The Horn Of A Dilemma

 I have never been chased by an angry bear. But I would think that even at my age, in my condition, I would have a better chance of evading ursine umbrage by pedaling rather than carrying my bike.

Especially if I were wearing cleats!

A Better Way On The Greenway

 Every once in a while, my New York Cynicism (TM) is challenged.

Remember, this is a city where it took 100 years to build a subway line that basically goes nowhere.  And there are days when I’m still surprised that the Randalls Island Connector was finished in less time than it took for the creek underneath it to form.

So you can imagine my shock upon pedaling down the Hudson River Greenway and finding this:

Now, you could be forgiven for thinking it’s just another short segment of a bike path. But it fixes what disrupted what might otherwise be the best bike lane in the Big Apple.

At West 54th Street, cyclists had to risk unfortunate encounters with tour buses, taxis and ride share vehicles headed for cruise ships and ferry boats or the Intrepid Museum. That crossing (on the far left side of the photo) wasn’t an intersection with a traffic signal like the one at Chambers Street, just north of the World Trade Center. Rather, it was a spot where the street cuts across the bike lane, with no signal, at a point where the lane curved sharply and visibility was therefore not good.

The new ribbon of asphalt curves away from that spot, away from traffic, and goes underneath an access ramp. It is not only safer; it also makes for a smoother ride with greater continuity. A cyclist can now enter the Greenway at 125th Street and not encounter another crossing until 42nd Street—a distance of about 7 kilometers. In essence, it’s now possible to spin your pedals nonstop all the way from West Harlem to Midtown. That certainly makes the Greenway a valid option for many commuters and simply a more enjoyable ride for everyone else.

I am happy we now have it, but we need more if this city’s planners and policy makers are serious about encouraging more cycling and getting more cars off the streets.

How Did We?

About ten years ago, I was talking on the phone as I scurried down the hall to my class.

When I entered, one student wondered, aloud, how I survived with such a “primitive” device:  a flip-phone.

Mind you, neither he nor any of his classmates was wealthy, at least to my knowledge. But I was a couple of years away from having any desire, let alone seeing any need, for a “smart” phone.

Now I’ll confess that before my July trip to Japan, I “upgraded” to an iPhone 16 from the iPhone 8 I’d been using for seven years. I really wanted to stick with 8 because it was familiar, but the software wouldn’t update anymore, the battery took forever to charge and the charge didn’t last. Turns out that changing the battery would’ve cost more than getting a new phone, at least with the surprisingly generous trade-in allowance I got from Verizon.

Anyway, I thought about my old student when I got my new phone. And I wonder what he would think, if he were a cyclist, of some of the bikes I’ve ridden—and still ride.

No, It’s Not Because I Haven’t Had A Baby

 I started to go for regular eye examinations when I was about 45–just around the same time I started my gender affirmation process (what most people—and I—in those days were called my “gender transition”). When I had to cut a conversation with an co-worker short because I had to go to an ophthalmologist appointment, he wondered, “Oh, are the hormones affecting your vision?

That colleague could be forgiven for such an assumption even if, as an “educated” person, he should have known better than to conflate coincidence with causation.  

Then again, I’ve seen and heard of health care professionals who make similar erroneous assumptions.  For example, a friend of mine is, shall we say, Rubens-esque. She laments that when she goes for help with any sort of medical condition, no matter how unrelated (the flu! a broken arm!)  nurses and even doctors have assumed that her weight was the cause. Then again, other women have told me their doctors insisted that their mental as well as physical health issues would disappear if they had a baby.

While such cluelessness or dismissiveness is inexcusable when it comes from trained health care professionals, it (or at least milder forms of it) are somewhat understandable from lay people like my former co-worker. I’ve experienced a it during the past few days.  Neighbors and friends noticed a bandage on my left knee. “You hurt yourself bike riding.” Not a question :  a declaration or an amateur diagnosis.

Now, I can understand why they, especially if they don’t know any other regular cyclists, might think my injury might be a result of riding. But its cause is more banal: I tripped over a divider after I exited the Botanical Garden. I can’t even spin a good story out of it,

Well, at least they’re not assuming my admittedly minor injury happened because of my gender “transition.” Or because I haven’t had a baby.

It’s The Little Things

 It’s the little things…

How often have we heard that expression?

I learned how true it is when I taught English to people who don’t speak it as their native language. (People from Japan and France and Colombia who sound like me? Oh, dear!) “The little words are the most difficult,” I would reassure (or so I thought) them.  I wasn’t entirely wrong: Perhaps the most difficult words for non-native speakers to use properly, let alone well, are articles (Russian doesn’t have any), the verb “to be” (It doesn’t exist in Turkish) and prepositions—you know, words like “to” and “for,” which often don’t translate directly and are used differently from their English counterparts.

The little things are just as important on a bike. I, like most experienced cyclists, check my tire pressures, chain, gears and brakes before setting off on a ride. If I’ve had some bumpy treks—say, on unpaved trails or potholed streets— I might look at my racks, fenders or other accessories.

But there are some things, including some of the smallest screws and other parts, to which cyclists almost never pay attention. Cycling Weekly contributor Hannah Bussey discovered that the hard way—almost.

