Best cheap meal in Manila and jogging on a Sunday morning

When Dutchman and I are together—say during the weekend or when we are traveling, just like what happened during our travel to the Philippines last month, and this is when there is no family around—we tend to eat twice only in a day. We love to sleep in so by the time we wake up it is already brunch, and then later, dinner. I wish everyday would be like this but I guess a big part of the morning is gone, which isn’t good also.

So when we were in Makati, and after a tiring shopping day without lunch, we scoured Glorietta for a place to eat. We don’t want heavy stuff, no fast foods either, we just want to snack a bit, but at 4:30PM it looks like the restaurants are empty or they are getting ready for dinner. Then we passed by Cabalen and I had to stop when I saw the poster: Cabalen Merienda—P138 only! I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me so I quickly did a Peso to Euro calculation on my head. Huh—that can’t be? That’s just €2 for a limitless merienda (means snack) buffet!

Cabalen Merienda serves the ff dishes:
—Dinuguan (pork blood stew)
—Pancit Malabon (stir fried thick rice noodle)
—Pancit Palabok (thin rice noodle with seafood sauce)
—Lomi (thick fresh egg noodles made into a soup)
—Spaghetti
—Macaroni salad
—Ginataang Bilo-Bilo (glutinous rice balls in sweet coconut milk)
—Goto (beef tripe rice soup)
—Tokwa’t Baboy (braised tofu and pork from pig’s ears)
—Lumpiang Togue (bean sprouts spring roll)
—Okoy Kalabasa (squash and shrimp fritter)
—Turon with Langka (fried banana roll with jackfruit)
—Biko (sweet sticky rice)
—Pichi-pichi (cassava cake rolled with grated cononut)
—Puto’t Kutsinta (dry rice cupcake and glutinous brown rice cake with grated coconut)
—Karyoka (deep-fried glutinous rice flour cakes)
—Palitaw (thin glutinous sweet rice with grated coconut and sugar)
—Halo-halo (shaved ice with various sweetened beans, glutinous rice balls, fruit jelly, flan, ice cream and condensed milk)

They also had cassava fries (fried in brown sugar) served which I really liked.

This is probably our best and cheap meal in the Philippines (or ever, at least for now). I think we paid about or under €5 together with our bottomless iced tea. Dutchman and I had to keep shooing the diligent waiter who keeps pouring iced tea on our glasses, lol. We didn’t anymore have dinner because we were so full.

Highly recommended! Especially for those who would like to sample Filipino cuisine.

Anyway, we’re trying to wake up early now so we can make the most of our weekends. Like today, Dutchman and I went to the sports community center (I want to check out the sauna soon), he went swimming and I went to enlist for gym. Unfortunately, the gym opens at 10AM on a Sunday, a bit late than the rest of the activities in the center, so instead I took a walk around the surroundings and saw nice paths. I went running.

Whilst jogging, I saw women nicely dressed donned with lovely hats and the men in suits. It’s Sunday, where are these people going? A church bell rang and I realized they are all going to a church service. I rounded the small austere-looking protestant cathedral watching as families gather outside the entrance greeting each other with hugs and kisses. A really good looking young guy, in a dark suit with a huge smile across his face galloped past me. He was clutching a bible securely in his hands. A middle age lady, in pink and white dress with a titanic quirky pink hat that reminds me of socialites carousing in daylight during Ladies Day at the Royal Ascot Race in Berkshire, England was in a hurry as she sprinted towards the church's doorway.

The scenario before me brought me in deep thoughts—two decades ago I was like these people; a god believer who goes to church every Sunday, in fact twice a week and reads the bible every day. It’s a bit strange thinking about those people inside the church now and putting me into their shoes. They are happy people; they seem to be. I remember listening to the pastor's sermon—the guilt being used as a weapon, the lively songs we used to sing, hugging each other, I even did Sunday School for the kids, but the weird thing is I don’t miss all of these. No, not at all. In fact, I am quite happy I am out of it. For two decades I am free. Free to be who I really am and want to be.

As I ran further, I saw other joggers running by a path along the wide canal where ships and boats pass by. The wind was quite strong against my face—chilly too and I’m glad I wore a jacket. I like what I am seeing. Moving forward, I will be walking and running in this area during the weekends, and then I will run further to discover other areas of the city. Hmm, this is a nice plan indeed.

So when I got home I told Dutchman I won’t be going to the gym anymore, instead I will be running. It’s much better to run and explore the surroundings than be locked up for an hour inside a room with other people sweating on the machines.
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Simple Suisse Dinner

Hi, I am still in Geneva, Switzerland right now. I’m using Geneva as my base and truth be told that I am a bit disappointed why I didn’t book my hotel somewhere in Lavaux, or Lausanne, or even in Vevey instead. Geneva is quite boring and not particularly pretty; well, it’s all about the money here.

What Geneva is all about - the Swiss banking secrecy, it is all about the money here. Swiss Francs are really colorful!

So just quickly want to post my only ‘Swiss Meal’ in this entire stay. I don’t know but I seem to be drawn to Italian restaurants every time I am hungry!

