station. And 40% had driven less than 800 metres to the station.*
That kind of blows my brain. I walk about a kilometer (maybe 1.20km?) to the station and it takes me 20 minutes. That’s a nice, short walk to get the blood flowing. Certainly not taxing or warranting a change of clothes. To think of driving 800 metres… holy moley. There are, of course, extenuating circumstances – infirmity, kids, etc. But, really, if you’re able bodied and the weather’s fine, why would you drive? I enjoy that type of quick, purposeful walk, and couldn’t think of anything nicer than sharing with someone, so why would you choose to drive?
You know how I feel about bikes on trains. I’m for it. I’m totally for it. The ‘ban’ is kind of shitful (though you don’t get fined, so it’s not a massive deterrent), and of course I feel there should simply be more trains running to accommodate the crush (yes, yes, I know that’s it’s more complicated than that, but please. We’re talking ideal world, here). I still don’t really understand why more people don’t ride bikes or walk, and why there aren’t better bike lanes. I mean, it’s just plain fun! And I’m a currently scarily unfit, ordinary person who doesn’t ride a supermachine bike, isn’t a super bike rider and doesn’t ride terribly quickly…
I know people who drive down from the ‘wick to Melbourne Uni. That kind of makes my brain explode. It’s a 15-20 minute bike ride from my place. You could walk it in an hour. It’s all bike paths, all the way, and it’s a nice walk – down a lovely tree-lined avenue for the most part. Or you could cut through the parks and go down the lovely bike path through the park. It’d be a frustrating drive and it would take you at least as long (if not longer) to drive – the traffic is poo down Sydney Road in peak hour. I mean, I’d ride every day, and catch the odd tram when the weather was bad, and I’m not a hardcore rider. I’d do it just because it’s such a nice thing to do…
Look, I’m still trying to get my brain round that not walking 800 metres thing. It’s just such a short distance. Maybe 2 minutes drive. Only about 15 to 20 minutes walk (20 slow minutes at that). Easy, even in work clothes. And if you have someone to walk with and talk to… Or if you live in a suburb like the ‘wick, where there are plenty of people to say hello to, lots of interesting things to stare at as you walk long…
I mean, I’m constantly looking for new ways to squeeze a bit more incidental exercise into my life – I choose not to ride to the station because I need the extra 15 minutes walk (it’s about 5 minutes, max to ride).
Golly. It’s mind boggling.
Oh, remind me to post the number of steps I took at MLX. Crinks and I wore pedometers one night of the exchange. I wore mine from 9.30 til 6am on the night I was running an event (not dancing) and racked up a phenomenal number of steps. The stupid pedometers got all confused by dancing, especially with nice, fat lindy hopping bounce, so we had to discard that data. Next year we’ll get it together and wear our pedders every night.
*I wonder how they got these results? Let’s just assume they’re ‘accurate’.
bikers ho!
Read this and tell me what you think. Today we actually did something other than watch telly, shop or eat. There’s a bit of response to the recent scary mysoginy (look, I can’t spell it, alright? I’ve tried twice and now I’m giving up) here and here and elsewhere.
Another thing to love about Berkeley:
Posted inbikes
what do you think?
I think:
– when I go visit friends in unwalkable cities (like Canberra, or my ps in Hobart, who live in Rose Bay across the river from Hobart proper) I do less walking and don’t like it.
– when we baby sit friends’ cars I automatically drive more and bike less.
– I ride my bike everywhere and seldom walk. This is a more efficient mode of transport, which means I actually get less exercise.
– you have to drive everywhere when you live in the outer suburbs – things are further away and the traffic moves faster on the emptier streets so it’s scarier to ride your bike.
– there are no interesting alleys in the suburbs.
– there are ‘nature strips’ (isn’t that a funny term?) in the suburbs, and none in the city. I don’t understand why.after a few minor stacks and unpleasant jabs in the arse…
I woke up really sore and achey from sitting on the couch, watching telly and eating (and sleeping in a terrible bed), and decided we needed to go for a proper walk to work our muscles. After a bit of discussion, The Squeeze decided we would walk over the Derwent Bridge. 
At first he declared that we would walk to the bridge (about a kilometer and a half, or maybe two kilometers), then over it and on to the cenotaph. But we eventually decided to drive so that we could get a bit further than the cenotaph – into Salamanca as well.
We drove to the bottom of the bridge on our side (which is the east side), and carefully planned to walk up the left side of the bridge. The Squeeze estimated a couple of hours there and back, but we actually made it across the bridge in only twenty minutes (it’s only one and a half kilometers wide, though it looks far bigger). Ten minutes up I realised neither of us had brought a camera, but that was ok. I also realised that neither of us has hats, nor had I worn a shirt with sleeves (and I’m still recovering from an inadvertant roasting I gave myself last week riding to the city in a singlet). So I put on a jumper to cover my shoulders.
