Biased Blow-By Blow - 2025 Vuelta a España Stage 9

Introduction

Of the three cycling Grand Tours, the Vuelta a España gets the least respect. And yet, it can be among the most exciting, since the Tour de France insists on being a blowout, year after year. The Vuelta, or I suppose I should say La Vuelta (though that sounds pedantic, doesn’t it?) is often a chance for a top rider who missed out on Tour glory to have another crack.

So it is with Jonas Vingegaard (Team Visma – Lease A Bike), the favorite here, who keeps losing the Tour and is wise to try to win something else just to remind his sponsors he’s still capable. And we’re all in luck: his nemesis, Tadej Pogacar (UAE Team Emirates-XRG), who is so dominant in this sport he’s turned it into a joke, is not doing this race. I guess he felt like leaving some scraps for the others. Maybe his mom chided him for not sharing. The official story is that he needs rest, but that’s ridiculous. Pogar is so endlessly strong, some commentators still consider him a favorite for this Vuelta despite his non-participation … he’s that good.

Anyway, I’m here to give an unvarnished, no-punches-pulled  blow-by-blow report, where I’ll cast aspersions as I see fit about a rider’s cleanliness, dorkiness, etc. I’ll also provide a brief recap of the first eight stages.

2025 Vuelta a España Stage 9 – Alfaro to Estacion de Esqui de Valdezcaray

As I join the action, the riders have about 70 kilometers (43 miles) left in the race, and it’s starting to rain. Looks like pretty miserable conditions.

Trigger warning: I might say some things in this report that could be upsetting to vegans. I want to be clear that although I respect the position of vegans, and cede them the moral high ground, and am even pretty sure my bike saddle is made of pleather, I do sometimes make a meat-loving comment.

There’s a breakaway of five riders with a lead of 2:26. I’m not sure I want to share their names. That’s kind of like naming the lambs that you’re going to feed to your family. Arguably tasteless. The practice, I mean, not the lambs. They are very tasty. Among land animals, I think they’re my favorite. I had antelope once. I ordered it rare but even still, it was so lean it wasn’t that good. Stick with lamb, or beef.

They’re interviewing Jonas Vingegaard.

INTERVIEWER: Consider this photo we just took of some fans basically panhandling along today’s route. What do you think of this practice?

VINGEGAARD: Well, they’ve done a pretty nice job on the sign. The heart is a nice touch and would naturally incline riders to donate. Also, I like the specificity of “water bottles” even though it reduces the size font they can use. Because you wouldn’t want riders throwing, say, beer bottles. That could be dangerous.

INTERVIEWER: That’s a great point. In fact, I’m guessing you speak from experience: did someone throw a glass bottle at you? Is that why the bridge of your nose is bandaged?

VINGEGAARD: No, I just put this tape on my nose so I’ll get really weird tan lines.

INTERVIEWER: Why pink? Why not a flesh tone, like band-aids have?

VINGEGAARD: I don’t think you understand: I’m trying to look as goofy as possible.

INTERVIEWER: Got it.

Full disclosure: it’s so rare for riders to say anything interesting in these interviews, I typically take some liberties, such as fabricating the entire dialogue as I’ve done here. Strangely enough, Vingegaard actually did say something interesting in this one—namely, that part of why he and his team declined to defend his red jersey (more on this in a moment) is that he doesn’t like all the ceremonies that the leader has to deal with after the stage, which can take like 45 minutes during which he could be resting. But by the time he said this, I was committed to my alternative narrative and saw it through.

With 60 kilometers (54 miles) to go, the breakaway’s gap has dropped by about 20 seconds. Probably it’s better you don’t bond with them.

Here’s what’s gone down in this Vuelta so far, while you were too busy watching the Great British Baking Show or the Great American Barbecuing Show. Stage 1, a flat one for the sprinters, duly went to Jasper Philipsen (Alpecin–Deceuninck), who seems back on form after crashing out of this year’s Tour de France. In Stage 2, there was a dramatic crash with almost all of Team Visma – Lease A Bike going down. (There was some concern that their leased bikes had been damaged until the director assured us they’d bought the optional no-fault insurance.) Vingegaard was among those who crashed, but obviously wasn’t hurt because he ended up edging out Giulio Ciccone (Lidl-Trek) for victory in the hilltop finish. Needless to say Vingegaard took the leader’s jersey in the process. In Stage 3, David Gaudu (Groupama-FDJ) took the win ahead of Mads Pedersen (Lidl-Trek) and Vingegaard.

Back to the coverage: the breakaway’s gap is down to 1:44 with 38 kilometers (23.6 miles) left. The Peacock commentators, keeping up a lively banter despite having basically nothing to report, are arguably working harder than the racers right now. Christian Van de Velde is talking about somebody getting a cease-and-desist order from AC/DC. I’ll confess I’m a bit lost here.

Getting back to my recap, on Stage 4, Ben Turner (Ineos Granadiers) won and weirdly, the red jersey changed hands because Gaudu and Vingegaard were the same on time, but Gaudu finished higher in the stage.  It’s certainly possible that Vingegaard could have worked a bit harder to hold on to the jersey (since Gaudu was only 25th on the day, after all) but based on what Vingegaard (actually) said in his interview, he purposely gave it away. Stage 5 was a team time trial, and though Visma – Lease A Bike lost by eight seconds to UAE Team Emirates-XRG, they took enough time from Groupama-FDJ to put Vingegaard back in the red jersey, against his wishes. Vingegaard filed a restraining order against the jersey, and it worked: in Stage 6 the jersey stopped harassing him and jumped onto the shoulders of Torsten Træen (Bahrain Victorious), who was in the breakaway with stage winner Jay Vine (UAE Team Emirates-XRG). In Stage 7, Juan Ayuso (UAE Team Emirates-XRG) soloed to a stage win and Træen held on to red. Yesterday was another sprint stage with Philipsen winning again, and no change in GC. And then it was now.

The break is doomed, their gap plummeting, now down to 1:11. The peloton isn’t even playing cat and mouse, they’re just thundering toward the leaders. Why do cats toy with their prey? Easy: because mice just aren’t that tasty, even to a cat. I’ll bet a cat would sooner eat day-old ground beef than a fresh, still warm mouse. As would the peloton. If you think this metaphor is getting away from me, you’re right. But what can I say? The road is straight and long and flat and nothing of note is happening in this stage. But fear not, it’s a Category 1 climb at the end, and it’s looming nearer.

OMG! Something actually happens—it’s a crash in the main peloton!

It’s Victor Guernalec (Arkéa  – B&B Hotels), somehow finding a way to stack along a perfectly straight, flat, well-paved road. Amazingly, nobody crashes around him. So we get to see both sheer incompetence and expert bike handling showcased together in the span of just a few seconds. You know what else? His sponsor, B&B Hotels, is an oxymoron. As we all know, a B&B (i.e., Bed & Breakfast) is an alternative to a hotel. Idiots.

As the breakaway hits the big climb the peloton overwhelms them. Just like that. Aren’t you glad you didn’t learn their names? It would be so sad.