I did not want to try fondue because I don’t want to wake up dehydrated in the middle of the night in my hotel room. Raclette was tempting and I saw the ‘portion’ on the menu which was perfect. Need to taste just a little bit of Swiss fare in this trip, so I ordered a small portion of vegetarian raclette.

My very simple Swiss dinner! Just a portion of Raclette - bread and boiled potato (inside that red basket) dipped on the melted cheese with cornichons on the side.

The Suisse Specialty restaurant in Paquis, Geneva, and guess what? Almost all the diners were foreigners, haha. That doesn’t sound positive to me!

I also ordered green salad and (dried) Vaudois sausage on the side (sorry no foto). Vaud where the sausage is from is another canton in the Lake Geneva region, its capital Lausanne. The wine was Swiss, pointed out by the waitress, nothing spectacular though. She quickly rattled the name of the wine in French and while I (try to) cling on to every French word she said, she was too fast for me! You see I am trying to learn some French words—Oui, Merci, L’addition, s’il vous plait! Haha. Anyway, I am guessing this wine is from Lavaux, Lake Geneva’s wine growing area, also a UNESCO world heritage site.

Phend-Fisher Family Reunion Ledger (1930)

The 21st Annual Reunion of the Phend Fisher families was held at Raymond Phends home north of Elkhart Sunday Aug 31st 1930

Dinner at noon followed by business session. The meeting was called to order by Harold Phend President. Sec. report was read and approved and bills allowed. It was voted upon to have a place committee to decide the place to meet next year 1931, Place committee was elected as follows.
Raymond Phend
Will Phend
Reuben Pletcher
Place committee to have power to chang[e] time from last Sunday of Aug; But suggested to keep time as near as possible to present time of reunion

Memorial report
J J Phend Oct 10th 1929 age 70
Chris Phend Sep 3rd 1929 [age] 78
Molly Phend April 8th 1930 [age] 77
James Phend [age] 10 mo.
Geraldine Lusher May 9th 1930 [age] 17
John Slear Jan 18th 1930 [age] 87



[page 2]
Births.
Robert Eugene son of Paul Phend [still living, date omitted for posting although it is in the image]
William Henry son of Victor Phend [still living, date omitted for posting although it is in the image]

Election of officers
Pres. Henry Phend.
Vice. Pres. Will Phend.
Sec. & Treas. Reuben Pletcher.

Entertaining Committee, Barton Thornton chairman to appoint his own help.
Memorial and Birth reporter, Surelda Thornton

Treasury report.
Bal. On hand 6.31
Bills Presented 4.90 [balance] 1.41
Offering 2.64 [balance] 4.05

Program
Instrumental Solo - Mrs. Hartman
Reading - Mrs. Barton Thornton
Song - Paul and Harry Pletcher, Richard Thornton
Solo - Barton Thornton
Piano Solo - Richard Thornton

There were 65 members pres. Meeting was closed by President. After which a social time with games and contests were enjoyed.

Reuben Pletcher Sec.

Danny Boy

When we moved to the US in the early '90s, I promptly started junior high school in a small New England town. The first thing I remember about walking into the classroom, was the shock of green cardboard shamrocks strung up all over the walls and a large banner declaring "Erin Go Bragh." (That's not how you spell it, a friend from Cork would later wrinkle her nose. But never mind.) Our teacher was fiercely Irish, as were at least half of the students. Second or third generation mainly, and, truth be told, most of them ethnically mixed. But Irish identities had a way of dominating in those days - when the economic boom had not yet hit the Emerald Isle, when South Boston still had romantic notoriety, and when House of Pain's Jump Around played several times a day on MTV.Most chose to express this identity through visual iconology: shamrocks, leprechauns, bright kelly green, friendship rings, and abundant use of faux-celtic fonts. But soon fate brought the opportunity to also express it musically.



In those days, our school had a rather famousa cappellachoir, led by our passionate and popular music teacher, Mr. McKenna. It wasn't just anyone who could join this elite group. There were limited spots. The annual tryouts involved weeks of preparation from hopefuls and bitter tears from those who did not make it. But those of us who made it... my goodness, we felt special. In the mornings, we went to choir practice instead of home room.We wore beautiful uniforms.We stood side by side, in a tight formation on metal risers. Labeled a strong Soprano, I still remember my place: 3rd row, 5th from the right. Our choir recorded albums. Our choir preformed in competitions and won. Once a year we even travelled to compete in the national finals, inevitably returning with medals.



We were one of the best, Mr. McKenna would tell us, again and again, beaming at our fresh-scrubbed teenage faces, our teary eyes and our chapped lips from hours of singing. And we were one of the best because we worked at it. Because we rehearsed until each piece was perfect. And if it wasn't perfect (his face would turn serious now, almost stormy), we did not perform it. Not at a local Christmas concert, and certainly not at competition. Was that understood by each and every one of us? It was.



The national finals happened in May. Competing choirs would select their performance pieces in September, then spend the entire school year rehearsing them. The year I entered the 8th grade, Mr. McKenna gathered us to announce the competition selection with an air of festivity: For our main piece, we would be singing Danny Boy. As he distributed the sheet music, it was clear that the piece was very, very dear to him.



