I've Got A Bike, You Can Ride It If You LIke...

Some might say I've lived two cycling lives because I've, well, lived two lives:  as a guy called Nick and a woman named Justine.

Of course, others might say that they are two parts, stages or chapters of the same life.  I wouldn't disagree with that, or that I've lived two lives.

Whichever (if either) is true, I know that some of my experiences while riding as Nick were different from the ones I've had as Justine, while others have been the same.

As for the latter category:  As both Nick and Justine, I've heard shouts of "Nice legs!" from other cyclists, as well as drivers and pedestrians.  I've also heard "You're built!" in both of my cycling incarnations.

When I was in Rome, riding the cute red bike I rented from Bici & Baci, a man on a much lighter and sleeker bike pulled up alongside me and intoned, "Tutto Campagnolo!"

I know he wasn't referring to the bike I was riding. Not his, either:  I could see just enough to know that his Olmo frame had mid-level Shimano stuff on it.  Perfectly good, but certainly not "Tutto Campagnolo."

Since then, I've wondered if his call had another meaning I hadn't picked up.  I mean, I know a bit of Italian, but I certainly am not up to speed on local slang.  

Hmm...Could it have been a pick-up line?  After all, cyclists (and other people) have said stranger and cheesier things:

From the Cascade Cycle Club blog.

A Reflection On 2015

I know that for many people, 2015 has been a terrible, tragic year.  I feel their pain, not in the least because at least one devastating event touched my life, if only tangentially.

Still, this year has been a very good year for me---the best since my surgery, and possibly before that--in many ways.  Cycling has had much to do with that.

Of course, riding to and from museums and cafes, along rivers, canals and boulevards, and through new experiences as well as memories, in Montreal and Paris can make just about anybody's year.  What really made those events, and much else in my life, special this year is an observation my friend Jay made while we had lunch in the City of Light: "You seem very settled as a woman now."  


The last time we'd met before then, I was in the early stages of my gender transition.  I was still acting and dressing in ways I was "supposed" to.  To be more precise, I was trying to show that I wasn't a man. (That, after I'd spent so much of my life trying to prove the exact opposite!)  At that point in my life, I really wondered whether I could or wanted to continue cycling. For one thing, I knew that I couldn't continue to ride in the way in which I'd been accustomed.  More important, though, I still believed that my transition meant "killing", if you will, the man named Nick I had lived as.  For that reason, I also wondered whether I would continue teaching although most people don't think of it as a particularly "masculine" occupation.

Since then, I have come to realized that cycling and teaching, as well as writing and even my taste in foods, are not part of one gender or another; they are part of my identity.  In other words, they intertwine with other things to make me who I am.  When anything is so integral to your life, you don't dispose or efface it; it changes with you or you change it as you are changing yourself.  So, perhaps, the way you execute or express them changes.  

In my case, pedaling up a hill or writing an essay or poem is no longer a conquest or even a goal met; it is an accomplishment, on whatever scale. Sometimes I still think about how Nick would have seen all of this--he wouldn't have approved, I'm sure--but I feel compassion for him.  After all, he couldn't have understood that he was, even then, becoming me.   Yes, she was becoming her mother!

It's fun, really. And the cycling has gotten better. That's what 2015 means to me right now.

A Ride, A Reflection

I have just taken an easy ride through the heart of Queens, to the far end of the borough and the near end of Nassau County.  It's Sunday, and the blaze autumn colors will soon turn into the ashes of fall, the foreshadowings of winter. 

I think I took the ride more for the opportunity to reflect on a few things than I did to exert myself physically.  I do that sometimes, especially at this time of year.  For me, there is something paradoxically clear and benevolent at the same time about the nip in the air and the light of days growing shorter.

There have been seasons that ended with my wishing that I had ridden more, harder or to different places.  I feel no such yearnings now.  Of course, having the opportunity to cycle in Florida, Paris and Montreal, as well as taking rides from my place to Connecticut and various points in New Jersey and Long Island has given me kaleidoscope of images to take with me through the winter.  I don't plan to stop cycling: I never do that except, perhaps, for physical injuries or ailments (which, thankfully, I don't experience often) or when there's a lot of ice on the streets, as there was through much of last winter.  But, realistically, I know that I won't cycle as much between, say, Thanksgiving and March or whenever the weather breaks.