In addition to being a bike tester, she is a parent in a “multidisciplinary” bike family, which includes a daughter who participates in cyclo-cross. In her household, she explains, there are “more bikes than pedals.” That explains why she hastily “borrowed” a pair of SPD pedals for her mountain bike. “As I took off from what seemed a harmless jump,” she recounts, “I found myself footloose and ended up rolling around in, thankfully, a patch of bracken.”

Turns (no pun intended) out, the spring tension was “looser than I anticipated.” The irony is that people often fear the spring tension (or straps on pedals with toe clips) being too tight.  There is apparently a “point of no return” at which the rider can’t disengage because the binding is too loose. Think of a restraint that makes escaping more difficult because it stretches rather than breaks.

Photo by Hannah Bussey

The cleat retention on SPD, and most other clipless, pedal systems is regulated by a small screw or bolt that can loosen with use and time.  The same is true of the screws (typically 5mm) that hold toe clips to traditional pedals.

So now I am giving you, dear fellow cyclists and mid-lifers, the same advice I gave my language students: It’s the little things (or words).

What’s That About The Hill?

When people say that someone is “over the hill,” they mean that person is too old for some pursuit (usually in sports) or simply old.

As a cyclist, I always found that odd:  Pedaling up a hill (or a mountain), even if it leaves me tired, is a way of reassuring myself that I am not old, that I am in the middle of my life.

At Seventeen

I have never attended any class reunion of any school I graduated. And I don’t plan to be at the upcoming 50-year reunion of my high school class.

It’s not that I don’t want to remember those times.  I couldn’t forget them, even if I wanted to. Among my peers, I had only two friends. Both are long dead. Most of my “social” time was spent among adults: two of my mother’s friends and some teachers, including one whom I hated at first but who influenced me in ways I didn’t realize until much later. 

I wasn’t exactly “date bait.” To my knowledge,  none of my peers considered me physically attractive. I had no social skills. (Sometimes I feel I still don’t have any.) I was bookish, but not in the way I am now: My energies were directed, mainly by my father, toward subjects and pursuits that would help me get into West Point, Annapolis, one of the other Armed Forces academies or an ROTC program. 

And, even if I were less nerdy, I wouldn’t have wanted to date. Like every other LGBTQ kid in that place and time, I was in the closet. Other non-confirming kids might’ve “come out” if the social environment had been less hostile. But I couldn’t have: I didn’t even have the words to express how I felt about my gender and sexuality and knew of no-one who could be a model for me. So, dating anyone, whatever their identity or orientation, wouldn’t have felt right.

About my only solace was cycling: up the Atlantic Highlands scenic route; along the ocean from Sandy Hook to Long Branch, Asbury Park and sometimes beyond; out past the farms and horse ranches in western Monmouth County. That, of course, made me even more of an oddball among my peers, nearly all of whom discarded, abandoned or handed down their bicycles the moment they got their driver’s licenses.

So, if I have no plans to go to my class reunion and make no effort to recall those times, why am I talking about them now? Well, the other day I was in a store when Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen” played on the PA system. 

I hadn’t heard it in a long time, but it was all over the airwaves during my senior year—when I was seventeen. It, of course, is about not “fitting in” because of one’s looks, personality or socioeconomic class. Some, including yours truly, have also heard it as a song about being “in the closet.” That makes sense, especially when you realize that she “came out” a while back.

As much as I appreciate the songwriting talents of Joni Mitchell, John Lennon, Laura Nyro and the Bobs (Marley and Dylan), none of their works, or those of any other tunesmith, has ever meant as much as Ms. Ian’s anthem did during that year. And I daresay that even now, almost no other song can move me, again, the way “At Seventeen “ did (to tears) the other day. For that, I will always be grateful to Janis Ian.

Not Extinct ?

 While enjoying my bourgie Sunday brunch and coffee, I looked at a Buzz Feed item in which people recalled cartoons from their childhood that no one else seems to remember. Dinosaurs weren’t really part of the ones I saw (“The Flintstones” doesn’t count!) but they seem to have been prominent in later generations of animation.

Those extinct creatures, it seems, were in the most improbable of situations. I can imagine one of those cartoons including an image like this:

I’ll Show Them My Midlife Body

 The Fake Tan Führer’s deployment of National Guard troops to cities whose citizens voted for Democratic mayors—and, ahem, against him—and his threats to do the same in other cities with similar polling patterns, is one of the most nakedly political actions taken by a US President.

You, dear reader, will see that one of the adjectives in my previous sentence was a deliberate choice after you read what I’m about to say.

Portland, Oregon represents everything our dear leader detests. A liberal democratic mayor is just the icing on the cake: It is full of (or, at least, has the reputation of being full of) the very sorts of people who scare the orange makeup off his face: environmentalists, vegans, queers and (stage whisper) cyclists.

So of course he wanted to send his Praetorian Guard, I mean soldiers, to the Rosebud City. But first he had to claim it was “out of control.” Translation: People are protesting his policies.  And who, exactly, is behind all of the discord he sees in his fever-dreams? An organization he deems as “terrorist”—even though it doesn’t exist.

But the good folks of Portland plan to show their discontent with the armed occupation of their city in a way you might expect of them:  with a naked bike ride.

The emperor may have no clothes. But could a human body—clad, perhaps, only in a bike helmet and gloves—be the uniform of resistance against uniformed oppression?

If Mango Mussolini decides to sick his bodyguards on New York, my hometown—which might elect a Democratic Socialist (gasp!) mayor—I just might show my midlife body during a raw randoneé.

Who Would Win?

