Technology And Propaganda: The Bicycle In World War I

If our only hope of survival is halting climate change, then the only way the human race will truly advance is if we get rid of war.  That's what I believe, anyway.

That said, I also understand that you can't ignore war if you study history. So, because I am interested in history, and the roles the bicycle has played in it, I've written a few posts about how bicycles have been used by the military.

World War I may have been the conflict in which the bicycle played the most pivotal roles.  It raged at exactly the moment when technologies spawned directly and indirectly by the bicycle were starting to take forms we recognize today.  In all of the nations involved, with the exception of the United States, millions of people rode to work and school, and for fun.  Even in the States, many of adults were still riding, as affordable, reliable automobiles (think Model T) were still a decade in the future.

Doran Cart is one person who recognizes the importance of bicycles in the so-called "Great War".  He is the senior curator of the National World War I Museum and Memorial in Kansas City.  When the US entered the war in 1917, military leaders "realized bicycles could make a difference in certain situations," according to Cart.

French military folding bicycle

Although they weren't particularly useful in the trenches and weren't particularly safe on open roads, bicycles could reach areas inaccessible to motor vehicles, and were more reliable.  These factors also made the bicycle, in many situations, the quickest way to convey messages. Bikes also were used, interestingly, on airbases.

What might have been as important as the bicycle's utility was its familiarity.  Unlike other technologies deployed during the war, almost everyone was familiar with the bicycle, as most rode them as civilians.  This meant that soldiers didn't have to learn how to use them, as they did with, say, trucks or planes.  Because so many men and women in uniform had been riding bicycles for all or most of their lives, at least some knew how to repair and maintain them.  How many people knew how to fix a plane or tank before the war?

That familiarity, according to Cart, also made bicycles useful in another way:  they were "a humanizing aspect to the war."  Because bicycles "represented something that every person could use" and were (and are) "available to everyone regardless of social class", they turned out to be rather effective propaganda tools.  Countless illustrations from that time depict young soldiers on or with their bicycles.  I mean, if you see this "Avanti Savoia" ("Onward Savoy"), you might think the 26th Bersaglieri Battalion was embarking on a bike tour.

GI Bike

I am not what anybody would call a "war buff."  And I don't get into the jingoistic self-congratulations that mark too many commemorations of armed conflicts and their combattants.  

On the other hand, I do understand that war cannot be separated from history, and that many valuable lessons can be learned from studying the strategies and mistakes of various military leaders, as well as the effects war has on people who aren't directly involved in the fighting.  And, I must say, it does make me a little sad to realize that most World War II veterans are dead or dying.  It's something I realized today, when I saw a ceremony commemorating the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor.  A few veterans were present; I think the median age was around 92 or so.

In thinking about the 71st anniversary of the deadliest attack this country would experience until the ones on 9/11, I looked at some images of--you guessed it--military bikes and soldiers on bikes.

The US Armed Forces never designated official bicycle patrols for World War II.  However, soldiers, sailors and airmen used bicycles in a variety of ways during the war.  Here is a patrol in Hawaii:

From The Liberator

They are riding official US Army bicycles made by Westfield Manufacturing Corporation, a.k.a., Columbia.  Here is one, close-up:

Some of the bikes were painted entirely in olive drab, as this one was.  Others had blacked-out hubs, handlebars, cranks and other parts that would have been chromed prior to the war.

Huffman Manufacturing Co (a.k.a. Huffy) made a nearly-identical model that was also commissioned by the Army.  However, Huffy did not make a women's model, as Columbia did.  Columbia also made a folding version of the bike.

Not surprisingly, the Japanese also made extensive use of bicycles during the war (which, technically, began in 1931, when they invaded Manchuria).  Here is a Japanese bicycle patrol in the Phillipines:

From Hyperwar

Perhaps even less surprising is the fact that the British armed forces used bicycles in warfare--or that Birmingham Small Arms (BSA) made a folding bike for the troops.

Interestingly, before the War,  BSA bicycle components were the ones most widely used by racers, including those in the Tour de France.  And, yes, the company is the same one that made BSA motorcycles, which were the world's most popular before Japanese makers took most of their market.

Bersaglieri: Italian Light Infantry, On Bicycles

I have written several posts on how armed forces throughout the world have used bicycles and deployed troops on bicycles.  I trust--or at least hope--that no one has inferred from them that I, in any way, wish to endorse--let alone glorify--war.  Rather, I hope that showing how bicycles have been used, both in and out of combat, can highlight their versatility.