With 12 kilometers (7 miles) to go, Lidl-Trek takes the front to set up their man Giulio Ciccone so he can have another crack at a stage win. It made me wince to see him lose that earlier stage despite having launched a hellacious sprint. He lost by inches. At one point during the sprint he looked back to see if anyone was matching him, which was his fatal mistake. Looking back not only isn’t aerodynamic, but gives your rivals more hope. It’s a terrible misstep. But I like Ciccone’s style, and even his name. You know what’s weird about his name? It always makes  me think of charcuterie. Isn’t that strange? Does his name do that for you, too?

Matteo Jorgenson (Team Visma – Lease A Bike) attacks! It’s a brilliant move! Why do I say it’s brilliant when actually it’s a fairly predictable thing for the top team to do? Because America!

Man, it is so hard to get good photos for this report, thanks to Peacock blocking screenshots. Why do I even bother? Sheesh.

And now Vingegaard attacks! But he’s blatantly defying my sage advice from just a few sentences ago, by looking behind him!

Then again, it’s 11 kilometers (6.8 miles) to the finish so this is a lot different from a final sprint. Only Ciccone can respond and tucks himself in behind the great Dane.

And now, like it’s nothing, Vingegaard saws off Ciccone. Ciccone’s open-mouth frown is so pronounced, he looks a bit like Darth Vader.

So the race is finally heating up, figuratively speaking. In terms of actual temperature it’s cooling down as the rain starts up again.

Now that it’s finally getting exciting, Peacock goes to more ads. It’s really annoying—I mean, I’m already paying for Peacock Plus or Peacock Premium or whatever. Thieving bastards.

Speaking of bastards, it’s raining like a bastard now! Behind Vingegaard is the chasing duo of Thomas Pidcock (Q36.5 Pro Cycling Team) and Joao Almeida (UAE Team Emirates-XRG), 24 seconds in arrears. I had a boss once who didn’t realize that “payment in arrears” was the expression—he’d say “payment in the rear,” a serious gaff unless (or especially if) he was trying to be funny.

Speaking of “the rear,” Vingegaard is hauling ass, and his lead is growing. He may even take the red jersey again, as he started today only 2:33 behind. Træen is out the back and hemorrhaging time.

Almeida and Pidcock are working pretty well now, after having bickered earlier, but it’s not helping. The gap is up to 32 seconds.

Everyone in the peloton is big-ringing it up this climb.

Pidcock flicks his elbow and Almeida pulls through. What is this weird Q36.5 team? Where the hell did they come from and how did they manage to sign a talent like Pidcock? Answers: Q36.5 is an Italian clothing brand and nobody knows where this team came from; its only rider besides Pidcock I’ve even heard of is David de la Cruz who hasn’t won a major race since 2017. And how did Q36.5 get Pidcock? Three words: HOT CASH MONEY. (I guess I could have pared that down to one word.) According to one source, the team is paying him between 7.5 and 8.5 million euros a year ($8.8 to $9.9 million), making him the second highest-paid cyclist in the world (after Pogacar, of course).

Vingegaard has got the win. Man, that climb was over in seemingly no time.

Pidcock outsprints Almeida for second. The two managed to make up some ground by the end there, losing only 25 seconds, so they’ll consolidate their standing in the GC.

Pretty sweet sprint, but the bikes are ridiculous. Pidcock’s bars, the way they flare out, look like something from an ‘80s touring bike, and Almeida’s are worse, like they’re trying to look like a ram’s horns. Heaven will take note.

And now, 1:36 after Vingegaard’s finish, the much depleted chase group crosses the line. Check it out, Træen is just visible in the back there, on the right … he chased hard and managed to regain contact, thus rescuing his red jersey!

They’re interviewing Vingegaard.

INTERVIEWER: When I talked to you earlier you said this stage wasn’t hard enough for the GC riders to try anything on. And yet you just made a big move. Were you lying earlier?

VINGEGAARD: No, I never said that. You’re putting words in my mouth.

INTERVIEWER: I have video footage of that interview.

VINGEGAARD: You mean you have a deepfake of that interview. Nice try.

INTERVIEWER: A commentator referred to you earlier as “the great Dane.” Do you like this nickname and do you think it’ll stick?

VINGEGAARD: That wasn’t a commentator, that was a blogger. And a failing one. Complete disgrace.

INTERVIEWER: What gave you the edge today?

VINGEGAARD: I think it was the pink tape on the bridge of my nose. It’s a game-changer.

INTERVIEWER: Do you think the entire peloton will have pink tape on their noses tomorrow?

VINGEGAARD: Could be, but just you wait … I have even more up my nose. Er, my sleeve.

Here’s the stage result.

And here is the new GC. Almeida and Pidcock limited their losses but the way things are going, they’re not looking like much of a threat to Vingegaard.

Vingegaard mounts the podium to celebrate his stage win. Oddly, the Vuelta is not following the Tour de France’s lead in gradually bringing back podium girls (or at least one girl, with a handsome dude to balance things out). Instead they have three random dudes, none of them attractive, all dressed very poorly, whose role is completely unknown. They’re not dignitaries, and nobody even presents a bouquet, perhaps due to the risk of allergy. And no champagne, because underage kids could be watching. It’s the most stripped-down, awkward podium presentation I’ve ever seen.

Træen mounts the podium—wait, that’s overstating it, he’s not mounting it because it’s not a proper 3-tier podium, it’s just a crappy little box to step up on—to get his red jersey. They have another random dude now, just as poorly dressed. One of the randos is wearing a medal, as if they literally forgot who is supposed to be honored here. Træen gets the same dumb Lucite plaque Vingegaard did, nobody’s even pretending there’s a precious metal involved.

Træen doesn’t look that happy, and I can’t blame him. This award ceremony is a joke. He really looks like he’d rather be just about anywhere right now. I can see why Vingegaard is willing to give up the red jersey just to avoid this.

Now they interview Træen.

INTERVIEWER: Did you expect to be able to keep the [red] jersey today?

TRÆN: In the climb I was thinking I would not be in the jersey so I’m glad to hold on to it.

INTERVIEWER: Were you expecting Vingegaard to make such a big move?

TRÆN: I did not expect him to go that fast.

INTERVIEWER: Your name sounds like the word “tryin’.” Are you relieved that no commentator tried to make a stupid pun around that, like “at least he’s Træen?”

TRÆN: I had been, until just now, you dork.

INTERVIEWER: Where did you find the energy to close the gap by the end?

TRÆN: I think the Jumbo [sic; i.e., Visma] guys held back, they did not want Jonas to have the jersey. So I’m thankful for that.

Remarkably, much of what I’ve recorded from that interview is real—everything but the “tryin’” bit. I’m pretty impressed at Træen’s humility in acknowledging that it was Visma’s tactics, not his own strength, that let him keep the jersey. If I were ever in such a position, leading a Grand Tour into the second week, I’d be yelling, “WHO’S THE MAN? I’M THE MAN! BOW DOWN BEFORE ME! I AM A GOD!”

