Eleanor’s House on Design Sponge

I’m living with my sister, Eleanor, in Philadelphia.  Her house is awesome.  She bought it in February 2009, and did a lot of renovations on it.  Now it’s featured on Design Sponge.  And I’m mentioned … as her brother!

Video: Friendly Matters

A few friends and I are making a movie every month.  We’re sort of competing against two other teams — one from Baltimore and the other from New Jersey.  There’ll be a new set of requirements each month.  Since this is the first month, it was pretty soft — just do an intro.

So Peter, Matt, and I did Friendly Matters.  It’s a sitcom based on reality.

Check out the other monthly videos at Rentcheck’s channel.

Something I’m Thinking About: NE Bike Tour

I’m thinking about doing a bike tour loop up to Montreal and over to Detroit and Chicago.  I really want to see Detroit.  See how wild it is.  Packs of dogs roaming the streets.  Post-apocalyptic landscape.  Click on the image to see the Google Map.

Video: Cycling in Bogota

Here I am cycling in Bogota on Avenida Caracas.  The traffic was crazy with buses swinging in and out from the curb to pick up passengers.

Bike Tour Laundry System

My laundry system on the bike tour was excellent.  Every evening after riding, I’d hand wash my bike shorts and polyester performance-style shirt and they’d be pretty dry by the morning.  Then, in the morning, I’d wash the underwear I slept in and strap that down to the back of my bike along with anything that was still wet.  I had a cargo net that was perfect to hold the clothes down on top of my tent bag.  The clothes would dry in the sun and the breeze and they’d be ready to wear at the end of the ride.

This was superior to the laundry system I had while I was backpacking in Eastern Europe.  All I could do was hang wet clothes off the back of my backpack.  But then I’d have to throw the backpack under a bus, or on the floor somewhere, and the wet clothes would pick up dirt, and wouldn’t be exposed to the sun as much.

Ubate to Bogota (Colombia)

Getting into Bogota took forever. It stretches out so far that I was in the “outskirts” for a few hours. There were a few sections where I was on an interstate-like highway, but once I got in closer, there were bike lanes, and then a dedicated bike lane on the sidewalk. It turned out that the sidewalk bike lanes sucked since people were always walking in them, so I went back onto the road. But it was stressful on the road since it was jam packed with cars, and the cars switched lanes frequently. My awareness had to be at its peak.

Video: Bogota’s Bike Friendly

I don’t really agree with bicycle touring for a cause.  It seems lame.  It should be for fun and adventure.  This guy did a Ride For Climate.  I guess to raise awareness, or something.

Anyway, this video is pretty cool because it highlights Bogota, Colombia as a city on the leading edge of bicycle-friendly urban planning.

Chiquinquira to Ubate (Colombia)

At this point, I was really close to Bogota, and I had time to spare before Jessica’s arrival.

It was probably my favorite ride in Colombia. The countryside was inspiring, and I could take my time.

There were a bunch of roadside stops advertising fresa y crema — strawberries and cream. I stopped for a treat a few times. Apparently, I was in the dairy capital of the country.

I stopped in Ubate for lunch and found an excellent comedor. The soup and food were fine, but what really sent it over the edge was the drink. The lady poured me fresh mango juice. Thick mango nectar! I tried to pace myself with the drink, so that I’d have some by the end of my meal, but I had bad self-control. When the lady saw I was low on my mango, she refilled my glass, and left the jug on my table. I was in heaven. Unlimited refills of pure mango juice! I finished the jug.

It was still early when I left the comedor. I planned to make it a little further towards Bogota before I stopped for the day. As I walked my bike out to the road, some guys in the neighboring bar flagged me down and waved beer bottles at me. They urged me to sit with them, and they bought me beer. They spoke really fast, and their accent was difficult to understand, but I made out a few things. What they were most concerned about was what I thought about Chavez and Venezuela. Easy question to answer: Chavez esta loco hombres.

After three beers, I told them I didn’t want any more, as I was trying to be polite. One of them said something about a person who drinks beers but doesn’t pay for it. I didn’t really understand, but I felt that they might have been talking about me. When I left, I gave my muchas gracias’s and left some money on the table. However, they didn’t want it and insisted I take it back.

I decided to stay in Ubate for the night. Bogota was just a day away. I found a hotel with a TV for $5. When I turned on the TV as I was spread out on the bed in my cycling gear, Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade came on. I watched the whole thing and didn’t move. After washing up and hanging my shorts out to dry, The First Knight started. I lay there, zoned out. What a treat!

Restaurant Schedule in Colombia

My method for picking a restaurant was to look for the smallest, simplest-looking place that didn’t advertise pollo – Colombia has a lot of fried chicken places. The food would be fresh, the portions would be big, and the price was always cheap as shit. They’d give me a soup for starters, a natural fruit drink, and then the main meal with meat – I’d usually ask for carne asada, grilled beef – and sides like rice, yucca, beans, and salad. It would typically cost about 5000 pesos – $2.50.

