Here’s To The Fourth

Today is Independence Day—the Fourth of Joo-lie—in the US.

I had planned to start the day by riding with “Sam,” my neighbor and sometime riding buddy. He now has a much nicer bike—which I helped him find and customize—than he rode last year. But he has to cancel: a family member called and needed help with something. He and his girlfriend still plan on getting together with me for dinner and a celebration—of our friendship and the holiday.

Since it also happens to be my birthday (No, I won’t tell you my age.  I’ll just say that I’m still in midlife!) I am reflecting on my past, including my brief racing career (if you can call it that). I took myself way too seriously. I guess that’s a consequence of feeling you have to prove yourself at every moment, even if you don’t really know what you’re trying to prove or if it bears little or no relation to reality, or to whom you’re trying to prove it (or if they don’t care).

Now that I can look back at my younger self and say, “It’s OK,” I would love to show up for a race on a bike like this:

just to mess with my younger self and all of those guys (yes, they were male) who took themselves too seriously as I did.

(By the way, today is my birthday. I won’t tell you my age, only that I am still in midlife!)

Wheels or Wings?

 Bicycling is my preferred means of transportation and recreation.

I wonder whether this creature is considering an alternative to his/her/theirs.

An Inoffensive Mystery

 Yesterday I pedaled La-Vande, my King of Mercia to Point Lookout. On my way back, I hopped on a train in Arverne, near Rockaway Beach, when I saw a storm coming just beyond (or so it seemed) the Boardwalk. Still, I rode about 105 kilometers (65 miles).

At Point Lookout, I shared the sun deck with a couple who, not so long ago, I would have described as “older.” They most likely had only a few years, if any, ahead of me.

The woman had whiter-than-white finger- and toe-nails that could have drawn attention to, or deflected it from, anything else about her appearance. Otherwise she didn’t seem out of the ordinary except, perhaps, for her black and white swimsuit and flip-flops that we’re probably expensive but pretending to try not to look it. 

The man, on the other hand wore a T-shirt with a logo from some event at Notre Dame (the university). At least, that was on the back.  I didn’t see his front until he turned to me and asked, in an almost awkwardly- polite tone, “Is the music bothering you?”

“Not at all, thank you.”

His device played Frank Sinatra at a volume one might hear in the background of a small office. In that space, with a roof and no walls, the sound was even less intrusive.

I grinned to myself. People, mostly young men, play their music, full of heavy bass beats, loud enough to vibrate the walls of buildings they pass as they speed down “strouds” in their “pimped out” cars. None have ever asked anyone the same question I heard from that man in Point Lookout.

Perhaps more ironically, a couole of weeks ago a young man making Fed Ex deliveries boarded an elevator with me. Turned out, we were headed to the same floor. “So you’re Sinatra?”

He looked at me quizzically.

“Going my way?”

Blank stare.

“You’ve heard of Frank Sinatra?”

“No.”

I explained that “The Chairman of the Board” was perhaps the favorite crooner of a generation or two. “You’ve probably heard at least one of his songs-“New York, New York.”

There was a glint of recognition.

“It has the line, ‘I wanna wake up in that city that doesn’t sleep.’”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well check out You Tube or anyplace else you listen to music. You can find more of his songs.”

I was happy to give that young man a piece, however small, of a proper education. But I don’t know which made me, a Midlife Cyclist feel old, if only for a moment: my having to explain “Ol’ Blue Eyes” to the young man or the older man asking whether 

The Wheel Keeps Turning

 The debates about larger vs smaller diameter wheels and wide vs narrow tires have raged for as long as I can remember 

and, probably, even before my time.

What I Didn’t Know

 Alert: I am, once again, invoking my Howard Cosell rule to write about something not directly related to cycling.  It is, however, a reflection from the vantage point of midlife, as I have defined it on this blog.

The night was hot, even for early summer. Judy Garland had just died, 47 years old. Patrons of a particular bar were mourning her passing. Or, perhaps, they simply wanted to release some tension, or simply have a good time.

Some of the bar’s regular patrons had been forewarned about one event about to take place. But at the time, they could not have known its aftermath.

On this date in 1969, New York City police officers raided a bar. That, in itself, was not unusual. Nor was the fact that its “respectable” patrons—mainly white-collar and creative men with wives and families not very far—at least geographically—from that place had been forewarned.

The remaining patrons consisted of “undesirables ” and “throwaways”: kids kicked out of their homes by families who didn’t approve of their “lifestyles;” others, young and old, who survived on the streets by catering to the most lurid fantasies of men (mainly) richer and more powerful than themselves, and those who were expressing their gender identity and sexuality in then-illegal or yet-unnamed ways.