Well, that’s about it for today. It’s tempting to say this could be a close Vuelta, given the strength Almeida and Pidcock showed today. But how can their teams possibly match the amazing support Vingegaard gets from Visma – Lease A Bike? There are problems within UAE Team Emirates-XRG with Juan Ayuso, who was supposed to be a co-leader, not only losing almost seven minutes to the GC favorites during Stage 6 but then pulling a Pee-wee Herman by saying, effectively, “I meant to do that.” And Ayuso was nowhere to be seen on the big climb today when he should have been supporting Almeida. As for Pidcock, his team is so rinky-dink, its next highest-ranked rider on GC is Damien Howson, who is all the way down in 41st place and has more grey hair than I do. Howson was similarly useless during today’s stage, finishing almost five minutes down. Nevertheless, Almeida and Pidcock are less than a minute behind Vingegaard overall, so it’s still pretty close. Check back on Saturday because that’s another mountain day and I may decide to cover it…

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Old Yarn - The In-Flight Voyeur

Introduction

Here is the sixth “old yarn” on albertnet (following in the footsteps of “The Cinelli Jumpsuit,” “Bike Crash on Golden Gate Bridge,” “The Enemy Coach,” “The Brash Newb,” and most recently “The Day I Learned Bicycle Gear Shifting”). This is the kind of story that would normally be a “From the Archives” item, except I’ve never before written it down.

[Picture by ChapGPT, as my daughter was too busy to create original art by press time]

The In-Flight Voyeur – ca. 1998

I used to travel a lot on business. Once a month I flew to Columbus, Ohio and there was no direct flight. Often I’d get a late flight home, after a big expense-account dinner, and I’d be too deep in a calorie coma, not to mention blown from the week of meetings, to feel like reading. Back then you were lucky if you were offered an in-flight movie, which was whatever they happened to be showing on the crappy old tube TVs mounted from the ceiling, every ten or twelve feet, above the aisle. They charged to rent earbuds and (being the world’s cheapest man even then) I seldom sprung for them. So I’d be bored to say the least.

For the first six months or so of this business travel routine I’d dig out my Bellcore T3POS manual, which reliably put me to sleep—usually for the duration of the flight—until it (eventually, unfortunately) started to make sense, and its magic ended. This was before commercial airlines offered electrical outlets (much less WiFi), and before laptops had reliable batteries; mine was usually spent pretty early. Bose noise-canceling headphones hadn’t come out yet either, so listening to music was out of the question for anyone who valued his eardrums. Sometimes there was just nothing to do on these late flights but sit and stew.

During one such flight I was bored out of my mind and happened to notice, while rooting through my seatback pocket, that the passenger sitting in front of me using his laptop had a novel email interface I’d not seen before. I was so bored I took an interest and peered through the crack between the seats at his screen. (I know … pretty pathetic to be that bored.) I wouldn’t have looked for very long, but the email this guy was writing was pretty racy. I assumed it was a guy, anyway, because his email was to a woman, and was of a romantic nature. I’ll quote him as best I can from memory; obviously this is approximate but true to the nature of what I was reading.

“I’ll be there the week after next and would love to pick you up and take you out to a nice dinner. Then we can go for an evening walk before heading back to my hotel,” he typed, and then, after a pause, added, “where I will make passionate love to you.” After typing this he paused again, the cursor on his screen flashing as if waiting for the next detail of this steamy proposed liaison. But then he backspaced over the last bit and rewrote it: “Then we can go for an evening walk before heading back to my hotel, where we can get some drinks and see where the night leads us.” Another long pause.  He backspaced again and revised his proposal to “get a drink and have a nice chat.” Dude was losing his nerve already and hadn’t even met up with the woman yet! I suppressed a chuckle.

He wordsmithed the email some more, adding some logistical details, and I was just starting to get bored when he filed the draft in a folder with the name of the eastern bloc country where his potential paramour presumably lived. To my surprise, he had at least half a dozen such folders, each representing a different eastern European destination … Ukraine, Slovenia, Croatia, etc. He opened another of these folders, which had two or three email drafts in it, opened one of the drafts, and pasted in a passage he’d copied from his previous email, evidently being fairly pleased with it. He continued to work away like this, seeding at least eight or ten romantic rendezvous to coincide with his next two or three business trips to the region. Presumably he’d been getting leads from some kind of Internet mail-order bride service. I was shaking my head, kind of amazed at the cynicism and audacity of this guy—what an operator!—when suddenly he shifted in his seat and closed his laptop rather abruptly. I quickly slumped back into my seat, pulse racing … had he detected me snooping on this very private activity?

I grabbed my book, opened it, and hid behind it, turning a page to increase the illusion that I was just reading away, minding my own business. I could just imagine this guy craning his neck to give me stink-eye. I kept an eye on his flight attendant call button, fearing it might light up and bong, indicating he was about to lodge a complaint. I wasn’t too worried since of course he wouldn’t want to draw attention to what he was doing, but you never know. Eventually enough time had passed that I stopped worrying, managed to engage with my book (my sudden burst of adrenaline surely helping), and lost myself to the pleasure of reading until the end of the flight.

When the plane landed, taxied, and was parked at the gate, the lights came up and everyone started their rush to retrieve their stuff from the overhead bins and deplane. Now I would get a good look at the business travel casanova. I pictured him as someone needing to cut corners romantically, which meant he was probably not a real looker. Sure enough, he  had a pot-belly, nerdy glasses, and that kind of unfortunately hybrid scalp where, to compensate for where he was bald, he grew the rest of his hair out too long. I made sure only to risk a quick glance at him, in case he had caught me snooping and was sore about it. We busied ourselves, alongside our fellow passengers, with the tedious process of hauling down our roller bags and waiting, tired and hot and restless, for the cabin doors to finally open.

Now the ardent emailer was facing me, and to my absolute shock he suddenly sucker-punched me right in the groin! I am not kidding! His fist flew out, right at my crotch, and it’s a miracle I was able to instinctively jerk back swiftly enough to avoid the hit. As you can imagine, I was absolutely astonished at the attack; relieved to have escaped injury; and in full fight-or-flight mode should the dude make another move. Obviously I’m just using “fight-or-flight” as an expression here … there could be no flight, commercial air travel being obviously one of the most hemmed-in situations modern man finds himself in.

A lot flew through my mind in this moment. Obviously his attack was a bit over-the-top since all I’d really done was witness his untoward behavior, but I could grasp why physical retribution took the place of a verbal altercation that could embarrass him. What perplexed me was how he figured he could come out well in a combat situation, since I frankly towered above him. Beyond this practical matter, though, I had this strange sense that I kind of deserved this retribution, as my voyeurism was frankly a dick move. But of course I could only be this magnanimous because his punch had missed the mark. Above all else, I was simply bewildered by the entire situation.

But now it got even stranger: the guy started apologizing profusely. What the hell? A change of heart? Change of tactic? He was looking down and I followed suit, and now realized what had happened: his roller bag was totally top-heavy and unstable, and had tipped over the moment he set it on the floor. The handle was fully extended, and had been flying right at my crotch. When he reached out to grab it, he managed to catch it only when it was inches away. His hand, catching the top of the handle, had only seemed to form a fist.