Also, as paradoxical as this may seem, the more I oppose war, the more interesting the history of armed conflicts becomes.  But I am not concerned with the "drum and bugle" aspects of military history, or in a mere recounting of battles.  Instead, I am interested in the ways war--as well as preparation for it, whether or not it's actually fought--affects technology, societies, cultures and history.

Ironically, I came to think about the things I've mentioned--actually, I learned of their existence--when I was a cadet in my college's Army ROTC program. (So you thought my life as a guy named Nick was the biggest, dimmest and darkest secret I've shared?  Ha!)  At the same time I was enrolled in  the "leadership seminar", I took a class called "Literature and the Great War", taught by one Paul Fussell.

Now, when I signed up for that course, I knew that Professor Fussell had won the National Book Award a few years earlier for The Great War And Modern Memory.  It's the sort of book that seems not to be written anymore because graduate literature programs don't turn out scholars like Dr. Fussell anymore.  The man was every bit as erudite as I'd hoped he would be, and was an engaging lecturer.  Actually, he didn't lecture so much as he talked about the works we'd read, as well as his own reflections--at least some of which were based, no doubt, on his experiences as a soldier in World War II. (He was wounded in France and won a Purple Heart.)  Best of all, he spoke--and wrote--in plain language, without any jargon.  That would not fly in any graduate school today.

Anyway, I mention him and that class because, from them, I also came to realize that I could appreciate the beauty of poems, stories and images borne of combat, whether experienced or observed.  Moreover, that appreciation was heightened by my realization of the horror and futility of war:  things Paul, as a combat veteran, understood as well as anybody could.  

I don't know whether he ever saw this photo of Bersaglieri (Italian light infantry) on Montozzo Pass in 1915:

From The Great War Blog

Their bikes are probably state-of-the-art, or close to it.  So, no doubt, are their weapons.  But something is totally incongruous:  their headgear.  Military uniforms, with their drab colors and lack of ornamentation (save for medals), were developed during World War I.  But these troops are wearing feathered hats.  

What makes those hats seem even more out-of-place (and their time) is their broad brims.  Trench warfare and the emphasis on greater mobility served to streamline military uniforms.  This brigade may well have been one of the last to wear such wide hats.

What was the purpose of those wide brims?  To ward off cavalry swords.  Yes, you read that right. I imagine they were about as good for that purpose as the old "leather hairnets" were at protecting the heads of cyclists who crashed.

I think that riding fast--which, I'm sure, they could do--probably did more to protect them from cavalry swords, or any other weapons the Austrians could use against them!

Swords And Ploughshares From Reynolds

Today is Veterans' Day here in the USA.   In other countries, today is Armistice Day.  

While I think veterans, especially those who are disabled, should never want for anything, I think this day--or Memorial Day--should not be a day to celebrate war with chest-thumping displays of nationalistic grandiosity.  (Nor should it be simply another orgy of shopping, as too many other "holidays" have become.)  Rather, I think such days should be occasions to remember who and what we've lost in wars, and ways we can prevent it.

That said, I'm going to talk about the contribution one of the most respected companies in cycling made to a war effort.

I wrote about said company in yesterday's blog post.  Specifically, I wrote about a frame tube set it produced for a few years--and one it made for decades.

That company, Reynolds, still makes some of the most esteemed tubing, which is used by some of the world's best bicycle builders.  My post focused on "708", which it made for a few years and was a descendant of its most iconic product:  531 tubing, which won 24 out of 25 Tours de France after World War II and was used to build high-quality bikes for just about every type of riding and rider for half a century.


As much as it pains me to say this, Reynolds 531 tubing, like many other advances in technology, resulted from military research and development. The company said as much.

Reynolds began manufacturing nails in Birmingham, England in 1841. It thrived in this business but its leaders saw the potential in bicycle fitments, especially after James Starley's "safety" bicycle (with two equally-sized wheels) helped to popularize cycling in the 1880s.  

Its reputation was burnished during the cycling boom of the 1890s, when Reynolds was one of the first companies to make seamless tubing and, not long after, patented the first butted tubing.  The latter development, of course, revolutionized bicycle design because making the ends of the tubes--where most of the stress concentrated--thicker, the walls could be made thinner toward the middle of the tube.  This resulted in frames that were lighter and more resilient than ones that had been made before.  To this day, high-quality frames made from steel, aluminum or titanium have butted tubes.


Reynolds double-butted tubing was such an advancement over other steel tubing available at the time that during World War I, the company was called upon to equip the armed forces.   Its first contracts were for military bicycles and motorcycles, but by 1916, Reynolds tubing was being used for aircraft used in the war.