I am talking, of course, about the 1969 Stonewall Rebellion. I was a week and a day away from turning and would know nothing about what happened that night for many more years. By that time, I was close to midlife—at least as I define it on this blog—and had become an avid cyclist.

Does COVID Explain Them?

When I wrote for small local newspapers, some cringeworthy headlines were spliced onto my articles. Those headlines, as often as not, were attempts to introduce three or more short articles, sometimes on entirely unrelated events or subjects, published together. 

Such a headline appeared on the web version of “The Olympian,” a Washington State newspaper:

Bicycle business closing, area hospitals avoid layoffs, Chinese dumpling eatery opens.

Are those three events related? At first glance, they don’t seem to be. But, as I’ll explain later in this post, there may be a common thread uniting them.

I’ll start with Dough Zone, the Chinese dumpling house. It’s actually not a brand new restaurant; rather, it’s a new location of a local chain. I can understand the appeal of those tasty morsels, which I suspect has increased since the pandemic: They are well-suited for takeout and delivery, both of which have skyrocketed in popularity since those dark days when in-person dining was forbidden.

Perhaps the threat of layoffs in Olympia’s St. Peter’s Hospital and Centralia in nearby Lewis County also has something to do with the COVID pandemic: Perhaps not as many health care workers are needed now as were necessary when the “mysterious “ disease was ravaging communities. But, from what I’m reading, I think the prospect of contraction may have been as much a result of another phenomenon: consolidation. Those hospitals, like so many others, are  now part of a larger group:  in this case, Providence. System officials, however, point to other factors, such as medications and other supplies rendered more expensive because of tariffs and the prospect of cuts to Medicare.Then again, those tariffs and reductions in benefits may be a result of the pandemic, which ballooned Medicare budgets and made medications and supplies, most of which are imported, more expensive. Now, I don’t know whether tariffs will result in those things being produced in the US, and thus less expensive. But the pandemic certainly showed how vulnerable our supply chains are.

Photo by Steve Bloom for The Olympian

Finally, the owners of Joy Ride Bikes didn’t mention the bust that followed the pandemic-induced Bike Boom as a factor in their decision to close their shop on 25 July. But it’s hard not to wonder whether it—and other changes in the bike industry and overall economy—might have influenced their decision that “all good things must come to an end,” as co-owner Will Trogen declared . (Didn’t one of the Beatles say that after “Let It Be?”)

Where Are You Most Likely To Lose Your Bike?

 Perhaps no-one would be surprised to learn that, according to the FBI, more bicycles are stolen in California than in any other US state. After all, it is the most populous state and has many active cycling communities.

It probably wouldn’t surprise many people to learn that my home state of New York, with the fourth-largest population, ranks fifth in total bike thefts.

On a per-100,000 people basis, however, neither the Golden nor Empire State is at or near the top. The District of Columbia leads that ignominious list, with 246 thefts per 100,000. The US capital’s rate is nearly double that of the highest state, Oregon, where 128 bikes are pilfered per 100,000 people.

(For reference, the US average is 44 per 100,000.)

Photo by KMGH

Those facts may not be so shocking, given the population density of DC and the bicycle culture in such Beaver State cities as Portland. 

Perhaps the most surprising fact is that Vermont, Montana and Utah—states with lower crime rates than the US average—rank fourth, fifth and eighth*—respectively, in per-100,000 bike thefts.

The Green Mountain and Treasure States’ fourth- and fifth-place rankings might be explained in part by their small populations: a relatively low number of thefts can skew the averages upwards. I have never been to Montana or Utah, but my guess is that they share some other characteristics with Vermont: a significant portion of their populations participate in outdoor activities, including cycling, and, perhaps, a sense of calm that causes people to let their guard down.

Perhaps Kryptonite should re-name their New York bike locks.

*—The District of Columbia (Washington DC) is ranked as a state for this purpose.

He’s Not The Only Culprit

 Eight months ago, Bekim Fiseku struck Amanda Servedio and killed her.

I took that tragedy personally in part because she was cycling near a Queens intersection—37th Street at 34th Avenue—I rode, probably, hundreds of times when I lived in Astoria.

And I was enraged because Fiseku was fleeing the scene of a crime—his—with officers of the 114th Precinct in pursuit. Chases of that sort are forbidden in New York City for the hazards they pose on narrow streets like 37th and 34th Avenue.

Bekim Fesiku

Not to minimize his misdeed, but the cops’ violation of city law is all the more disturbing when one considers Fiseku’s offense:  attempted  burglary from a nearby construction site.

As of yesterday, he faces charges for that—and second-degree murder as well as other crimes related to the death of Ms. Servedio and his fleeing (he blew through a solid red light.

I am glad that he has been arrested and charged and hope that he is punished to the fullest extent possible. On the other hand, I realize that he is not the only guilty party and that the NYPD officers who chased him for a comparatively minor offense may never be held to account.