If it was possible, I would have gone for this type of meal three times a day. However, what I found out was that it was only available at lunch time. These little restaurants would close at around 5pm, and the only options at night would be street food, like grilled weird cuts of meat, perros calientes, hamburgesas, pizza, and fried chicken.

So I adjusted my schedule. I didn’t eat much for breakfast, maybe a few pieces of bread from the panaderia. Then I’d eat lunch at around 11am, so that I could have an early second lunch before the comedors would close.

Dad Story: A Mission of Mercy

My dad has a history of trying to save animals that have been hit by a car.  Years ago, I remember my family was on a road trip in Florida, and we saw a turtle on the side of the road.  My dad stopped the car, and we found that the turtle’s shell was cracked wide open, and that it was pregnant — we could see all the eggs inside.  My dad was really cut up about it, and he put the turtle in a box in the back of our car, and we rushed to the ER (for humans!).  It was a good attempt, but it died soon after.

He emailed me last night about a recent rescue attempt.

I was driving along Village Drive when I saw a flapping in the middle of the road. I passed it before I realized what it might be. I drove back and approached it again. It was an owl, disabled on the double yellow line, flapping its wings but not able to fly.

Two students were on the sidewalk on one side of the road and one on the other, all looking at the owl but not making any move toward it. I assume they were anxious about getting bitten or clawed by a dying and diseased animal. Since it was in the middle of the road, it seemed more likely that a car had struck it or run over it but that it was otherwise healthy. I stopped my car and blocked my lane of traffic as I took it by its outermost wing-feathers and lifted it onto the grass at the roadside. I figured that, if I put a bit of tension on its wings that way, it wouldn’t be able to reach me with any of its sharp edges, such as beak or talons. It struggled to break free. Once on the ground, it was trying to crawl but it was dragging its legs, which seemed disabled, possibly fractured. I drove on to clear the traffic and came back a few minutes later. None of the students were there any more, probably because no solution occurred to them. I lifted the owl further away from the road near some overgrowth in the hope of giving it a temporary safe haven. When I lifted it that time, it didn’t struggle as much as before. I couldn’t tell whether it had begun to trust me or whether it was sinking into shock from blood-loss. It turned its neck and looked me fully in the face and didn’t attempt any retaliation or defense. It seemed quite alert. I called the UF veterinary hospital to enquire whether it would take such a patient. It has a wildlife department and it would take it. I got directions, put it in a large box and went to the vicinity. I never learned where it is exactly. I phoned again after I’d asked directions from emergency department people at Shands Hospital (for humans). They said the veterinary hospital was right behind me, turn right at the next light. I couldn’t find it. No sign identified it. Finally, I described where I was by phone and a veterinary resident drove to find me. Then, my car wouldn’t start again, so I asked her to get the owl to the hospital first, then to come back to give me a jump. In the meantime, I flagged down another driver and got a jump.

Santana to Chiquinquira (Colombia)

All climbing. Slow go.

As I got higher, the air got really crisp and cold. It was a huge difference from the high 90s heat I had to deal with a few days back when I was in the lowlands.

I stopped to eat in a small town. It was Sunday and there were tents set up outside the church. Old women were cooking strange cuts of meat on the grill. I surveyed the options, and settled on a black sausage. It was a surprise when I cut it open – meat and rice mix inside the sausage wrapping.

A family there took an interest in me. The dad sat his young son on top of my bike saddle. They offered me some chichi, which is a fermented corn drink – odd texture. Now I’m Facebook friends with a few of them.

I was only a few miles outside Chiquinquira when it started to pour. I hurried in under an overhang with another guy. He was an older man wearing a tweed-style suit and cycling on a single-speed. He admired my bike, and I complimented his, although a single-speed seems like a terrible idea in that area.

The rain eased a little, so we left. We went about 500 meters when it started raining again, so we took shelter at a gas station. I yelled at a passing cyclist to get out of the rain. Mucha agua! Venga! After some waiting around, we got some tinto (black coffee) and shared good feeling. Another Facebook friend.

I made it to Chinquinquira and I found a shitty room that cost 8000 pesos ($4). Lumpy mattress and cold.

Hanging Meat!

San Gil to Santana (Colombia)

Stats: 57.65 miles, 11.7 avg, 38.3 max, 5 hours

Henri and I left at 6 am on his motorcycle. Henri had put my bike in his friend’s delivery truck the night before to be dropped in San Gil. On the ride, Henri kept talking and pointing things out along the way, but I couldn’t really hear him with the wind, or understand him when I did hear him — Spanish.

We rode up steep, winding roads through the Chicamocha valley. I saw some cyclists descending, but I didn’t see anybody climbing it.

