Getting Fixed

Don’t stop! Whatever you do, don’t stop pedaling. Wow, déjà vu. The last time I started a story with those two sentences I was riding a bike up the steepest hill in Portland, Oregon (see: “The Reasons We Ride the Ronde,” April 7, 2014). This time, I’m doing almost the exact opposite—instead of climbing up, I’m flying down. Though the hill I’m currently bombing is far from the steepest in the city, it is drastically more dangerous. If I were to stop pedaling right now, I would most likely be thrown over the handlebars of my bike, much in the same way cowboys are bucked off those massive bulls that they attempt to ride for eight seconds.  On the bright side, I wouldn’t have a giant animal bearing down on me immediately afterward, but on the not so bright side, instead of landing in dirt, I would most likely slide across rough pavement, leaving the road with a thin coating of my skin, and embedding my now-exposed flesh with a mixture of asphalt and whatever other debris happens to be on the ground. And that’s why I don’t stop pedaling.

            I’m riding in the fixed-gear category of the Mount Tabor Series, a six-week long road cycling event sponsored by River City Bicycles. Every Wednesday night, I and about ten other participants, test our skills around the 1.3 mile loop that circles the park’s upper reservoir. To a non-cyclist the course may seem relatively easy—one and a third miles around an artificial body of water. What’s the big deal? And if the course were flat, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but this course is anything but flat. In fact, of the 1.3 miles, I would estimate that less than 200 yards of it is on level ground (perhaps the “Mount” in Mount Tabor gave that away). For the remainder of the race you’re either going up, or you’re going down. And normally, the going down part would be a welcomed break—time to rest your legs—but when you’re on a bicycle with a fixed gear, the downhill suddenly becomes the hard part.

           

Unlike most modern bikes, a fixed-gear bicycle, or a “fixie,” as they’re also known, has its cog connected, or “fixed,” directly to the hub of the back wheel. Whenever the rear wheel is turning, the chain moves with it, therefore forcing the front chain ring, and the pedals to turn as well. In laymen’s terms: if the bike is moving, so are your legs. Primarily intended for track racing and trick riding (fixies allow riders to power their bike in reverse), the fixed-gear bicycle has gained somewhat of a cult status over the past few decades, becoming the two-wheeler of choice for many urban hipsters, bicycle messengers, and bike polo competitors (bike polo is almost exactly what it sounds like—polo on bicycles instead of horses).  While fixies might very well offer an advantage for track racers, trick riders, and polo players, it is hard to believe that messengers and hipsters ride them for any other reason than the “cool” factor, or because they simply find the experience fun. People will argue that fixed-gear bicycles are cheaper, lighter, and easier to work on, but then again, people will argue about most anything. The truth is that a single-speed bike with a freewheel (the opposite of a fixed-gear, in which the rear wheel moves independently from the pedal, as on most modern bikes) is relatively similar to a fixie in all those categories, along with being much safer.

            I’m not a bike messenger, or a trick rider, or a polo player. And though I may be a hipster (see: “An Accidental Hipster,” April 23, 2014), I certainly don’t ride a fixie because I think it’s “cool.” I ride a fixie because it’s free. I know that sounds like an oxymoron—riding something that’s fixed because it’s free—but hear me out. The Mount Tabor Series is one of the only bicycle races in Oregon that offers a fixed-gear category and if you sign up for any another category, you are eligible to compete in the fixed-gear race free of charge. The words “free” and “race” hardly ever go together, so, naturally, I jumped at the opportunity to get some extra “warm-up” laps in without having to pay for them. One would think that more people would find the offer enticing, though of the 200-plus competitors each week, only three of us choose to race in both the fixed-gear and our respective categories. This could be because it requires bringing two bicycles to the venue (I live close enough that I can make it home between my races to switch out bikes), but I believe the real reason is something else all together—it’s extremely hard; perhaps the most challenging race of the night. So difficult in fact, that the champion of the Pro Men’s category during the first three races of the series has failed to win the fixed-gear race two of those weeks, coming in a close second on both occasions.