Midlife Climbs

 It’s noon—and 94 degrees F (34.4C) already. I am glad I took an early morning ride to City Island and Orchard Beach after a cup of coffee and before breakfast!

It’s as if nature were reminding us that summer has indeed arrived. Tomorrow’s weather will be similar; I probably will do another early ride.

The weather is such a contrast to what we had a week ago, when I joked with a neighbor that we don’t have to go to London because its chilly mist drifted over to us. 

That day, and on two others last week, I headed for the hills. In Yonkers and other points north of the city, the peaks and escarpments aren’t very high, but the roads and paths leading to them can be steep—enough so that roadside signs tell drivers to shift gears.

I did all of those rides—and today’s—on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear.  At times I berated myself because I was climbing more slowly than in times past—like, say, when I was in my 20s and 30s. But people applauded and shouted encouragement—“You go, girl!”—and I kept on pedaling.  Tosca has always been a joy to ride, however strong or slow I might be.

Sam, my neighbor and sometime riding buddy, reminded me that other people in our building marvel at what I’m doing. “Well, I’m lucky,” I demurred. “I am not in as much pain as they—or you—are.”

His back has been bothering him. He doesn’t want to “hold me back,” but I remind him that I am riding because I can and want to—and I’m willing to “slow down “ for him and his girlfriend, who has expressed interest in riding with us.

So now a question enters my mind: Why am I willing to “wait for” them but not to meet myself at the stage of my life, and riding, where I find myself? I enjoyed every pedal stroke of the rides I took and felt joy at the end. So what if I couldn’t climb a hill as quickly as I did 40 or 30 or even 20 years ago? As long as I simply enjoy riding, whether solo or with others, why do I need to criticize myself—especially in ways I never would criticize anyone who wants to ride with me?

I am not “too old.” I am in midlife as long as I don’t know when or if I must stop riding. So, I believe, is anyone else who, at whatever age, slings a leg over a bike, for whatever reason. And at any speed.

Everybody Was Out

 Yesterday was the first day of summer here in the Northern Hemisphere. I began the season with an early ride to City Island. An afternoon of exploring unusual buildings in unexpected places followed with the perfect companion for such a trek: Esther Crain, the author of Ephemeral New York, one of my favorite blogs. 

In the warmth and sunshine one expects on the first day of summer, it seemed that everyone was out for a walk or ride.  Even animated characters couldn’t resist the urge:

What Hath Juneteenth Wrought?

 Today is Juneteenth.  On this date in 1865, two months after Robert E. Lee surrendered, Unon  troops arrived in Galveston, Texas to accept the surrender of the last Confederate regiment and inform Texas slaves that they were free.

Those events are significant because Texas was the westernmost slaveholding state. In fact, during the Civil War, some plantation owners fled the fighting in other states and brought their slaves with them. As a result, the Lone Star State had, by some estimates, the largest remaining slave population by the time President Abraham Lincoln issued his Emancipation Proclamation.

Also, Texas became a US state because of slavery. Although most of its people were English-speaking, it was part of Mexico when that country outlawed slavery in 1825. Cotton-growing and cattle-ranching, both of which were heavily dependent on slaves, were the mainstays of its economy. Rather than give up their unpaid help, they chose to secede, making Texas an independent country (some natives still refer to it as the “Lone Star Republic) for nearly a decade before the US annexed it in 1845.

Everything I mentioned in the previous paragraph was not taught when I was in school. I wonder whether curriculum-makers are still “forgetting” it.

Anyway, although Juneteenth as an official holiday is only four years old, it’s already becoming a capitalist bonanza. The bicycle industry is not exempt  As an example, State Bicycle Company is using the occasion to promote its limited edition “Bob Marley Clunker,” complete with a hemp saddle and bag—and, of course, a facsimile of the Rastaman’s signature.

Seeing that bike reminded me of a vogue from my youth—or, at least, a time in my life I could say I was young or, at any rate, not in midlife.  During the early and mid-‘90’s, it seemed that every twenty-something in California who had access to a lathe was making parts, mainly for mountain bikes, that were lighter and, supposedly, improvements over what legacy companies like Shimano and Campagnolo were offering .

How much of an improvement were they? Let me tell you about my Syncros and Control Tech stems that were recalled and the Nuke Proof rear hub that folded on itself during a ride—or the Syncros seatpost on which the head separated from the shaft while I navigated a switchback. Or two riding buddies whose Kooka cranks broke. 

But, hey, that stuff looked really cool. And some of those parts were offered in every color imaginable. (Violet and Lilac? Sign me up!) For a time, some were even available in the “Rasta Rainbow” of red, green, black and gold. (Fun fact: Jamaica has the only national flag whose colors don’t include red, white or blue.) I had a seat bag decorated with fabric in those hues, and a former riding buddy ordered his custom frame in those colors.

