Finally, even with my editing program only working at half-baked capacity, here’s the [high quality at YouTube] video that belongs with this entry:
Mashup of stills and video.
Thank you to a great guy for the creative commons music, more of Wilson Noble’s great songs can be found HERE:
Since I couldn’t figure out how to move this to the top post, I just re-posted so no one would have to hunt for it.
I started out plenty early to get down to the Revue so I could film Critical Mass as they pulled up en masse whizzing, waving and bellringing down Roncesvalles. Whoa, said my video editing brain–gotta catch that footage. It will look tres coolers!
I actually left at 4:45 pm. Now, one would think I’d make it from Jameson and Queen in a few minutes.
Well, perhaps normal cyclists would.
The trike got stuck in the doorway getting it out. After 15 minutes of struggling it out, I safely packed video gear, tools and other assorted crap into the basket and bungy corded everything in tightly.
On the way, I stopped at a bike shop because my lock isn’t good and I bashed it up pretty badly when I had my driveway crash. My helmet was thrown in free with the trike so I wouldn’t get busted getting the trike home. It would easily be a winner in the “ugliest hockey helmet on the planet” catagory at the NHL. Plus, helmet instructions always say that if you bang up, you must replace them.
I should be grateful to the head pot. When I wheelied on the driveway and skidded through the broken gravel it kept me from spilling my few working brain cells out on the pavement.
I meander into the bike store. There were people running in and out picking up things and generally it was pretty busy. A nice fella, in between running back and forth managed to help me pick a helmet, decent lock and water bottle holder. All I need now, is a mirror. I just wasn’t up to that after spending what I knew to be too much time and money, fiddling about with the rest of the details.
[Note to self. NEVER, EVER try buy things at cycle shops on Friday night.]
Off I wander outside and run into an old friend. We have a chat. I realize that I have no bag for any of the stuff I bought at the bike store. I figure out ways to pack it in the basket without anything sliding around with the potential to crunch my video gear, then peddle and throttle my way up Roncie.
There’s a film crew setting up. If I ride around them I will be skidding through potholes driving into opposing traffic. I get off, pull up on the sidewalk and begin shoving 100lbs+ of e-trike uphill on the sidewalk.
If anyone says e-trike are for the lazy again, I’m going to back over them several times at the next available incline. If they get back up I’ll consider conking them with 10lbs of bike lock.
At the first safe opportunity, I pull out from behind a parked car . A block later, I skid sideways through the umpteenth pothole big enough to hide a Honda, scaring the crap out of the driver who has been honking behind me riding my ass since I got back on the road.
He pulls ‘WAY over to the centre line. Justice has now been returned to my triking world.
I ride all the way to Bloor and realize, I’ve missed the cinema.
I turn back around and start wandering south. I see some cyclists. Whoo Hoo, cyclists! Honka honka! I nearly smash into a parked car because I need to move the horn closer to the handle grips so when I thumped over the sewer grate, I only had one hand on the handlebars–on the throttle side.
Boot braking in my Doc Martens, I save myself the embarrassment of crashing in front of a small crowd of athletic-looking cyclists. Now I know why they make the soles on boots that thick. I also know why the Tour De France crowd think the rest of us are lunatics and deserve to be de-wheeled.
The trike, being massive, has nowhere to park with all the bikes around. I find a sign post half a block down the street from the cinema.
I take out my lovely new Fort Knox-busting lock. It has some ridiculous hunk of plastic attached that I can’t get off. I take out my Swiss army knife. Even that won’t cut the doo-dad off.
Why don’t they just make locks out of that stuff? It would be lighter and at this point I’m wondering if anyone could cut through it with industrial bolt-cutters and a blow torch. Oh yeah, and the lock has FIVE, count ‘em, FIVE keys. None of which are of any use to me because I can’t get the plastic grip-tie off.
Behind me I hear whooping and bells ringing. Drat! Here come the Critical Mass riders, waving and peddling. I don’t even have my video camera out. I can’t get the freaking lock on. I grab my cheap, beat up old lock and lock up.
Now I have 10lbs of superlock and nowhere to put it. I stash it in the camera bag. Now, where to put the water bottle holder? Into the camera bag. I’m also now the proud owner of a funky blue helmet that matches the trike, but where oh where do I put the old pot top?
Ah hell. I leave it in the basket. If someone wants to steal it–they need it worse than I do.
I unpack my toolkit/light/emergency bag. My camera bag now weighs more than the trike. Pack mules in Andes would go on strike for being forced to wear this much baggage.
I am now not only without decent video footage. I am late for the film.
I wander up and down both sides of the streets getting photos of cool bikes, signs, the front of the cinema.
I go inside.
The staff are very friendly. I offer to “check-in” my video camera but they say it’s okay. I’d buy popcorn but my poly-grip has worn off from all the nervous teeth clenching I did skidding through the Roncesvalles potholes.
There’s no seats left. I stand near the back doors where I’m getting evil looks from the people in the aisle seats because my reflective day-glo sweatshirt is blinding them. My cycle helmet, cinched to my waist pouch, keeps banging on the wall. My back is starting to ache from all the industrial steel stuffed in my camera bag.
I go out to the snack bar and buy a bottle of water. There’s a popcorn cup with a note that says, “If you don’t tip us, we’ll tell you the end of the movie.” I tip them and ask, “Okay, what’s the end?” Nobody knows because they haven’t seen the film. Somehow, I feel deeply offended by the false advertising.
I stand behind the door and try to watch the film through a small window, moving for those who need access to the washrooms and small children who are getting bored and want to play tag in the lobby.
I wait, hoping that I can get interesting footage as people come out of the doorway, leaping wildly onto their bikes and zooming madly away.
People drift out, stand on the sidewalk talking and wander off for beer and coffee. It’s too dark for good video, anyway.
A nice man and his son talk to me for a bit. The younger man remembers my HONKA HONKA signature and wants to know if I’m going to the Earth ride tomorrow night.
I want to say, “yes” but after today’s adventure–I’m not sure I could make it as far as Bloor and Spadina without a horse tranquilizer.
I’m pretty sure if I take that much sedation, I won’t be triking anywhere soon.