Today I was satisfied, no, I was happy with the riding I did this year.  Perhaps I could have ridden even more, but I don't wish that I did.  I also don't wish that I had the strength and stamina I did when I was younger.  Well, all right, I'd like to have those things, but I know I don't need them to keep on riding, to continue my journey.

From Health Unlocked

As I rode today, I was thinking about a particular ride I took many, many years ago.  I had taken the day off from working as a messenger, hopped onto my Peugeot PX-10E and pedaled across the bridge, up and down ridges, and back up some old mining roads in the Watchung Mountains. The cloud cover was not a shawl that kept the ridges and cliffs warm and forgetful; rather, it seemed to keep the chill and ashen tones of the coming winter all around, and within, me.  

I had, in not much more than a year, experienced the deaths of two of my closest (emotionally and spiritually) relatives and the suicide of a friend.  There was nothing to do but pedal up that steep mining road; it could have been the last thing I did; I wanted it to be; there would be no wishes, no regrets left.

But no matter how hard I pedaled or how fast I ascended that hill, the young man I was could not have met up with the woman I am now.  If he could have, I would have told him that he would be OK, he is riding, he is on his journey, it was all that mattered.  

In short, I could not have understood what it would be like to have taken the ride I have taken to where I am now. 

Cycling In Paris, Then And Now

If you've been reading this blog during the past week-and-a-half, you know that I did a pretty fair amount of cycling during my stay in Paris, which ended just the other day. 

When I went to the City of Light in 2004, I didn't do any cycling.  However, I rode there during eight previous trips from 1984 to 2000, and during the time I lived there before those trips.  (On those previous trips, I rode to and from Paris as part of longer tours in addition to riding in the city itself.)  Now, I'll admit that I can draw only so many conclusions from spending only ten days there, as I did on my most recent trip.  Still, I feel confident in saying that pedaling in Paris this year was a very different experience from that of previous years.

One reason is, of course, that I am a decade and a half older--and my body is very different now, due to the hormones and surgery.  Naturally, those factors make all of my riding different:  I simply cannot rely on pure strength and chutzpah, as I did when I was younger.  Also, I am more careful about where and when I ride, though I must say that I felt less hesitation about taking a midnight ride alone in Paris than I do in New York.  Then again, I stayed in neighborhoods and on streets that were well-lit and full of pedestrian traffic even at a late hour.

But the main reason why riding in Paris was such a different experience this time had to do with how the nature of cycling itself in Paris has changed.  The two most obvious changes are the Velib program and bike lanes.  The former was non-existent, and the latter were nearly so the last time I cycled in the French capital. 

As I have said in previous posts, I am not as enthusiastic as some other people are about bike lanes.  In Paris, as in other places, lanes end abruptly or at rond-points or other intersections that are more difficult or even dangerous for cyclists to traverse than they would be if cyclists had been riding among automobile traffic.  Also, it's not always easy to see where lanes begin or resume.  To be fair, these problems--which also exist in New York and other cities--may be a consequence of the fact that the system of lanes is still a work in progress.  But I think that if the lanes are to become part of a true transportation alternative, they must be integrated with each other, and with the points at which they intersect with motor vehicle traffic.

Also, as in other cities, taxis pull into the lanes (at least, the ones that aren't separated from the streets by physical barriers) to pick up and discharge passengers, and trucks use them to make pickups and deliveries.  Worse yet, in overcrowded districts, such as that around Barbes-Rochechouart, people walk and even congregate in the lanes because there simply isn't enough room on the sidewalks.  Those neighborhoods are also home to African and Middle Eastern immigrants, who don't seem to ride bikes as much as Caucasian Parisians or tourists (at least, those from other European countries and North America).   I think that's why when I rode through those areas, some people looked a little surprised to see me riding in the lane--though, again in fairness, I must say they were very prompt and courteous in stepping aside for me.

Which brings me to another point about how cycling in Paris differs--or, actually, doesn't--from times past, but differs from riding in New York:  One doesn't find nearly the level of hostility from drivers and pedestrians toward cyclists that one can encounter in the Big Apple.  Part of that, I believe, has to do with something I've mentioned in earlier posts:  A culture of adult cycling continued in Paris, and in France, when it was all but dead in the United States.  Thus, as I've mentioned, many drivers and pedestrians are also cyclists, or were recently.  And those who aren't or weren't are at least familiar with cycling and cyclists. 

