I mentioned Jeff Goldstone, The Cambridge NY local (from Los Angeles) who drove Press 3, in my Battenkill write-up.  I didn’t mention that his friend Ben Shapiro, from NYC, was in the back, just along for the ride. I sent Jeff a link to the post. Ben emailed me a compliment when he got the link and had looked at the pics. Then he wrote “Maybe will run into you again sometime in the city…”.

It took a day. Not even 24 hours, really. I was riding back home from Central Operations, up First Avenue, and I came across Ben, toodling up the bike lane on an old 10 speed, on his way to the Starrett Lehigh building. He was going to pick up some Blue Ray copies of his documentary on photographer Gregory Crewdson, and then he was off to New Orleans to show the film there.

He told me the documentary will be at Film Forum in the Fall. I’ll be looking for it.

Thanks to our friend the talented, prolific, and apparently very lucky (he got tickets!) photographer Wolfgang Wesener for this picture freom the recent Kraftwerk show at MoMA in NYC.

Z on the way to meet his 4PM coaching client (and 2032 Olympic Pursuit hopeful) in Central Park.

The new mags- Issue Number 3- arrived today from the amazing Hemlock Printers in Vancouver BC. They look amazing. There’s a little story inside the mag about this very same FedEx counter….

If you haven’t heard, the launch party is  tomorrow night- see below.

Out drinking with teammates Crashed in Race and Slammed by Cargo Van. Fucked Up Knee and Pneumonia couldn’t make it.

It’s coming! April 6th at Ground Support Cafe in SoHo. See you then.

Season opener tomorrow. Supposed to be wet in Central Park. Let’s just see how wet.

BMX dudes at the Magellan monument in the main square, Punta Arenas, Chile. The Strait of Magellan is about half a kilometer down the street; Tierra del Fuego is on the opposite shore.

Really?
I am speachless.

The day after Thanksgiving, my brother and I set out in matching jerseys from our mother’s house in Connecticut, looking to find a Buddhist shrine he’d spotted on a previous trip.
As we were getting close, the driver of a red pickup truck nearly ran us off the road, and then slowed, glaring at me an my brother in the rearview. Then he slammed on the brakes. He was pointing and screaming at me through the closed passenger-side window as I rode by– something about “my road” I think. Then he gunned it and sped past us towards the stop sign fifty meters up the road, where I caught up to him for an awkward moment. He still looked hopping mad, but I was giving him the blankest stare I could muster– what had we done?– so he just drove off. I didn’t want to provoke him, but I did want to ask him if everything was alright at home.
My brother had drifted way off behind me. When he caught up, he told me he had let the word “asshole” escape his mouth when the truck first went by. He also mentioned that, after the truck’s tires screeched, he had nearly let a turd escape into his fancy English bibs.
We reached the shrine shortly thereafter, a lonely stupa in the middle of a field, surrounded by some mangy prayer flags. We read on a sign that a stupa is meant to radiate harmony and good will, that this is the only stupa in Connecticut, and that, for maximum benefit, one should walk around the stupa in a clockwise direction. My brother wasted no time in doing so.