I’ll bet the maker of that frame—and all of the “Rasta” parts and accessories I mentioned—would have loved to have a Juneteenth sale—even if they knew nothing about the history behind that date, Texas or anything else because, well, they attended schools like mine.

By the way, you know that Juneteenth is a combination of “June” and “nineteenth.” There’s a term for that kind of mashup: portmanteau (port-man-toe).

In A Fog

 London? San Francisco?

Would you believe Bedford Park, Bronx?

Is This Any Way To Teach A Lesson?

 “Caution” tape blocks off a section of a parking garage. Kids on bikes take it down.

It’s annoying, to be sure. But kids do things like that all the time. So how, if at all, should those kids be disciplined?

I don’t think even a parent who’s a martinet would approve of how Melvin Anthony Kennedy handled the situation last week.

The California mall security guard shouted at the youngsters. Then he pursued them in the mall’s security vehicle.

He struck one of the children—deliberately, according to San Rafael police—and drove away.

Later, he returned to the scene and turned himself in to police. He’s faces charges of assault with a deadly weapon and child abuse.

All because some kids saw that two-story parking garage as a slalom course and couldn’t see why the area was cordoned off.

The youth he struck was treated for non-life-threatening injuries.

How Would You Celebrate?

 Yesterday’s military parade in Washington DC was a birthday bash for the Fake Tan Fūhrer, I mean, celebration of the US Army’s 250th anniversary.

I’ve marched in a few parades but I am not a fan of them in general. If I were to have one, however, it might look something like this:

Oops!

 A bicycle company rolls out a prototype of a new bike. Someone wins a race on it. The Union Cycliste Internationale bans it.

All right, that’s not the exact sequence of events. But it’s close, and the reality is as absurd as I’ve made it seem.

Jake Stewart pedaled Factor’s prototype aerobike to victory in the Criterium du Dauphine, a multi-day stage road race in France. At or around that moment—no-one seems to agree on the timing—the UCI issued a new set of rules that includes regulations on frame dimensions, in particular rear stay and front fork width.

Image Credit:  Will Jones, Cycling News

While none of the journalists covering the race could get close enough to the bike to measure it, almost all agreed that it’s at or beyond the limits, which will bind road bikes starting the first of next year and track bikes one year later.

Focus, perhaps not surprisingly, does not want to release details about, or grant access to, the bike. I can just imagine the reaction of the company’s designers, engineers and marketing folks if the UCI bans the machines, as I don’t think enough everyday cyclists, no matter how wealthy, would be in the market for it for the company to continue producing it.

Image credit: SW Pix

But if the timing is anything I described at the beginning of this post, I can imagine the folks at UCI exclaiming, “Oh merde!” when Jake mounted the podium—and not only because Stewart is British.

Ride Into a Changing Season

 Yesterday I pedaled to Point Lookout via the Rockaways. This is an interesting time of year for such a ride: it’s almost or actually summer, depending on whom you ask, but the temperature difference between the “mainland” and beach areas still is, or at least feels, as pronounced as it is early in the Spring.  According to some reports, temperatures reached 85-88F (29-31C) around my apartment and in other central areas of New York City. But the lifeguard stations along the Rockaways Boardwalk indicated 72F (22C). It certainly felt that way, with wind blowing from 59F (14C) water.

I didn’t need to know the numbers, however, to explain something I saw: Many people walking or riding the Boardwalk but hardly anybody swimming. And those statistics couldn’t have explained the differences, however subtle, I noticed in the light and color of the sky and water.

The Power of Loving

 Today I am going to, once again, invoke my Howard Cosell Rule. That is to say, this post won’t directly relate to cycling.

Nearly a decade ago, the film Loving came out. I exhorted my students to see it; some did. When we discussed it, I mentioned that the story on which it was based happened during my lifetime, one student exclaimed, “And you’re not so old!”

I was, and am, in midlife. Mildred Jeter and Richard Loving married in Washington DC in 1958, the year I was born. So why were they wed in the nation’s capital? Well, immediately to the south, in their home state of Virginia (as in other Southern states) their union was illegal: She was Black and he was White.

A few months into their marriage, cops broke down their door while they were in bed and hauled them off to the station house. The one-year sentence imposed on then was suspended for 25 years on the condition they leave the state. Which they did, but they missed their country home, families and friends. Their homesickness, and other difficulties, motivated Mildred to write to Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy (What happened to his kid?) who referred them to the American Civil Liberties Union.

The ACLU litigated their case all the way to the Supreme Court. On this date in 1967, it issued the ruling that banned all laws against interracial marriage in the US.

The Lovings were not political people and never spoke of their experience—except for one occasion, when Mildred expressed hope that Loving vs Virginia would lead to all people—she specifically mentioned LGBT people—could marry whomever they love.