My god, what a relief. Not only had he not attacked me, but the sincerity of his contrition made it pretty clear my voyeurism had gone undetected.

And so it was only out of a strange perversity that I responded to him by paraphrasing the rapper Ice T: “With the ladies, you’re not just a Don/ In fact you’re more like a Don Juan/ Pull ladies in bunches/ Break their hearts, you roll with the punches/ ‘Cause you’re like a hard core casanova/ Diss you once, girlfriend is over/ Write her off like a tax, no respect/ She ain’t down? Next.” 

Naw, I didn’t really say that. I was just messing with you. But everything else in this post? One hundred percent true. It’s a weird world…

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Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

Ask an Induction Range

Note

While this advice column is geared toward entertainment, the information herein is true and accurate, based on real world use of a modern induction range. You may take this post seriously if you’re considering switching to induction cooking. If not, read on anyway for your own amusement.

Dear Induction Range,

I want to switch to your technology because I’m worried about the emissions from my gas range. My husband, however, refuses on the grounds that he needs a range that is perfectly responsive, meaning he can adjust the heat instantly. I’d probably just ignore him, or perhaps even divorce him, but he is a great cook (I mean, his crêpes are to die for). So tell me: are you as slow to respond as traditional electric ranges?

Emma S, Seattle, WA

Dear Emma,

I have great news: stoves like me are actually even more responsive than gas. But don’t take my word for it—check out this little video:

(Ignore the voice-over … that’s just an induction newbie trying to grasp the nature of my functioning.) Not only is the temperature change instant, but there’s a digital power level indicator right on the stovetop, facing up, so you don’t have to peer under the pan while turning the knob. As for crêpes, tell your husband he won’t have to futz around rotating the pan like he does now due to his gas jets not firing evenly … I do a much better job. Just look at this beautiful crêpe I made recently.

Dear Induction Range,

I’m thinking of switching to induction but I heard I’d have to replace all my pots and pans. I’ve seen ads that suggest that you need to have specialty cookware designed for induction cooking. Is that true?

Megan L, St. Petersburg, FL

Dear Megan,

If you have a bunch of aluminum or copper cookware, yeah, it’ll have to go. But anything steel will work, from a cast-iron skillet or Dutch oven to one of these modern stainless steel fry pans with an aluminum core. If a magnet sticks to it, I can heat it up (or more specifically I can induce an electromagnetic current in it, causing it to heat itself). If you’re worried about the cost, consider keeping an eye out for used stuff at thrift stores (and bring a magnet along!). My master has been using a cheap Cuisinart saucepan on me and it’s gotta be twenty years old. You might also consider that with the cost of dining out going through the roof, and with the pleasure you’ll have cooking with induction, you might as well invest in your cookware.

Dear Induction Range,

I heard that your technology involves an electromagnetic current, and that for this reason I could use you (or stoves like you) to charge my iPhone, if I set the control to simmer. Is that true?

Ken S, Seymour, IN

Dear Ken,

Did you also believe the hoax that you could make an early iPhone waterproof by downloading an app? (Please note: that’s a rhetorical question—don’t write back to answer it.) Let me be clear: don’t do that with your iPhone.

Dear Induction Range,

A chef I know says that real chefs will never use conduction stoves because they just can't put out the BTUs, probably because they're metric. Even still, can you compete with a big bertha gas burner?

Bryan A, Bellingham, WA

Dear Bryan,

Real chefs can roast an entire land animal on a spit but that doesn’t mean you can do that in your kitchen. And a restaurant might have a crazy setup with giant flames coming up directly from hell to heat up a wok to 750°F. So yeah, a real chef might not settle for the likes of me. But for the average Joe cooking at home? There’s no comparison between an induction range and a consumer-grade gas or traditional electric range. I recently overheard my master saying, “I can’t believe  I ever raved about that measly 18,000 BTU gas burner I had on my last stove. That thing was a joke.” And he’s not wrong. The first time you see how fast an induction range can boil water, you’ll probably burst out laughing.

Dear Induction Range,

Hey, Im Natalia I accidentally sent you a message. Did we know each other in the past?

Natalia M, Glendala, CA

Dear Natalia,

You sound hot! We should totally hang out. In fact … can I bake you a pie?

Just kidding. I don’t engage with fraudsters or bots.

Dear Induction Range,

My buddy has a portable induction hot plate. It's fine except that it has a really loud fan. The peaceful morning is ruined by the howling of this hot plate, like someone with a leaf blower right outside the window, or worse yet, the neighbor with his new pressure washer. I can only imagine it would be worse with a big oven with more powerful burners. And beyond the noise factor, I’m thinking that fan must be there for a reason... is induction cooking just really inefficient, with loads of energy being wasted in heating of the electronics that must be blown away with these powerful fans, like an AI server farm? Is it going to cost a fortune to run that stove?

David P, Aurora, CO

Dear David,

Who cooks on a hot plate other than a complete dirtbag? I think it’s only because induction is so advanced that anybody would consider using a hot plate version of it. I don’t know what setup your buddy has, but a real induction stove like me doesn’t require any special fan—in fact, because there are no emissions, the overhead fan you probably already have, with your old stove, would be less necessary. In terms of other noise, there’s a bit of a buzz you’ll hear when you first turn on a burner, especially on full power, but either it quiets down or you just stop hearing it. Some claim there’s a high-pitched whine, but that’s more likely somebody’s spoiled kid who doesn’t want to eat his vegetables. Perhaps dogs hear something, who knows. I will confess, though, that induction ranges often do cause one particularly irritating sound: the insufferable blathering of their owners about how great they are. I suspect this would eventually subside in any case.

As for efficiency, we induction stoves blow doors on everything else. The website energy.gov states that we’re up to three times more efficient than gas stoves, and up to 10% more efficient than conventional smooth top electric ranges, and that “this improved efficiency performance can result in lower energy costs as well as lower rates of air pollution associated with energy generation.”

Dear Induction Range,

It embarrasses me to admit this, but my teenager is a total stoner. This is probably why he’s extremely careless in the kitchen, driving me crazy with brainless stunts like leaving a pizza box right there on the stove! For the last several years I’ve worried he’s going to burn the house down. Could a stove like you help make my home safer?

Lisa S, Fairfax, CA

Dear Lisa,

In many ways induction stoves are indeed safer. For one thing, there’s no flame at all; for another, even if one of my burners is left on, it won’t generate any heat unless there’s a pot or pan on it. This isn’t to say that my burners never heat up; if you’ve been cooking for a while, my surface will get hot from the cookware on it. But my display shows which burners are hot. I would say there’s definitely less fire and burn risk, but you should still warn your son that if he boils coffee on me, and then drinks it too fast, he could burn his mouth. Because it sounds like that’s the kind of wastoid we’re dealing with. Also, you should point out that if he keeps smoking pot, he may well end up one of those sad sack adults who cooks his meals on a hot plate.