Aeronautical engineering is, almost by definition, a quest for making things as light and strong as possible.  Those early airplanes had such thin wings and shells because, given the materials of the time, they had to be constructed that way in order for them to be light enough to loft into the air.  Engineers and designers soon realized that they couldn't make those parts thinner without running the risk that they would break apart at the slightest crosswind or impact.  So, the emphasis shifted toward making materials stronger.

That is how Reynolds, and other companies, began to experiment with alloys of steel.   It was known that adding certain elements to the metal strengthened it, which meant that less could be used to achieve the same strength.  By the 1930s, Reynolds upon a particularly good combination consisting of maganese, molybdenum and other elements, in a ratio of approximately five to three to one.  Now you know why it's called Reynolds 531.

During World War II, production of frame tubes was suspended, as Reynolds was once again called upon to make aircraft parts.  After the war ended, 531 production resumed and the "miracle metal" was used in aircraft components, race car chasis and, most famously, bicycles.

Perhaps I am being overly pessimistic in highlighting the fact that Reynolds' technologies had their root in war efforts.  I guess I could see it as an example of "beating swords into ploughshares." That makes it easier to enjoy the ride of my Mercians! 

100 Years After War Didn't End

The other day, I commemorated the 80th anniversary of Kristallnacht:  the night when anti-Semitism descended from harassment to violence and, ultimately, to death.  It was also the night of the first mass deportations of Jews to the Nazi death camps.

Today is the centennial of the event that was supposed to prevent the war into which the world descended not long after Kristallnacht.  (Some would argue that the war was already underway; I wouldn't disagree.) 

I am talking, of course, about the Armistice. As we all heard in school, "on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month" in 1918, the Armistice--which was supposed to end hostilities, not only between the Allies and the Central Powers, but throughout the world--was signed.

Would it have worked if the United States had agreed to join a worldwide organization--one whose founders included the American President, no less--created for the purpose of fostering cooperation? 

We will never know.  I could not, however, help but to note the irony of this photo:



It's the 1940 Armistice Day parade in Yakima, Washington.  At that very moment, Europe was at war again:  During the fourteen months that preceded the scene in the photo, Germany had invaded Poland, Denmark, Norway, Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, France, Yugoslavia and Greece.  Less than thirteen months after that photo was taken, the US would also be drawn into that war.

Nobody has ever celebrated an "Armistice" to end World War II, or any war since then.

And, in the US, this day has been turned into "Veterans' Day" --a holiday I wholeheartedly endorse, as much as I abhor war-- which will be commemorated tomorrow.

(About Veterans' Day:  As much as I'm in favor of this holiday, I wish its emphasis was on the ones who gave their limbs, senses, bodies and even lives, rather than on the glorification of their "victories."  I also would favor calling it "Remembrance Day," as it's known in Canada and the UK.)

Fighting The Great War On Two Wheels

As you no doubt learned in your history classes, the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the presumptive heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, triggered the events that led to World War I.

He was killed on 28 June 1914.  Other countries made promises and issued ultimatums to each other, based on the sorts of relationships they had with the Austro-Hungarian Empire and its allies--or enemies.  

Everything came to a head in the first days of August in that year.  On the first, Germany declared war on Russia.  And, on this date 100 years ago, Germany declared war on France and invaded Belgium.  Then, on the following day, Great Britain declared war on Germany.

 

The Great War, as it came to be called, was the first international armed conflict in which aircraft--and one of the first in which motorized vehicles--were deployed. Bicycle battalions were also deployed in an attempt to mobilize fighting forces that could move more swiftly than regular infantry units.  Aircraft were invented barely a decade earlier, and motorized vehicles weren't around for much longer.  So they didn't have the range or maneuverability later versions of those vehicles would have.  Also, a single plane, motorcar or tank would need several soldiers to operate and maintain it, and at least one more to scout out and shoot (or bomb or gas) enemy combatants.

 

On the other hand, on a bicycle, a single soldier or other individual person could travel as a self-contained one-man fighting unit, as Hilary Searle of CycleSeven points out.  For example, members of the British Army Cyclist Corps were issued bicycles that held kit bags in the rear, under the seat.  Rations and personal items were stowed in those bags; from the frame's top crossbar hung an emergency toolkit.  Groundsheets were rolled up and suspended from the handlebars; even rifles could be carried on soldiers' bikes.

Members of the Army Cyclist Corps were specially trained as mechanics.  Hmm...I wonder what my life would be like if I'd learned how to fix in the Army rather than from the first edition of Anybody's Bike Book. 