 Recently, I saw a bumper sticker that read, “My stick-figure family can beat your stick—figure family.”

I wondered, “At what?”

A bike race, perhaps?

Will Giant Bikes Be Banned In The US?

What does bicycle manufacturer Giant have in common with a Chinese fishing company and a South Korean salt farm?

Aside from being in Asia, this: They are have been tagged with the only Withhold Release Orders issued this year.

A WRO, per a 2011 law, allows US Customs and Border Protection to bar goods from entering the country if they were made with forced labor.

Based partly on a report in Le Monde Diplomatique, Giant allegedly employed guest workers who paid as much as $5500 to recruiters in their home countries. Those workers, who were then signed to three-year contracts, had to pay additional fees that amounted to as much as two months’ pay.

The order bans all bikes and other goods made in Giant’s Taiwan factories, whether they are sold under Giant’s own name or those of the brands they own, or made for other companies. Interestingly, products from Giant’s factories in China and Vietnam are not affected.

Giant is appealing the order, claiming that they have been paying recruiting and other fees and providing housing for workers. In the meantime, the company has made contingency plans so supply chains can continue with “minimal disruption.

Call me a conspiracy theorist, but I couldn’t help but to notice that the US President most openly hostile to bicycles and cyclists targeted a bike company for one of the first WROs of his second administration.

Pity The Poor, Downtrodden Automobile

 Some time during my childhood, I saw a cartoon in which the automobile was on trial for its life. (Ironically, it was released the same year—1957–as “Twelve Angry Men,” perhaps, to this day, the best argument against capital punishment.) The point of the story—the reason why countless American kids have seen it in drivers’ ed classes—is the automobile is blamed for the dangers caused by its driver.

Another kid, who probably saw the cartoon a decade or so before I did, seems to have taken a different message from it. Instead of seeing reckless drivers as true villains, he saw the automobile as the poor, aggrieved victim, much as he sees white cisgender heterosexual men 

By now, you’ve probably figured out that I am referring to the Fake Tan Fũhrer, a.k.a., El Cheeto Grande, the Mango Menace or Golfin’ Golem.

His apparent belief that transgender leftist environmentalist cyclists like me have it in for his self-beloved self, I mean automobiles is expressed in his rationale for rescinding Federal funding for bike lanes, pedestrian malls or anything else that can make it safer to pedal or walk through American cities. In notices (which, one wonders, whether FTF himself dictated) to local officials, the US Department of Transportation declared such projects as “hostile” to automobiles and claimed they run counter to the DoT’s priority of “increasing roadway capacity for motor vehicles.” I have to wonder whether such a statement is written anywhere in DoT’s policies or simply another impromptu fiction from our “Dear Leader.”

So, boys and girls (I am trying not to run afoul of FTF’s decrees about the language of gender!), just remember that all those poor, picked-on SUVs and pimped-out pickup trucks are simply getting the room they need to breathe—just like those dudes you see on the subway who sit with their legs spread across the width of two seats. Overcompensation, anyone?

Would Agnès Varda Approve?

 Yesterday I rode LaVande, my King of Mercia, against 20-35 KPH (12.5- 22.5 MPH) headwinds,, to Point Lookout. My reward: I coasted along the coast to Coney Island and its culinary delights .

Cycling Through Their Midlives

 In spite of what I’m told by my neighbors in the senior apartment complex where I live—and, at times, my body—I am in, ahem, midlife.

I don’t believe I’m in denial. (Does anybody ever believe they are?) I do, however, fear that one day I may not be able to continue cycling —at least, not in the way I always have. I’ve been reminded, by a few peoples, of octogenarian (I’m not there yet!) Joe Biden falling off his bike. Did those people secretly vote for the Fake Tan Fūhrer?

If the day ever comes when I can’t balance my trusty Mercians, I hope I still can keep on pedaling in some fashion. Matthew Stepeniak of Hudson, Wisconsin gives me hope. He got a side-by-side tandem so his 92-year-old mother Nancy, for whom he is the caregiver, could ride with him.

Nancy Stepaniak on the side-by-side tandem she rides with her son Matthew, who provided this photo to Wisconsin Public Radio.

He recalls that the first time they rode together, they didn’t get very far because they were stopped so many times by curious people. He then knew that he was onto something special, which led him to co-found Limitless Cycling, a nonprofit that provides adaptive bicycles and equipment for people of all abilities to enjoy the outdoors. It’s now a Wisconsin chapter of Cycling Without Age.

“I am just a boy who wanted to give his mother a bicycle,” he recalls. “And things just got out of control in the most beautiful way.”

Cycling Without Age began in 2012, when Ole Kassow of Denmark acquired a three-wheeled pedal-powered “trishaw” and began giving rides to local senior citizens. From a one-man operation, CWA became an international organization; the first US chapter opened four years later in Wisconsin—in Oshkosh, to be exact.

The organization is still young. And folks like Kassow and Stepaniak are keeping people cycling—and in midlife.

It Hasn't Been Easy

 It’s been nearly a week since I last posted.  I haven't felt well, physically or emotionally.  The latter is, at least in part, an effect of not riding much; the former is one reason why I haven't.

Even when the sky is bright and sunny, clouds seem to envelop everything.  The political and social climate contributes to the gloom:  Even though most of the people I encounter regularly treat me well, there just doesn't seem to be any escape from the hate and manufactured anger that fills the air.  Perhaps I'm noticing it more because of the time I spent in Japan, where it never seemed that bumping into a stranger might result in violence. 