            Personally, I'm not here to win the race, or even podium for that matter. I'm simply here to survive, and hopefully become a stronger rider in the process. The most interesting thing I find concerning the Mount Tabor fixed-gear race is that the uphill is the easy part. Well, maybe “easy” isn’t the best word for it, but it’s definitely “easier” as far as I’m concerned. Climbing the approximately 138 feet of elevation simply requires you to stand up out of your saddle and drive your legs into the ground like a pair of pistons, slow and steady, until you reach the apex of the hill. It’s the 138 feet of downhill that I find most testing. Normally, on a downhill ascent, you just let gravity take over and pedal if you please—a great opportunity to give your legs a rest. But when you’re riding a fixed-gear bicycle, the faster the bike gets going, the faster your legs are forced to spin, and if you’re not accustomed to your legs spinning at incredible speeds, the experience can seem very intimidating. And unless you like the burn that’s associated with pouring hydrogen peroxide over open wounds, that’s when you have to remind yourself: Don’t stop! Whatever you do, don’t stop pedaling.

The jonpenfold.com Summer Burpee Challenge

Challenge (n) : a call or summons to engage in any contest, as of skill, strength, etc.

Burpee (n) : a full body exercise used in strength training and as an aerobic exercise

Summer (n) : the season between spring and autumn

jonpenfold.com (n) : the most interesting blog on the Internet

The jonpenfold.com Summer Burpee Challenge: How fast can you do 100 burpees?

Last year I did 50,000 pushups. I’m not here to brag about the accomplishment. For one thing, I didn’t really do it for anybody but myself, as I’ve hardly ever mentioned the feat to others until now. For another thing, I’m not really sure if I actually did 50,000, as I found myself quite lazy during the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. But If I didn’t reach my intended goal, then I came damn close. I got the idea for the 2013 Pushup Challenge as I was watching the news one night and saw a story about Sergeant Enrique Trevino, a United States Marine who in 2012 did a million pushups over the course of the year. If he could do a million, I figured, I could certainly do 50,000.

           And so I did pushups—usually 200 a day, five days a week. I would do sets of 50, some in the morning, some at night, while sneaking others in during work hours (it sure feels good to do pushups while on the clock). And I’m not going to sugarcoat it—it wasn’t easy. But it made me feel healthier, stronger, and more confident than before I began doing the pushups. At certain points during the year, I even thought it would become a lifelong routine. I assumed that I would continue to do 50,000 pushups every year for the rest of my life, or at least until I reached the age of 200. But then Thanksgiving came, with all that great food, and then Christmas, with even more great food, and then New Years, with all that great alcohol, and the pushups stopped. So far, this year, I bet I’ve done less than a thousand. And I know this may sound strange, but I miss doing pushups.

   

So, with summer starting this weekend (Saturday, June 21^st) I have devised a new challenge—The jonpenfold.com Summer Burpee Challenge! It’s quite simple: How fast can you do 100 burpees? Get a stop watch, press start, do 100 burpees, press stop, and record your time. Pretty easy. Well, maybe “easy” isn’t the best word to describe it. Anyway, that’s all there is to it. By the end of the summer, whoever posts the fastest time wins. And don’t get me wrong, I DO NOT intend on this being a contest, it’s just that for some people, a little friendly competition can translate into a great deal of motivation.

           

First thing first—let’s talk burpees. The exercise was named after Royal H. Burpee, an American physiologist who developed the exercise as part of his Ph.D. thesis (seriously, I’m as surprised as you are by this obscure fact). It was popularized during World War II, when the Armed Services adopted it as a way to evaluate fitness levels of incoming recruits. It has caused children to despise their gym teachers ever since. A basic burpee can be performed in four steps (known as the four-count burpee):

          1)      Begin in a standing position

          2)      Drop into a squat position with your hands on the ground (count 1)

          3)      Kick your feet back while keeping your arms extended (count 2)

          4)      Immediately return your feet to the squat position (count 3)

          5)      Return to the original standing position (count 4)

Growing up, we called these squat-thrusts, and I know there’s an ongoing debate concerning the difference between the two, but for the sake of this challenge, I think it’s best that we go with the most basic approach. This way, people with low ceilings or weak flooring won’t be excluded. But for those of you who might find a basic burpee too easy, I recommend training with any of its many variations—the pushup burpee, the long-jump burpee, or the high-jump burpee, to name just a few—but remember, for the contest, you need only to time yourself doing the basic burpee.