As Ms. Searle points out, His Majesty's Army had to draw up regulations for using the bicycle, not only in the battlefield, but in drilling and ceremonial occasions.  The rulebook, first drawn up in 1907 and revised in 1911, contains such pearls as this:


'A cyclist standing with his cycle, with rifle attached to it, will salute with the right hand, as laid down in Section 19, returning the hand to the point of the saddle on the completion of the salute. When at ease, a cyclist, whether mounted or leading his bicycle, will salute by coming to attention, and turning his head to the officer he salutes. A party of cyclists on the march will salute on the command Eyes Right, which will be followed by Eyes Front, from the officer or NCO in charge.'


I would've loved for the cadet commanders to teach us that in our ROTC program!  Better yet, this:

'The position of the cyclist at attention is the same as that of the dismounted soldier, except that he will grasp the left steering handle with his left hand, and place the right hand at the point of the saddle, elbow to the rear.'

All right.  I'll stop being snide and cynical long enough to show that, every once in a while, the term "military intelligence" is not an oxymoron:

'Bicycle tyres should be wiped with a damp cloth after a march, so that all grit, which if left might cause a puncture, may be removed.'

'The rate of marching, excluding halts, will generally vary from 8 to 10 miles per hour, according to the weather, the nature of the country, and the state of the roads. A column of battalion size should not be expected to cover more than 50 miles in a day under favourable conditions.'

"Favourable conditions"?  In World War I?  Did such things exist? Some terrain on the Western Front proved too much even for cyclists (as tough a bunch as we are), as the heavy iron bikes got bogged down in mud or simply were unrideable on rough terrain.  (They were fine on tarmac.) For that reason, the military brass decided that cyclists had little tactical value and disbanded the Corps after the War.

 

The Attack That Deflated Balloon Tires

Seventy-four years ago today, the Japanese Imperial Navy launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor.  Well, it was a surprise to most people, but some who were "in the know" saw the United States and Japan edging toward war for months before the attack.

Winston Churchill could barely conceal his glee:  At last the Americans would join his fight against Japan's nominal allies, Germany and Italy.  Never before, and never since, have Americans been so willing to go to war against another country.

It's almost a cliché to say that the attack, and US involvement in the World War, would change almost everything about American society and culture.  As an example, it could be argued that the War had as much of a role as any other event in bringing about the Civil Rights movements of the 1950s and 1960s.  Black American soldiers could sit at any café or pub table in Europe, but were separated from fellow citizens lighter than themselves within their own armed forces, not to mention in schools and other public places in their home towns, cities and states. 

Also, the war turned the wave of blacks migrating from the south to the north into a tidal wave, changing the face of numerous communities all over the United States. Having large numbers of African Americans concentrated in urban neighborhoods would make it easier for leaders to organize marches and other kinds of protests than it had been when the same people were dispersed over miles of southern countryside.  (Remember, this was decades before the Internet and Facebook!)

Now, since this is a bike blog, I have to tell you how the attack on Pearl Harbor--and the War--changed cycling, at least in this country.  At the time, the average adult bicyle weighed 57 pounds (about 26 kilos).  The government decreed that those bikes would be made ten pounds lighter, and that production of children's bicycles would cease altogether for the duration.

The reason for this change was that bicycles were being used in the military, and a lighter bike is easier to transport and maneuver.  Also, it used less of the materials that were rationed during wartime.   Those restrictions, of course, made fewer bicycles available for civilians to buy, but those who were able to get them discovered that they liked the lighter bikes.  Manufacturers took notice and started to make bikes lighter still.

Further accelerating the change in American bicycles were the machines service members saw--and sometimes brought back from--the places in which they fought.  The majority of the bikes to come to our shores came from England, but a few others came from Continental European countries.  Those bikes--yes, even the English three-speed and French "ballon" bikes--were lighter than the "lightweight" models American manufacturers were making during the war.

Could it be that if Pearl Harbor hadn't been attacked, we might still be riding on those balloon-tired Schwinns, Columbias and Huffys?  Hmm....

(Note:  I mean no offense to any of you who still remember--or experienced--the tragedies of that day that "will live on in infamy"!)

 

An Unintended Victory For Cyclists

Today, 8 May, is celebrated as VE, or Victory in Europe, Day in some countries.

I never paid much attention to that date until I was living in Paris and I encountered a street named for that date.  I was fascinated with the custom of naming streets after historical dates--a practice almost wholly absent in the US--and the number of Parisian streets named after historical figures.  As Google didn't exist in those days, I spent a pretty fair amount of time in the bibliotheques.  That is where I learned, among other things, the significance of 8 mai 1945.