Charlie Kirk's murder certainly didn't help to bring down the metaphorical temperature.  I know I'm running the risk of threats, whether on this blog or anywhere, simply for mentioning his name.  And as a transgender woman, I worry that I, because of my identity, will be seen as part of some problem or another that led to his assassination, simply because one--just one, mind you--of the hundreds of mass shootings this country has borne during the past few years was committed by someone born male who identifies as female. (Thank Faux News' Jesse Watters for claiming there was a "pattern" of trans people committing violence.)  I think now of Sam, my neighbor and sometime riding buddy, and his partner:  Because they are Black, people blame, shun and gossip about them because of something or another done by another Black person.

And then there is the hate, or simply disdain, shown to cyclists.  I can't recall another time when bike lanes, or even the line between parked cars and traffic, or between traffic lanes, was so often deliberately obstructed by debris, abandoned Lime eBikes or scooters, or by folks who saw me or other cyclists coming and decided to step into the lane and chat, embrace or, worse, lead their young children.  

Other cyclists, especially the young, aren't immune to not being mindful of other cyclists.  While crossing the Queens span of the RFK Bridge on Friday, an eBiker who was taking a selfie as he rode almost knocked me over; a couple of minutes later, I came as close as I have in ages to a fight when I almost became part of the guardrail when a cyclist coming from the opposite direction zoomed into a narrow turn.  When I yelled at him, the young punk claimed, "I'm a professional.  You don't know how to ride."

In other words, he--like the guy taking a selfie--thought that it was his bikeway and I happened to be on it.  When the pandemic struck, it seemed that people were becoming more mindful because, well, you and they survived. There was that same sense in the days after 9/11, the anniversary of which came last week.  But over time, that sense of community died:  It turned into icy disdain a couple of years after 9/11, and now pandemic empathy has turned into rage at everybody and everything.

My mood wasn't helped on Friday when, during the ride, I paid a "for old time's sake" visit to Tony's Bicycle Shop in Astoria.  Its founder died a few years ago; his son is raising his kids, so the head mechanic is now running the place.  He pointed to a wall:

"Look at this.  It's not what it used to be:"

Gianna Aguilar took the above photo about three years ago.   "We're not filling that wall again," Jose said.   "We can't get stuff or it costs twice as much as it used to," he explained.  "And there's no business--look!"

As if he were reading my mind, he continued, "Lots of stores are going out of business.  We might, too."

Bike Weekend, Detoured

 “it was Portland before Portland” in part because of events like “Bicycle Weekends,” which the city has held since 1968, when The Rose City was home to loggers, not bloggers.

And perhaps the most respected, if not emblematic, Bicycle Weekends event is Bike & Scoot Sunday, in which the city’s Department of Transportation partners with local businesses and organizations to lend, free of charge, adaptive cycles to people with a variety of disabilities.

Imagine that such an event is disrupted when a boulevard closed for the event is turned over, not to folks on hand-pedaled or three-wheeled bikes, but to Rivian SUVs—for a photo shoot for a company ad campaign.

That is what capped off the penultimate Bike Weekend in Seattle. The film crew received permits from the city’s Office of Economic Development and Department of Parks and Recreation. It’s not clear whether the Department of Transportation was consulted. But, as Tom Fucoloro of Seattle Bike Blog points out, it wouldn’t have taken much research for the OED or DPR to do a bit of research.

The DPR claims it issued the permit “in error.”

Joy Without Motion

 How happy can you be while standing still?

No Loss Of Status

 You may have noticed something different about this blog today:  I removed the Feedspot badge from the sidebar.

No, this blog hasn’t lost its status (as if it ever had any!) as a top midlife blog.  Rather, I removed the badge in response to an email I received today:

 

Need A Wheel Truing Stand? Go To Kent—And Thank Trump

 I am no economist. So, take what I am about to say for what it’s worth: I have had the sense that Trump’s tariffs would not have the effect he claimed. In fact, in one instance, however small, it’s having the opposite effect.

If the US economy is an ocean, its bicycle industry might be a minnow:  As I mentioned in my previous post, very few bikes and almost no accessories or parts are made here. Among the few bikes made here are custom frames and a relatively small number of top-of-the line machines like those of Specialized’s S-Works line.

But even those bikes are made almost entirely of imported parts. The same is true for the few mass-market bikes assembled on these shores—which, until recently, included offerings from Kent.

Most serious riders (who include, I confess, yours truly) turn up their noses at such bikes. But I would bet that more Kents are purchased in a day than élite machines are sold in a year. And Kent was one of the few companies that continued to assemble their wares in this country—in South Carolina, to be exact—as the rest of the bike industry outsourced its production.

Note my use of the past tense.  In June, the company laid off most of its employees. Now it’s auctioning its tools and machinery—including several Park Tool wheelbuilding stands and work stands and Holland Mechanics wheel-truing machines.

Why? According to a company spokesperson, assembling bikes in the US is “no longer feasible” because—wait for it—Trump’s tariffs have made it too expensive to import the necessary parts.

Of course, Kent is unlikely to be the only bike-related company, and the US bicycle industry the only enterprise, to be adversely affected by the global trade war the Fake Tan Fũhrer has sparked. But I have to wonder whether Trump (or more likely, his donors) knew that tariffs would decimate US industries and thus bring American workers to their knees while claiming that “the most beautiful word” would Make America Great Again—if indeed it, or any other nation, ever was.