Dear Induction Range,

Not to give anyone any alarmist ideas, but is all that electromagnetic radiation safe for life? I heard one guy say it’s even scarier than 5G.

Steve R, Asheville, NC

Dear Steve,

The NIH suggests that a induction ranges could interfere with pacemakers. That said, the American Heart Association doesn’t include them in its (long) list of devices that cause interference. If you have a family member with a pacemaker perhaps you should do some more research.

I’ve also heard that stoves like me can interfere with digital meat thermometers, but this would seem an easy problem to solve: you could move the pot or pan while using the thermometer; temporarily turn off the burner; or get an analog meat thermometer.

My master wanted to test radio signal interference so he did an Internet speed test over WiFi with his smartphone six inches from one of my burners. With the burner at its highest setting, his download speed was 38.5 mbps and upload was 21.4. With the burner off, download was 49.5 mbps and upload was 23.2. Not a huge difference.

As for 5G, the only scary thing about it is that it enables faster Internet access so fools can waste even more time doing YouTube, social media, and doomscrolling. Anyone describing 5G as dangerous from a radio wave perspective should be either completely ignored or ruthlessly ridiculed.

Dear Induction Range,

I live in California. Can I get a rebate from the state or federal government if I buy an induction range?

Tracy H, Berkeley, CA

Dear Tracy,

Alas, as of this writing there is not currently a federal rebate program for this technology, and although California had one for Energy Star certified induction ranges, the state is “no longer accepting applicants” (i.e., has temporarily halted the program). Certain cities like Alameda and Sacramento have rebates, but not Berkeley. Sorry.

Dear Induction Range,

You seem to like to blow your own horn, but be candid with me: what are the cons of induction ranges?

Emily M, Boston, MA

Dear Emily,

The main con is the expense: this is a major appliance, and the really nice induction ranges (like me) can be fairly expensive (or “hella bank” in urban stove parlance). But I’m cheaper than a Tesla, and will save you money on energy, so try to have some perspective here.

Some people complain that they miss the visual feedback of watching the flame on a gas range as they adjust the heat. But I never bought that. You’re talking about bending over to peer under a pot or pan, and what about the parts of the flame around back you never see? I have an upward-facing digital display for each burner, right on the stovetop. No guesswork. No, it’s not romantic, but neither is scorched or unevenly cooked food.

Dear Induction Range,

Do ranges like you have a glass surface that’s hard to keep clean or requires special solvents for routine cleaning? My mom had a glass-topped stove and it was always a mess. (Come to think of it, gas ranges are usually pretty messy, too...)

Julie M, Topeka, KS

Dear Julie,

No offense, but I think your experience with glass-topped stoves says more about your mom than anything. My glass surface is really easy to clean, with either a lightly dish-soaped sponge or a 50/50 water/vinegar solution. It’s easier than modern (but non-induction) electric ranges because my burners don’t get hot (other than from the pot or pan), so stuff doesn’t get baked on and you can even mop up while you’re cooking. And cleanup is way easier than taking the grille off a gas range, and fussing with the little burner plates etc. I did an octuple batch of Bolognese Ragu recently—a messy affair to say the least—and my master timed the cleanup: under six minutes to gleaming perfection.

Dear Induction Range,

My current gas stove works just fine during a power outage, or during Earth Hour, if I just light it with a match. What’s your strategy there?

Matt B, Temple Terrace, FL

Dear Matt,

You got me there. You’d have to eat a PBJ or a salad, or fire up the camp stove in the backyard. But are you going to select your cooking technology based on what works in the edge case of no power, which might occur a handful of times per year?

Dear Induction Range,

Google told me that the induction stove top creates a magnetic field which induces a current in the pot... Does this make a cast iron pan stick to the stove with incredible force?

Bobby L, Kansas City, MO

Dear Bobby,

No … there’s really nothing to this notion, nor to ChatGPT’s claim that the magnetic field helps to hold a pot or pan in place. In fact, if one of your pots or pans is slightly warped because somebody once left it on heat with nothing in it, it might be prone to unintended rotation on the glassy-smooth surface of a range like me (though it’ll still totally work). So no, your pan won’t be stuck to the stove.

You should be aware, however, that cast iron pots and pans are a fair bit heavier than aluminum, and steel cookware with an aluminum base is also a bit heavier. I would consider this a benefit for most people—it’s like lifting little hand weights!—but could be a bit of a problem for the very elderly.

Dear Induction Range,

Are you hacking into my text messages? I was texting with a friend and suddenly got this message, within the same thread, that read, “Ha aggiunto un cuoricino a un’immagine.” That’s Italian, and so are you (as my husband, the guy you patriarchally call your “master,” keeps boasting about). What’s going on and why won’t you respect my privacy?

E— A—, Albany, CA

Dear E—,

I did not send that message. I think it was created by your texting app in lieu of an emoji posted by your friend, which didn’t show properly due to an Apple/Android compatibility issue. The literal translation is “Added a heart to an image,” indicating a heart emoji. I have no idea why the message was in Italian. Trust me, I don’t even have Bluetooth, much less WiFi. (If I did, though, I’d totally be hitting on that cute Samsung fridge at the other end of the kitchen!)

An Induction Range is a syndicated journalist whose advice column, “Ask an Induction Range,” appears in over 0 blogs worldwide.

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From the Archives - Lake Tahoe & Mount Rose Epic Ride

Introduction

If I still raced, I’d file race reports with my bike club and then post them here. Since I don’t, I like to do epic rides instead, and report on them. Lately I’ve done nothing epic at all, so I’m running a very old ride report from my archives. You should treasure this as a rare glimpse into the exclusive inner sanctum of an elite cycling community. (Full disclosure: it’s not so different than my typical bloggage, but man, I gotta try to keep your attention lest you wander off to watch “reality” TV.)

Pre-Tour-of-California Lake Tahoe/Mount Rose Ride Report – May 18, 2011

Since I didn’t even race Mount San Bruno this year, much less anything else, I’ll have to make do with a ride report. Three of us (C—, N—, and I) did a fairly epic ride near Lake Tahoe the day before what would have been Stage 1 of the Tour of California had it not been abruptly canceled literally at the last minute, with all the pro racers staged at the start line. (Why was it canceled? You’ll just have to read on to find out.)

The tale begins, of course, with dinner the night before. On the way up to Tahoe our family dined at a rather good taqueria called Talavera Cocina Mexicana. It’s on Solano Ave. Yes, you read that correctly: the little place like half a mile from our house. We got such a late start, we ended up setting a new record for how soon into a road trip we stopped for food. I had a carnitas burrito with cheese and guac. It was big and, well, tasty enough. Alexa had the mushroom quesadilla which was really the star of the show. Happily, the mandatory Parental Tariff policy stood me in good stead.

The morning of the ride, at 6 a.m., I had a PBJ: Alvarado bread with Adams organic peanut butter, the salted kind of course—not like the heinous, inedible Deaf Smith unsalted brand I grew up with, which came in like a 5-gallon drum and was so runny we called it Quicksand because you’d lose knives in it, so every time you got to the bottom of the drum there would be like six knives—and my mom’s homemade apricot jam, which is nirvana.