With tears in his eyes, Mr. McKenna talked about Ireland. How beautiful it was and how special his visit there with his wife and children had been - a place where his great grandfather had once lived and farmed.Later, as we struggled with the song, he talked about visualising the glens and imagining Danny Boy's plight. We tried our best, although most of us did not know what glens were exactly.



It was a beautiful, but complicated piece. Or maybe the arrangement Mr. McKenna had chosen was complicated, his judgment clouded by a reverence for the song's Irishness. Overly nuanced harmonies, notes held too long for our young lungs, sharp transitions from low notes to high. We were a good choir, but we were amateurs. We were a motivated bunch of kids, but we only had so much energy to give, after our classes and homework and turbulent teenage love-lives.



In fairness, we were doing fine with Danny Boy. We were getting there. But for Mr. McKenna's liking, we were not getting there fast enough. So he panicked, and he pushed us. With passionate pep talks and hours of extra rehearsals, he pushed and he pushed. He pushed until the melody of Danny Boy began to sound like nails against a chalkboard to our ears. He pushed until the lyrics lost all meaning and each repetition felt like a seizure-induced loop. He pushed until, instead of inspiring a breakthrough, Mr. McKenna broke our spirits.



Having come down with the flu, I did not join the choir in that year's finals. I did not witness the mass hysteria and weeping after, for the first time in its 12 year history, our choir failed to earn a medal at the competition. I only saw my peers' dejected faces when they returned home empty handed. I only saw the careless wrinkles in their uniforms at our next local performance and the way they slouched on the risers, with Mr. McKenna not bothering to chide us for either transgression.



We never talked about it. But deep down we all connected our choir's fall from grace with this attempt at a perfect rendition of Danny Boy. The piece was simply too personal, too precious for Mr. McKenna; he gave in to the rawness of his emotions and lost perspective. The following year, when I was already in high school, we heard that Mr. McKenna stepped down as music teacher and moved away. We were told he had health problems, and there were whispers of a nervous breakdown. It was not until years later that we learned he divorced his wife of 30 years and married one of his former students (by then a high school graduate, aged 19), which prompted parents to call for his resignation.



I have not thought about any of this in years. But I think about it now, in the mornings, as I lock up my bike in the town center of Limavady, Northern Ireland. There is a contemporary sculpture next to the cafe where I like to work. It is vaguely glen-shaped, in an abstract sort of way, and engraved with the lyrics to Danny Boy. Across the street is the colourful Corner Bar, its walls painted with murals containing more references to the song. And a helpful inscription explains the connection: "It was in Limavady that the famous melody 'Danny Boy' was noted down by Jane Ross from a tune played by a blind street fiddler named Jimmy McCurry." The original name of the melody was actually Londonderry Air, written byEnglishman Frederic Weatherly. But never mind. It's been 20 years since I sang Danny Boy and I still remember the lyrics.

Life Goes On

(Photo: X-Ray showing my broken ankle. Diagnosis: fracture- ankle, medial malleolus, closed.)

One year ago today, I broke my ankle rock climbing.

In part, I started this little blog in order to force myself to write about it. But I've been struggling with what to say about it for a year now, and I'm afraid that struggle isn't over.

My accidenthappened on a Gunks climb called Insuhlation (5.9). I fell justafter the final crux roof. I pulled over the roof with no problems, but there was a wet hold above the roof that I suppose I failed to use well. Or maybe my foot popped, I'm not sure. Truthfully, I don't know exactly why I fell. I had my right hand on the semi-jug above the wet hold. I was looking around for pro; my last piece was a green Alien a few feet below the roof. And then I was off.

I recall with vivid clarity the sensation of falling. Time suddenly slowed to a crawl, and I saw my half ropesin a parabolic arcabove me as I flew back outward from the rock. It seemed as if I had a good long time in midair to consider that this might not end well. I remember thinking "this is it!" ...but I'm not sure what I had "it" in mind to be. I yelled out "falling," and then things sped up considerably. I flipped upside-down and then the rope came tight on the green Alien, which held, and I came to a stop, hanging in the air with my head where my feet should have been.

As I righted myself, I realized I was injured. I couldn't understand why I'd flipped over. The rope wasn't behind my leg. And I hadn't felt a thing. There was no impact at all that I had sensed. So why was my ankle tender and starting to swell? I asked my partner N to lower me to the ledge. The pair climbing next to us onObstacle Delusion retrieved my gear on rappel and filledus in on what had happened. "You flipped over when your ankle hit the rock," one of them said. So it seemed there was an impact, but in the adrenaline-pumped moment I hadn't felt it. At least itall made sense now, even if the explanation didn't jibe with what my mind had allowed me to experience.