We got to San Gil and picked up my bike and bags. Delivered as promised! Great convenience.

I followed Henri on my bike, as he brought me through San Gil. We stopped at the intersection where we’d be splitting up, so we could say goodbye. Henri had tears in his eyes. I told him how good he’d been to me, and that we were amigos. We gave each other a big big hug, and I told him to send Henri Junior to me in Philadelphia – that he’d be welcome anytime. He really appreciated that, and we gave each other a few more strong pats.

As I rode off on my bike, I got really pumped up. I guess it was the new freedom I felt on my bike after staying with Henri and his family for a few days. And I was pumped about the mountains. I was jamming on my iPod, and dancing on my bike, singing along. I got goose bumps listening to “Undone (The Sweater Song).” It brought back memories of earlier days and I loved how American it was (“Are you going to the party after the show” … “Take it easy bro”).

There wasn’t any traffic on the road. It had all been cleared off because of a cycling race. Luckily the guards at the checkpoints didn’t stop me. I got out of the way as the peloton of cyclists came down the mountain. I think they enjoyed seeing me crawling up the mountain on my pack mule as they were going about 40 mph passed me.

I made it to Santana just before it started to rain. I found a $5 room, and took a shower. I wandered around the town and got some pastries and beer at a panaderia. An old drunk guy wanted to talk to me. His name was Jose Maria. He spoke really quickly, and I kept pardoning myself for not understanding. He kept talking to me anyway.

Then a stumbling drunk named Miguel came in and sat down with Jose Maria and I. Miguel shook my hand and held onto it as he asked me about what I thought of Venezuela. All I told him was that I thought Chavez was loco, as I didn’t know much about what was going on between Colombia and Venezuela. They enjoyed that.

Miguel was really weird though — holding onto my hand, keeping me captive, and trying to pull me forward. After a bunch of questions that I didn’t understand, I excused myself, paid, and said goodbye.

Bucaramanga (Colombia)

Henri brought me back to his home. Odil, his 26-year-old wife, Henri Junior, his 16-year-old son, and Andrea, his five year old daughter, were all there to greet him. It was a big, passionate greeting as Henri Junior gave him a big hug and a kiss on the lips. Later, I realized that this is what happened every time he returned, even when he was gone for just a few hours.

Odil stayed at home and cleaned and cooked. When Henry returned, she was his servant, bringing him food and drink. He sat at the table, and she sat watching TV. Henri wanted more drink, so Odil got up to get it. Henri kept the purse – as soon as she would return from buying something at the store, she would give him the change.

Henri Junior was a really genuine, nice guy. It turned out he spoke good English too, and after only 3 months of study. He and I got along really well and it was hard to believe he was only 16. Henri Junior helped me by translating between me and his dad.

They had a chess set at the house, so I invited Henri Junior to play. I was well-practiced at this point from all the chess I’d played with Antonio, the Italian. I crushed the teenager a bunch of times.

Henri would take me out in his truck to show me around, but it seemed there wasn’t much to see in Bucaramanga. He kept bringing me over to his brother’s house where they would sort out some business as they both worked for the same company. I was just waiting around. It kind of sucked.

One day when it was raining, Henri drove recklessly through an intersection at high speed. A car pulled out, and we smashed into the side. Henri got out to talk to the woman, and after a few minutes, he came back with $100. Instead of calling the police, or exchanging insurance information, the woman just paid him cash. Culture.

I stayed for three nights. We brought in a mattress that Henri had in the back of his truck for taking naps, and set it in Henri Junior’s room. They took good care of me. As I was tooling around on the internet during the day, Odil would make me food and set it out on the table. She anticipated my hunger. I’d take a dip in the pool, and come back to find a snack waiting for me.

Henri kept calling me gringo. I told him it was a negative term, and I didn’t like it. He said it wasn’t offensive, and it just meant “American.” He kept saying it.

Henri brought me around to meet different people he knew, presenting me to them, kind of like I was his gringo. “Look at this interesting gringo I found.”

Henri wants to send Junior to the US at some point, so that he can master English. He asked if I would take him in and even write a letter to get Junior a visa. It’s sort of a lot to ask, but I like Henri Junior a lot. He’s such a genuine, well-behaved guy, so I don’t think there’d be a problem. I hope he comes up.

Henri introduced me to his friend, Jose, who spoke some English, and Jose´s son was even better. We went over to Jose’s house. Jose said to me very genuinely, “This is my home. It is also your home.” He invited me back for dinner the following night, as he and his family “want to speak to me more,” but when the time came, Henri didn’t want to go. I think Henri didn’t like it much because we were speaking in English, and he was left out. It’s understandable – it’s how I felt most of the time.