It was pretty chilly when we started at seven, and the spray from riding through several large puddles got my leg warmers wet. So I was cranky (like Hank with his diaper from that old TV ad). We tooled clockwise around the lake for a while and then headed into Nevada and took a left on Highway 431 at Incline Village. This highway took us up over Mount Rose, the summit of which—at almost 9,000 feet—is the highest pass in the Sierras (and higher than the Col du Galibier in France, though you shouldn’t for a moment think that Mount Rose even deserves to lick the Galibier’s foothills). My form was, as we in the suffering industry say, “El Crappo Grande.” I think that’s partly because I never seem to ride at my best in the cold, and partly because I’d donated two units of red blood cells about two weeks before and my marrow hadn’t yet replaced them all. Also, I suck.

N— dropped us climbing Mount Rose, and his reward was to have to wait around in the cold wind for us, all the heat leaving his uninsulated body. C— and I added insult to injury by asking him hang out a bit longer to snap our photo. He seemed just a bit tetchy about this, which warmed me from the heart outward. I’m small like that. It was 41 degrees up there but at least it wasn’t raining. You can see it was windy, though: look how the wind is puffing out our jackets (I hasten to point this out so you won’t think we’re just fat).

Happily, it warmed up a bit as we descended. We stopped somewhere to take a leak and fill our bottles, and I asked a friendly-looking fellow traveler for directions. He looked strangely familiar, so I gave him a big smile just in case I’m supposed to know him, but he totally gave me the silent treatment. He seemed really distracted and in fact wouldn’t even look at me. I peered over his shoulder into his road atlas for a bit before realizing it was just a book.

Naw, I’m just messing with you, I never thought it was an atlas. Of course nobody would rely on me for directions; C— had mapped out the whole thing beforehand. He said to watch for Joy Lake Drive, onto which we hung a right. This was supposed to connect us to … well, I never actually got to find out how it was supposed to connect up, because at the gate to a, well, gated community we encountered a stubborn security guard who wouldn’t let us through. He had a walrus moustache and a walrus physique and immediately made me think of the Pink Floyd lyric, “It’s too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around.” He gave an impassioned speech about how the filthy rich people living in the McMansion compound were so tired of the thousands of cyclists streaming through their community, burning their homes to the ground, enslaving their wives and children, and littering, that they closed the gates and won’t let any more of our kind through. He said there was a great bike trail, though, and gave us directions that showed him to be either dyslexic, stupid, right/left colorblind, or maliciously faux-helpful.

So we had to backtrack, up the No Joy road we’d come down, and then continued on to Highway 395, where we headed south into a brutal headwind (surpassed only by what C— dragged a few of you through last week). I would provide a map of our route but C— won’t grant me permission to follow him on Strava. [Note: over fourteen years later, he still hasn’t granted me access.]

My strength by this point had decayed from hopeless to lugubrious and it was all I could do to suck C—’s wheel, shamelessly and parasitically. It was inhumane how little work I did, but that’s okay because C— has been training a lot and seemed to be punching through the wind just fine. We got into Carson City and C— had a general idea there was some really cool bike route to take, but we couldn’t find it, and then we happened upon another cyclist. “Which way do we go?” C— asked him. The guy responded, “Where are you going?” If there’s a such thing as the polar opposite of a tautology, this was it … a notion I pondered stupidly for the next hour or so.

Thus, we ended up riding right through the main drag in Carson City, and a drag it was. The wind was ripping the flesh off our faces. As we passed a used car dealership with all its dumb balloons straining against their strings in the wind, I wondered if there were a convenient way to end my own life. Falling off C—’s wheel would have probably done the job, but not swiftly nor mercifully. Plus, I’d have died hating doing something I loved, which just seemed wrong, so I chose life. Life without parole, it seemed like. We stopped at a mini mart for water and some guy said, “You guys heading over 50? You got a long haul there.” We acknowledged that indeed we were totally screwed (though we used a more polite term). As the guy headed out the door he said, “Have fun in the race tomorrow.” As if.

So we headed west on Highway 50 over Spooner Pass, which those familiar with Spoonerisms might call Pooner Spass, thinking they’re funny or clever. It started off pretty badly because the wind still seemed to be in our faces, but then it shifted and we had a tailwind. Wow, what a relief. It didn’t help so much, but it left me free to drop off both N—’s and C—’s wheels without dire consequences. I’d have liked the company, of course, but at least I didn’t have to hear the squeaky chain that one of their bikes had, which was almost loud enough to drown out my wheezing. At one point I had to turn around because I accidently littered. Eventually I reached the top. Don’t we all? Here we are at the Spooner summit.

There’s not much else to say except the ride went on and on. I started to feel okay by the end, probably only because I knew I was almost done. I was barely coherent. When I tried to talk, often I would say the same word twice, like a strange form of stuttering. C— pointed out that on this bike path were painted instructions saying to ride right, walk left, which he felt was a very poor idea as it would lead to head-on collisions if heeded. At first I didn’t even know what he was talking about—I thought he was warning against slime in the puddles—but when I finally heard him right I thought his point was that it was backwards, that you should ride left and walk right, and only after several minutes did I finally grasp the lunacy of the instructions: it wasn’t a single rule applied to both directions, but actually one lane dedicated to riding and one two walking, regardless of direction. Dang. Anyhow, at 117 miles, with 8,400 feet of climbing, this was my hardest ride of the year.

During the ride I consumed four large bottles of energy drink, two energy bars, and four doughnut holes. The doughnut holes I bought on a whim at 7-Eleven at our last stop. By definition doughnut holes have zero calories, being nothing but a void, but I bought them anyway because they looked kind of tasty in a grotesque guilty-pleasure—nay, shameful-pleasure—kind of way. N— had totally bonked and actually looked sick (in fact his skin was slightly green, like a Vulcan’s) so I can’t tell if it was in the spirit of helpfulness or schadenfreude that I offered him some of the doughnut holes. He declined. I offered again. He declined again. I saved a couple for my daughters, along with the two Hostess fruit pies I’d bought but didn’t end up needing, probably because I’d just pounded a 20-ounce Coke.

Dinner was the gastronomic equivalent of an extended hip-hop mash-up where every single rapper on the planet jumps in to freestyle on the mic. While the men were out riding, the womenfolk had spent the entire day cooking. (This probably sounds sexist, and it’s an exaggeration, but after the beating I took on the road I need to take steps to rebuild my masculine dignity.) There was spinach lasagne, two kinds of enchiladas, salad (though I didn’t eat any), fruit salad (ditto), a big ham, and some other stuff. Then there were individual pumpkin pies with whipped cream, two kinds of ice cream, those weird cookies that have big chocolate disks pressed into them, and the mandatory parental tariffs I took of my kids’ Hostess fruit pies from earlier. I just sat there for like two hours straight eating plate after plate. (My wife has rightly pointed out that if I weren’t so thin, this kind of eating would be a truly disgusting spectacle.) As if C— hadn’t done enough work on the ride, he did the dishes while I just sat there. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank him for organizing the weekend and doing all the work.