Thinking it was just a sprain, I hobbled the whole way from the High Exposure access trail back to the steel bridge, refusing numerous offers of assistance from concerned strangers. The best and the worst of the Trapps in autumn were on display. People were kind and supportive, but there were far too many of them. At one point I stopped to rest in the Uberfall area and counted over thirty climbers in my immediate field of vision, all of them looking at me in a pitying way that made me very uncomfortable. N thought we shouldsummon the rangers, but I insisted that if I could evacuate myselfwe shouldn't initiate a rescue. I now recognize that this was a stupidmistake. I really don't think it made my ankle any worse, but if I'd listened to N, we would have had the benefit of the advice of first responders, and I would likely have been taken to a hospital for an x-ray right away instead of waiting 24 hoursand only thenfinding out the ankle was broken and required surgery. It also would have put much less pressure on N, who ended up having the sole responsibility of babying me all the way back to Brooklyn.

In the aftermath of the accidentI was overwhelmed with guilty feelings. The source of these feelings was hard to pin down. I felt guilty about inconveniencing my wife.She'd have to pick up the kids every day and do all the cooking for months to come. I also felt guilty that I'd made whatever climbing mistake I must have made to get into this mess. I blamed myself for the accident, although I had a hard time deciding what it was I'd done wrong. I also felt a lot of guilt about imposing my injury on N. I entertained totally unfounded fears that she'd never climb with me again, and that all my other climbing partners might desert me as well.

Amidst all this I wondered if I really was feeling most guilty about climbing in the first place. Was I taking pains to find fault with my climbing on that fateful day because I needed to avoid confronting something harder to deal with? Was my accident really a reminderthat even if you do everything right when you climb, even if you place gear liberally and it holds, you can still get hurt? Was it a sign that I should quit,that climbing is unacceptably dangerous? Certainly a number of people, from my doctor to my mother to my wife's colleagues, assumed that my broken ankle would be thewake-up callI needed to make me come to my senses and stop this climbing nonsense, as any responsible husband and fatherwould.

I did not want to quit. Although I didn't know how I'd feel getting out there on the rock again, I was sure, as I sat around recovering and gaining twenty pounds, that I would missclimbing terribly if I stopped doing it. But I didn't want to be a bad husband and father. I had to ask myself if climbing could be done reasonably, or whetherthe dangers were such that no amount of rock climbingcould be consideredsane.

I read numerous classics of mountaineering literature searching for the answer, to no avail.Many great mountaineers have wrestled with the question of why we are drawn to climbing, and whether the dangers are worth it. Some embracethe risk, declaring danger to beat the verycore of the climbing experience. Othersfocus instead onthe many other wonderful aspects of the sport-- the scenery, the adventure, the physical and mental challenge, theconnectionwith nature-- but throw up their hands at the death toll and ultimately leave the question of whether it is all worthwhile to a higher power.

Of course, these writers are considering a different sport than the one in which I participate. They are writing about climbing real mountains and pushing the very limits of the possible. They choose to face objective hazards that cannot be managed, such as altitude sickness, avalanches, and sudden deadly changes in the weather. And in order toexpand the boundaries of what can be climbed, they deliberately go without reasonable protection on climbs that are incredibly risky,forging ahead on blank, smoothrock facesand through rotten bands of ice. These writers would think nothing of the climbing I do in the Gunks on a two hundred foot cliff that has been fully explored, with every route to the top exhaustively indexed by its difficulty and protection rating. To them the risks taken by a weekend warrior likemehardly qualify as risks at all.

And yet there are risks in any climbing environment, no matter how tame that environment is. In the Gunks, for instance, there have been very few fatalities over the years, but less than fatal accidents occurratherfrequently. Lapses in judgment lead climbers to forget crucial steps in the climbing process. Theyrappel off the ends of their ropes, or drop their partners. Objective hazards exist: rocks fall down. And no matter how much difficulty and protection grades may sanitize a climb, it is still easy to wander off route, to miss a crucial gear placement,or otherwiseto find oneself in territory where a fall could be disastrous. Gear that seems solid may pull out; it is hard even for experienced climbers to dependably judge placements of climbing gear. And finally, as my accident demonstrates, even if the gear is solid you can get hurt in any fall.

It is often pointed out by climbers that many sports carry dangers, and that climbing is actually less dangerous thancommon daily activities like driving a car. This may be true, but we are not forced to choose a dangerous sport in which to participate. We don't have to choose climbing just because it isn't as crazy as BASE jumping. We can shun all sports involving danger if it is the right thing to do. And while driving a car may wellbe more dangerous than climbing, we live in a world in which we can't escape the car. We have no choice about it. Climbing is different. It is a luxury we can well afford to drop.

But I couldn't bear to drop it.After my accident I was desperate to find a rationale for continuing to climb, a way to go forward but feel I was being reasonable and safe about it.

I wish I could tell you that I figured out the answer to this problem. I wish I could say thatI developed a calculus to determine how much danger is acceptable. I wish I could offer you a climbing plan that is 100 percent risk-free, or tell you that I located the perfect spot on the climbing danger continuum at which adventure is maximized but life-threatening hazards are minimized. But obviously I did none of these things.

Instead I decided to wade back into climbingslowly and to take it easy, minimizing risk by minimizing difficulty. Even this simple plan was a difficult one for me to execute, because I like to challenge myself. But aside from a few lapses I mostly stuck with it, avoiding leading harderclimbs all year, being willing to follow other folks' desires and ambitions more than my own, and repeating a bunch of favorite climbs instead of always seeking out new ones.