Cycling And Labor

 

Today is Labor Day in the US.

In previous years, I have written posts about bicycle races and other events held on this holiday. I have also written about the relationships between cycling, the bicycle industry and labor.

While cycling is seen as a “green” activity and we, cyclists, have a reputation for being more socially and politically progressive than most other people, the bicycle industry, at least in the US, has its share of companies and executives who have fought against workers organizing and exploited them in other ways. And almost no bicycles sold in the US are made here. (Custom frames and high-end models from major companies—like Specialized “S” Works—that are still made in one of the 50 states comprise less than one tenth of one percent of bikes sold in this country.) Manufacturers moved their production to low-wage countries where workers are paid poorly and have few, if any, rights and environmental laws are all but nonexistent 

Now we have a President who has somehow convinced millions of people he is an ally of workers. And he doesn’t hide his contempt for cyclists. That, of course, is almost reason enough (at least for.me) to continue cycling through my midlife which, to my mind, lasts as long as I don’t know when my life will end.  And it’s a reason to truly support workers, with whom—whatever we do for a living—we have more in common than many of us realize.

Reaching

 What if Michelangelo had been a cyclist?

A Journey To Midlife

I have been posting less frequently. Fear not: I am not going away. Nor is this blog. 

Midlife Cycling began as a spinoff of my earlier blog, Transwoman Times, as I was coming out of convalescence from my gender-affirming surgery. At that time (2010) there were a lot of “girls on bikes” blogs. Some seemed to be little more than fashion shoots but others, thankfully offered genuine insights into a male-dominated activity in which I’d participated as a boy and man but would re-enter as a woman.

I took my cues from the latter category. It was interesting to relate how drivers, pedestrians and other cyclists sometimes treated me differently than they did, or would have, when I was in male drag. Also, while I could ride with most of the same equipment I previously used, I became aware of how poorly, for the most part, the bicycle industry addressed women’s specific needs and wants.

All of that kept me going for a while. But eventually this blog became, really, just another bike blog: I wrote about equipment, events and sometimes interesting stories about people. And I was posting nearly every day. I guess it became my graffiti: Like those bold strokes and colors I see painted on public spaces, this blog became a way of leaving a mark, as it were, of my presence in this world.

After my mother’s death—six years ago tomorrow—and the crash and “dooring” incidents I experienced within four months of 2020, my postings became somewhat less frequent. Perhaps that was a sign that I needed to focus as much on the first word of this blog’s title as I had on the second.  That, I now realize, is where I would discover the real voice, as it were, of Midlife Cycling.

Now I realize that going to Japan last month has clarified this new vision. I wasn’t posting every day because I did a lot, including rides in very hot weather, and I was exhausted at the end of most days. But the trip was different from others I’ve taken because, well, Japan is different. It’s hard to imagine a more interesting juxtaposition between an ancient culture and modern technology that makes America seem like in the Late Bronze Age. And, although my perspective might be skewed, I couldn’t help but to feel that you don’t have to hide your age when you’re there. While a reverence for tradition can hinder the ability to see new perspectives, it also means that you’re not something to be pushed out of the way. Young people spend just as much time as American teenagers looking at their screens, but even on the busiest streets, they were polite, almost deferential.

Another way this trip was different was that I didn’t “disappear.” Nearly all of my travel and most of my cycling has been solo. In the days before cell phones, I might call a friend or family member once a week. And I would write letters or send post cards.

During more recent trips, however, I could make—and receive—calls. Cora was well aware of that.

She, the partner of my neighbor and riding buddy Sam, was my cat-sitter while I was away. Since Marlee underwent surgery just before I left, she knew that I felt a little guilty for not canceling my trip. Some of her calls were to reassure me that my feline housemate was doing well. But more than anything, she wanted to hear about Japan—and, as it turned out, simply to talk to me.

Calling, or being called by her, several times a day was a sign, I now realize, that I was not on a footloose wandering of my youth. Rather, sharing my trip with someone about my age who wasn’t a family member really made my trip to Japan a midlife journey.

Perhaps that will be the new focus of this blog. Yes, I will continue to write about bicycles and bicycling—but as they are that midlife journey.

P.S. I can’t help but to notice that this blog has been getting more views since I stopped posting daily. In fact, there have been more views in the nearly three months since this blog’s 15th anniversary (2 June) than in its first four years online!

What Is A Bicycle? Who Is A Cyclist?

 

What is a bicycle? Who is a cyclist?

If I were to teach a class in law or philosophy, I would want to deal with those questions. They’re not merely exercises in semantics. The possible answers have ramifications in any number of areas, including urban planning, law enforcement and insurance.

If I wanted to be pedantic (or what Google-educated “scholars” of the US Constitution call “originalist” or what might be known as “fundamentalist “ in religion) I would define a “bicycle” as two wheels propelled by two pedals. But such a definition could include any contraption with a motor or anything else that amplifies or assists the person pushing or spinning the pedals.

Also, such a fundamentalist or originalist, if you will, delineation would exclude the Draisienne or pretty much anything preceding Pierre Michaux’s creation.  On the other hand, it would also exclude scooters and other two-wheeled devices not propelled by pedals. But it also wouldn’t include tricycles, whether they’re made for adults or children.