The original point of this trip was to watch the opening stage of the Tour of California, but the strangest thing happened the night after our ride: it freaking snowed. As in, hard, and for a long time. In fact, Highway 80 was closed for a while. Look how much accumulated on my car, and how surly this has made my daughter. (Actually, this is her default expression. In fact she’s stoked because our cabin came equipped with sleds.)

The racers nevertheless assembled at the start line, but the snow showed no sign of letting up and they managed to organize a revolt. The organizers made noises about changing the start time and location, but ended up just canceling the stage entirely. Someone needs to remind Mother Nature that it’s May, and this is California. Oh well … at least my pals and I got a good ride in.

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Ask an O.G.

Dear O.G.,

I think driving a stick shift is a total O.G. move and should be respected. My wife says that for me to prefer this “outdated technology” is an “affectation” (her words). What do you think?

John A, Seattle, WA

Dear John,

I have both kinds of car. It’s useful to know how to handle a manual transmission if you ever plan to rent a car in Europe. I also happen to think driving a stick shift is more fun, but it’d be hard to cite that as an advantage to someone disinclined to learn. The important thing is that you mansplain the manual gearshift process to your wife, using terms like “synchromesh” and “double-clutch.” That should get her off the subject so she’ll stop insulting you about your “affectation.”

Dear O.G.,

How are you, a middle-aged white man, gangsta? I can’t believe you call yourself that.

Leslie H, Dallas, TX

Dear Leslie,

The “G” does not necessarily mean gangsta, or even gangster. I wouldn’t even say the “O” is necessarily for “Original.” And the name wasn’t my idea … you should talk to my publisher. (If you can get him to listen to you, I’d love to hear how you accomplished that.) By the way, this is by far the most common question I get. My eyes are rolling as much as yours, believe me.

Dear O.G.,

I’m guessing you’re a vinyl guy, huh?

Amanda T, Los Angeles, CA

Dear Amanda,

Actually—and I hope this doesn’t destroy my O.G. cred—I’ve never owned a record player. I remember a reel-to-reel tape recorder in the ‘70s (outdated even then) that my brothers let me mess around with, but for playing music I had nothing but cassette tapes until I was an adult. CDs came out when I was in high school. The first one I encountered was in my school locker; I was turning the jewel case over and over in my hands trying to figure out what the hell it was when my locker partner happened upon me and burst out laughing. I did buy a CD player when I was in college, but it was to replace the one I borrowed from a pal (so I could play borrowed CDs) which I unfortunately broke. I didn’t start buying my own CDs until my early twenties, but again, that’s not because I ever had records. (Well, I had one: the John Williams score to “Star Wars,” which my parents bought me to play on their stereo.)

Now, if a music lover still has the record player he bought as a teenager, and all his original records, plus perhaps a few select purchases to round out his collection, I’d consider that O.G. But when wealthy people buy modern turntables with multi-layer plinths, decoupled motor systems, and carbon fiber tonearms, and painstakingly replace their CD or MP3 collections with pricey records, that’s more of an epicurean thing than O.G. (Not saying it’s bad, mind you. Just not O.G.)

By the way, if you meant something else by “vinyl guy,” such as attire, you’ve got the wrong guy!

Dear O.G.,

Nothing says O.G. more than a real appreciation for a good wine vintage … am I right? As the oenophile I imagine you to be, what are your favorite harvests?

Terrence H, New Haven, CT

Notwithstanding my very sincere insistence that the G in “O.G” doesn’t exactly mean “gangsta,” I’m really not sure how a fine wine aficionado could be called O.G., even though a respect for tradition is inarguably O. In any case, I’m sorry to disappoint … I don’t know the first thing about wine (though I have tried my level best to fake it).

I’m guessing there’s pretty good overlap between wine and coffee lovers, so I will go ahead and share my opinion about O.G. coffee (even though nobody’s asked). First of all, its polar opposite is the Keurig, which ought to carry as much stigma as chicken nuggets. I consider pour-over to be the best way to make coffee. Until the 1950s it was the main method, but then instant coffee became hugely popular during the convenience-addicted post-war era. That lasted until the ‘70s when cheap electric drip coffee makers became available. Pour-over is becoming more popular, maybe even hip, but I think I can make the case that it’s pre-‘50s O.G. I grind my beans by hand (so I don’t wake up the whole family with the earsplitting noise of an electric grinder), and I use a cone made of porous stone, which isn’t an old technology but sure feels old.

Dear O.G.,

What is your absolute favorite O.G. move, and why?

Far and away the most satisfying O.G. realm for me is using—exclusively—a traditional double-edged razor. This is a product that’s far cheaper than its modern equivalent, does a better job, is better made, looks nicer, and is produced by companies that clearly have no interest in glib, glossy marketing. I’m so fond of my O.G. razor, I wrote an ode to it which you can read here. Thanks for asking!

Dear O.G.,

Getting back to an earlier reader’s question, about music on vinyl: for someone who doesn’t own a record player you sure seem knowledgeable about the modern technology. Do you know whereof you speak?

Keith W, Chicago, IL

Dear Keith,

Not at all, actually. You caught me … I’m a total poseur.

Dear O.G.,

What’s more O.G.: classical art (e.g., Old Masters) or pop (e.g., Warhol, Lichtenstein)? Obviously Leonardo da Vinci was a rockstar, but then, that’s so long ago. Is there an expiration date on O.G.?

Tricia P, San Francisco

Dear Tricia,

I think an endless debate could be had among those two art schools, not to mention all the other ones (e.g., modern, postmodern, contemporary) that would claim they’re the most O.G. I do not want to venture into that fracas. But I think the more important distinction, particularly because so much art isn’t seen in museums, is between human art and A.I. “art” as the latter starts to replace more and more real work, from street fair posters to advertisements to crap you can buy on Etsy. I’m sure you can already sense my position on this; for a full discussion, replete with a drawing challenge I issued to both ChatGPT and my daughter, click here. Suffice to say, A.I. can never be O.G. It’s the antithesis.

Dear O.G.,

I happen to know you’re a veteran cyclist. How does this mesh with your O.G. approach? Do e-bikes, electronic shifting, and disc brakes make you throw up in your mouth?

Robert S, Thousand Oaks, CA

Dear Robert,

I’ll start with your specific examples and then address the bigger picture. I think e-bikes are not only just fine, but probably inevitable for most of us … they may well extend the number of years (and hopefully decades) I can continue to ride. I’m also completely in favor of non-cyclists buying e-bikes for transportation, because even if e-bikes don’t honor the purity of traditional cycling (can you sense my “blah blah blah” here?), they do mean fewer cars on the road. Sure, go on all you want about what a menace these unskilled but fairly high-speed e-bikers present, but I’ll take a 15 mph impact from a 40-pound e-bike over a 25+ mph impact from a two-ton car. (It’s not like e-bikers have cornered the market on roadway incompetence and inattentiveness, after all.) But I will assert two caveats: 1) no kid should ever ride an e-bike (details here), and 2) e-bikes shouldn’t be allowed on nature trails (see here).