Webcam shot

The following morning Henri would be going to Barbosa, in the direction of Bogota, on his motorcycle to make a delivery. He wanted to try pulling me along up the mountain. I was game to try it although it sounded pretty dangerous. So we did a trial run in Bucaramanga. I got set on my bike, and grabbed the rail on the back seat of his motorcycle. When he took off, I couldn’t hold on. He accelerated too fast, and it would have been too unstable anyhow. Then we tried having me sit on the back of the motorcycle holding the bicycle as it rode along side us. That went well until the bike went over a bump in the road. It jumped up, and I tried to control it, but I couldn’t get it stable again – it was hopping all over. It would have made the motorcycle unstable if I had held on much longer, so I had to let the bicycle drop. I was pissed, and yelled in anguish. Henri laughed. I ran back to see the damage on the bike. Luckily, it was still in good shape. I think the handlebar tape might have gotten a little more destroyed, but that was all.

So Henri figured out a different plan. He had a friend who would be making a delivery by truck to San Gil that night. San Gil was on the way to Barbosa, and it was the first major town after getting up the steepest part of the mountain. Henri would send my bike and bags with his friend, and then Henri and I would leave early in the morning on his motorcycle, and he’d drop me in San Gil to pick up my bike and bags. It was a good plan.

Seltzer at Home

My sister Eleanor loves seltzer water.  She was buying 10-15 of these 1 liter bottles of seltzer every week, and it wouldn’t even last her the whole week.  And it was a huge waste of bottles.  I looked into making my own home carbonation system.  The two best information sources were  Carbonating at Home and of course, my favorite, Instructables.com.

I wasn’t in a big hurry to get all the equipment, so I waited until I found a good deal on craigslist.  A guy was selling a 20 lb CO2 tank with a regulator and a couple of gauges for $50.  It looked in pretty bad shape, and he couldn’t confirm whether it worked or not, so I talked him down to $40 and picked it up.

I liked how old and industrial it looked.  Antique crap.  The tank didn’t have any CO2, so I brought it down to the local South Philly Propane place, and instead of filling the tank, they just took my old one and gave me a new one that was filled.  $17.

Unfortunately, the regulator didn’t work, so $40 got me a steel CO2 tank, which is actually pretty great since they cost about $100 new.  Maybe I can part it out and sell the pressure gauges and fittings.

So I searched eBay and waited to get a deal on a CO2 regulator.  These usually cost about $50, but I was able to get a dual-guage Cornelius one for $35 with shipping included.

Then I went to Lowe’s to get some 1/4″ braided vinyl tubing (~$2 for 7 feet), a ball valve (~$6), some barbed 1/4″ fittings (3 at $2 each) that would connect the tubing to the regulator and to the ball valve.  I got some clamps to secure the ball valve onto a piece of board which I secured to the side of the cabinet next to the sink.  This is the on-off switch for the user, Eleanor.  The tank is under the sink — ugly and hidden away — and turned on, so it’s pumping CO2 to the ball-valve.  It’s important to check for leaks at the tubing attachment points between the tank and the ball valve.  You’ll either hear a hiss, or you can lather soapy water and see if it bubbles.

Peter got a presta adapter and we had some old presta bicycle tubes lying around.  I drilled a hole in a bottle cap and stuck the presta valve through it and tightened it down with a presta nut.  We can make a bunch of these presta caps so that if one gets gross, we can use another one interchangeably.  Just stick that presta adapter on it and let the CO2 pump through.

I put a hose clamp on everywhere where the tubing was making an attachment.  Four of those.

There it is under the sink.  Just leave the tank turned on so that you don’t have to reach under there and open the valve every time you want seltzer.  Just use the switch at the ball valve.

I adjusted the CO2 regulator to 60 psi.  You fill a plastic bottle with water up to where the bottle starts curving.  You want some headspace so that there’s some room for the CO2 to get pumped in.  You have to chill the water because CO2 dissolves better in cold water.  So when it’s cold, you screw on the bottle cap with the presta valve attached, “burp” out the air in the headspace (meaning you just squeeze the bottle until the water gets up to the cap), and then inject the CO2.  The bottle expands as the CO2 enters.  Keep the presta adapter attached to keep the CO2 flowing into the bottle, and start shaking it up.  Do this for maybe 10 seconds.  Then turn off the CO2 using the ball valve, and shake the bottle more.

When you unscrew the bottle cap, hopefully you’ll hear a big hiss and see the water fizz.  At 60 psi, we’re getting really sharp, super-saturated seltzer.

What we need to do is start discovering other drinks to carbonate.  I want to try milk and orange juice.  Recarbonating old, flat soda would probably work too.  It’ll be great to have a special carbonated drink for dinner parties.  Impress your friends!  What a blast!

Trust Test in Bucaramanga

Henri and I arrived to Bucaramanga, but he had to drop off his delivery. It would be bad if his company found out that he had picked up a hitchhiker. So Henri pulled up to a corner, unloaded my bicycle from the back, and told me he’d be back in a few minutes. Tranquilo. I’ll sit tight right here.

