Taking In Tokyo On Two Wheels

 I have claimed this city for myself.

That is a bold, even bombastic statement, I know. But that is how I feel any time I’ve taken a bike ride after arriving for the first time in some place. That city, town or even country, even if I have experienced only a small part of it, becomes a part of me.

Tokyo is new to me. It doesn’t, however, feel as strange as it did last night when, the closer I came to my hotel, the more lost I became. Is it my imagination, or do Google Maps directions become more vague the closer you come to your destination? 

I had a similar experience this morning when I went to meet a group for a bike tour. When I got off the Metro at Daimon station, I was across the street from the meetup spot. That street is wide—like a “stroad”—and the point of reference wasn’t easy to spot. So I wandered away from it and missed the ride. Fortunately, the folks at Tokyo Rental Bicycle allowed me to join their afternoon tour. In the meantime I wandered around Shiba Park, which includes everything from traditional Japanese gardens and memorials to a modern playground, and fronts this:

Who knew that a flight across the Pacific would land me in Paris? Or that instead of the Champ de Mars and Invalides, I would see it from the Shoguns’ burial site?

Anyway, after seeing that, I entered the Zojoji Temple just as a ceremony was about to begin. I had just enough time to photograph the interior: Although I am not religious, I have enough respect to honor the request not to take pictures during the ritual. I thought it looked new for such an ancient temple. Turns out, it was reconstructed, using both ancient and modern techniques, half a century ago on the site of the Tokugawa Shogun’s family temple. That building stood on the site for centuries before bombing raids leveled it in 1945.

After spending time there, and in the Treasures Gallery, I figured out where the bike tours met and took a ride with Sho,  a young Tokyo native tour guide, a woman and her son from Strasbourg, France (I can’t leave wFrance, can I? and another woman, originally from Spain but living ini Belgium and speaking French (!) as her everyday language.

The first stop on our tour was the Zoiji Temple and the shrines, which I had just visited. I didn’t mind: Sho explained, among other things, the differences between a shrine and a temple (A shrine is usually for Shinto and has a gate delineating it from the rest of the world; the latter is more commonly associated with Buddhism.)and how the role of the royal family has changed. He told us to park our bikes right outside the temple’s entrance—without locking them. As a New Yorker, it amazes me that people leave their bikes unsecured in public places of such a large city!

From there, we rode to the Imperial Palace. Like the Zojoji Temple, it’s a reconstruction of a building destroyed by Allied bombing raids near the end of World War II. The Palace itself isn’t open to the public except on special occasions, but the grounds, which include a moat and fortifications, are nice—and a short from Tokyo Station.

Then we cycled to what Show half-jokingly called “the most expensive Air BnB: Akasaka Palace, where visiting dignitaries stay. From there, we made one of two climbs included in the ride (You have to get your money’s worth, right?) to the National Stadium, built for the “2020” Olympics held a year later due to COVID and, much to the dismay of taxpayers, hasn’t been used and to a Hachiko’s grave. (Yes, there’s also a tombstone for the dog who waited for him!) Sho mentioned that all of the trees in that graveyard, where some of Japan’s wealthiest and most famous people are interred, are cherry blossoms. It made me wish I could have come early in the spring!

As if to show us what a city of contrasts Tokyo is, Show took us to the Aoyama Fashion District and Shibuya Crossing, which makes Times Square seem like an intersection in one of those town’s where there’s only one traffic light. Aoyama and Shibuya epitomize everything you’ve heard about hyper-modern Tokyo.

Now that I’ve taken the Tour, with Show guiding us, I feel more confident and ready to explore a city that I feel is now mine, if in a small way. A bike ride always seems to do that for me.

Our group. Please try not to notice the weight I gained this winter!

I rode this.

Crossing A Line

So where in the world is Justine, a.k.a. the author of Midlife Cycling?

OK, here’s the the first clue:

The sky is overcast, but neither it nor the water are as murky as they appear: I took the photo through a not-so-clear window. We should see a sunrise tomorrow.

Now, here’s another clue:

Hot coffee in a canister.  I can’t find that in my local bodega.

And one doesn’t normally find these on arriving at an American hotel or B&B:

Finally, here’s one more tip-off that you’re definitely not in New York City—or anywhere in the United States:

Even if you couldn’t see the signs, or didn’t notice people’s faces, I think you could tell I wasn’t on the D train.

I am indeed in Tokyo.  After a 13 hour-plus flight, I need some sleep. But tomorrow I’ll be exploring—on bike, I hope.

Watch for this notice at your local post office:  

“WANTED:  Justine Valinotti (alias: the Midlife Cyclist Blogger). For crossing the International Date Line to ride a bicycle.”

On My Way

My next post will be from a  place I haven’t mentioned before. Stay tuned!

Why Do We Call It A Bike?

 When I was growing up, and when I was living as a man, everyone in my family called me by a shortened version of my old name, with an “ee” sound at the end of it. I always hated that nickname even more than my full name. There reasoning was that an uncle and my father shared that name. 

(I hated being a “junior “ even more than my nickname.)

For some reason, however, no one ever called my brother Michael “Mike.”

What got me to thinking about all of that? This:

From One Connection to Another?

 Today, for the first time in a week, I took a ride that didn’t involve errands or some other purpose. I pedaled, into the the wind, to Point Lookout. That meant, of course, the wind pushed me on my way back.

As I munched on the chips and salsa (homemade—in my home) I brought with me, a lady asked whether I minded sharing the bench with her. “Of course not!” The man who accompanied her said, half-jokingly, “I trust you with her.” 

“You don’t know me!” I joked back.