Until this month the state of Illinois defines a bicycle thusly: “every device propelled by human power upon which any person may ride, having two tandem wheels except scooters and similar devices.” 

Such a definition might have been adequate a decade or so ago, before the proliferation of e-bikes and electric scooters, even if it didn’t include adult tricycles which, I imagine, are relatively few in number in Illinois. But now people who haven’t cycled much, or at all, since they got their driver’s licenses conflate anything with two wheels with bicycles.

That is part of the weakness in the state’s new legal definition of bicycles, which took effect on 1 August:

every human-powered or low-speed electric vehicle with two or more wheels not less than 12 inches in diameter, designed for the transportation of one or more persons.

So what, exactly, is meant by “low-speed?” (At my age, that could mean any speed at which I ride!😟) Or “human-powered?” Could a hand operating a throttle fit into that category?

While I complain about the lack of enforcement—at least here in NYC—of the prohibition against motorized bikes and scooters on bike lanes, I can almost understand it: In the absence of clear legal definitions, most cops think that anything with two wheels—even if it’s effectively an electric motorcycle—is a bicycle, and anyone who rides them is a cyclist.

A Journey Between Worlds

 Whenever I mounted the bicycle, a journey began.

The previous sentence popped into my head during my second day in Kyoto. I didn’t stop to write it down because my inner editor said, “too precious, too self-consciously Literary (with a capital L).” Perhaps it is, but I have not been able to let go of it.

I had just arrived at Okazaki, the park adjacent to the  Heian-jingu Shrine. It wasn’t very far from the Shimogamo Shrine, where I’d spent the morning and early afternoon. In fact, as I would soon learn, nothing in Kyoto is very far from anything else in the city, especially if you’re going by bicycle. 

But even though Shimogamo and the Heian Shrine at Okazaki are only a few kilometers apart, and represent early periods of Japanese history, I felt as if I were traveling between worlds as much as I did when I set out from my hotel in a modern section of the city.

Shimogamo is a shrine to Tamayori-hine, “the spirit-inviting maiden” and her father, Kamo Taketsunomi. Experts think it dates to the 6th Century C.E., or more than two centuries before Kyoto began its millennium (794-1868 C.E.) as Japan’s capital.  To put that into context, Shimogamo was built a century or so after the Roman Empire fell and Europe was cast into an era of stagnation. In fact, only a few decades before Kyoto became the imperial capital, Europe nearly became a Muslim monolith.

Anyway, as I pedaled from Shimogamo—where I took a ritual bath—I realized that I couldn’t describe the architecture or other aesthetics, history or purpose in the Eurocentric terms through which I’ve learned whatever I know (which, I admit, isn’t much) and I’ve narrated my experience. That, as it turned out, was an important realization when I arrived at Okazaki. The Heian Shrine there is probably just as important to the Japanese and adherents of Shintoism, even if the buildings are replicas of the ones that originally stood there. What matters about the site is that Emperors Kanmu Ana Kōmei, the first and last of the era when Kyoto was capital, are enshrined there. 

I cannot pretend that I understand Japanese people’s attitudes toward their emperors or their history, except to say that it’s different from how I, as an American, see our history and leaders. Something Soh, the guide for my Tokyo bike tour, made sense, however. At Akusaka Imperial Gardens, he remarked that while fewer and fewer people adhere to Shintoism, ands Japanese people in general have become less religious, learning about the faith and its relationship to Japanese history and culture is still considered an important part of young people’s education.

Again, I can’t claim to understand how the people see their history. But another clue became clearer to me as I left the Heian Shrine: I hadn’t seen a Japanese flag anywhere in Kyoto since arriving the day before, and I saw a few in Tokyo and maybe a couple in Osaka.  In fact, of the other twenty-six countries I’ve visited and the two in which I’ve lived, I can’t think of one in which I saw so few of its national flags. In fact, I have seen more Stars and Stripes fluttering along a single block in New York than I saw Rising Sun flags during my two weeks in Japan.

That, in itself is a kind of journey. While the some of the sites  I visited display depictions of battles and descriptions of fights between clans, none of them seemed to portray those events as steps toward Japan fulfilling some sort of Manifest Destiny. Perhaps I missed it because I don’t understand Japanese and know so little about the culture and history, but I didn’t detect the jingoism that affects so much of how Americans are (mis) educated about our history.

Whenever I mount my bicycle, I am on a journey, whether through geography, history, culture. And as long as I am on a journey, I believe that I am in the middle of my life.

Maybe It Isn’t Abour Infrastructure Or Education

 The other day, I rode La-Vande, my King of Mercia, to Point Lookout. My ride started under a veil of clouds that didn’t entirely block the sun. So the day was bright enough to be cheerful without the sun bearing down on me. 

Later on, though, as the temperature rose,  clouds dissipated and the sea acted like a tanning mirror. That, or my skin is more sensitive than it was in my youth.

The ride was pleasant, except for a stretch of Cross Bay Boulevard near the Gateway National Recreation Area. The bike lane that parallels the Boulevard—really just the shoulder of the road with some green paint—gets turned into a passing lane by impatient motorists, of whom there are many:  The Boulevard is a long, flat road through residential and semi-rural areas that brings out the wannabe NASCAR champions in too many drivers.