The Lovings stayed together till death did them apart: Richard, aged 41 in 1975, struck by a drunk driver; Mildred at 68 in 2008 from pneumonia. But their story is a testament to, if not the power of love, then of the lovings.

Up (The Hill) In Smoke

 I am helping “Sam” find a “starter” bike for his significant other. We’ve looked at some new low-end bikes that would appeal to her mainly for their colors. I understand how she feels: I want my bikes to be beautiful as well as functional. But, since I’ve built up a ‘90’s Trek road bike for him, he understands that a good old bike is better than a junky new one. Perhaps he can convince her of the same.

We have therefore been looking at websites where used bikes are posted—including, of course, Craigslist. Where else would we find something like this?

You’ve probably seen that famous photo of Tour de France riders sharing a smoke about 100 years ago. These days I rarely, if ever, see a rider lighting up (tobacco, anyway). But when I first became a dedicated cyclist, about half a century ago (!) cyclists who stopped for the “pause that refreshes” were, while far from the majority, were not so unusual. Some—especially older riders (What am I saying? They were about the same age as I am now!) still believed that puffing on cigarettes “opens your lungs.” 

Then there was a fellow I met not long after I moved back to New York in 1983. He worked part-time in the store American Youth Hostels  operated on Spring Street and looked like nobody’s idea of a cyclist. But he had surprisingly good technique and pretty good endurance. He also was a decent hill-climber, which he attributed to stopping for one of his Pall Malls before beginning his ascent. Ironically, he wasn’t one of the “old” guys though he was about a decade older than me. (I was in my mid-20s. Do the math if you like—I am still in midlife!) So I don’t know why, about two decades after the original Surgeon General’s Warning, still believed that filling his lungs with nicotine was beneficial, or at least not harmful.

I am sure he would appreciate what Sam and I found on Craigslist—if he is indeed still cycling and smoking—or still alive. (I’ve tried looking him up but about 200,000 American men around his age have the same name!) Perhaps his significant other would give it to him for his birthday or something.

Fleeing And Avoiding

 If you’ve written for a newspaper, magazine or any other publication—whether in print or online—you have had this experience: You covered an event or researched a topic. You verified your sources and took care to be fair and balanced. Oh, and you took care not to do violence to the Englsh language (or whatsoever language you write).

Then someone tacks on a headline that is silly, confusing or clumsy—or has little or no discernible relation to your article. 

At nearly all publications, articles and their headlines are written by different people—who may never meet each other. I suspect that as often as not, the headline writers are working with a one- or two-sentence summary of your 750-word article.

I thought about the frustration I felt upon seeing incongruous, incompetent or simply inane headlines on the world-changing (mmm hmm) exposés I penned when I saw this:

Drug dealer avoids jail despite fleeing on bicycle from pursuing police.

So what was the wayward wordsmith trying to say?  To me, “flee” implies a successful escape: For example, my ex’s family fled the Castro regime. I would therefore think that if Bradley Axford managed to flee police in Warrington (Northwich, UK), he wouldn’t have been concerned with jail time.  Or, conversely, he would be in jail if he hadn’t fled. 

Or would his situation have been different had he fled, or tried to flee, by any means other than the black bicycle he rode through a red light. (I have to admit I liked seeing that detail in the article, even if it was meant to sway readers’ opinions against him.)

Oh well. I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on whoever crafted that headline.  After all, that person probably was underinformed or underpaid, or both.

Her Way?

 Is she trying to coast on a fixed-gear bike?

A Tragedy Leads To Action, But More Needs To Be Done

 Nine years ago today, the Kalamazoo, Michigan area bore one of the most horrific incidents of a motorist running down cyclists I’ve ever heard about.

Nine members of a local riding group who called themselves “The Chain Gang”—all experienced cyclists over the age of 40–were out for a late-day ride on Westnedge Avenue in nearby Cooper Township. Police received a call about a blue Chevy pickup truck being driven erratically. About five minutes later, that truck plowed into the cyclists. Four would survive, albeit with significant or serious injuries. Debbie Bradley, Melissa Fevig Hughes, Tony Nelson, Larry Paulik and Suzanne Sippel did not.

The driver, Charles Pickett Jr., was—perhaps not surprisingly—intoxicated. In 2018, he was found guilty of 14 felony charges, including second degree murder. He, at the age of 50, was sentenced to 40 to 75 years in prison and won’t be eligible for parole until he’s 90.

Since then, Kalamazoo has taken steps to become more “bike friendly” and safer. While I laud their efforts, I think more needs to be done, there and elsewhere, to educate drivers and create deterrents against, and stiffer penalties for, endangering or killing cyclists and pedestrians.

