Enjoy Your Father’s Day Ride!

 Happy Father’s Day!

Enjoy the ride!

Morning Ride To The Island

 Since my move, I’ve been creating some new rides—and finding new routes for old ones.

Yesterday’s ride fell into the latter category. I took an early morning ride to City Island—officially part of the Bronx and New York City but so different—via Bronx Park and the lanes that parallel Pelham Parkway, the Hutchinson River Parkway and City Island Road.

It’s good to know that it can be an early morning or end-of-day ride:  Going to the end of the island and back is about an hour’s worth of cycling.

Because none of the restaurants (yes, they’re all about seafood) were open, it really felt like a sleepy New England fishing village—especially since it seemed that everyone who was out was fishing or walking a dog.

Why Did She Halt Congestion Pricing?

There are two benchmark prices in New York City: the subway or bus fare and a slice of pizza.  Those two prices are usually equal, or close to it. At this moment, the transit fare is $2.90 while in most pizzerias, a slice (without pepperoni or any other toppings) will set you back $3.00-$3.50.

If a mayor or New York State Governor does anything to cause an increase to the fare or the price of a slice, it can cost him or her votes—or an election altogether.

So, in that sense, when Kathy Hochul halted congestion pricing in New York, it could be seen as a shrewd political move—at least if her rationale for it is not specious.  

She is now saying that implementing congestion pricing—in other words, charging drivers $15 to enter Manhattan south of 60th Street—would make a slice of pizza more expensive.

There is, perhaps, a certain logic to her assertion.  After all, almost no Manhattan pizzeria owners or workers actually live in the borough. Also, nearly all of the supplies and ingredients for pizza-making come from factories and warehouses in Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens, New Jersey or even further away. It will therefore cost more to transport those goods—and, in some cases, for owners and workers to transport themselves (many live in transit “deserts”). Hochul asserts—perhaps correctly—that those costs will be passed on to customers.

Image by James Andrews

Hochul had been, until recently, in favor of congestion pricing because the money would help to improve the city’s and region’s mass transit. (The Metropolitan Transit Authority, which includes regional commuter railroads in the immediate suburbs as well as New York City’s buses and subways, is a state agency that reports to the Governor.) But her support generated backlash in the outlying neighborhoods and suburbs, where she hasn’t been terribly popular.  

Much of that backlash has come from the kinds of commuters and suppliers I’ve mentioned. But I am sure that it also has come from people like contractors, who often have to bring large loads of supplies and tools from the outer boroughs and New Jersey into Manhattan. 

In other words, I think Hochul realized she’d stirred up, if unintentionally, a kind of class warfare between skilled blue-collar workers—who, probably, would be most affected by an increase in the price of a slice—and those they perceive as “the elites.”

In a way, it mirrors the hostility and resentment they feel toward cyclists, whom they perceive as “privileged “ or “entitled.” And I suspect that perception of cyclists—and bike lanes—has something to do with their opposition to congestion pricing.

It will be interesting, to say the least, to hear and see what, if anything, Kathy Hochul says and does next.

No Naked

 What kind of a world do we live in when….?

You’ve probably completed that interrogative sentence in any number of ways.  

Today I’ll finish with this:

…when they can’t get volunteers for a World Naked Bike Ride. In Portland.

You read it here. That’s the reason why this year’s edition of the ride has been cancelled.  Organizers say that the gap in volunteers isn’t due to a lack of interest. Rather, they say, it has to do with their late start in planning and preparation. They plan to correct that and hold the ride next year .

How High?

 One of my favorite non-cycling blogs is Ephemeral New York.  Its author, Esther Crain, conducts walking tours that really give you a sense of how New York City’s history shapes its current landscape.

Last Sunday, I participated in one of those tours in which she pointed out some still-standing mansions on Riverside Drive and the sites of other grand houses that no longer exist.  Those buildings—and the river views—are among the reasons why I used to enjoy cycling the Drive before the Hudson River Greenway opened.

One thing that makes Riverside unique among New York City streets is the series of serpentine service roads that wind alongside stretches of the Drive. That made it possible for the families who lived in those houses to enter and leave discreetly, in contrast to the Astors and other old-money families who walked through their doors directly into the bustle of Fifth Avenue.

What I also found interesting is that the Drive opened in 1880, just as America’s first bike boom was about to explode. Those service roads made it easier for people to enter and leave their homes on their bicycles.  Also, as Esther pointed out, “something called the safety bicycle “ made cycling more accessible, especially for women.

