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 saddlebag—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.

Women’s Work?

When I rode with the Central Jersey Bicycle Club, more than four decades ago, not many women were dedicated cyclists. Save for one who was, probably, close to the age I am now*, they were usually accompanied by boyfriends or husbands.

In most couples, the male cyclist spent much of the ride “drafting” his partner: He rode a few meters ahead of her so she could pedal in the slipstream. There was, however, one couple who “flipped the script.” At first—being young and not knowing otherwise—I thought he followed because he liked looking at her from the rear. (Hate me, if you will, for saying this: I couldn’t blame him.) After a few rides, though, I realized she was the stronger cyclist.

I thought about them, for the first time in ages, when I saw this:

*—I was less surprised by her skill and dedication than I was by her husband, who seemed completely sedentary.

“We Should Charge More For It!”

 When I worked at Highland Park Cyclery, more than four decades ago, deep-V aerodynamic rims and Cinelli cork ribbon (Don’t call it “handlebar tape” to a purist!) were new. As we soon discovered, they had, shall we say, their idiosyncrasies. 

Because the “aero” rims didn’t have eyelets in the spoke holes, spoke nipples easily fell into the space between the rim “well” and the outer V shaped section. That meant shaking the rim or wheel and chasing errant spoke nipples on the floor. Also, because the distance between the “well” and the spots where the spoke entered was greater than on other rims, it was more difficult and time-consuming to thread the nipples and spokes together:  Spoke nipple tools weren’t long enough to reach, and when you couldn’t see the nipple as you inserted it.

Given what I have described, some shops (but not HPC, as I recall) charged more to build wheels with deep-section rims. They also levied an additional fee in addition to the usual cost of wrapping handlebar tape when the customer requested Cinelli cork ribbon because winding it around a handlebar took, let’s say, more finesse—and time—than wrapping with cloth or plastic tape.

Working with those items was a pain in the gluteus maximus, but at least there were good reasons for using them.  Cinelli cork ribbon was more comfortable than other handlebar wraps and grips available at the time and was stylish, if not very durable. But those V rims could stand up to all sorts of conditions, which is one reason why they became popular with messengers in New York City, where some potholes were rumored to have their own ZIP and area codes. (That said, whatever aerodynamic advantages they offered were meaningless for most cyclists.)

I thought about those rims and cork ribbon when I came across an article in road.cc. A clearly frustrated mechanic says shops should charge more for working on bikes with cables routed through the steerer tube. That “wrencher” wasn’t simply whingeing (I have to use the British spelling!) about the inconvenience. Rather, they pointed out—correctly—that the setup serves no discernible purpose but to follow the aesthetic of the peloton or the flashy downhill mountain bikers.

I’m definitely on that mechanic’s side.  In contrast to “aero” rims and Cinelli cork ribbon, there is no reason why anyone—even a top-level racer—“needs” to have their cables hidden in the headtube. Of course, most people don’t need cables internally routed through the top or down tube, either, but at least such arrangements require little, if any, more time or effort to set up.

Attacked, Left To Die On The Island

Right now, I am alternating between feeling guilt and rationalizing a choice I often make.

I have pedaled on and through Randall's Island many, many times.  It lies under the RFK Memorial (formerly Triborough) Bridge.  The misnamed Harlem and East Rivers separate it from Manhattan and Queens, respectively, and a deceptively inert ribbon of water--the Bronx Kill--runs between it and the borough for which the body of water is named.

Most days, it's either uneventful or relaxing:  Most of the island is parkland.  The firefighters' academy occupies part of it; another piece is taken up by a water treatment plant.  A small bridge connects the island to Ward's Island, the site of a mental hospital and homeless shelter. Bike lanes wind around Randall's from the Connector, a bike-pedestrian bridge spanning the Bronx Kill, down the main road and up the Harlem River side near Ward's.

That last stretch is one of the more remote parts of the island.  Diana Agudelo rode it to and from her job at the Museum of the City of New York, the northernmost museum of Manhattan's famed "Museum Mile." I would imagine that she took that route mainly for the same reasons I have:  It is both convenient and relaxing.

That last quality is also what leads some people let their guard down.  I am not saying that Ms. Agudelo was not mindful of her surroundings, but in that island of calm amidst the city's hustle and bustle, it's easy to let one's guard down.  

So she probably had no inkling of what was about to happen to her on Friday night:  About half an hour before midnight, someone attacked and brutally beat her, taking her eBike and cell phone and leaving her to die.  Someone out for a walk found her, unable to move or speak.  She still can't do either, which is making it difficult for police to identify her attacker.

The guilt I mentioned at the beginning of this post is over knowing that someone has suffered a tragedy in the course of doing something I have done many times.  I hope it doesn't become "survivor's guilt."  At the same time, I have been offering rationales to people who've heard Agudelo's story and are admonishing me to "be careful" or simply scare me out of riding on the Island.  I have long been aware of the risks of riding the particular stretch of bike lane where she met her fate, and I almost never ride on the Island after sunset.  

All I can do now is hope that she is a "miracle:"  The doctors have given her a very small chance of surviving.  Oh, and I hope that the thug(s) who attacked her is/are caught.

 

Rainy Day Voyage

 Rain, drizzle, mist, rain. That was today’s weather sequence. Rain when I woke up. Drizzle through my commute. A  curtain of mist when I entered my workplace. And rain cascaded me exit.  

I wimped out and took the train home.  But I got back in time to spend a couple of hours in the Botanical Garden.

A show about Van Gogh and nature will begin Friday. I plan to attend: Flowers? One of my favorite artists?  What’s not to like?