Again, I got to thinking about Japan. There are extensive networks of well-marked and -maintained bike lanes. Many streets in Kyoto and Tokyo also have shared lanes for motor vehicles and cyclists. While riding in both cities (I didn’t get to ride in Osaka) I never was “nudged” out of a shared lane, let alone menaced in a lane set aside for cyclists.

I had long thought that the courtesy I experienced from drivers in France, Italy and other European countries had something to do with the fact that many of those motorists are also, or have recently been, cyclists. Such “dual citizens,” if you will, probably make up a larger portion of the population in those countries than in the US. That is one reason why, in earlier posts, I expressed my belief that educating American drivers, and the general public, about cycling —for example, why it’s safer for us to cross an intersection against a red light than to wait for a green if there’s no cross-traffic—would do as much as, or more than, “infrastructure” to make cycling safer and thus encourage more people to see it as a viable transportation option.

But the kind of courtesy, which at times bordered on deference, I experienced in the Land of the Rising Sun went beyond even what I experienced in Europe. It occurs to me that it has much to do with some basic cultural attitudes that, perhaps, can’t be taught in a country where one of the founding principles is individualism. I mean, how else can I account for the fact that the kind of motorist behavior to which I was subjected on Cross Bay Boulevard seems not to even occur to anyone driving along Higashikujo.

A Prelude To Another Midlife Journey?

I have been home from my Japan trip for as long as I was there. I can’t stop thinking about it. The other night, I e,

availed myself to the Taco Tuesday special at Webster Cafe and Diner. (It’s really good!) There, I encountered Robert, one of the regular customers.

“Wearya bin?”

I told him about my trip and showed him a few pictures.  He, a neighborhood “lifer,” told me he’d been to Japan briefly when he was in the Navy. “Then I got sent to the Philippines.” He said he’d thought about going back—“Japan was great,” me exclaimed.

I nodded. “I fell in love with it, especially Kyoto.” Then I tried to describe how I felt, much to my surprise, that I was in the right place and everything felt right even though the culture is as different from any other I’ve experienced as any culture can be, and I don’t speak the language. “Even when I got lost and Google Map directions weren’t making any sense, I felt I was going where I wanted and needed to go, if that makes any sense.”

“You weren’t just taking a vacation. You were on a journey.”

He understands my travel philosophy, exactly! I nodded again.

Then he reverted to his neighborhood lifer voice. “So why the hell did you come back?”

I’ve been asking myself that same question. Marlee: Any time I travel, I miss my cat(s) more than anything else. Friends. My bikes.  And…and..

Four days in Tokyo. Three in Osaka, five in Kyoto and one more in Tokyo. Robert was right: It wasn’t just a trip; it was a journey. Could it have been a prelude to another midlife journey ?

The Scent of a City

 Many years ago, during my second European bike tour, I visited Marseille, France in spite—or, given the kind of person I was, because—some people warned me that it was dirty and dangerous. 

About the “dangerous” part: I had moved back to New York a few months earlier, just as the crack epidemic was unfolding. So I believed, like any true New Yorker (or someone who tries to seem like one) that no place could present greater perils than what Gotham could proffer.

I had no problems in Marseille. Parts of it were gritty, yes, but even they seemed like the Ginza or Avenue Montaigne compared to where I was living.  They did, however, have some pretty dive-y bars and cafes, which isn’t surprising when you consider that it’s a seaport. (Not for nothing was it the “French Connection.”)

Speaking of which:  The city seemed to have its own distinctive odor: a combination of fish and brine, tinged with bits of sisal and smoke. 

On the Shinkansen, I realized that was a reason why Osaka reminded me somewhat of Marseille. Japan’s third largest city seemed to have its own distinctive aroma, everywhere I turned. It wasn’t at all unpleasant, though it made me hungry: I felt that wherever I turned, I could smell food being prepared. Near my hotel, and around the Doutonbori, frying tempura batter, scallions and soy sauce (or something like it) filled the air. Along other streets and byways, I could follow my nose to steaming fish and meats, sizzling takoyaki and bubbling ramen broths.

No wonder I felt hungrier leaving Osaka Castle than any other museum or monument I’ve ever visited! While learning about the castle‘s—and Japan’s—history and art might have been enough to whet my appetite (Is that why people like to have lunch or dinner after museum visits?) the olfactory enticements to eat seemed to be everywhere.

While there are temples and other historic and cultural sites in Osaka, there aren’t quite as many as in Kyoto, which is practically a World Heritage Site or Tokyo, which is a much larger city. One explanation I’ve heard and read is that Osaka had many military-related industries and thus was a major target of Allied bombings during World War II, while Kyoto, which didn’t have those industries, was spared.

But does that account for all of the eateries, street foods and the ever-present aromas of Osaka? Does steam from bowls of udon noodles rise from the smoke (and ashes) of munitions factories?

Sticks, But No Stones

 Well, I just got an answer to a question I never asked:  What would a stick-figure cyclist look like?

I Want To Go Back To Japan—Because Of My Best Ride In New York

 Lighter and fluffier than cotton candy, thin high clouds wisped over beaches not yet crowded with weekend throngs. Those clouds didn’t obscure the sun or sky; rather, they highlighted the almost preternaturally refulgent expanse crowning the unusually calm and blue waters.

If that sounds like a perfect day for a bike ride, your hearing (so to speak, pun intended) is true. And ride I did, on Dee-Lilah, my Mercian Vincitore Special. What better ride than the beautiful bespoke bike I gave myself as a gift on my most recent round-number birthday?

