A few days of browsing through ads was just enough for me to realize how inept I am when it comes to bikes.  It never really occurred to me that bicycles were beautiful, unique snowflakes until I started seeing numerous varieties of road bikes, mountain bikes, and hybrids for sale.  I needed to find someone who could answer my questions.  I remembered seeing a bicycle shop on a previous outing to a popular cafe so I retraced my steps.  My impeccable sense of direction combined with the need to make only one turn from the BART station assured success.  The shop was fairly small, but had enough bikes to send me into a mild panic.  Fortunately a friendly, heavily tattooed salesman came to my aide.  He graciously asked me if there was anything he could help with and I froze.  I froze in the realization that I couldn’t remember the last time I rode a bike.  I froze in the realization that, in all of my research, I still knew so little about bikes that I hadn’t even formulated any solid questions.  All I could do was ask him that size was appropriate for me.  He politely explained that this is a ridiculous question.  It depends on preference and bike style so there is no “correct” size for a person.  I excused myself by explaining that I had never actually purchased a bike — ever.  It was unnecessary information considering my previous question, but I had to say something.

He then asked me the question that would forever change our relationship.  He wanted to know how much I was “looking to spend.”  You have to understand that this was purely a research trip for me.  I had no intention of actually buying a new bike.  I only hoped to get some unknown questions answered and possibly get mowed down by traffic on a test ride.  His job is to sell bikes.  I did not take this into consideration when replying.  I casually mentioned that I was trying to stay at, or under, $200 knowing full well that no bike in the place was under $375.  His helpful nature, his friendly attitude, and his attentive disposition instantly melted into a black puddle and slithered away.  He tersely answered a few more of my asinine questions, but he had already checked out.  I wasn’t getting that test ride, but I did learn that a 20″ hybrid was probably right for me.

I soon left and forced myself to go to another shop, but I didn’t talk to anyone there.  The bikes were all priced about the same anyway.

Armed with the absolute basics, I hit Craigslist again.  This time I found an older Gary Fisher mountain bike frame with a random assortment of 3rd party parts attached to somehow make up an entire bike.  The description was a huge chunk of all caps text listing parts, condition, and who to contact.  I sent a polite email asking if the bike would be the correct size for me.  This is the reply:

hey eli it will definetly fit sumone ur size. the bike is gr8t for a beginner to the world b/c its forgiving n it’ll take a beating w/ pop-up potholes n glass, its a real gr8t bike. my numbr is 415XXXXXXX call me anytime; u can cum c it today if u wantd too. thanx

I was a little more than slightly turned off by this message.  I couldn’t tell if this was valid information or if she was coming on to me.  For the record, I thought it was a little of both.  It took a couple of hours, but I finally overcame my crippling fear of calling strangers.

Her voice on the phone sounded very tomboy-ish.  If she told me she was a guy with a woman’s name, I would have been skeptical but I probably would have went along with it.  She offered to pick me up from the BART station near her house if I was interested in seeing the bike.  The possibility of getting a good deal on a bike outweighed the possibility of getting stabbed by a psychotic lesbian in her Prius and fed to her girlfriend’s pitbulls; so I accepted.  Upon entering her small, efficient car I noticed that she was wearing latex gloves.  She noticed me noticing and matter-of-factly said, “Now I’m going to chop you up.”  Having gone over this basic scenario in my head moments earlier, I was unfazed.  I simply replied with, “You’re dressed for it.”  I’m not quite sure if that made the situation more awkward or less.

She explained on the ride to her house that she buys parts on Craigslist, builds complete bikes from them, and sells those bikes back on Craigslist.  I have an affinity toward entrepreneurs so this gave some bonus points.  Fortunately she does good work because bonus points mean nothing when the product is crap.