From  Denes.us

I also learned about the significance of bicycles in that conflict.  Though we hear a lot about the evolutionary advances in military technology--such as the ones in aircraft, submarines and munitions--pedal-powered two-wheeled vehicles also played an important role in the war, to the degree that all of the combatant nations (including the US) had bicycle patrols or batallions, and transported bicycles in their ships, tanks and other vehicles.

Germany--which was, at the time, the most technically advanced nation--discovered, as the British, Japanese and Americans soon would, that their most sophisticated forms of transport were all but useless in some of the terrain they encountered.  As an example, when Italian forces landed in Albania, they found that the only ways to advance on the rocky coastline were on bicycles or on foot.  In addition to the harsh terrain, the narrow streets and roads found in much of Europe weren't conducive to motorized transport.  

But, interestingly enough, the armed forces on both sides of the conflict encountered a problem that civilians faced on their home turf:  There simply wasn't enough fuel and other resources.  Sometimes bicycles and even horse-drawn carts were used to transport the very supplies soldiers found in short supply and civilians, at times, couldn't get at all.

From mjgradziel

The severe rationing imposed in nearly all countries that participated in the war--and many that didn't--led, ironically, to improvements (or at least changes) in bicycle technology that we today take for granted.  Rationing would make bicycle production difficult; however, governments in the US and other countries realized that, in the face of gasoline and other shortages, bicycles were the only viable transportation option for many people who were working in jobs deemed essential to the war effort.

From Behance

In 1941, the average bicycle built for adults in the US weighed 57 pounds.  Yes, you read that right.  Bikes built for boys and men often had two top tubes (or a "crossbar" underneath the "camelback" top tube.)  Bikes made for women and girls had long, curving top tubes, and sometimes had another, paralell tube underneath.  Those frame tubes were thick, and (at least on American bikes) joined by welds reinforced by additional metal.  Also, bikes--especially those made for children--typically had "tanks" built between the top tubes.  They contained large batteries that powered the lights and horns that were built into them.

Nearly all of the bikes' components were made of heavy-gauge steel or even cast iron.   Those metals, as well as other materials used in building bikes, were needed for the war effort.  So, in addition to imposing rationing for any and all kinds of resources, the US Government also imposed new regulations on how, and what kinds of, bikes could be built.  Frames had to have a minimum size of 20 inches, which all but ended the production of children's bicycles.  Bicycles built for men could have only one top tube, and were to be built in the "diamond" configuration so familiar to us today. Gone were the "crossbars" found on many bikes.  

Along with the design changes, the government mandated that bicycles use less material.  In 1942, the government told manufacturers that their new bicycles had to weigh 47 pounds or less.  That weight limit further decreased as the war raged on.

So, as much as it pains me to say this, the war was actually good for cyclists, as it led to lighter bicycles--just as the rationing the conflict engendered led to shorter skirts and fewer ruffles and pleats (as well as less of other kinds of ornamentation) on other garments.

The Sacrilege of Cycling In The Park

Once, I rode through a gate of Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn.  I'd visited the necropolis before:  Two of my relatives, as well as some far-more-famous people, are buried there.  Being the naif I was, I figured that if pedestrians and motor vehicles were allowed, so were bikes.

Well, I was a few bicycle lengths into the graveyard when someone on a motor scooter pulled up alongside me.  "No bikes allowed," he bellowed.

"Oh, sorry.  I didn't know..."

"This is sacred ground, you know."

Well, that part I didn't know:  I figured that since Greenwood was non-sectarian, it wasn't "sacred."  Also, since I've slept in graveyards twice in my life and the residents didn't seem to mind, it didn't occur to me that any of Greenwood's denizens would object to my quiet two-wheeled vehicle.

Apparently, that "sacred ground" rationale is used to ban bikes from cemeteries all over the world.  I don't understand how a bicycle is more sacrilegious than, say, a van with "Puppies" and "Free Candy" painted on its side. 

It's also the so-called reasoning behind the Frankfort (KY) city commission's vote to ban bicycles from Leslie Morris Park, the site of the US Civil War site of  Fort Hill .  The Commissioners, with Mayor Bill May casting the deciding vote, cited Fort Hill's status as "hallowed" ground: A local militia deterred an attempted raid by a Confederate cavalry unit in 1864.  Although Kentucky didn't secede from the Union during the Civil War, an attempt was made to set up a Confederate government in Bowling Green.  Had the raid succeeded, Frankfort--which was staunchly pro-Union--could have fallen to the Confederates, and Bowling Green would then have been the capital of the Confederate State of Kentucky.  While such a turn of events might not have tipped the war to the Confederates, it almost certainly would have prolonged the war and delayed a Union victory.