Esther is as smart and engaging in person as she is in her writing.  But she admits she is “not a cyclist.” So she asked me what a “safety bicycle” is.  I explained that it’s what most of us ride today:  a bike with two wheels of equal, or nearly equal, size. 

That innovation was made possible by the now-familiar drivetrain of front and rear sprockets connected by a chain.  That made variable gearing possible. In contrast, high-wheeled bicycles had cranks and pedals connected to the front wheel axle. So, whether your bike was easy to pedal or made for speed depended on the size of your front wheel. As you can imagine, it’s not easy to mount a wheel that’s as tall as you are—especially if you’re wearing a corset and hoop skirts!

Anyway, as the safety bicycle democratized cycling—and, one can argue, Riverside Drive helped to make cycling more popular—the high-wheeler became a cultural artifact trotted out for parades, fairs and the kinds of rides we might liken to today’s Eroica events.

Even with its seeming impracticality, there are still people who try to make the tallest rideable bicycle possible. They don’t, however, build on six-or seven-foot front wheels.  Rather, they are more likely to stack bicycle frames or build a steel-girded structure—sort of like a mini-Eiffel Tower—and line it with a series of gears and pulleys to conduct the chains that connect the chainwheel on the crank the rider (way up above the ground) is pedaling with the cog on the rear wheel.

I used the Eiffel Tower analogy because the newest Guinness Book of Records entry for “tallest rideable bicycle “ is the result of a collaboration between two young French men, Nicolas Barrioz and David Peyrou. It took five years—including two years of actual construction—to complete their 25’5” (7.75 meter) tall contraption. They beat the previous record by one foot and two inches (35.6 centimeters)—which, perhaps, is comparable in scope to Eddy Merckx breaking the hour record by 3/4 of a kilometer.

Barrioz and Peyrou said the idea came to them the way all of the crazy and world-changing ideas come: over drinks in a pub. 

They Prefer To Ride With Their Own

 I tried, really tried, to get Caterina, Charlie I, Candice, Charlie II, Max and Marlee to ride with me.  I even promised to get a recumbent bike so they could curl up in my lap as I pedaled. Alas!

Now I understand the problem:  It’s not that they didn’t want to ride with me.  They wanted (and Marlee wants) to ride with, shall we say, their own!

You Can’t Do That Here!

 Europeans sometimes forget that things they’re at are considered normal in their home countries can get them into trouble here in the good ol’ USA.

I was reminded of this about twenty years ago, when I was starting my gender affirmation process. Michéle (whom I’ve mentioned in my posts about my Paris visits) came to town with Jeanine, who has since passed away and Marie Jeanne.

It wasn’t the first trip to New York for any of them. They therefore weren’t interested in the usual tourist spots.  Instead, they liked to see unique and unusual sites.

So, that day, we took the D train to Brighton Beach. a.k.a. Little Odessa by the Sea. We, of course, did some shopping and bought, among other things, bread, sausages, cheese and pickled vegetables for a picnic on the beach.  

It was a warm summer day, so they all decided they wanted to go swimming. I would have liked to, I explained, but I didn’t have a bathing suit with me.  If I recall correctly, I was wearing a ruffled top and flowy skirt.

“Aucun problème,” intoned Jeanine.  She, it turned out, packed a swimsuit.  At first I didn’t think it would fit: She was about eight inches shorter than I am, though a bit wider in the hips than most French women. (Her grandparents were Russian and Azerbaijani.) 

She motioned for me to change. “Je pourrais être arretée pour ça!” I cautioned.

They shook their heads. “Ici n’est pas France,” I protruded.  They all gave me that, “come on, there’s nothing to worry about,” expression that I believe the French have patented.  Marie-Jeanne, the only one of the three anywhere my height, held up a beach towel to my right. Michéle, who is only slightly taller than Jeanine, held up a blanket to my left. Thinking, “I’ve done riskier and stupider things,” and seeing no cops, I changed.  Much to my surprise, I fit—though barely—into the swimsuit: It was made of Lycra or some other stretchy material.

(Turns out, Michéle, Jeanine and Marie Jeanne were wearing swimsuits under their clothing. Jeanine explained that they heard “Beach” and so prepared themselves—and that she always packed an extra swimsuit.)

Michéle and I laugh about that now.  But Laurens ten Dam and Thomas Dekker weren’t so lucky. The Dutch former professional road cyclists went to Kansas for this year’s edition of Unbound Gravel. After a training ride, they drove to a supermarket and department store in Marietta where, after previous rides, they’d gone to change out of their cycling clothes and freshen up before a meal.