           

Now that we’ve established what a burpee is, let’s talk strategy. There are so many different ways one can go about this challenge. The simplest way to do it would be to do 100 burpees every day, with the assumption that you’ll get faster throughout the summer—that’s the approach I’m taking. Summer consists of 93 days, so if you stick to this plan, by September 22, you will have done 9,300 burpees, and by that time, you might as well keep going for an even 10,000. Another approach would be to do 1 burpee on the first day, 2 burpees on the second, and so on. Now, on day 92, you will only be up to 92 burpees, so on that last day of summer, you’ll have to jump up by 8 to hit the 100 mark, but by that time it should be piece of cake. Another approach would be to do absolutely nothing all summer but eat cheeseburgers and ice cream and then try to bust out 100 on the last day without throwing up. I do not recommend this strategy, though I hope somebody tries it for the sake of comedy.

            The most rewarding outcome that resulted from the 2013 Pushup Challenge had nothing to do with health, strength, or confidence. In fact, it had nothing to do with my personal well-being at all. What I found most satisfying was that when I mentioned my challenge to others, many of them were eager to give it a shot themselves, and by the end of the year, I knew of at least five others who either accomplished, or came close to, the goal of 50,000 pushups. I’m hoping this summer will have an even greater outcome, with even more people taking up the challenge. And even if it takes you all summer, even if you can only do one burpee each day, and then eight on the last, you will have completed 100 burpees—100 burpees you probably wouldn’t have done otherwise—and I bet you’ll feel better for having done it.

            And for those of you who want this to be a contest: please post your results, updates, strategies, etc. on the comment section below. Summer doesn’t officially start until this Saturday, but I won’t disqualify anyone for getting a head start. There will be a prize for whoever posts the fastest time. And don’t bother cheating, because I can assure you that the prize will have very little to no monetary value. I will be competing, and I know of at least three people out there who should crush my time if they decide to take up the challenge (Full disclosure—I haven’t done a single burpee yet this year). Looking forward to seeing you on the comment board. Ready. Set. Go!

             

The World Naked Bike Ride, with Photos? (Guess you’ll have to click to find out)

         

I could tell that someone was staring at me. You know the feeling—even though you can’t actually see their eyes looking at you, you somehow know they are. And it wasn’t in that flirtatious kind of way, like when a girl is goggling over a man she finds attractive. No, this guy was straight-up glaring at me, like when one man wants nothing more than to hurt another man. I finally gave in and turned my head in his direction. That’s when he straightened his arm and pointed his index finger at me. “Narc!” he yelled loudly. “That guy’s a narc!”

            “Narc” began as a slang term for a narcotics officer, presumably someone who is a member of law enforcement, but it eventually evolved into the more universal meaning of anybody who turns somebody in for doing something wrong. I wasn’t sure which definition this guy believed me to be as he yelled into the crowd. Could I be a cop? Sure. I suppose. But couldn’t anybody be a cop? Though, in my case, it did seem unlikely, seeing that my hair was long—almost touching my shoulders—and my beard was scraggly. Not typically what one thinks of when they picture a cop.

Could I be somebody who was going to turn him in for doing something wrong? Most definitely. But again, couldn’t anybody? I mean, what distinguishes a “narc” from anybody else? And how could I even know that he was doing anything wrong? The fact that he was yelling “narc” at someone, regardless of who they were, was in itself a telltale sign that he was in fact doing something wrong—a clear admittance on his part.

But back to me—why me? What could have set this guy off to believe that I was out to get him? I doubt it was my hair or beard. After all, his wasn’t much different than mine. Could it be my bicycle? But everybody there had bikes. Perhaps my clothes? No. Impossible. Because I wasn’t wearing any. Nobody was. In fact, of the thousands of people gathered at the riverfront, the only people who were wearing clothes was the man pointing at me and his posse of a half-dozen delinquents now standing next to him, all of whom were by now convinced that I was a narc—a bare naked narc.

           

That was two years ago, and after that incident—among other reasons—I vowed to never participate in the World Naked Bike Ride again. But that was two years ago, and a lot can change in two years. My hair is short now, for one, and my beard isn’t as scraggly. Plus, I have a girlfriend who wants to do the ride. 2014 is her first year living in the city of Portland and the World Naked Bike Ride is somewhat of a rite of passage—an initiation of sorts—to becoming a true “Portlander.” (Whatever that means.) Being the closest to the starting spot, a group of friends meet at our house beforehand. Our party rolls out wearing clothes, because a half-dozen naked cyclists in daylight doesn’t go over quite as well as several thousand in the dark. We ride the two and a half miles to Normandale Park, where there is absolutely no doubt that we’re at the right place.