Moving on to electronic shifting, I do think it’s a solution looking for a problem, and though I’ve given it two solid auditions (click here and here) the earth didn’t move for me either time. But my next bike will surely have it (it being the new normal), and people seem to like it well enough. Same with disc brakes: I love them on my mountain bike, you can run carbon rims, blah blah blah damn, I’ve even boring myself here.

All this being said, these new road handlebars that flare out, and the goofy brake levers that stick out like chicken wings … they’re hideous. And what’s with the weird fork crowns on BMC road bikes? They look like the fork on a cheap mountain bike! Aesthetics are being sacrificed at the altar of performance and that’s just anti-O.G. So many modern road bikes so dorky, they can even make a guy like Julian Alaphilippe look like a dweeb.

You know who was the O.G. road racer, with a perfect bike to match? Bernard Hinault.

(Don’t even get me started on Jonas Vingegaard’s aerodynamic helmet.)

Dear O.G.,

I think part of being O.G. is just sticking to your guns and not following along with the status quo, like how Eminem won’t use Auto-Tune. Do you live by this kind of credo?

Wanda R, New York City

Dear Wanda,

I think there are two fundamental ways to buck the status quo. You can either observe the conventional wisdom, evaluate it, and decide to reject it—like Eminem—or you can be oblivious to modern trends and just bumble your way along doing whatever seems to work. My favorite example of the latter is my dad, who—despite having been a college instructor in Boulder, Colorado during the late ‘60s—was totally unaware of Birkenstock sandals and, decades later, after failing to observe three huge surges in their popularity, totally thought he discovered them, like they were some obscure thing.

Often I do stubbornly defy the status quo. I think I was the only teenager in Boulder in the ‘80s who didn’t have an earring; I never used Biopace chainrings on any of my bikes; and I eschew all social media (except, begrudgingly, LinkedIn), all in defiance of the norm. But other times I’m willing to follow the status quo but only after considerable delay, out of sheer ignorance. For example, in matters of music, I’ll be barely aware of a band or singer for many years until finally I start to wonder who it is I’ve been hearing, and hearing about, for so long, and then I’ll investigate. I discovered Eminem in 2003 (four years late), Sublime in 2011 (fifteen years late), and The Black Keys in 2023 (twenty-one years late). In the latter cases, I wasn’t defying the zeitgeist … I’d just fallen behind. You might say I was O.G. in the sense of “Oblivious Guy.” (Of course it’s hard to remain ignorant now that we have Spotify. I have a love/hate relationship with it … the ad hoc selections it plays after the end of an album often trick me into listening to really anodyne, soulless stuff for oddly long periods before I suddenly think, “What is this crap!?”)

I wouldn’t say I consider this late-or-never tradition a credo, but it does affect my life. Probably the biggest single effect of finding my own way, without regard to conventional wisdom, was choosing to major in English despite everyone around me (even then) assuring me that with that lowly degree I’d never get a real job. They were wrong then, and they’re wrong now, as I discuss at length here. (My younger daughter is currently earning her English degree, with minors in Art and Philosophy, and I couldn’t be more pleased.)

As for the day-to-day effects of this approach, a big one is how much I use the public library. I just looked at my loan history from the Berkeley library, and in the last 144 weeks I’ve checked out 289 items (books, movies, CDs), for an average of two items a week. That doesn’t even include what I get digitally through Kanopy, Libby, and Hoopla (details here) and from the Albany Library. In a society that’s thoroughly embraced Amazon, streaming platforms, and video games, I think libraries are 100% O.G. And yet I know plenty of adults who don’t even have a library card.

Dear O.G.,

What’s the point of clinging to all these established ways when A.I. is obviously going to change everything over the next decade or so? Preferences that might seem old school and noble now will just become outdated, outmoded, outmaneuvered, and over. Not to be a dick about it, but I think this has to be said.

Ron B, Atlanta, GA

Dear Ron,

You sound like the blowhards gleefully predicting the demise of printed books based on competition from e-books like the Kindle. Society needs a term for people like you … technophiliac, or maybe digitopian. Look, I won’t deny that A.I. is a powerful tool for making many tasks more efficient, but that’s not a purely good thing. I’m all for ChatGPT helping me with HTML scripting or making DNS routing changes, but its essays are a) inferior to a real writer’s, and b) dumbing people down. The very word “essay” is from the French essai meaning a trial, attempt, or test, deriving from the Latin exagium, a weighing or examination. The point of writing an essay is to explore an idea, create and test hypotheses, and ideally learn from the effort even as you’re crafting something others can read. The point of a teacher assigning an essay isn’t to educate herself on a topic via her students’ papers; it’s for the students to grapple with the difficulty of writing and improve their brains. At least, that’s my O.G. perspective. In a shocking New Yorker article I read recently, a college professor interviewed several students at top universities about their blatant use of A.I. to write papers for them, and the success they’ve had (at least, from a grade perspective) in doing this. Here’s a crazy example:

A sophomore at Columbia studying computer science told me about a class where she was required to compose a short lecture on a topic of her choosing. “It was a class where everyone was guaranteed an A, so I just put it in [to an A.I. platform] and I maybe edited like two words and submitted it,” she said. Her professor identified her essay as exemplary work, and she was asked to read from it to a class of two hundred students. “I was a little nervous,” she said. But then she realized, “If they don’t like it, it wasn’t me who wrote it, you know?”

These students might think they’re pulling a fast one, but what happens when they graduate and still don’t know how to think? How are they going to impress anyone during a face-to-face dialogue—whether it’s a job interview or a cocktail party—when they don’t have ChatGPT to generate insights and pretty sentences for them? No less an O.G. than the rapper Ice-T (whose fourth studio album, “O.G. Original Gangster” helped popularize the term), rapped about the problem of school dropouts trying to sound impressive:

How you gonna drop science? You’re dumb
Stupid ignorant, don’t even talk to me
In school you dropped Math, Science, and History
And then you get on the mic and try to act smart
Well let me tell you one thing, you got heart
To perpetrate, you’re bait, so just wait
Till the press shove a mic in your face…
And they ask you about the game you claim you got
Drop science now, why not?

Notably, he wrote that song in 1989, before an A.I. existed that could enable a useless student to fake his way through school. Sure, modern A.I. can help you get a degree, or program a computer, or write a basic email, but it’s not going to make you an interesting person. Ultimately, thinking for yourself is the real O.G. move.

Dear O.G.,

That last response? And your conclusion, “Thinking for yourself is the real O.G. move”? You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s pretty much the cheesiest thing I’ve ever read. I think in your case O.G. stands for “Old Geezer.”

Dana A, Albany, CA

Dear Dana,

I know. You’re right. You got me. I’m tired. I should really edit my stuff before I post. Looks like that pompous, overblown sentiment slipped past my publisher,  too. Sheesh.

An O.G. is a syndicated journalist whose advice column, “Ask an O.G.,” appears in over 0 blogs worldwide.

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