The one time a driver cursed at me, I deserved it: I made a wrong turn and rode the wrong way on a street near Bonne Nouvelle (ironic, isn't it?) as said driver approached.  I apologized; he yelled "Faites attention!"  Good advice.

As for riding the "wrong" way:  Often, one sees the international Passage Interdit (Do Not Enter) sign with a caption that reads "sauf velos" or "sauf cyclistes".  In other words, it's a one-way street for motor vehicles, but not for bicycles.  I have never seen such a thing here in New York, and for me, it was strange to see it in Paris because the streets are narrower. 

Also, I saw only a few cyclists on sidewalks, and they were riding only from a curb to a door.  They didn't experience the admonishment, let alone the hostility or attention from the police one can experience (especially if one is a Black or Hispanic male) for riding on a New York sidewalk.  Mainly out of habit, I didn't ride on sidewalks:  I rode to wherever I was going, dismounted and walked my bike to the store or museum entrance.

Given what I've described in this post, I will be very interested to see if cycling seems like a different experience yet again should I return to Paris and to the rest of France, as I hope to do one day (year?) soon.


 

The Spirit Of Hasidic Cycling In Brooklyn

Citibike, the bike-sharing program in New York (my hometown), began nearly fifteen months ago.

During the first days of the program, leaders of the Hasidic Jewish community in South Williamsburg, Brooklyn, petitioned against it.  They weren't against bikes, they said; they just didn't like the idea of "scantily clad" cyclists rolling through their neighborhood.

A couple of years ago, Hasidic leaders in Borough Park, another Brooklyn enclave, protested the construction of bike lanes on exactly the same grounds. 

I haven't heard about the Borough Park rebbes lately.  I've ridden through the neighborhood a few times and found no Citibike ports.  For that matter, I didn't see very many adult cyclists.

On the other hand, a few days after the South Williamsburg leaders made their complaint, Hasidim for Bikes clamored for the blue bikes.  Not surprisingly, Williamsburg--sometimes called "Brooklyn's Portland" or "Hipsterville"--was one of the first Brooklyn neighborhoods to get Citibikes.

Not long afterward, I started to see bearded, black-clad men in top hats pedaling up and down Kent Avenue, Berry Street, Havemeyer Street and other neighborhood throughfares--even on the worst days of a record-breaking heat wave we endured last summer.

Note that I mentioned the men.  I hadn't seen Hasidic women pedaling or coasting on the blue bikes--until today.

It wasn't exceptionally hot, but it was warm and humid enough for me, in my shorts and tank top, to break a bit of a sweat when I sprinted, however briefly, because, well, I could.  I tried to imagine how it must have felt for those women, clad in long sleeves and skirts, sweaters and thick opaque hosiery of the kind I might wear with boots in the winter. 

I didn't take any pictures--Years ago, I discovered that Hasidim really don't like to be photographed, especially by outsiders--so I've included this image because it probably comes closest to showing what it must have been like for the women I saw today:

 

 

 

Passing: How Close?

Here's something I can't believe I missed.

Six years ago, Scientific American's blog reported on a study about helmet-wearing.  According to British researcher and cyclist Ian Walker, motorists give a wider berth to helmetless (Is that a real word?) cyclists than to those of us who don hard shells.  

How did he come to this conclusion?  He attached ultrasonic sensors to his bike and allowed 2300 motorists to overtake him as he pedaled in and around Bath.  His data indicated that drivers passed 3.35 inches closer to him when he wore his helmet than they did when he was bareheaded.

He also conducted another experiment: On some of his rides, he wore a wig of long brown locks to make him look like a woman from behind.   When motorists thought Ian was Lana, they gave him an average of 2.2 more inches to ride, he said.

His findings are interesting, to say the least.  Now, I have no experience in conducting experiments like his.  But I have to wonder just how good his data actually is.  After all, he was the only test subject. So, I have to wonder whether other factors might have influenced the way motorists passed him on the road.

From Bike New York

 From all of my experience of cycling, I honestly don't know whether  wearing a helmet influences the amount of room motorists give me.   Then again, about the only times I notice how much of a berth I'm granted are when the cars are close enough to scrape the crocheted back off my glove.

As for the male-female thing: Most mototrists may well be giving me more room than I got when I was Nick. But, every once in a while, some male driver pulls up close to me and whistles, makes a comment like "Nice legs!" or finds some other way to annoy me.