Donuts and D-Day

 Today is National Donut Day here in the US.

I wonder whether it was someone’s idea of a marketing gimmick or sick joke—which are more or less the same thing—to merge a day devoted to sugar consumption with one the anniversary of a pivotal campaign in a war that consumed so many lives.

I’ll admit that I am not so ideologically or dietetically pure that I didn’t partake of a promotion:  I bought a cup of coffee—enough to entitle me to a freebie—and picked one of the most decadent-looking sugarbombs in the display case at the Fordham Plaza Dunkin’ Donuts: a chocolate cake ring with chocolate icing and pink stripes.

Now, did those (mostly) young American, Australian,  British, Canadian, Czech, Dutch, French, Greek, Norwegian, Polish, South African, Southern Rhodesian and New Zealand fighters risk—and in some cases lose—their lives so we can enjoy sweet baked goods? Of course not. But I did think about them because I think about them, and other like them, whenever war is commemorated. 

And I think about them precisely because I am (mostly) a pacifist. I believe, as Kurt Vonnegut (himself a WW II veteran) said, that Hitler was “pure evil” and had to be stopped.  But the conditions that fueled his rise to power—the devestation wrought by “the war to end wars” could have been avoided had the “haves” not wanted more from the “have nots.”

Am I the only one who thinks about stuff like this while riding? Or was it the sugar rush I got from that free donut which may have been responsible for the sprint I pedaled along the Bronx River Greenway.

How Mucb Good Will It Do?

New York City Mayor Eric Adams has just announced that he plans to implement a 15 MPH (25 KPH) speed limit for eBikes.

According to Citibike General Manager Patrick Knoth, the Adams administration hadn’t contacted the bike share program about the proposal. While eBikes comprise 37.5 percent of Citibike’s fleet, they constitute 65 percent of the trips taken.

Call me cynical, but I have to wonder how much a speed limit will affect Citibike rentals. For one thing, the shared eBikes have a top speed of 18 MPH (30 KPH), two MPH slower than the current speed limit. For another, if my own observations are indicative of conditions on the the street, most of the scofflaw eBikers aren’t on Citibikes.

Photo by Seth Wenig for AP

Perhaps more to the point, enforcement of the existing speed limit—or the prohibition of eBikes on most city bike lanes is non-existent. I, and other cyclists, have been “buzzed “ by riders—many of them delivery workers—on eBikes. And I have seen riders, mostly young, riding two-wheeled machines with no pedal assist—as one commenter calls them, “electric motorcycles.” I don’t think a speed limit—at least one without enforcement—will change the behavior of those at whom the proposed law is aimed.

Another Winner Rides The Victory Loop

Yesterday was World Bicycle Day.  I had some business to take care of but I wheeled out Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike, for a glorious afternoon ride.

People in my building see me as if I’m an Olympic racer because, as a few have remarked, “You’re always on your bike!” I do ride more than any of them, and most people they know, but I am (and was) hardly a world-class athlete.

But yesterday a world-class athlete took a break from “business” for a bike ride. And he did it in the setting for some of cycling’s most iconic moments.

Novak Djokovic is in Paris for the French Open. Less than 24 hours before he was scheduled for a second-round match, he was pedaling around l’Arc de Triomphe, clearly enjoying himself. Someone called out, “I love you!”  “I love you, too,” he responded.

He was on a joyride, taking in the sights. But, in a way, it made perfect sense that he took his turn around l’Arc:  Just as he has achieved some of his greatest victories in Paris (at Roland Garros stadium, specifically), so did Bernard Hinault, Greg Le Mond and other legends of cycling who culminated their Tour de France wins in one of the City of Light’s most iconic locations.

Quinceañera

 So why, you may be wondering, is this post titled “Quinceañera?”

If you are familiar with Latin American cultures, you have heard of “Quinceañera”—or, perhaps, been part of one. Basically, it’s a “coming of age” party for a girl who’s turned fifteen years old.  I guess you could say it’s a Hispanic version of “Sweet Sixteen,” one year earlier.

Of course, I am not writing this post because I’ve turned fifteen. When I was that age, it never would have occurred to me that I was in midlife, or any other particular stage of life.  I probably was as self-absorbed as (or possibly even more self-absorbed than) other kids of that same age.  Now I realize that it, like much about adolescence that is denigrated (“oh, that’s so adolescent!”) is actually normal: Kids are trying to figure out a lot of things as their bodies are changing in ways for which they’re unprepared. In my case, my solipsism had to do with those things and, ironically, something I was trying to avoid—and wouldn’t make any attempt to resolve until decades later, when I realized that I was in midlife but would soon be at the end if I didn’t resolve it.

The resolution of that conflict became part of the basis of a blog I started two years before this one:  Transwoman Times. Writing it led me to start Midlife Cycling: Someone who read  TT noticed that some of my posts were about cycling and suggested that I start a blog specifically about cycling.