            There’s no term for the science of counting crowds, so I’m going to make one up—crowdology. Now, I’ve never claimed to be a crowdologist, but from my experience at rock concerts and music festivals, I would estimate around 10,000 people at the park. To put that in perspective, that’s about half the amount of spectators that would fit in a professional basketball arena. This may already seem like a very large number, but when you add the fact that nearly all of these people are naked, then things suddenly seem a lot more interesting. If we assume that there are as many males as there are females, then instead of thinking of the crowd as 10,000 naked people, we can think of it as 5,000 penises and 10,000 boobs. Which brings us yet to another new term: Nudistry—the science of counting naked people.

            Though I did not attend Woodstock, or any of its subsequent anniversary concerts, I can assume that the festivals had a similar feel to Normandale Park on this warm night in June. Music is streaming from all directions, body paint is prevalent, and the aroma of recreational drugs is in the air. And did I mention that everyone is naked. Just after 9pm, we strip down, the men to nothing, the women in our party, to their bottoms, and we hop on our bikes and ride. We’re able to start rather close to the front of the group where a marching band is playing and the streets are lined with spectators, most of whom seem to be as—or more—excited than those of us riding. After a slow start, we’re finally on our bikes and pedaling, the wind blowing through our hair, even those of us wearing helmets—The World Naked Bike Ride has officially begun.

            Though naked bicycle riding has a long history, the World Naked Bike Ride was conceived in 2004, by Conrad Schmidt, an activist in Vancouver, Canada, who was the coordinator for the Work Less Party of British Columbia. The first WNBR featured participation from 28 cities, in 10 countries, on 4 continents. By the turn of the decade, the ride would expand to 74 cities, in 17 countries. Initially the ride was formed as a protest against oil dependency, though it eventually shifted focus to bicycle advocacy. Apparently, riding naked represents how vulnerable cyclists are on streets filled with automobiles. Personally, I believe most people are here just to have a good time, but since it is a “protest,” it’s entirely legal under our First Amendment rights. The Portland Police Department even corks traffic at nearly every cross street throughout the entire route, no doubt pissing off unsuspected drivers who weren’t aware the ride was taking place. But on the bright side, if you are forced to wait in your car, what better way to pass time than to watch thousands of naked people ride by on bikes?

          

  The perturbed drivers blocked by the cops aren’t the only spectators. Thousands of people come out to watch what I heard one person refer to as a “freak parade.” Because the meeting point of the ride was widely announced beforehand, it wasn’t surprising to see a crowd gathered toward the start, but since the route was a secret, it was surprising to see how many spectators still found their way to the sidelines over the course of the next five or so miles. In past years the ride went through the heart of the city, passing the bars and clubs downtown, causing crowds of drunkards to whoop and holler and occasionally throw things. This year the ride took a much more pleasant route, through what I would refer to as “wealthy” neighborhoods where I even saw the occasional family outside to watch the festivities. For the handful of teenage boys I noticed along the route, this appeared—by the looks on their faces—to be the greatest night of their lives. And when the ride did pass a handful of bars, they were in the much more cultured districts of town, where several spectators themselves had no problem stripping down, if only to cheer us on.

            As for the party that I arrived with, well, it’s very easy to get split up when you’re riding in a group consisting of thousands of people. My friend Colin immediately disappeared. (Even as I write this, I have no idea what happened to him.) Kelly, who we all thought was a bit reserved, has suddenly discovered the art of high-fiving. Before the ride started she was debating whether or not she was even going to take off her shirt, let alone her bra. Now, she is completely topless and high-fiving every spectator she can get her hand on. It’s as if she grew up in a world where high-fives were forbidden and for the first time in her life she has been liberated. “You’ve got to try high-fiving,” she says to me. “It’s fun for you, it’s fun for them, it’s just fun for everybody!”