Weird Colombian Fruit: Tentacle-skin on the inside with larvae-like seeds that you eat.

Henri left me on the corner, and as he pulled away I got a sinking feeling. I barely knew this guy, and he’s got everything I own besides my bike – clothes, tent, money, and passport! Maybe this is his trick. Pick up a hitchhiker, establish a little trust, and then drop them off and never return. I figured I would have to pawn my bicycle to get some cash, or else try to find some charitable person that would take me in while I waited on a new debit card to be sent to me. Waiting for Henri’s return felt like a long time. But he came back!!

Having a lot of trust in people is something I learned from my backpacking trip in Eastern Europe, and it was working out for me on the bike tour too, but this time around I put myself in an extremely vulnerable situation. I’m glad it worked out because it would have validated a lot of people’s thoughts about Colombia (and Latin America), and acted as a warning to never do a bike trip. Henri was a good guy, and I shouldn’t have doubted that, but I should have at least gotten my wallet and passport.

San Francisco, CA to Atlanta, GA

jen and harry

After riding across the Golden Gate, I made my way up a few more hills south of the bridge.  If I had asked a few locals what the flattest way to the downtown area was, I could have easily avoided a few steep climbs.  Oh well.  I’m a man, and you know what men do…they don’t ask for directions!  Guys, guys, guys…

I was trying to meet up with Jen and Harry within the next 20 minutes.  They were going to a 48-hour film project screening down in San Jose, and I didn’t want to hold them up.  I cycled hard and fast but kept hitting lights.  Like a good cyclist, I didn’t run any red lights, but that didn’t stop others.  I had read that getting ticketed for running red lights in SF was pretty common.

I pedaled through the downtown area on my way to the Mission District.  Hipster central.  Many cyclists were wearing these new ‘fashionable’ stupid-looking helmets that couldn’t possibly keep your brain within your skull if you had an accident.  They looked like those cheap, thin plastic helmets you get when you go whitewater rafting.  There were also a lot of people on cruiser bikes.  I’d hate to be on one of those in hilly SF.

After passing Jen and Harry’s street twice, I finally arrived at their below-ground level apartment.  They weren’t too thrilled to live there since it was practically a bat cave.  No natural sunlight.  But they were moving out in two weeks.  I hesitantly asked if I could take a shower (given the time), but they told me to take my time.  Sweeties.

Jen and Harry were pretty big cyclists.  Obvious from the many bicycles in their apartment.  To get to San Jose, Jen rented a ‘zip car’.  $7 an hour (includes gas/insurance).  Awesome business idea and a great service for someone who lives in a city where a car is not really necessary.

48 hour film project

The screening was in a huge theater.  Nice turnout.  48 Hour Film Project:  Your team applies to be in the contest.  You are given a genre and key words/props you must incorporate into the video.  48 hours later your project is due.  Everyone then votes on the best video.  I’ve seen videos that have come out of these competitions.  Some are great.  Many are terrible.  The worst ones are the pretentious shorts made by ‘film students’.  Boring.  Not entertaining.  Just plain shit.

Jen and Harry gave me warning that their video sucked.  It was actually an entertaining short video.  Short.  That is key.  Other videos were way too long and seemed to drag on and on.  I’ll focus on the worst ones, since they are fun to bash.

The first short that was screened had this black guy standing in a desolate-looking industrial setting.  Then a fat white guy in a gas mask would occasionally pop up.  The narration was playback from a voice recorder.  TERRIBLE.  It was really embarrassing to watch.

Another team that entered the project was an actual studio in SF that Jen used to work with.  They had a 20+ person crew with actual 3-d effects.  Same thing.  Pretentious chalked full of serious over-acting.  It started out in a bar, and there was this ‘cool edgy’ woman with tats talking to an Indian girl at a bar.  Turns out the edgy woman is a fairy killer.  The worst part of the video was that they tried to make it edgy.  Embarrassing.

The ones that were entertaining were those that didn’t take themselves too seriously.  A group of high school students submitted a short about a bug exterminator.  They ended up winning.  Another solid video revolved around a Western-style showdown with a ghost.

After the screening, we headed back to the city in search of food.  There were only a few places within walking distance of the apartment, so we decided on a burrito restaurant.  $6 for a burrito that lasted 5 seconds.  Damn my appetite.

day in the city

I said goodbye to Harry before he cycled to work.  Jen was going into work late, so she decided to get breakfast with me.  Before leaving, she took me up to the roof of their apartment.

We went to eat breakfast at a local diner on Mission Street.  It was packed.  This place had a interesting rule:  No cell phones.  Great.  And free refills on coffee.  When the bill came, we did the awkward jig of who was going to pay for it.  She insisted on picking it up and wouldn’t let me pay for it.  Very generous hostess.