In any event, cyclists had been riding on the rudimentary trails around Fort Hill.  Some of those trails were little more than traces formed by deer that populate the 120-acre park, and most were laced with thorny bushes.  Some cyclists, like Gerry James, enjoyed the challenge they posed.  More important, he says, was the opportunity to ride so close to his downtown home.

What makes the new ban so galling to him and others is that it came in the wake of another plan, recently scuttled, to develop those paths so they could be used by runners and joggers as well as cyclists and others who want to spend some time outdoors.  In fact, an elaborate plan was developed that would have kept those lanes at least 300 feet from any historical, environmental and archaeological sites.  Moreover, its costs were minimal and some of the work would have been done by volunteers, including Scouts who were trying to attain the Eagle rank.

A Civil War commemoration at Leslie Morris Park, site of the Fort Hill monument.  From the Frankfort State Journal.

The project, which had many proponents, was seen as a way to make an historic site accessible to more people and connect it to the downtown area.  It was also viewed as a way to encourage exercise in a state with some of the worst health outcomes (though, interestingly, one of the lowest rates of chlamydia) in the nation.  Business leaders, too, liked it because they believed that it would bring investment to an area that, while economically stronger than the rest of the state, still does not attract or retain young talent.

One reason why the young leave the city and state is because projects like the Fort Hill trails are cancelled, or aren't even conceived in the first place. Of the vote, James--who founded the Explore Kentucky initiative--said, "It makes Frankfort look like an anti-progress city."

Remembering A War’s Legacy

Today, on Memorial Day, I am remembering something I saw last July, while cycling in Cambodia.

Few countries have been more devastated by war.  The land mines that remain, after half a century, continue to bind the nation and its people to the legacy of a war that spread from Vietnam and led to the horrors of the Pol Pot regime.

Aki Ra was conscripted to fight at age 10, he estimates:  He doesn’t know the exact date of his birth. By the time he was old enough to vote in most countries, he had fought in theee different armies.  During that time, he became a specialist in explosives, specifically land mines.

As a civilian, he has devoted himself to finding and defusing land mines, not only in Cambodia, but in other former war zones.  He’s even unearthed World War I - era ordnance in Europe.



This work led to his founding the Landmine Museum and a school for children, many of whom would not otherwise have the opportunity to do so.

The Museum is a testament to a legacy of war—specifically, how it continues to terrorize people who weren’t even born when their land was laced with explosives.

M

Shin's Tricycle

On this blog, I have written several posts about bicycles, and the ways they have been used, in war.  It may surprise you to learn that the reason why I am interested in such things--and in military history, with an emphasis on the history--is that I am anti-war.  In fact, I believe that the only chance the human race has of surviving-- let alone becoming a better, more enlightened species--is to render war obsolete.  Only then will we be truly able to address issues of environmental degradation and economic injustice.

That last sentence also explains why I am anti-war and pro-veteran:  To me, few things show how pointless war is than seeing a veteran sleeping under a bridge, highway overpass or train trestle, as I sometimes see on my way to work. It also explains why I see bicycling to work and school, and even for recreation --and not as a self-conscious fashion statement or a callow attempt at irony (Can it really be irony if you're trying to achieve it?)--as an instrument for attaining peace and justice.

So, in that spirit, I am posting this photograph:

Why?, you ask.  Well, on this date 70 years ago, a boy named Shin and his best friend, a girl named Kimi, were playing with it when--to paraphrase Albert Camus in The Plague--death rained on them from the clear blue sky. 

When Shin's family found him under a house beam, he was too weak to talk.  But his hand still held the red grip of that tricycle.  And Kimi was nowhere to be found.

Shin would not survive that night.  Nor would Kimi, who was found later.   Shin's father could not bear to leave him in a lonely graveyard, so he was interred--along with Kimi and the tricycle--in the family's backyard.

In 1985--forty years after the first atomic bomb leveled their home town of Hiroshima--his father decided to move his remains to the family's gravesite.  He, with the help of his wife, dug up the backyard burial ground.   There they found "the little white bones of Kimi and Shin, hand in hand as we had placed them," according to the father.

Also present was the tricycle, which the father had all but forgotten.  Lifting it out of the grave, he said, "This should never happen to children.  The world should be a peaceful place where children can play and laugh."