At first, I found that my accident had wreaked havoc with my lead head. I was tentative on the lead, becoming paralyzed at crux momentsI never would have worried about in the past. On more than one occasion this year I fell or took a hang because I simply couldn't commit to the move atthe crucial moment of a climb. The irony of this situation wasn't lost on me-- before the accident I pretty much never fell while climbing, but afterward, while trying to go easy and safe, I found myself falling or hanging on gear with some frequency. This seemed like madness, and made me wonder what the hell I was doing out there at all.

But I'm happy to report that over time my head improved (although not completely). I lost a good bit of the weight I gained and I alsotried through the year to become a better technical climber with a better awareness of balance and footwork than I had in the past. I see increased proficiency as a path towards feeling confident enough to progress back up the grades in the future. At some point this year I gave up on having any big climbing achievements in . It has been a rebuilding year.I haven't led a single pitch of trad 5.9 all year, and I'm fine with that. I recently followed a few, and they felt laughably easy. I take that as a good sign, and I plan to put that good feeling in my pocket for the winter, work really hard in the gym through the cold months, and emerge in the spring with confidence thatI can soon begin leadingharder climbsagain, breaking back into 5.9 and maybe even 5.10. And I hopethat whenI doso the climbs willfeel secure, and not beyond my limits.

So I have continued to climb, and life goes on. I can't assure anyone that I have made the right decision. But I can promise I'm more careful than I used to be, with the unfortunate side effect that I'm also more tentative. I am more willing to back off, and I will be much slower about working up the grades, more conscious of my limits. On the whole I believe I'm moving in the right direction. And that's the best balance I thinkI can achieve.

Dreaming of Balance

Last time I was on a roadbike, I crashed into a tree with my knee. It was one of those milky winter afternoons - the trees a stark black, the ground a soiled white, and the sky a bruise lilac. And it was cold, cold, cold - each breath turning into a patch of fog in front of my face. On afternoons like this, I get a rush from the feeling of being out in the middle of nowhere, wandering through the woods on my own. I was riding the Honey cyclocross bike, its toy-like handling accentuating my high. Hopping, successfully, over a cluster of tree roots, I let out a giddy squeal. It resonated through the empty woods like a metallic ring. As if in reply, I heard the shrill sound of a bird somewhere in the distance. Marco! Polo! Ours were the only voices in the woods.



Before turning home, I ventured onto a snow-sprinkled path and began to navigate its gentle winds. And that was when it happened. I hit an icy patch and the bike slid in an unexpected direction as I tried to steer it around the bend. I ended up in the trees, my hands clutching the bike to keep it from hitting the ground and my right knee jammed into some dry mossy bark.



I experienced this event as more of an unplanned stop than a crash. It was non-traumatic, and did not feel noteworthy enough to write about at the time. I only remember it now, because I dreamt about it last night. Not the crash, but the ride leading up to it.



In my dream I was practicing leaning the bike this way and that using my hips, while moving in a zig-zag fashion along the frozen trail. The sensation of balancing as I did this was unusually, remarkably vivid - more vivid even than the beauty of the winter landscape. The dream went on and on as I felt my weight shift with each change of direction.



I woke up disoriented, wondering why I was horizontal and where the bike was. Had I managed to crash again? Then the moment came when I realised it had all been a dream, and a wave of disappointment washed over me. I wanted to be as in touch with my body's sense of balance in real life as I was in the dream.



The bruises lived on my knee for about a week after the tree's embrace, but now all trace of them is gone. It is purely incidental that I haven't ridden the bike since it happened. We've had some heavy snowfall, and then I got sick. I am still weak, but the dream made it feel imperative that I go out and try to recreate the balancing act. Perhaps spring is coming, at last.

Sunday Drive #2

Even though this is almost a week old by now, I still wanted to share another one of our Sunday drives. This one we kept pretty local, circling in a radius of about 20 miles and seeing exactly what is here. We headed down to Arcadia where we saw our old campground, which is also named Peace River.





We have a lot of good memories of our time there. We had no idea when we first started hanging out there that it was a part of our journey to become full timers. Now I feel even more warm and fuzzy towards the place knowing it was a key part of getting us from there to here.



We saw a local country club near Ona. Really snooty looking place, isn't it?



We saw many other cool buildings, and another snooty looking pub named Charlotte's Web.



We saw lots of animals. A cactus. A lumberyard.



And my personal favorite from this week, an old barn.



Living the life in Sunny Florida!

First Look: Sogreni Young Shatterhand

After a serendipitous chain of events last week, I picked up a Sogreni bicycle on the cheap from a local bike shop that wanted to get rid of it. At some point they used to import Sogreni, but no longer do, and this particular bicycle is a left-over demo model that was also used as a shop loaner. It is a men's "Young Shatterhand" model and happens to be my size. The bike is about 4 years old and was ridden hard over that time. I got it solely for the purpose of test riding and reviewing a Sogreni, but first it needs some refurbishment.