Laurens ten Adam

But a tornado destroyed both the supermarket and department store. There were other options for meals, including the Mexican restaurant they chose. But where to change out of their sweaty cycling kit and wash up?

They came up with an idea that reminded me of my day with Michéle, Jeanine and Marie Jeanne at the beach. They opened the doors on one side of their car. Between them, the cyclists took off their bike gear and poured water over themselves for a makeshift “shower.”

Well, if they weren’t cognizant of a cultural difference between the US and a European country that is, arguably, even more liberal than France, it’s understandable that they wouldn’t know that there is almost as much difference between different parts of the US—like, say, Marietta, Kansas and my hometown of New York. 

As they “showered,” ten Dem recalled, “I heard a man screaming.” The next thing they knew, he and Dekker were in handcuffs and clad in a way they’d never anticipated: all in orange, but not that of the Dutch national football team. Oh, and they were fingerprinted.

They spent the night as Inmates ten Dam and Inmate Dekker in a Kansas jail cell under “inappropriate behavior in public spaces” legislation.

After spending the night in un-anticipated accommodations and paying a $185 bail fee, they continued their preparations for the Unbound Gravel race, where ten Dam finished 42nd and Dekker 50th.

Mercian—Say It Ain’t So!

 This will be one of the saddest posts I’ve written.

As you may have heard, Mercian Cycles ceased trading about two weeks ago.

I found out just the other day, when I realized I hadn’t received any notices from them in a while (I was on their mailing list) and went to their website. Their closure wasn’t exactly front-page news because Mercian isn’t like Schwinn, Raleigh or any of those bike manufacturers even non-cyclists know. 

Mercian, you see, was one of the last frame builders to make their bespoke and stock frames with traditional methods and materials, even if the latter were updated (e.g. Reynolds 853, 725 or 631 instead of 531 tubing). As for the methods: Mercian’s framebuilders joined those tubes in hand-cut lugs that were pinned and brazed in an open hearth before being finished with deep stove enamel paints.  A single builder made the frame every step of the way before the frame was sent to Mercian’s paint shop.

The result was frames that were more beautiful than even most other hand built frames, and certainly more elegant than almost any modern bike. More to the point, Mercian’s work resulted in bikes that you could forget you were riding—they seem to disappear under you—and, barring a crash or other mishap, could outlast you. I know this because I’ve been riding one of my Mercians—Tosca, my fixed-gear—since buying it in 2007, while another of my six Mercians—Negrosa, a 1973 Olympic I bought six years ago—rides as smoothly as it ever has. Oh, and Dee-Lilah, my Vincitore Special (the one with the head lugs in the photo) feels like a magic carpet.

I didn’t want to believe that no more of those wonderful bikes or frames would ever come out of that Derbyshire workshop (or that said workshop would become something else, or be demolished). So I sent an email to Grant and Jane, who had owned Mercian since 2002 and to whom I had spoken and written numerous times. In my response to my “say it ain’t so, Joe” message, I received this:

Hello
This is an automated reply.

Thank you for your email, Mercian Cycles Ltd has ceased to trade, and
we have instructed an Insolvency Practitioner to assist us with taking
the appropriate steps to place the Company into Creditors’ Voluntary
Liquidation.



We have instructed Opus Restructuring LLP and should you have any
queries their contact details are nottingham@opusllp.com.

I hope that some other builder or small company keeps the name and tradition alive (as Woodrup did for Bob Jackson a few years ago) and that Mercian doesn’t become another once-proud name affixed to cookie-cutter bikes from China, Indonesia or some other “sweatshop” country.

80 Years Ago Today: D-Day

 Eighty years ago today, uniformed fighters from Australia, Canada, Czechoslovakia, France, Greece, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Poland, South Africa, Southern Rhodesia and, of course, the United Kingdom and the United States, staged the largest seaborne invasion in history. Today we know it as D-Day.

I reckon that not many of those soldiers, sailors and other fighters who opened the door to liberating Europe from the Nazis are alive today. It seems not so long ago that there were many more survivors—you saw them at Memorial and Veterans’ Day parades and other events—and they weren’t much older than I am now!

Anyway, I am observing this day precisely because I am a (mostly) pacifist:  While I understand that Hitler may have been, as Kurt Vonnegut described him, “pure evil” and had to be stopped, I also understand that war is not only about the fighting itself or the ostensible causes; it’s also about the social and economic factors—including tax laws that reward a few people for making war on the planet, if you will. I shudder to think about the lives that have been wasted and ruined—including those of many veterans—as a result. 