The next day, he would donate the tricycle to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, where it is exhibited with other artifacts, as well as drawings, photos and stories from survivors of the first atomic bomb, exploded over the city 70 years ago today.

The tricycle inspired a children's book written by survivor Tatsuharu Kodama.  Published in 1995, Shin's Tricycle is narrated by Nobuo Tetsunani, Shin's father.  It's as painful as it is beautiful.  I urge you to read it--and to take a good look at those stark drawings!  
 

The Day After A Ride: Memorial Day

Yesterday I rode to Greenwich, Connecticut.  Upon arriving, I propped my bike on a park bench, where I drank some Poland Spring water and munched on Welch's fruit snacks.  (Strange combination, perhaps?)  More to the point--at least for the purpose of this post--that park bench stood to the side of a memorial to Greenwich residents who died fighting in World War II, Korea and Vietnam.

Now, if you've been reading this blog for a while, you've noticed that I've written a bit about the roles the bicycle has played in the military.  As interesting as I find that aspect of cycling history, I hope that no one has construed it as a love of war on my part.

As anti-war as I am, though, I still believe that those who have served--and died or suffered life-altering injuries--should be remembered.  (One of the most shameful facts about this country today is that there are veterans living under bridge and highway overpasses.)  However, I abhor the rhetoric that celebrates the violence of war, or that touts service members for "making the ultimate sacrifice" for "our freedoms" or some such thing--especially since such treacly phrases are so exploitable by the worst, most opportunistic, politicians.

Instead, this day should be an opportunity to remember, rather than memorialize, them.  That they lost their lives or limbs or eyesight at such early ages is, in itself, tragic and thus in need of remembering.  Also to be remembered, though, are the ones they left behind:  the mothers, the spouses, the siblings, the other loved ones whose lives will never be the same.

We Began With An Epitaph

My family began
on the Fifteenth of November
the day my uncle was born.
1934:  There was no spring
or fall that year, only
bare trees twisted
in the wind
                  like my grandfather's
arm, jabbing the air.  "Winter's
gonna be long and cold.  Nothing
we can do about it."

My uncle was named Christopher
in the middle of his father's
desperation:  that year, a struggle
until summer.  Somehow he grew...

Christopher, you grow in my mother's
stories.  You climbed trees
to the attic. 
                   You had
a view of Flatbush Avenue, like the dark
river you saw
from a hill in Korea
which we know only as the Fourteenth
of April, 1953.

Fighting A "Culture War" They Can't Win (I Hope)

There are moments that change history.  Everyone knows some of them; others, we think we know.  Then there are the ones that, while documented, are forgotten even though their significance is both deep and broad.

We've all heard the story of how Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to the Castle Church door in Wittenberg, Germany five centuries ago.  While almost no one doubts he actually wrote the theses--and he sent copies of them to church and political officials--the story about him hanging them on a church door is in doubt.

On the other hand, there is a video of an unknown taxi driver who, perhaps unwittingly, launched the movements for sustainable transportation and economies--and the backlash against them that has launched a culture war between drivers and cyclists, among other people.

In 1972, the unnamed livery driver was incensed that his "right" to drive wherever he wanted was "taken" from him by city officials who had the temerity to close off a street.  Why would such overbearing functionaries arrogate unto themselves the authority to keep someone like him from driving down a thoroughfare paid for with his taxes?

Well, if the answer is that the driver in this story paid a larger share of his income in taxes than his counterparts in other places, it would be almost understandable.  Somehow, though, I don't think that he was preoccupied with that fact. Like many drivers, he simply wanted to take the shortest, most direct and convenient, route to wherever he was going.  If he were being paid per-trip rather than per-hour, his frustration would have been a bit more understandable, if not justifiable.

But I think he simply was impatient in the ways drivers often are:  I guess it can be frustrating to have something that can get you somewhere quickly and with minimal effort, only to be stalled by something, animate or not, that doesn't "belong" in the roadway.

That something, in the driver's way was a set of barricades.  Their purpose?  To designate a "children's only" street.

Perhaps it had something to do with having children--perhaps the ones who would have been on that street--that led citizens of that city to denounce the driver and push for safer streets for pedestrians, cyclists and other non-motorized travelers.

That city was Amsterdam which, in 1972, was as choked with auto traffic as many other European capitals.  Now, of course, it's known as one of the world's most bike- and pedestrian-friendly cities, and has led the way--along with cities like Copenhagen--in developing walkable, cycleable city centers.  