So, on this date in 2010–fifteen years ago—I wrote the first of 4754 posts I’ve  written on this blog. Back then, I had no idea of how long I would keep up this blog: Would I run out of things to say? Do I have undiagnosed ADHD that would distract me from this and cause me to start another blog, or some other project? Or would I stop “fooling myself,” as some might say, with the notion that I’m in the middle of my life as long as I don’t know when I’m going to die and finally admit that I’m old?

The answer to that last question is an emphatic “NO!” As long as I can ride, I am not “too old” for, well, anything—including a Quinceañera, if only for this blog.

So, I thank all of you who have been reading—and following me as I cycle through my midlife and this blog’s Quinceañera!

Alternative Energy Source?

 Is this what they mean by “wind power?”

Let Then Have My Power!

 As an educator, the worst thing I can do is to do something for you. In other words, I can’t interpret the poem or write the essay (or poem) for you.  The best I can do for you, or anyone, is to impart skills and knowledge you can use to do those, and other, things.

Librarians do something similar: They don’t do your research for you; they enable you to do your own research. That is one reason why they are some of my favorite people.

The phrase “knowledge is power” (“sciencia potentia est”) is attributed to Francis Bacon, to whom four centuries of crackpots have attributed Shakespeare’s works. To be able to come up with such a pearl of wisdom takes, well, knowledge. That particular kind of knowledge,however, was available almost exclusively to men—and to men of the leisure classes, at that—in Bacon’s time. So, with all due respect to my male readers, I will say that women have a unique understanding of what Bacon has passed on to us. And it took affirming my own gender identity, as a trans woman, to see that.

Now you can understand the joy I felt over reading about the Iowa City Bike Library’s Women’s/Trans/Femme Night.

Iowa City Bicycle Library. Photo by Natalie Dunlap.

Although it’s called a “library,” you can’t check out books. But you can borrow a bike—for a deposit. And the knowledge you can gain doesn’t come from scholarly journals or online sources. Rather, it emanates from staff members and volunteers who have a “hands-off” policy: They will show patrons how to fix something rather than doing it for them.

Such knowledge translates into power in all sorts of ways. The most obvious is that with it, you don’t have to “take it to a dude mechanic who’s the only person who can fix this,” as ICBL board member Clarity Guerra (You can’t make up a better name than that!) says. Perhaps more important, the confidence that comes with knowing you can fix your flat tire or brakes can encourage you to ride more, and even to see your bicycle as your chief means of transportation or recreation.

Such knowledge can be especially empowering for female-identifying people who have experienced domestic violence or who are members of racial and ethnic “minorities.” So it’s not surprising that ICBL has groups and programs to include them—and trans women. Or that it provides child care and snacks.

ICBL was founded in 2004: the year after I began my gender affirmation process. At the time, I didn’t know any other trans-identifying people who were cyclists, let alone who had worked as bike mechanics. Now in New York (where I live) there are rides, workshops and other bicycle-related events geared (pun intended) toward us.  That makes me happy, and I participate whenever I can because I want to share at least some of my knowledge and experience—which I gained while living as a boy and man. Other female-identifying cyclists won’t have to go to the “dude mechanic” (my younger self!) or macho racer wannabes (ditto). Let them have my power!

Bike Patrols Are Good. But He Thinks They Need To Be Better

 Many cities and college campuses employ bicycle patrols. Experts on public safety vouch for their effectiveness: Constables on bicycles can reach places like alleyways and paths in large parks that are inaccessible to police officers in cars. Cops on bikes also can arrive at the scene of an emergency more quickly than those on foot patrol or, sometimes, even those in motor vehicles.

For those reasons, and others, I have been in favor of bike patrols.  Now I must admit that I knew little about the training those officers receive—or don’t receive.

Apparently, the last three words of my previous sentence apply to more patrols than I realized.  At least, that’s an impression Clint Sandusky left with me after I read his article on Police 1. 

E-Bike Workshop, IPMBA 2022 Conference in Fort Worth, Texas.

He obviously believes that bike patrols are not only effective, but also a vital part of law enforcement. He reveals that there is a set of “best practices “ regarding the amount and type of training officers should receive, and what sorts of instructions should provide that instruction. Unfortunately, he says, some departments are failing short, and that can prove especially problematic as eBikes become more common.

Would Santa Claus Ride It?

 Are snowmobiles allowed on it? Dogsleds?

Are “Reindeer Crossing” signs posted?

Those questions came to mind when I heard there’s a bike lane to North Pole.

Now you know that I missed something:  One end of the path ends in North Pole, not the North Pole.