Sogreni is a small Danish bicycle manufacturer founded by Søren Sögreni in the 1980s. They currently offer a collection of 6 diamond and step-through frame models that are distinguished by a look I would describe as "minimalist steampunk." Lugged frames in shades of gray and silver, innovative copper accessories, and a sparse aesthetic with subtle visual quirks give Sogreni bikes somewhat of an otherworldly appearance. While the specimen I have is missing some of the components and accessories it originally came with, its essential Sogreniness has remained intact. The colour is a perfect match for an industrial chain link fence. I do not know for sure where the frames are made (according to word of mouth, Eastern Europe), so I've asked the manufacturer and will post their response when I receive it.





When I took possession of the bicycle, it had no seat post or saddle, the wheels were untrue, and the rear hub was not entirely functional. I have since installed a seatpost and a light brown Selle Anatomica saddle. The Co-Habitant trued the wheels and adjusted the hub enough to make the bicycle ridable.





We've also replaced the super-tall original stem with a more standard one, as I could not manage the handlebars being that high. Other than that, everything shown is as-is.





I am particularly glad that the leather grips, while scuffed, have survived and remained with the bicycle.






The fully lugged frame has a 52cm seat tube, a subtly sloping 54cm top tube, and 26" wheels with fat knobby tires.





The geometry is roadish, with steep angles and a moderate wheelbase. Sogreni describes it as a road frame with upright handlebars and mountain bike wheels. There is no toe overlap on the 52cm size bike.





One quirk that is immediately noticeable when looking at this bicycle, is the gap between the tire and the fender. This seems to be an intentional design element, because even the models with larger wheels have this gap.





My first thought upon seeing this was "Great, looks like there is room here for Shwalbe Fat Franks!" But on closer inspection I don't think the fork is wide enough.





The flat fenders, while visually interesting, also present a challenge for mounting a front brake caliper, which the bicycle currently lacks. After some research we've figured out that a 1990s style BMX brake will probably work and I'll be getting one soon to try it.





Until then, the bicycle is coaster-brake only, and I will write about the experience of that in Boston traffic in a separate post. The rear hub (a single speed Shimano)has problems and is visibly beat up. We are not sure what happened to it or of the extent of the damage yet, but the gist of it is that the hub displays "fixed" characteristics and the cranks rotate forward even while coasting. This comes and goes spontaneously and to different degrees. The coaster brake function seems to work fine, but I am cautious riding it nonetheless.





Well, that is all I have about this bicycle so far. I would like to get a front brake on it and take it on a couple of longer, faster rides before commenting on the ride quality. For now we will keep working on the hub and see how that goes. A Sogreni in the US is a pretty lucky find and I look forward to getting to know it.

Carlos Buhler?

I had just asked, "Do you mind if we climb as a threesome?"

"Sure, no problem." was the answer.

It was a test question of sorts..just wasn't sure what I was testing. I HATE climbing as a threesome unless the climbers are really squared away and the terrain makes it safe and fast.

The other two climbers were very squared away, the terrain likely terrible for such antics. I was the obvious weak link.

"Carlos will be fun." I say offering little enthusiasm.

.............long silence......................

I'm thinking, may be Daniel is just humoring me.

Daniels is in his mid 20's. I am not totally shocked he doesn't recognise Carlos by simply..."Carlos". But a little disappointed as well. Just reminds me of how old I am. I climbed with a good climber a season or two back that had no clue who John Roskelly was. John and his 20 something year old son, Jesse, had just done Slipstream.......and that a few years after doing Everest together. I thought both were notable achievements and figured my new young friend might have recognised the name. He didn't. The WA climbing community use to be a lot smaller. My blatant name dropping and pathetic attempt at male bonding was failing fast. But I am digressing here.

"Do you know who Carlos...Carlos Buhler is?"

....another long silence...then, "No".

As least Daniel was gracious enough to not say, "should I?"

It is a weak flex and I know it. But the name dropping is going better this time around.

I chuckle to myself.... We'd met even earlier, in the last century actually. Before Carlos, at 27, had been part of an American team to put up a new route on Everest. More importantly he had been one of the few on the team who actually made the summit. And he was just getting started in the Greater Ranges. Not a lot of challenge left in our local play grounds by '83 for him.

"Before you get in the car, Google, Carlos Buhler", I say.

(for the readers if you don't know who Roskelly is, Google him as well. I don't want to embarrass myself again ;-)

Carlo's picture of Tato Esquiro leading on Teddy Bear's Picnic. One of three big rigs Carlos did last season while swinging leads.

Be sure to dbl click the photos for full effect.


Carlos and I climbed some together back in the early '80s. He was always stronger, smarter and had more courage. He also had more imagination than almost anyone I have met climbing. That imagination is what made Carlos stand out to me. His winter trilogy in Canada on the north faces of Temple, Deltaform and Kitchener early on hasn't been duplicated that I know of. But by his own account not worthy of even a casual mention in his bio.

Carlo is a kid really.....a full year younger than me :) But damn! He is still climbing hard!