Vera is a delightful conversationalist. After an hour or so, she invited me to her house—only a block away—for iced tea. Her dog Willie greeted me at the gate and she introduced me to her husband, sons and grandson.

COVID, it seemed, turned many people inward, or caused them to tune out. But Vera said it had the opposite effect on her: After seeing people die, she “came to appreciate “ that she’s still here—at 92 years old. I never would have guessed.

So I got home quite a bit later than I expected. I felt a little guilty about that because ‘it’s the first time I’ve left Marlee alone for a whole day since I brought her back from the hospital. Before I left, he was trying to rub his face on me but the “Elizabethan collar” got in the way. 

We will have our connection soon enough, I hope. But for today I made another connection—or, to be exact, Vera made one with me. We exchanged addresses and phone numbers and asked me to call the next time I’m out that way.

Taking Their Bike Lane—Or Making Another Possible

 Keith Kingbay did as much as anyone could have to keep the torch flickering during what Sheldon Brown has called “The Dark Ages” of American cycling. He was a racer who helped to develop what was, for a couple of decades, the only world-class racing or touring bike made, or even conceived, in the US: the Schwinn Paramount.

But perhaps more important, he was a strong advocate for cycling when there were still relatively few adult cyclists in the US. He helped to reorganize the all-but-moribund League of American Wheelmen into the League of American Cyclists. So, perhaps not surprisingly, he championed what we now call “bicycling infrastructure.”

I now recall reading his articles and a book he authored or co-authored in the early or mid-1970s, when I first became a dedicated cyclist. As I am remembering, he said something to the effect that getting community support for cycling events is not difficult because bicycles are “not controversial.”

He passed away three decades ago. I thought of him in light of an argument about a Brooklyn bike lane.

In recent years, bicycles have become, at least in the US, symbols of environmental awareness and sustainability or, if you are of a different social and political persuasion,  everything that threatens the top-down, fossil fuel-consuming world as you’ve known it. In other words, it’s become a symbol of evolution or destruction.

While some individual religious people cycle for transportation or recreation, their organizations —especially if they are fundamentalist or otherwise conservative —aren’t exactly advocates for cyclists or cycling . On the surface, their hostility has to do with their alliances with right-wing politics. But if you probe deeper, you realize that the marriage of religious fundamentalism and political conservatism that veers into facism has to do with a shared interest in preserving patriarchal economic and social structures and what they perceive as “traditional” gender roles.

So, while the Satmar Chasidic Jews of Brooklyn may not have, or want, much participation in the techno-financial complex, they don’t want “scantily-clad” “sexy-ass hipster girls” rolling through their neighborhoods. That is why they (or their leaders at any rate) opposed Citibike, New York’s bike share program, and bike lanes.

Their opposition to the latter would have, only a few years ago, explained their delight in Judge  Carolyn Walker-Diallo’s ruling to uphold Mayor Eric Adams’ decision to remove a protected bike lane on Bedford Avenue, one of the borough’s major thoroughfares, without community notification or the other normal processes required for a major transportation project. In essence, Judge Walker-Diallo said that bike lane removal or replacement is not a major transportation project.

But the Chasidic community’s—and the neighborhood’s —leaders were not pleased. Not because, as it turns out,  Walker-Diallo contributed financially to the political campaign of a local bike lane opponent. Nor did it matter that the Department of Transportation under Adams, who is widely disliked in the community*, installed the lane.

Rather, their umbrage has to do with the fact that children were using the lane to ride their bikes to school. In fact, the suit against the lane’s removal (which ended with the judge’s decision) was initiated on behalf of one of those children. Peter Beadle, the lawyer representing him used the DOT’s own data showing that protected bike lanes reduced injuries by nearly half—to no avail.

He did, however, see a glimmer of hope. If changing from one type of bike lane to another doesn’t require community notice, he said, “then we need to change all non-protected lanes to protected lanes immediately because we know they make all road users safer.”

So, if bicycles themselves aren’t controversial, as Keith Kingbay wrote half a century ago, could he—or anyone else—have foreseen the controversies they could engender, let alone how they could flip political alliances?

*—I, too, am not a fan of the mayor, if for different reasons.

Marlee’s Home

 

After The Ride

 So why, dear readers, have you not heard from me since the Fourth?

(You might also be wondering why I’ve started this post with a question that sounds like something from an 18th Century epistleary novel. But I digress.)

No, I didn’t spend the past two days recovering from a wild birthday bash. 

Saturday, the day after the Fourth, could hardly have been better for cycling : temperatures reached the low 80s (27-28C), the sun illuminated high cirrus clouds and moderate wind blew in from the southeast. And surprisingly little traffic claimed the roadway. 

So of course I rode. On such a day I expected to see more people than I saw on the sand or in the water at Rockaway and Long Beaches and Point Lookout. One section of Jacob Riis Park was full, but there was some sort of gathering or celebration in progress. I didn’t see anything like the crowds I expected (and feared) until I got to Coney Island, where it seemed that nobody went home after the previous day’s fireworks and hotdog eating contest (of which I never understood the appeal ).

As the day—Saturday, the day after the Fourth —had grown late, I knew that even if the volume of traffic didn’t grow, the level of alcohol consumption would . So I took the train home, happy with the 85 mile (140 km) ride I’d taken on a beautiful day .

My great mood ended when I got home and saw splotches—of blood?—scattered across the floor and Marlee lying in a small puddle, acknowledging me only with her eyes. No veterinary offices or clinics were open, so I left a message with Bronx Veterinary Center, the first to open yesterday morning .

After spending most of the day there, I got the prognosis: kidney stones and blockages in her digestive and excretory systems. She underwent surgery and will be there until tomorrow.

Last night was lonely: It was my first at home, in decades, without her—or any other cat.

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.