In spite of Walker's findings, or any others, I'll most likely continue to wear my helmet.  While it may cause drivers to ride closer to me, I want to have it on if I'm in an accident. Once, when I flipped over (through no fault of any motorist), my helmet broke in two but I emerged with nothing more than a few scratches on my left arm and leg.  Another time, a tiny Vietnamese truck driver flung his door into me, causing me to do an unintentional cartwheel on my head.  I came out of that with a sprained wrist.

   

Why I Didn't Give Up Cycling

I have been cycling, in one way or another, for more than four decades.  Now I do not pedal nearly as many miles (or kilometres) as I did "back in the day."  But I feel that, in some way, cycling is as much a part of my life now as it was then.

Through all of those years, there was one period when I seriously considered giving up cycling altogether.  I was going to keep one bike "for old time's sake" and, perhaps, for errands and transportation.  But I thought that my days as a regular rider were going to come to an end.

That time came early in my life as Justine.  I really didn't know how, or even whether, I could combine cycling--or, more precisely, my identity as a cyclist (There were years in which I pedaled 360 days and 25,000 or more kilometers!) with the life on which I was about to embark.  One reason for that was, frankly, I had practically no idea of what the life on which I was embarking would be like.  Oh, I had visions of who and what Justine would be.  But, as happens with nearly everyone who undergoes a gender transition, my expectations--and the sort of woman I would become--differed, at least somewhat. Although my therapist, social worker, doctor and other transgender people who were further along in their transitions--or who'd had surgery and were living fully in their "new" genders--told me such a thing would probably happen, I had no idea of what I would become as a woman.

Also, I was trying so hard to be the sort of woman I envisioned at the beginning of my transition that it took me time to realize that it could encompass much more than I imagined at the time--and that, of course, the sort of woman I could, and would, become could be different.  I'd entered my transition with ideas of what women in the '40's and '50's were like, which were the ideas to which early transsexuals like Christine Jorgensen conformed, and what the public expected of transsexuals (to the extent that they paid attention to us).

But, perhaps the most important reason why I thought I might not ride anymore was that so much of my cycling had been a means of escape, however temporary.  Whether I was pedaling 180 rpm on the Prospect Park loop or hugging the edge of a virage in the Alps--or dodging taxis and giving the one-fingered peace sign to drivers who got in my way--bicycling had always been a means of escape for me.  I think now of a friendly acquaintance who was one of the first women to attend her undergraduate college on a track and field scholarship.  She has told me that whether she was training on local streets or pumping away during the state championships, she was "running for my life by running from my life".  She never would have been able to attend her college without that scholarship, she said.  But, perhaps even more important, she says she doesn't know  how she would have "survived, in one piece" a childhood that included incest and other forms of dysfunction and disease in her family.

My childhood wasn't nearly as Dickensian as hers.  Perhaps I shouldn't say that, for such a comparison may not make any sense:  After all, she suffered at the hands of other people, while most of my torment came from within me.  Still, I could relate to what she said as much as anything anyone else has said to me.  Her running and my cycling had been means of escape, however momentary.  

She hasn't run, even for fitness, in more than two decades.  She has taken up other sports (including cycling, which is how I know her) and forms of training, but she has not run since the day she was doing laps in the park and "asking myself why," she said.

But I didn't give up cycling because, frankly, I probably have always enjoyed it more than she liked running, and I now have more reasons to continue on two wheels than she does on the training loop.  Also, during my second year of living as Justine, I was running errands and shopping after work one Friday.  It was a pleasantly cool day in May,and I was still in the blouse, skirt and low heels I'd worn to work that day. I had just come out of a store and was unlocking my bike from a parking meter when a tall black man chatted me up.  "Are you European?", he wondered.

"Well, I've lived and traveled there," I explained.  "But I'm from here, and I've lived most of my life here."

"You look more like a European woman, getting around on your bike," he said.  He confirmed what I suspected, from his accent and mannerisms, that he was born in Africa but had lived much of his life in Europe--specifically, France.

By Harmonyhalo

That day I realized that, one way or another, I would probably continue to ride my bicycle in my new life.  I would never be the same kind of cyclist I was when I was living as Nick--and, honestly, at that time, I didn't want to be.  But I knew that as Justine, a newly-born woman in her 40's, I would be able to ride her bike in my new life--and my job and those stores wouldn't be my only destinations, any more than commuting and store-hopping would be my only rides.