In other words, ensuring that no veteran wants is one of the things we must do in order to work for peace.

Now that I’ve delivered my message, such as it is, for this day, I am leaving you with images of soldiers who landed on the Normandy beaches with bicycles strapped to their backs.  Of course they weren’t going for a pleasant tour in the countryside. They brought those bikes, which folded in the middle, because they could reach places, swiftly and silently, that couldn’t be accessed with motorized vehicles.

Another Ghost

 Yesterday I wrote about “ghost bikes”: who creates them and how bikes end up that way.

So what did I encounter on a ride today, near my apartment?

Unfortunately, this post is a sort of prelude to one I will write, if not tomorrow, then very soon. No, I am not ending this blog, or my others. Some of you may already have an idea of what it will be about.

Where The Ghosts Come From

 So where do “ghost bikes” come from?

An article in today’s New York Times answered that question:  The bikes are donated by shops, friends or located via word of mouth. Volunteer strip away parts line pedals to make the bikes unrideable, then give them that familiar coat of white paint.  The volunteers also make the signs that read “Cyclist killed here. Rest in peace,” that are usually attached to, or by, the bike.

In addition to describing how volunteers create “ghost bikes,” the article raises some important questions—and disseminates, if unwittingly, some misconceptions about why we’re seeing more “ghosts.” 

As the article points out—Vision Zero notwithstanding—2023 was the deadliest year for New York City cyclists since 1999. The vast majority of casualties were on eBikes.  But the article goes on to quote advocates and planners who say the network of bike lanes and other infrastructure is “disconnected.” 

Photo from the New York Times.

True enough, as I know all too well. But I don’t know how fixing that problem will make cycling safer for people like me, on traditional bikes, when much of this city’s laneage is dominated by eBikes and motorized bikes on which the motor is the sole means of propulsion rather than a means to assist pedaling. Too often, those bikes are ridden by “cowboy” delivery workers whose employers incentivize or pressure them to make as many deliveries as possible, as quickly as possible, safely be damned—or by young joyriders equally disdainful of the rules of the road.  Oh, and don’t get me started on how often drivers (including cops) park in those lanes or pull over to have their coffee and donuts. 

Also, as I’ve mentioned in other posts, the police—and very often, the public— blame cyclists who, if they don’t survive a crash, can’t defend themselves. (I have said that running down a cyclist is the easiest way to get away with murder in the US.) Never mind that the driver was speeding or ran a red light:  There’s an attitude that cyclists “have it coming to them” when they’re injured or killed.

As long as misconceptions and misguided policies shape efforts to make cycling “safer,” those volunteers who make “ghost” bikes won’t lack for work—though they probably would love to do other things, just as Robert Capa hoped to “stay unemployed as a war photographer “ for “the rest of my life.”

14 Years!

You’ve probably seen many “on this date” articles or blog posts.  Here’s another.

On this date in 2010, I published the first of my 4463 posts on this blog. I had just resumed cycling after my longest layoff from it: nearly a year after my gender reassignment surgery.  I had been writing another blog, Transwoman Times, which I began two years earlier—one year before my surgery. On that blog, I’d written a few posts about my first post-surgery rides.  This blog began with a suggestion by someone who’d been reading those posts.

One way this anniversary is different is that it’s my first in my current apartment and neighborhood. So it might not surprise you to learn that, after yesterday’s longish ride to Connecticut, I took the opportunity, this morning, to do a bit of exploring closer to home before pedaling down to 83rd Street and Riverside Drive, where I joined a walking tour of Gilded Age monuments and mansions.  Aside from my inherent interest in art, architecture, history and New York City, it was an opportunity to meet the tour’s leader, Esther Crain, who authors one of my favorite non-cycling blogs: Ephemeral New York.

So, this anniversary is, for me, not only a time to celebrate this blog—all 14 years of it!—but to think about other developments in my life.  They may not all relate directly to cycling,  but they are all part of my life as a cyclist.

The Chase

 Whenever I hear the words “police,” “chase” and “L.A. Freeway,” I think of O.J. Simpson, especially after his recent death.

Contrary to what seems to be the public perception (especially for those who don’t remember the incident), O.J. didn’t drive the Ford Bronco.  Interestingly, the driver—Al Cowlings, a childhood friend and teammate of O.J.’s—was not charged.

I have to wonder, though:  What if O.J. had been driving? Or what if he’d been riding a bicycle?