I got my stuff together and said goodbye to Jen.  I headed downtown to get fitted for a tux because my cousin’s wedding was coming up in another two weeks.  The next few hours were spent cycling downtown and through the wharf area.  I had the rest of the afternoon to kill before meeting up with John, my old VP at Cartoon Network who was now at Lucas Arts and kindly hosting me for two nights.

John worked at the Presidio, located just south of the Golden Gate, so I decided to hang out in that area.  After getting coffee, I walked to a park full of cedar trees and enjoyed the warm weather.  There were a few pet owners playing with their dogs in the park.  A man with a Labrador retriever threw a ball in my direction.  The ball rolled up to my feet, and the man smiled at me.  10 minutes later, it happened again.  The man was either a pickup artist or had bad aim.

Around 6 PM, I headed over to the Presidio to meet John.  I was excited to see John after he sent me an email while I was in Seattle.  He’s a tall guy.  Around 7 feet.  I knew a hug was coming, but I didn’t want my head to be buried deep into his chest.  I tried to devise a strategy to add on a few inches to my height.  Maybe stand on an incline?  Stairs?  By the time he walked outside, I had come up with no strategy, so I decided to just stand on my toes.  I would have loved to see what the hug looked like in third person.

We put my bike into his car and headed to his home just north of the Golden Gate.  John warned me that the house would be cramped and I’d have to sleep on the couch.  No worries.  To me, a couch was luxury.  “We had to downsize the house due to San Francisco real estate prices,” he told me.  We pulled up to his house.  The obviously humble John lived in an awesome house.  The view from the back (complete with swimming pool and fruit trees) was priceless.  It overlooked the entire bay area, and you could see the outline of the city.  And the house was plenty big.  Jennifer, John’s wife, gave me a big hug and immediately made me feel welcome.  Then I met all of John’s kids:  Charlie, Owen, Victoria, and Eliza.  I didn’t feel too bad with my big appetite because everyone around me was bigger.  And I knew John could put away some food.

fun family time

John and Jennifer adopted me into their family for the weekend.  John, the kids, and I headed to the park for some football and soccer action.  Like a cool guy, I tried teaching Victoria and Eliza some tricks with the ball.  They weren’t interested.

And then it was time for some football.  John played on one foot due to an injury.  It was me, Eliza, and Victoria versus Charlie, John, and Owen.  We crushed them.  I celebrated in the end zone by spiking the ball.  I looked back victoriously with my hands in the air.  Everyone’s backs were turned to me.  No one was watching.

We got back to the house and played a bunch of swimming pool games.  I felt like I was 10, and it felt good.  Later that evening, John and Jennifer went to have dinner with some of their friends from Lucas Arts.  The kids and I watched Lord of the Rings.  We competed to see who could guess the upcoming lines.  Owen kept cheating.  He would grunt and growl when orcs came on the screen.  Sure enough, we heard an orchestra of grunts and growls.  The worst part was that the kids all counted those sounds.  Cheaters.  They even guessed ‘battle sounds’ of swords and arrows.  Cheap.  Really cheap.

back to the city

Before John and his family headed down the coast for vacation, I was able to get a ride back to the city via automobile.  When packing up the car, Eliza told Jennifer, “He was the nicest one of Daddy’s friends.  He actually talked to me.”  Jennifer relayed the message to me, and it made me sad to say goodbye to all the kids.  I had a lot of fun, and the experience made me excited to see my family.  Before leaving, we all jumped in the air for a final photo (well, except injured John).

I said goodbye to John in town and made my way to meet up with Tony, a friend from Conyers that went to a nearby high school.  Tony met me outside his apartment located in the Tenderloin District.  He didn’t take pride in living in that district.  I guess it’s the dirtier part of town.

Tony greeted me with a smile and a hug.  I went in for a kiss.  Woops.

“Uh, the elevator is broken, so we’ll have to haul your stuff up the steps,” he said grinning.

“What floor do you live on?”

“The top floor.”  I looked up.  Damn.

finger in the butt

We unloaded my stuff in his apartment and then got something to eat at a pizza place nearby.  After eating overpriced pizza, we headed back to his place.  We walked up to the building’s front doors behind two old men.  The older guy must have been 80+, as he had trouble making it up the steps.  His friend, a guy that appeared to be in his late 60s, turned around and smiled at Tony.  He then proceeded to laugh lightly.  Odd.

The 60-something whispered into the older guy’s ear.  His hand then slipped down the older guy’s back and cupped his butt.  The index and middle fingers then collectively formed a rod of skin and bone that then entered the older man’s crack.  What was going on???  The 60-something continued to drive his fingers further up the older guy’s butt.  Was this happening?  This guy’s entire hand was practically in his ass.  I didn’t react.  I just stared.  I then looked over at shocked Tony.