Even though I got 100 on a test of Alaska geography (at least, that’s how I remember it), I didn’t know that when you remove the definite article, you get the name of a city in The Last Frontier.

Anyway, there is a new bike lane connecting the city, known for its year-round Christmas displays, to Fairbanks.

If I ever get to Alaska, I’ll ride the lane—named for local cycling enthusiast Matt Glove, who lost his life sun a commute—just so I can boast that I cycled to the North Pole. Anyone who didn’t get 100 on Sister Virginia’s Alaska Geography test in 1969 (if I remember correctly) will be none the wiser!

He’s Not Just History

 Today I am going to do something I’ve never done before:  I am going to invoke my Howard Cosell rule two days in a row. In other words, this post won’t relate to bicycling. And while some of you may think I had a better reason to write such a post yesterday, I hope you will find this one interesting.

Perhaps no other athlete ever became as much of a worldwide celebrity and cultural icon as Muhammad Ali. In the world of cycling, it’s difficult to find an equivalent: Lance Armstrong might have attained such a status were it not for the allegations, and his admission, that he doped and bullied teammates into doing it or covering up for him.

An extremely small number of athletes have become icons, or have been deemed significant historical figures, even of their own culture.

Maurice Richard, who played for the Montréal Canadiens for 18 seasons and was their captain for the last four, is one such person. When I was in North America’s ville aux cent clochers, I was struck by not only how many statues, murals and other homages to “Le Rocket” I saw, but their seeming ubiquity. Here in New York, you’ll find such tributes to Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio and other legends mainly in and around Yankee Stadium. But in la belle ville, I encountered likenesses of Richard in nearly every part of town.

So I was not surprised when I learned that today, on the 25th anniversary of his death and 65 years after he played his last National Hockey League game, Québec government officials announced that he had been designated an historic figure in the province.

It is almost impossible to overstate what Maurice Richard has meant to the province’s people and to Francophones in other parts of Canada. Although they are roughly three-tenths of the nation’s population, for about two centuries, they and the province had, at best, second-class status. Québec lagged well behind neighboring Ontario and other provinces in economic terms as well as status.

About the latter: While other French Canadians excelled in sports and other endeavors before Richard came along, none carried the pride of his culture as he did.When he scored a goal, when he helped to defeat the Boston Bruins or Toronto Maple Leafs, it was a victory not only for him and the Canadiens, but also for the everyday Quebecois who, as one put it, had to “hang up” their “hat and customs” when they went to work every day—or for natives of the villages and farms north of Québec City who spoke nothing but French but were conscripted to fight for the Crown during World War II.

Some have argued that he helped to usher Québec’s “Quiet Revolution,” which campaigned for, and won, greater autonomy for the province—and modernized its educational system, which had been controlled by the Catholic Church. While it may not have been a direct consequence of Richard’s career or retirement, it could be argued that the pride be engendered helped to elect Jean Lesage as Premier of Quèbec in the same year “The Rocket” retired. Lesage, for whom Québec City’s international airport is named, is credited with modernizing the province’s educational system (and guaranteeing equal access for females) and economic system. He understood—correctly, I think—that preserving the province’s culture and language, and therefore its autonomy, would not be possible if Quebecois and other Francophone Canadians didn’t have the same educational and economic leverage as their Anglophone neighbors.

While Richard didn’t take overtly political stances as Ali did, he was fearless and proud. And, let’s face it, his looks didn’t hurt: handsome and fierce, he always seemed to be camera-ready, whether on the ice or in a boardroom.

Remembering

 I am about to invoke my Howard Cosell Rule.

Today is Memorial Day in the US—at least, officially. While it is a Federal holiday—banks and government offices are closed—some states have taken it upon themselves to declare their own “Memorial Days.” Some are being celebrated today. Others have chosen other dates: For example, in North and South Carolina, 10 May is Confederate Memorial Day: On this date in 1863, Confederate General “Stonewall” Jackson died after being accidentally shot by his own soldiers; in 1865, Confederate President Jefferson Davis was captured.

Given what we’ve seen so far from the Fake Tan Führer, I wonder whether he’ll try to end the current Memorial Day and replace it with the Carolinas’ (or some other state’s) Confederate holiday. Of course, it would include a military parade that wouldn’t honor the “suckers” and “losers.”

Unhoused veterans occupy 30 tents on the Veterans Row encampment in front of the West Los Angeles VA campus in April, 2021. George Rose/Getty

Me, I wish this day’s memorial were more about the tragedy of dying young (and, sometimes, for a questionable cause) rather than a celebration of “heroism”—or simply another shopping orgy. Oh, and wouldn’t it be nice if we made sure that those who served got the mental as well as physical health care they need—and that we don’t create more veterans who live under highway overpasses. Avoiding war and turning “swords into ploughshares” would be the best—perhaps the only—way to ensure that.