That taxi driver may never be as famous for pulling down barricades as Martin Luther was for (allegedly) hanging up what might have been the world's first viral message.  He did, however, ignite a culture war that has been largely won by those he fought against.  Such a story gives me hope because in more car-centric places, the reactionaries (who abound in, but are not limited to, conservative political factions) are riling up their constituents  against an imagined "war on cars" from the borough of Queens, NYC (where I live) to Queenborough, UK and Queensland, Australia.

We are a nation of drivers.

Most of us use a car every day and, for many, life would be difficult without their car.

But too often, drivers feel under attack.

That changes today with a long-term plan to improve drivers' experience on the road.

Here’s how 👇🧵 pic.twitter.com/yJvotPyyYy

— Rishi Sunak (@RishiSunak) September 30, 2023

  Those would-be defenders of the diesel tend to be older, while those who don't want to spend three hours of their day driving to work and parking tend to be younger, in chronology and, like yours truly, in spirit---even if I am in, ahem, midlife!  

They Were Sooo Continental

You don't wear Continental clothes or a Stetson hat!

That line comes from Otis Redding's Tramp.  The song is an argument between a woman and Otis.  She accuses him of being a tramp because, as she says, he's "straight out of the Georgia woods". 

 

 

We in the United States of America are as continental--in the literal sense of that word--as anyone in the world.  After all, we occupy a large part of the North American continent.  However, when we say "Continental", we use it in the way the British mean it:  of mainland Europe, particularly France, Italy or Germany.

Even though we Yanks like to think we tossed off the yoke of the British crown, it seems that we still emulate them in every way we can.  We speak their language. We may have a different accent, but so often, we mean it the way they do--sometimes even more so.

And so it is with the adjective "continental".  It not only refers to the geographical location; it also has the connotation of "sophisticated", "refined" or "elegant".  Or it can be just a politically correct way of saying "exotic" or a polite way of saying "sexy".  And here, as in Blighty, it is also a way of saying "French" without saying it.  (Hmm...What if "Freedom Fries" were called "Continental Chips"?)

That latter connotation was commonly employed in British cycle advertising just after World War II. Before the big fight, the worlds of British cycling and the British cycling industry were very insular.  Brits thought, as Americans would in the years just after the war, that if it was made in their country, it must be better. 

In some cases, their biases had at least some basis in truth.  Pre-war Schwinn Paramounts were built from Accles and Pollock tubing; all over the world, some of the finest frames have been, and still are, constructed from Reynolds tubesets.  Six-day racers favored BSA components, particularly their cranks, pedals and hubs; town bicycles all over the world were equipped with Sturmey Archer hubs and, to this day, all manner of bikes in every place imaginable sport Brooks saddles.

However, for all the vibrancy of the club-cycling scene, bicycling in Britain was still, in the main, utilitarian.  On the other hand, France, Italy and other countries on "The Continent" had lively cultures of racing, and many people, at least superficially, emulated the riders of the peloton.    It is said that British service members who fought on "The Continent" brought back a taste for Contiental bikes and parts--as well as other things.

British Cyclo Gears with 1/8" chain

British cyclists started to demand bikes with derailleurs.  However, until 1954, Raleigh did not supply any bikes with them.  And, in 1955 British Cyclo were still making most of their cogs for 1/8" chains, even though increasing demand for three- and four-speed freewheels meant that more and more riders wanted and needed cogs for 3/32" chains.  Other bike and parts manufacturers in Britain were slow to respond to those changes.  In fact, some simply continued to offer the same products the were making before the war, as if it were somehow unpatriotic to pattern new products after, let alone offer, the freewheels, derailleurs and such that were made mainly in France.

Once they started to make or import (as Ron Kitching did) those items, they were still loath to make Gallic references.  So, those items--particularly, for some reason, large-flange hubs--were called "Continental" parts.  In an article he wrote on the Classic Lightweights UK site, Steve Griffiths said this habit may have been inspired by the Prior hubs made in France during the 1930s, which had some of the largest flanges (and most profuse drilling) ever seen. 

Prior Hubs. I love them.  Did someone use Spirograph to design them?

The flanges on that hub were riveted to smaller flanges which, as on most hubs at the time, were attached to a steel shaft.  So, the British Hub Company did the same with their Airlite hubs.   Collectors pay more for Priors and Airlite Continentals than most people pay for bikes.  They look interesting and, from what I've read, they spin smoothly. However, they both share a problem:  Prolonged use can loosen the rivets.

They're Continental, all right.  So is Swiss cheese.