The bridge, though it looks quite steep, doesn’t feel it when you’re walking. But the footpath is actually quite narrow, so we had to press ourselves against the railing to let the occasional cyclist past (we saw about four in our twenty minute ride). The Squeeze and I spent most of the walk discussing whether we could ride over the bridge to work every day (yes from The Squeeze, who rides 10k to work every day and is currently made of iron, and maybe from me who is very competitive and hates being left out, but is more aluminum (foil) than iron these days), ogling the amazing view up and down the Derwent (it really is the most beautiful river valley – Hobart is the most beautiful city in Australia, I think, though Sydney’s harbour does trump it), pointing at jelly fish and shouting. I discovered that no one can hear you on the busy bridge, and that a good bit of shouted singing when combined with endorphines makes you feel really nice.
Twenty minutes later, we negotiate the underpass and start the hike into town to the cenotaph. This took us about twenty, twenty five minutes (it was only another kilometer and a half), but was a bit sunny and bright. There’s a bike path (called the intercity bike path because it links all the ‘cities’ on that side of the river – Hobart, Glenorchy, etc – separate city councils) which runs along the river below the main road which is kind of interesting. Well, not really, but we did see a seagull … If you call the place where rooks roost a rookery, would you call the place where seagulls roost a gullery? A gallery? ahahahahah. Anyway, they roost all along the train line there (which had resulted in a number of fatalities), and we saw many teeny fluffy seagull chicks. And were scared by a few aggressive seagull parents.
When we reached the cenotaph we decided (after a little negotiation, and some pleading on my part) to hire bikes and ride into Salamanca, and perhaps on to Jackman and McRoss in Battery Point. We did begin with a tandem, but decided (after a few minor stacks and unpleasant jabs in the arse) to go, for the sake of our relationship and my groin, with two normal bikes instead. The Squeeze was disappointed, but it all turned out for the best.
We rode on into Salamanca (I had a lovely time on the bouncy, wide-tired suspensioned mountain bike – no worrying about popping tires or slipping on gravel here! But much leaping on and off curbs and other serious Stunt Work), and I discovered that riding uphill (egads – Battery Point!) on that bike with slightly soft tires after a week on my arse was a bit of a challenge. But we had nice pies and then nice cakes (and a frightening bill) and then rode back downhill (woo-hoo!) into Salamanca.
I have to say, there’s nothing more wonderful than riding around a newly-emptied Christmas Eve Salamanca on a bouncy stunt bike. We zipped around and through traffic (they’re afraid of bikes here – and we found the Hobartians far tamer and less frightening than the Brunswick drivers), zoomed through the docks looking for the seal again (no luck) and then back to the cenotaph to return our bikes. About another three or four kilometers round trip.
And then back across the bridge through a bit of light rain, into the car and back up to Rose Bay.
Where we said hello to the ps, then went downstairs, took off an item of clothing or two, lay down and fell asleep immediately. Three hours later we awoke, consumed another lovely salmon dinner and embarked on the second round of mince tarts and a spot of tree decoration (we always do the tree christmas eve in our family). The father declared that we would watch all of the Star Trek films in celebration of the birth of our lord and saviour, and the tree decoration has consequently been interrupted by moments spent admiring William Shatner’s divine brilliance.
I have quite a few more photos to blog, but I’m being told to come and fiddle with ornaments.like you could catch my hawt arse
I can’t help but think of Helen Garner’s First Stone. Didn’t we have this argument ages ago?
I really can’t be bothered thinking about this – women do not provoke their own rapes by wearing a particular combination of clothing. As someone (somewhere in one of those links) said, rapists are responsible for the rapes they commit. There is no other convincing argument.
I’d like to add that rape is not just about sex, it’s also (and far more importantly) about violence. And violence is complicated. Especially when it’s rape.
I think about the things that I wear when I’m riding my bike. Sometimes I wear a low-necked dress (because I’m off to dancing or something else hot and sweaty – where I’ll attempt to flaunt my oiled breasts* [tee hee] but most probably end up flaunting my pink and sweaty face and (undoubtedly hawt) puffing and panting in pathetic unfitness).
When you lean over the handlebars on a proper road bike, if you’re wearing a low-necked blouse, your boobs jump out. Now, I know that the thing at the fore of my mind as I navigate Sydney Road in peak hour is ‘where can I score some hawt sex?’ or perhaps ‘surely that attractive gentleman in the van there would relieve me of this unbearable desire a-burning in my loins?’**
I’m not sure what I’m provoking when I’m riding my bike like this, but I’d like to think I’m provoking people to random acts of exercise – hey that looks like fun! Maybe I can score a hawt chick if I ride a bike!
Yeah right, babe – like you could catch my hawt arse!
* courtesy of balcony
** it’s more likely to be saddle-jab a-burning my loins, provoked by an incorrectly adjusted bike seat or perhaps by a lazy core leading to slump-forwardness