A carnival of technology

I made another addition to my bicycle today: toe clips. When I broke a pedal on the Trek, the new pedals I bought came with clips. Not wanting at the time to relearn how to ride, I removed them, turning them into normal double-sided pedals, and I later installed them on the Schwinn, since the pedals it came with were clipless on one side and platform on the other, and getting the pedal flipped over to avoid having a big piece of metal poking the middle of my foot was more than I wanted to deal with. The clips fit pretty well into bicycle habits of adding as much junk to the thing without dressing up like a Marvel character (The Lycra Blur, fighting for truth, justice, and stronger emissions laws), so on they go.

Having the clips is definitely going to change my behavior for a little while. I still have a way to go before getting used to clipping back in when I start, especially when starting uphill, so it makes me even more reluctant to stop than before. Maybe I should practice doing a track stand instead of putting my foot down, which would have the added benefit of freaking out the drivers. Cycling is nothing without passive-aggressively thumbing your nose at people in cars, otherwise there’d be no market for those ridiculous shorts.

In other news, I think I may have found a way to keep my pits from stinking. I’ve never been a huge fan of antiperspirants, not because the aluminum compounds might cause Alzheimer’s or ‘nad cancer or whatever it is that they’re supposed to do, but simply because they don’t feel right. I sweat a lot while biking, and turning that off for two points on the body seems like it might not be healthy. However, regular deodorants don’t do the job very well, since I still come out pretty rank even after a ride of just a mile or so. Today I tried something different, Tom of Maine’s deodorant, and so far I don’t stink. Maybe those crazy hippies are on to something.

Dreams have been a source of fascination for as long as humankind has known this bridge into the depths of the sleeping mind. These nocturnal plays, at times bizarre and frightening, have led thinkers across history to look to them as a bridge into another world, as a fantastic playground, or as a symbolic message to be interpreted as anything from a prediction of future events to an unfulfilled desire for a cheeseburger. The mind is at once a terrible and wonderful thing, and dreams may offer a glimpse into the workings of this unknowable facet of ourselves.

Modern medicine tells us that everyone dreams, and those who believe otherwise simply don’t remember the events in their mental theater. While I’ve kept a notebook at my bedside for some time, ready to jot down any of the strange happenings of the night, I had always believed that I was simply unable to remember dreams. This past week, however, I’ve been writing something nearly every morning. I don’t know if I’m having more vivid and memorable dreams, if WREK has been playing music more conducive to a gentle awakening, or if something just clicked, but it now seems that remembering dreams is simply a matter of effort, similar to the struggle not to hit snooze another time before getting out of bed. I don’t know whether I’ll attempt to use my dad’s copy of Interpretation of Dreams to psychoanalyze myself, and I certainly have no plans to start a dream log like Moshe’s unsettling example, but I find the wealth of raw material fascinating. Perhaps I’ll be able to return to the unfiltered output of my subconscious should I need fabric to weave into some kind of story.

In other news, my camera was returned safely from deepest, darkest Maryland last weekend, and I finally got around to taking some pictures of the bikes. I suppose I ought to start disassembling the Trek now and seeing if I can anything for the parts on eBay. If you know anyone who needs a piece of a bike, let me know.