            My girlfriend and her friend are simply riding, but her friend’s boyfriend possesses a specific skill that just so happens to come in handy on a night like this. He used to hold the world record for riding the longest wheelie on a bicycle and is not shy about showing off his talent. I watch as he rides on one wheel, and then continues to ride, and ride, and ride. Everybody around us can’t believe what they’re seeing, and if it isn’t for a steep incline, it seems that he could keep it up forever. Seeing someone do a wheelie for that long is strange, but seeing someone do a wheelie for that long while completely naked is even stranger. And that isn’t even close to being the strangest thing to be seen at the World Naked Bike Ride.

           

People seem to come out of the woodwork for events like this and they ride every possible type of bike one could imagine, and some that you probably couldn’t imagine. Of course there’s the standard bicycle, and then there’s mini-bikes, swing-bikes, double-decker bikes, folding bikes, recumbants, tandems, tricycles, quadcycles…you name it, somebody’s riding it. And then there are those who decorate their bikes, with things like crazy neon lights or large American flags that flap in the wind behind them. And then there are those who take it to a whole new level. I saw one guy riding a bike that looked like a rabbit. And a man on a double-decker bike that was all lit up to look like Pac-Man, the lights flickering to make it look as if it was opening and closing its mouth. And my favorite, an old man with a large lit-up ice cream cone standing on his rear rack, with the words “Free Licks” painted on his back. And then there’s the participants who don’t even have bicycles at all—runners, rollerbladers, people confined to wheelchairs, and skateboarders. Goddamn skateboarders!

            We’re almost to the finish—one last huge descent and we’re home free. We’re going downhill at a pretty good clip when I see the skateboard rolling across the street. It’s as if time freezes for a moment and I am a physicist who can calculate the projection of objects simply by looking at them. It’s going this speed, at that angle, in this direction—straight towards my girlfriend’s front wheel. My girlfriend, who until tonight has never ridden a bicycle in the dark, in a group, or naked. By the time I pull over and look back she is on two feet, her bike straddled sideways between her legs, the skateboard caught up in the mix. The kid unapologetically grabs his board and takes off. Katelin wrestles her bike back to a standing position and I let out a huge sigh of relief, because that could have ended up so much worse.

           

We finish the ride and get home alive, just as I eventually did two years ago. I still have no idea why the street kids picked me out of the crowd and decided that I was a narc. It’s not something that you casually ask someone: “Excuse me good sir, but could you please explain why you believe that I am a narc?” It just wouldn’t go over that well. So, how did I get out of it? Simple—I had a bicycle and they didn’t. I merely rode away. Two wheels are always better than none—even if you are naked.

The Last Supper

If you knew your next meal was to be your last, what would you choose to eat? That’s the question that I’ve been asking myself all week. It’s probably something that most Americans never consider. After all, we live in a society where food is no longer a necessity, at least not in the same way that our ancestors regarded it. People often throw around phrases like “I’m so hungry!” or “I’m starving!” I know I have from time to time. But I’ve never actually been starving; hungry, maybe, but most likely just craving. And not even craving “food” in general, but specific foods, delicious foods—typically things that contain vast amounts of sugar and salt and gluten. And I’ve almost always had the fortunate opportunity to have these foods in front of me as soon as the craving came on. I needed only to open the refrigerator or walk down the street or pick up the phone. But all of that is about to change. And that’s why I need to figure out what I want to eat for my last meal.

          

I’ve been poisoned. Toxins have entered my body. They have horrible names like monosodium glutamate, sodium benzoate, and methylene chloride, to name just a few. I mean, would you willingly put something called methylene chloride into your body? Unless you live under a bridge and collect cans for a “living,” your answer is probably no. But I’ve been ingesting these chemicals and hundreds of others like them for a very, very long time—ever since I started eating. At this rate, leading medical professionals give me only fifty, maybe sixty more years to live, tops. I can’t accept that. Aint nothing in this world gonna kill Jon Penfold in eighty years! They say that somebody in my generation will live to be 200 years old, and I intend to be that person. But before that can happen, I need to find the antidote for all the poisons I’ve been consuming for the last 31+ years. That’s where Dr. Axe comes in.