The old man giggled and giggled.  The 60-something then looked back to Tony and smiled.  Interesting.  This guy was using some pretty aggressive pickup tactics.  We hurried up the steps to Tony’s apartment.

I was hoping Tony lived next to the two men.  I would be leaving in two days.  Tony wouldn’t.  And Tony would probably run into them again.

city of homeless

I had been to SF before, and the city was fully of homeless people.  This visit was no different.  Tony and I walked around the city for a few hours and were constantly approached for money.  The city’s inhabitants must grow immune to the beggars of SF.  Otherwise, you’d quickly go broke if you gave money to every person that approached you.  An easy way to avoid being approached was to avoid eye contact and make the homeless invisible.  But that seemed dehumanizing and I was hesitant to do it.

One guy was trying to sell a Christmas wreath.  Note it was late August.  But at least he had a product.  Something unique to offer.  Tony was curious to see how much it was and made eye contact with him.  Of course the guy jumped on the opportunity.  I asked him how much.  “Twenty-five,” he said.

“Sorry.  I don’t have it,” I said as we walked off.

It didn’t end there.  The guy followed us for two blocks.  We gave him an opportunity, a glimmer of hope to make a buck, and like a shark to blood, he went into a begging fury.  It was terrible.  One local told the guy to ‘leave them the fuck alone’.  I ended up sprinting for a block to escape money-lusting man.

The rest of the day we spent walking around the city.  I noticed gay men raping Tony with their eyes.  Man, it felt great to be an ugly cyclist.  Tony was getting all the attention.  And gay guys are very different than those in Atlanta.  The guys in SF are incredibly aggressive.  Due to the large gay population, I guess guys assume every other guy is gay.  Or the water in SF makes you really horny.

On the way back to Tony’s, we ran into a female friend of his.  He introduced me, and I had a lot of trouble with her name.  I kept repeating it and getting it wrong.  It was more than two syllables.  Something foreign.  Not like Jenny or Kelly.  Finally I just mimicked how it sounded in a mumble.  She smiled and nodded, obviously tired of repeating it.

They were making small talk when I interrupted with, “So how do you guys know each other?”

A moment of awkward silence.

“We know each other from work,” Tony said.

“Oh, you guys work together?” I asked, stupidly ignoring the uncomfortable body language given off by the two of them.

“No, not really,” Tony said.

Woops.  I quickly changed the subject, finally realizing they had a history (confirmed later by Tony as we walked off).

packing the bike

The next day Tony went to work, leaving me alone in his apartment.  I wanted Tony to take me with him to work, but I didn’t want to embarrass him again.

The day was spent breaking down my bike and trying to stuff everything in a bike box.  I called a few bike shops to try and find a spare bike box.  One shop wanted to charge me $15.

I biked a mile to the north end of the city to get a box from a shop.  There was no way I would be able to cycle back with the box in hand, so I had to walk the bike back.  Pain in the ass.  A lot of wind.  I hit a few pedestrians with the box by accident.

Boxing my bike and all my stuff took me 2.5 hours.  It would only cost me $80 to carry my bike on the plane, and I wanted to make sure I got all my stuff in the bike box to avoid additional luggage fees.  It was a little sobering to be packing up my bike after spending so much time on it.  The trip was actually coming to an end.

When Tony got home, he quickly noticed I got bike grease on the carpet.  White carpet.  Shit.  I felt like an asshole.  It was dark, and I had been careless.  I had tried packing my bike in his tiled kitchen, but I guess I had been a klutz.  I went to buy some carpet cleaning stuff.  Like a good guest, I watched Tony clean it.

tony got a job at KFC

My last night before returning home.  Tony and I decided to take a walk around the city.  He pulled out his solid black New Balance shoes and put on his swishy nylon pants (it was chilly that night).  And he put on a big shirt.  He looked ridiculous, but so did I.  I was wearing the same shirt three days in a row.  But I was OK with that.  I had gotten used to being an ‘ugly guy’.  I was just glad to have some ‘ugly guy’ company.  I even wished I was wearing convertible pants.

We walked a few blocks in silence.  Swish, swish, swish.  If Tony was talking, I couldn’t have heard him.  His pants were loud.  Swish, swish, swish.  Finally, Tony looked down at his shoes.

“Dude, I think I’m going to take these shoes back.  They look ridiculous,” he said, sticking his feet out.

I laughed.  A lot.  It was great that he was verbalizing something I didn’t want to say.  Who knew if he was really sensitive about his jet black New Balances.  He kept criticizing his ugly guy shoes.  “I look like someone that works at Burger King or KFC.  They wear solid black sneakers.  I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I bought these.”

I took a picture of him in front of his workplace.