More of Carlo's adventures and photos here:

http://carlosbuhler.wordpress.com/

http://carlosbuhler.blogspot.com/

http://www.carlosbuhler.com/biography.htm

http://blog.climb.dk/_02_01_archive.html


Carlos leading the hard mixed of THE REAL Big Drip, in the Ghost.

Postscript? We had a great time climbing as a threesome.


Daniel's photo.

Nebraska Sunset - Heading Home

On our journey home we decided thatGrand Island, Nebraskawould make a nice stopover point. So, once again we found ourselves along the Platte River watching for Sandhill Cranes at sunset. There were still quite a few cranes in the area and we enjoyed watching them fly around the farm fieldsas the day drew to a close. For sunset we stopped by the viewing platform at the Alda bridge. I have had good luck at this spot in the past; it seems the cranes favor the section of river just downstream from the bridge. On this evening, however, it was not the best location as there were not very many cranes landing in the area. There werea fewcoming down to the river but they were too far away to see very well. Maybe this was due to the fact that we were at the tail end of the migration, or maybe for whatever reason they just didn't want to land here for tonight. As a result I do not have any nice crane images to share from this end of our trip, BUT we sure did have a beautiful sunset! One of the best of the trip, in fact. We greatly enjoyed watching the clouds change colors as the sun dropped below the horizon. The weather was also much nicer than it was when we passed through a couple of weeks ago. We'll take mid 60's temps over low 30's any day of the week in Nebraska :-) At any rate, it was a supremely beautiful evening and a great way to bookend our honeymoon trip!

Snow and Rim Brakes, Derailleurs, Etc.

There are good reasons to recommend snow-proof bikes for winter cycling: powdercoat, hub brakes, internal gearing, single speed fixed. However, some prefer to stick with a regular bike through the winter, eitherforspeed, economy or other reasons. That is my situation right now, and so far even limited riding in the snow has given me a pretty good showcase of things to watch out for. Here are some of them:



Snow and rim brakes:

This is an important one for safety. If you ride through snow and it builds up on your wheel rim, you can lose braking power on a bike with rim brakes. After riding through snow, I try to remove it from the front rim as soon as I notice any build-up, before it has a chance to freeze. This can be done fairly quickly: First I bounce the front wheel forcefully, then spin it as I wipe the snow off with a gloved hand.



Snow and the derailleur:

If your bike has derailleur gearing and you get the derailleur covered in snow, it can solidify and impair shifting. I was surprised to see how quickly snow can build up and freeze around that area; I guess there are a lot of convenient nooks and crannies for it to get into. To remove it, I shake off the rear wheel and free the derailleur from buildup with gloved fingers. I also try to stay in a low-ish gear in case the shifting goes. I would be reluctant to leave a derailleur-geared bike locked up outdoors in the snow for any length of time without some sort of cover.



Fender clearance:

This is not a popular opinion to have in transportation cycling circles, but fenders can be a pain. Unless there is a generous (as in vintage 3-speed/ Dutch bike type of generous) amount of clearance between the fender and tire, snow can get in there and does not always want to come out. If enough snow builds up, it can slow down the wheel's rotation or even bring it to a halt. I have experienced this on a couple of bikes now (granted, after intentionally riding them through snow for fun), bikes with what is considered good fender clearance for paved and dirt road riding in normal weather. Once snow gets between the tire and fender, it can be fairly difficult to remove on the road in cold temperatures; it doesn't want to be coaxed out. Better to avoid riding through soft snow in the first place.





Salt and rust:

Bicycles that are finished with anything but the hardiest powdercoat are susceptible to rust from the salted winter streets. The damage starts out as cosmetic - which is in itself sad if you have a nice bike -and can grow to become structural over time. I wipe my bike down after every ride on salted roads to avoid this. I would not leave a delicately finished bike outdoors in the winter for any significant length of time.



While not ideal, it is not impossible to ride a liquid painted, derailleur-geared bike with rim brakes and less than generous fender clearances in the snow, if you take care to watch for build-up en route and if you maintain the bike afterward. Storing such a bike outdoors in the snow is more problematic. Your bike parking situation at home and work could be the determining factor in whether going without a winter-proof bike is doable.

Off to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan

Hi, I am off to Jordan in the Middle East and I am quite excited about this trip but I must admit I did feel a little bit apprehensive of the current unstable situation of the region. I booked this trip last December, before the uprising in Tunisia and Egypt and ever since I have been hooked to BBC World News everyday following the Middle East status quo. So far nothing on the news has convinced me to pull back.







From what I understand, Jordan is a secular, modern and advanced Arab nation. The King with the lovely wife is the boss, like Bahrain, it is a constitutional monarchy country. So far the protests were quite peaceful except for the clashes that happened in Amman last Friday but this is minor in comparison to its neighbours.



According to the Global Competitiveness Report, Jordan ranked 1st in the region in terms of police services reliability and 14th in the world. For prevention against organized crime, Jordan ranked 1st again in the region and 9th in the world. Quite impressive!



So yes, apart from the recent clash I did my research and do feel safe about this trip.