Oh, and the ride could not have gone better. I pedaled into wind (from the southeast, apparently) that at times “gusted” to 20 KPH  (12 MPH) to Point Lookout and let that same wind assist my ride along the ocean to Coney Island and along the Verrazano Narrows, passing under the eponymous bridge, into the Brooklyn neighborhoods of Bay Ridge, Sunset Park and Park Slope to Barclays Center, where I hopped on the D train home after a ride of about 145 kilometers (90 miles).

Even with my best planning (which may not be saying much) I could hardly have had a better ride. Yet…

Nothing could have done more than that ride to make me wish I were still in Japan, particularly in Kyoto. Although the weather was great, I felt good and Dee-Lilah practically sang under me, there is so much I miss already about cycling, and simply being, in the Land of the Rising Sun.

What I am feeling is not the same sort of yearning to be somewhere else I felt through my childhood and early adult life: When I was in high school, I dreamed of going to college, getting a job or doing almost anything else to get out of that school, that town, that state. Then I went to Rutgers where, I can say without exaggeration, everybody—students, faculty, staff—wanted to be somewhere else.(Some years back, someone did a survey to determine which college or university had the most unhappy students. Supposedly, Rutgers came in second, behind Brandeis.) And I had a series of jobs where I wanted to be somewhere else, doing something else.

But my current longing has nothing to do with youthful wanderlust or unresolved psychological issues. Rather, it has to do with having experienced a place where order doesn’t seem like an imposition. Instead, it’s what makes the place beautiful and vibrant—and safe to ride. Drivers aren’t using bike lanes for passing or parking (or, worse, picking up and discharging passengers); I never felt that any driver could kill me if they lost their patience.

For that matter, I never worried that the person standing on line in Family Mart or Lawson would pull out a gun if they were having a bad day.  Or that bumping into someone could lead to a fight. (I was amazed how infrequently people bumped into each other, even on crowded streets in the Ginza district.) Of course, that has to do with being in a country with real firearms regulation. I believe, however, it also has to do with something woven through the culture. 

It was remarkable, to me, that I sensed so little aggression, even among Tokyo business and tech people,who are in just as much of a hurry as their New York counterparts. Whether I rode or walked, I never had the sense that anyone was trying to push me out of the way. Whenever I crossed an intersection, turning cars stopped, even if they had the same green light I had.

Speaking of public spaces: The dirtiest I saw—a stretch near Doutonbori in Osaka—wasn’t as grimy or smelly as most public spaces in New York. People don’t use bike lanes or streets or train stations as trash receptacles or toilets. 

Even though I still have, I believe, a bit of my youthful rebellious streak, I found myself loving the order I saw in public spaces and the consideration people give each other. I am reminded of my first trip to Europe, just after I graduated Rutgers: For all that I professed to hating rules and formality, I really liked entering shops, bakeries, museums or any other public venue, and being greeted with, and greeting whoever worked there, with a light, almost sing-songy “bonjour” and that French, Italian and other European meals had their own protocols and rituals, from what is consumed when (and with what). Part of my love, of course, came simply from being truly away from home (I traveled by myself, on my bike). But I also sensed people’s appreciation for the things, however small, that made them who they are, as individuals and a society. 

I felt that sense on an even deeper level in Japan. Of course, because my stay wasn’t very long, I might be mis-perceiving it. Whatever the case, the general ease I felt in a culture completely unlike any other I’ve known, where I don’t speak the language (I at least knew some some school French and Spanish, and some very situational Italian, when I first went to Europe) made some sense to me after enjoying the gardens and visiting the temples, shrines, castles and other monuments.

The Gion district.

In an earlier post, I mentioned the Nijo Castle in Kyoto, where I learned about the Samurai codes of honor which, I believe, influence Japanese social morés. Interestingly, another experience in Kyoto revealed something about the ways people interact with each other and their surroundings: a visit to Gion, the “Geisha district “ of Kyoto, where I saw geishas on the street and saw a geisha show. There, I learned that, contrary to a common misperception, they are not prostitutes or concubines, but are rather like cultural ambassadors:  They are trained performance artists who dance, sing, have conversations and otherwise provide an elegant atmosphere for visiting dignitaries and guests at banquets and other events. The young women chosen for this profession undergo a process of training and acculturation as lengthy and rigorous as for just about any other profession you can think of. Oh, and while they are maikos—geishas in training—they basically have no contact with their families or anyone outside their okiya (Geisha house), which is strictly controlled by a kind of house mother. 

Oh, and they’re not allowed to have cell phones. Can you imagine any young American signing up for that? And, as long as they’re geishas, they’re not allowed to marry or have boyfriends. They’re “married to the profession.” Hmm…Maybe that has something to do with how diligent Japanese oil people seem to be about their work.

Another insight into what I experienced in Japan came during a visit to the Nonomiya Shrine. One of the exhibits mentioned that in ancient Japanese mythology, all things—even inanimate objects—have souls. I doubt any Japanese person believes that today. But knowing that such a belief was foundational to Japanese culture, I couldn’t help but to wonder whether that is a reason why the Japanese seem to take such good care of everything and keep public spaces so clean.

Or why none of their bike lanes are like the one on 4th Avenue in Sunset Park, Brooklyn—one of the worst in New York, if not all of the United States.

I want to go back to Japan—because of one of the best bike rides I’ve had in New York, not because of youthful wanderlust.