We walked the city and looked at the ‘beautiful’ sky line lit by the downtown buildings.  Then we walked around Little Italy and got some pizza.  We laughed.  We smiled.  It might as well have been a romantic date.  We even got a fresh cinnamon bun at a bakery.  Smiling ugly guys at a bakery.  On the inside we were both really sad.  Tomorrow I would be gone.

We went back to Tony’s place and settled in for the night.  An ugly guy doesn’t kiss and tell.

airport

I had a few options to get to the airport.  A) Push my bike box to the BART, SF’s local rail system, and pay $12 to get to the airport.  B) I can pay for a zip car and beg Jen to drive me to the airport.  C) I could pay an airport shuttle $20-25 to take me and my bike to the airport.

I called Jen to get her input regarding the zip car option.  She said she was able to get a truck and had no problem taking me to the airport.  Awesome.  Very hospitable.

The next morning Jen drove over to Tony’s.  I said goodbye to Tony.  Long hug.  Jen and I drove off.

Two minutes later, we got on the interstate.  Bumper to bumper.  There was no way Jen was going to have the car back within the allotted hour, so she called Zip Car and asked for additional time.  Not possible.  Someone had the truck booked after her slot.  Damn.  We had less than 20 minutes to get to the airport and get the car back to the parking lot.  It wasn’t going to happen, and I didn’t want Jen to get charged an extra $50.  Looks like I’d be riding the BART to the airport.

A car in front of us slammed on brakes.  Jen did the same.  The power brakes kicked in and we slid to within an inch of the car in front of us.  I heard a loud collision behind us.  I looked back, but Jen was already speeding off to the exit.  The woman in the car behind us was waving her hands angrily in the air.

She sped to the BART station in the Mission District and dropped me off.  Jen slipped the zip car money back in my pocket and hugged me goodbye.

The bike box was heavy.  I resorted to sliding it on the cement.  I would later realize the chain ring had been poking out through the bottom of the box.  Three of the chain ring teeth were ground down to the nub.

I pushed my bike for what seemed like a mile to the airport terminal.  I was excited to get to the gate.

I boarded the plane and sat down.  I had nothing to read.  No video game system to play.  No DVD to watch.  I had my iPod, but I had already listened to the songs  hundreds, if not thousands, of times.  I was OK with sitting there.  Doing nothing.  I was mostly thinking about how to surprise my family.  The only person that knew I was coming home was my dad, who was picking me up at the airport.  The five hour flight passed quickly.

Aguachica to San Alberto, Hitchhiked to Bucaramanga (Colombia)

Stats: 49.28 miles, 14.4 avg, 33.9 max, 3:25 hours

The mountains began after I passed through San Alberto. After biking 40 miles through intense heat, I was struggling up the hot incline. I wanted to quit, but I felt I had to get to Bucaramanga, about another 40 miles away. I stopped to rest in some shade, and I put my thumb out to a passing truck. It didn’t stop. Destiny, I guess. I had heard that hitchhiking was difficult in Colombia. So, I got back on the bike. 100 yards later, I passed a stopped box truck. The driver taking a pee, and as I passed he said something to me. I asked if he was going to Bucaramanga. He told me to get in. Flow like water.

Henri was really friendly. He joked around and asked me lots of questions, and I did my best to understand and answer them. After a few minutes of getting to know me, Henri told me that he could give me another ride the next day as he’d be driving his delivery truck further towards Bogota, and that I would be welcome to stay at his house in Bucaramanga with his family.

Henri was reckless on the road. He didn’t have any patience as he’d overtake cars around blind curves. He risked both our lives frequently. At one point, there was a huge line of semi-trucks struggling up a bend in the mountain. Henri boldly went for it. I braced myself up against the back of the seat as we spent 15-20 seconds in the oncoming lane. His intuition worked.

Video: Cycling through Small Colombian Town

Here’s a clip of cycling through a small town in Colombia, a little outside Aguachica.  I was testing out my new handlebar camera mount.

San Roque to Aguachica (Colombia)

Stats: 78.09 miles, 13.3 avg, 5:50 hours

I wanted to get a camera mount for my handlebar so I can record some video. I walked around to find a hardware store that would have a 1/4” bolt. When I passed one, a guy yelled out, “What do you need?” in English.

Joao was a Brazilian tattoo artist. He spoke good English which helped me a lot to explain my complicated needs of this camera mount. He took a big interest in helping me and had lots of ideas how we could do it. I didn’t like a lot of the ideas he had, like just super-gluing the end of the bolt to the handlebar mount, but I let him run with his idea of shaving down the head of the bolt so it could wedge into the slot of the handlebar mount.

Joao found the right size bolt and the right length, went over to a garage, and then he used a grinder to shave down two sides of the bolt head. Then he wedged it in, and it seemed pretty good. But we also added a zip tie to give the plastic of the handlebar mount extra strength, and a nut so that I could tighten it up to the camera when it was pointed in the right position.

I bought Joao a drink for his effort. He said he should patent the design.