No Paratrooper Training Required

When I saw the Pashley Parabike and Penny at Interbike last year, I was not sure what to make of them. "What are they for and how do they ride?" were my questions. This summer Pashley sent a pair to Harris Cyclery for me to try, and I still struggle to find the words to describe them. One thing is certain: These bikes have little in common with the Roadster and Princess models the brand is known for. I will write about each separately (Penny review now posted here).






In a sense the Pashley Parabike is a replica of the WWII-era BSA Parabike, also known as the Airborne. But unlike Pashley's remake, the original Parabike was a folder. Here is one I was lucky enough to see in person - hinged and cleverly constructed, albeit monstrously heavy. Paratroopers would jump out of planes with the bikes strapped to their backs, then re-assemble them once on the ground and ride away. They must have been very strong, those fellows.






I'll be honest here: The fact that Pashley copied the look and even the military colour scheme of the Airborne but not the folding functionality, biased me against the new Parabike at the start. I suspected it was mostly decorative and intended for military paraphernalia enthusiasts. But as the bike went into distribution I started hearing positive things about it, and so I tried to keep an open mind.






If I let go of my "but it doesn't fold like the original!" grudge, I have to admit the construction is interesting. Pashley calls this a "duplex-tube" frame. In place of the top tube and down tube are sets of twin stays, like on a mixte.The frame construction, from what I can tell, is very similar if not identical, to the Tube Rider and the (no longer produced?) Paramount models, save for the colour scheme.






The upper and lower sets of stays curve away from each other, giving the frame a balloon-like appearance. The whole thing is brazed cro-moly steel.





Lugged fork crown.






There are little bridges, connectors and braze-ons everywhere, arranged in a way that manages to not make the frame look busy.







The construction around the bottom bracket is interesting and complicated.








I am guessing the purpose is to provide extra support for the lower set of stays.




The seatpost is quick release. The aged Brooks B67 is the stock saddle. There are fenders and braze-ons for a rear rack, though no rack is included.





Chainguard.






Braze-ons for one water bottle cage.






Mildly swept-back handlebars with short, raised stem.







Faux cork grips, hub brakes, Sturmey-Archer 5-speed hub. I don't have a good close-up picture of this, but the frame has horizontal dropouts with a derailleur hanger.





The Parabike is one size only, described as 19". The wheels are 26" with 1.75" Schwalbe Marathon tires. Basic Stronglight crankset with platform pedals. No toe overlap with my Eur 38 sized shoes.





I test rode the Parabike over the course of several miles, and mechanic Jim (pictured here) rode it briefly as well. We agreed it is a cool bike, and we agreed that it's hard to describe. But let me try. Two main impressions stuck with me. One is the excellent ride quality over bumps - by far cushier than the Pashley Princess I used to own. Not that the Princess was harsh; it just wasn't impressively cushy compared to, say, Dutch bikes. The Parabike, on the other hand, felt like butter over potholes. While its tires are a bit wider, I don't think that is enough to account for the different feel. It could it be the springiness of the "duplex tubes." The other impression I was left with was that of maneuverability and zippiness. The handling is all together un-roadsterlike, with greater agility and what I think is a lower center of gravity. The bottom bracket is lower, the rider does not sit up as high, and overall the bike comes across as being rather compact. Of the bicycles I've tried so far, the Parabike rides most similarly to the city bikes with mountain bike heritagegroup. However, it is a more compact and lighter-weight bike.





Stepping over the Parabike in a skirt wasn't elegant, but doable. With true diamond frames I tend to be clumsy in this regard, but the curve here makes it a bit easier to lean and step over without having to swing my leg over the back. The fit of the 19" frame felt pretty much ideal for me, though on my own bike I would lower the handlebars.



The main problem I see with the Pashley Parabike is its identity. I like how the bike rides, but I am still not sure what it is for. I think the handling and durability (hub brakes and gears, tough powdercoat) would make it a great transportation bike - including in winter climates and seaside locations. But for a transportation bike, it is missing the rather crucial lights and racks. Although eyelets for a rear rack are provided, it will be difficult to find a suitable model for a bike so unique-looking- a topic I'vecovered before. I wonder whether Pashley has plans to design a rack specifically for the Parabike, or at least to source one that looks appropriate. An option with dynamo lighting would also be welcome. Of course if the bike is intended mainly for recreation, these practical considerations are less important. But then the hub brakes and fenders and chainguard seem overkill to me - I'd be tempted to strip it down, lighten it up, and ride it on trails.






Finally, to return to the Parabike's historical reference: Admittedly, I have not actually ridden an original BSA Airborne Parabike. But there is nothing about Pashley's remake that reminds me of a vintage bike other than the look. The ride quality feels distinctly modern - 90s mountain-bikey, in a good sort of way. It is a neat bike that is fun to ride, and the visual/historical aspect adds a layer to it that I don't quite know what to do with or where to fit into this write-up. It's as if the two things are entirely separate.




Pashley bikes are hand-built in Stratford-upon-Avon, England. The Parabike is available in "ash green" (shown here) or "dusk blue" - a dusty indigo. Current price is $1,195. Both the Parabike and Penny demo bikes are available for test rides at Harris Cyclery in West Newton, MA. A separate write-up about the Penny is forthcoming.