            Dr. Axe sounds like the name of a superhero. Or a super villain. I haven’t decided yet. On one hand, he claims that if I follow his 28-day “Secret Detox” I will master my metabolism and boost my energy, and who wouldn’t want to boost their energy? It will “change your life,” he claims.  On the other hand, he’s telling me that for the next four weeks I can’t eat any of the foods that I’ve grown to love—pasta, pizza, ice cream, bread, etc.—pretty much all of my favorite things. I will be on strict diet of organic, non-GMO vegetables, grass fed, free range meat, and raw dairy. I will also have to twice daily consume a “secret” detox drink that is so secret that a Google search of “Dr. Axe’s secret detox drink” turns up absolutely no recipes. Not a single one. Don’t even try it. It’s such an underground secret that only people as privileged as myself are permitted to know its ingredients. I’m serious—don’t Google it! It’s a secret Goddamn it!

            For those of you who regularly read my blog, I know exactly what you’re thinking: The guy who just last week ate a dozen donuts in a matter of hours suddenly decides he’s a health nut? (see: A Baker’s Dozen) Well, to be honest, the donuts played a large part in my decision to detox. I’ve accomplished many eating challenges in my life, but this time the donuts seemed to push me over the edge. I didn’t feel right for days afterward, physically or mentally. I began to seriously question my lifestyle choices. That’s when my girlfriend introduced me to Dr. Axe. The detox was recommended to her as a treatment for her Crohn’s Disease—a digestive disorder that effects roughly a half-million people in North America. And since it would have been nearly impossible for her to detox while her boyfriend sat in front of her eating plates full of pasta and bowls full of ice cream, I decided that it would be in our best interest if I joined her on this journey. Plus, it gave me a great a topic to write about for this blog—what would I eat for my last meal? And for a subsequent post four weeks from now—what it’s like to detox.

           

My last meal would be more appropriately described as my last week of meals, for just about everything in my kitchen contained ingredients that I would not be allowed to have during the detox, and heaven forbid I throw anything out. So, I ate it. I ate it all. Well, as much as I could—pasta, peanut butter, ice cream, chips, more pasta, more ice cream. Some people would try to wean themselves off of the foods they were accustomed to eating. I did just the opposite. Since I knew the detox was fast approaching, I gorged myself on all the foods I knew I would miss the most—mostly cheeseburgers, ice cream, and beer. A lot of beer. I must have gained five pounds in less than a week. But even after shoving junk food down my throat for seven consecutive days, I wanted my last meal to be special.

            

It has long been a custom for prisoners to receive a last meal before their execution. The practice dates back hundreds of years, as a truce of sorts, to prevent the condemned from returning as a ghost and haunting his executioner. The better the food, the least likely the prisoner’s spirit would return. Such a superstition might seem ridiculous today, but at the time they probably figured: why take the chance? Somehow the tradition stuck and even the worst criminals—even those who committed the most horrific of crimes— get to choose their last meal. John Wayne Gacy chose shrimp, KFC chicken, French fries, and strawberries. Timothy McVeigh had mint chocolate-chip ice cream. In Texas in 2011, Lawrence Russell Brewer requested two chicken fried steaks, a triple cheeseburger, a cheese omelet, a bowl of okra, a pound of barbequed meat, a loaf of white bread, three fajitas, a meat-lover’s pizza, ice cream, fudge, and three root beers. When they brought the food to him he said he wasn’t hungry and refused to eat any of it. What a jokester! The state of Texas immediately abolished all last meal rights. Just another example of how one bad person can ruin something for everyone.

           

Some people will ask: How can you compare going on a 28-day detox to someone receiving a last meal before being put to death? And I will answer by saying that those prisoners actually had it easier—they didn’t have to spend four weeks watching others eat all the delicious foods that they love. They got their last meal and then said goodbye. I will continue to be tempted by commercials on TV and advertisements on billboards. I will still have to walk past restaurants and attend social events where people are shoving delicious-looking things down their throats. The foods I want to eat but can’t are literally everywhere. I can smell them as I type this. And what if this detox thing works and I feel better than I’ve ever felt in my life, and I decide that eating healthy is going to be lifelong commitment? Then this really will be my last meal.

            It was not an easy decision. There are so many foods that I am truly passionate about—so passionate that I would go as far as using the word “passionate” when describing them. In the end I ended up choosing Pizza with ranch dipping sauce, garlic sticks with marinara, Pepsi, Beer, and chocolate ice cream topped with whipped cream (And yes, I felt horrible afterward). If you knew your next meal would be your last, what would you choose? (Feel free to comment below)