I did some hasty research on how to inspect a bike before meeting this young lady.  Most of it was a blur, but I did remember a few, key points.  The bike passed my flimsy visual inspection so I asked to take it out on the road.  Between my earlier failure at the bike shop and the current moment, I had somehow forgot the simple fact that I had not been on a bike in upwards of 10 years.  Drivers in that area may have been very forgiving of sharing the road with a new cyclist, but the hills were not.  The ride itself was quite uneventful.  I went up some hills.  I went down some hills.  Cars swerved to avoid my silly antics.  A steady flow of endorphines and adrenaline kept me from feeling just how badly I was treating my body.  I was awakening muscles that had long since gone comatose.  Arrival back at the house only allowed my body to fully realize the abuse I had just put it through.  I dismounted and sat down to focus on forcing the vomit back into my stomach.

I had to make a decision soon.  Questions floated around in my head like, if I say no will she give me a ride back to the BART station? In the end, though, I decided to buy it.  It was a great price for what I got and I like promoting someone’s use of a creative skill.  Her car wouldn’t fit a bike so I was forced to utilize my new mode of transportation to get home.  She tried giving me directions, but my mind was too wrapped in assessing bodily damage to fully concentrate.  Through the fog of pain, the trip home sounded easy enough.  However, reality set in when she finished with, “You look like you have the legs for it.”  About an hour later I collapsed on my “bed” (an air mattress with a twin size pillow top covering it) never wanting to see the bike again.

I watched gay porn.

It was purely accidental that I saw a video of an ejaculating penis. Let me explain. As you may already know, I’m sharing a room in a hostel with 3 people from Geneva. One of them, as I alluded to in my last post, is gay. Apparently seeing a drag show in San Francisco was his dream. We fulfilled his dream the other night while reinforcing my own heterosexuality and possibly breaking my brain in the process. The show was at a club called “Stud.” Besides naming your bar “Men Have Sex On Each Other Here”, it’s about as gay as it gets. The inside didn’t disappoint either.

We arrived just in time to miss the first act, but we caught the rest. If we were in a movie where I was the small town hick who got tired of his boring life and decided to move to the big city, this would be the “gay bar” scene. There flashing lights everywhere, men dressed in leather, and enough useless decorative crap to put any theme restaurant to shame. Most of the acts were at least entertaining. There was only one really frightening act. Please be warned. This is pretty graphic. Imagine that I just came out of the bathroom and asked you to smell my finger. Those willing to throw caution to the wind and take a sniff should read on. So, the act started off with a group of 3 men dressed as sailors pretending to masturbate over a drag queen geisha. For those who don’t know, this is called “bukkake.” For any truly depraved sexual act, there’s a decent chance that it was invented or popularized by the Japanese or Germans. This one is Japanese.

These fine, young sailors finish their business to a chorus of overly-dramatic grunting played through the club’s sound system. The geisha emerges from her wild circle-jerk surreptitiously holding a fan in front of her face. As the music begins, she lowers the fan slowly so you get the full affect of seeing her pale white face dripping gooey gobs. It’s around this time when I notice a video playing on the wall to her right. It’s a shot of a naked man’s partial torso and waist. He has a firm grip of his penis and he’s furiously masturbating in front of a mirror as though it has the antidote and they need it now. The end result of his work is tossed across the mirror with remarkable force. At this moment I’m in shock. I did not go to a drag show to see a man ejaculate. If there’s anything more surprising than seeing a video man masturbate to climax onto a mirror it’s watching the same video in reverse. Meanwhile, the woman continues lipsyncing.

They played the video a few times in case you have a short attention span or missed the first showing. The semen would fly out, hit the mirror, then peel itself off and jump back in as though it saw its own shadow. The crowed went absolutely mental. It upstaged the actual drag queen. There were several other videos during the performance, but I learned to avert my eyes. The funniest one I remember is of another man masturbating. The image was cut in half with him facing a mirror image of himself stroking in time. They slowly altered the angle of the video so the two halves of the same masturbating man were touching penises as though he were caught in some sort of gay kaleidescope. If Willy Wonka had a gay factory where he mass-produced the gay, this club would be the boat ride.