I figured, correctly, that if nothing else, the aftermath of the rain that had subsided by that time would enhance the flowers’ and trees’ scents. It also seemed to amplify birds’ songs. Perhaps I heard them so clearly because they had to share the park with so few visitors.

Even though most of the lilacs—my favorite flowers—are gone, the scents of those that remained found my nose even before I reached the lilac garden.

On my way back to my apartment, I detoured to visit a friend.

Maria. She and other New York bodega cats are a species of their own.

Marlee didn’t seem jealous. They rubbed against my ankles as I walked through the door.

“They Took The Grips”

 Many years ago—before I knew better—someone took the rear wheel from a bike I’d parked.

I thought it was secure because I’d used the most expensive Kryptonite or Citadel lock—I forget which; they were the two “name brands” in U-locks. Anyway, the thief took my rear wheel but left the front which, like the front, had a quick-release lever. And the two wheels were a pair:  the same rims, and hubs that came out of the same box.

Part of the reason why that loss stung so much, apart from cost, was that those wheels were the first I’d built successfully. And I was angry and exasperated in the same way one is when losing one of a pair of something: say, the sock that the washing machine or dryer “ate” or the earring that fell off some time during a busy day.

For a moment, I thought the thief was someone who “had it in” for me or a CIA agent or someone engaging in psychological warfare—why? Because of a protest I attended?

Anyway, l learned to lock up my wheels. But on another occasion, years later, I locked up a bike I normally wouldn’t have left on the street. It cost me a Brooks saddle and seatpost. That was more expensive, I think, than any parking ticket issued on that block:  34th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, next to the Empire State Building.

Of course, now I know that a bike locked to a parking meter, streetlight pole, fence or any other outdoor structure in a large city is a buffet table for thieves, whether of the organized, professional variety or those who commit crimes of opportunity. I have seen many bikes stripped to their bare frames after a few days—or even hours—on a New York sidewalk.

Notice that I said such things happen in any large city. Some poor soul in London also learned about that the hard way. His brand-new Specialized Sirrus X 5.0–“the most expensive bike I ever bought”—lost its wheels and most of its drivetrain. “They even took the grips off my handlebars,” he lamented. Oddly enough, the perp(s) didn’t take the pedals, some of the most commonly stolen parts. According to the owner, the way the bike was parked may have made them difficult to remove.

But the hardest lesson our benighted cyclist learned may have been the insurance company’s denial of his claim. He used two Gold locks, but the insurer refused to reimburse him because the bike wasn’t behind a locked door. 

So…Even if you have the best locks, remember to read your insurance policy carefully. Oh, and don’t leave wheels and other expensive parts vulnerable.

Finding Another Path?

 I played hooky.

Well, technically I didn’t have to be at work. But I had some work-related stuff to do on an absolutely gorgeous mid-Spring morning. And my bicycles were calling me. (Is that a consequence of my naming them?)

So off I pedaled—to Point Lookout.

It’s funny that even on a ride I’ve taken dozens, or even hundreds, of times before, I can still see something I hadn’t noticed before:

Did someone carve a path into the dune? Could animals—or humans—have trodden it into existence?  Or did some unusual sequence of natural events—like the ones that cause rock formations to resemble dragons or even famous people—do their work ?

Trust Me, I Won’t

 When you’re riding your bike (or simply out and about) you’re sure to see certain signs:

Some, however, you won’t see unless you stop—as I did at an intersection near my apartment:

Bike To Wherever

 Local bicycle advocacy groups and other organizations have, for the past two decades or so, organized “Bike to Work” days or weeks, usually in the middle of May.

The other day, cyclists in San Francisco participated in a “Bike to Wherever Day.” While that sounds like a name a bored teenager would come up with, it actually expresses a new reality: The COVID pandemic changed, for many people, the definition of a workplace. Some began working from home and still haven’t gone back to their old offices or other workplaces. Others are on “hybrid” schedules, meaning that they might go to their offices only three, or even two, days a week. Still others became freelancers or started their own businesses, whether by necessity or choice.

All of that means that other duties are often interspersed with paid work:  Picking up or dropping off children, shopping or various commitments and appointments. And some people find it’s simply easier to go for a lunchtime ride from home than from the office, shop, classroom or wherever they were working before the pandemic.

Some of you may have ridden in a “Bike to Work” or “Bike to Wherever” event. Others among you may have such an event coming up this week. Whether or not you have joined, or plan to join, fellow cyclists, I hope you are riding to work, school or wherever!

The Culture War’s Latest Casualty

 I am a non-Christian transgender female cyclist. That makes me a totem in the culture wars.

The MAGA crowd, White and Christians nationalists and all of the other far-right culture warriors (and their sympathizers), by definition, are opposed to anyone and anything that doesn’t fit their definitions of Christianity and womanhood (i.e. perpetual pregnancy and silent submission). Then, when the Fake Tan Führer (FTF)re-entered the White House, they were emboldened to turn their hate on transgenders and anyone else who doesn’t fit their notions of cisgender heterosexuality.

Now the title of Daniel Zawodny’s article in The Baltimore Banner tells us what the latest target of Faux News-addled is:  “What is the latest victim in Trump’s war on woke?  You guessed  it—bike lanes.”

Turns out, Mr. Zawodny is not being engaging in hyperbole or hysterics. Rather, he recounts how FTF’s Secretary of Transportation Sean Duffy—who claims he’s “not opposed to bike lanes” and that he “loves bikes”—confirmed a pause on all Federal funding for bike and pedestrian infrastructure pending a review considering the Trump Administration’s priorities. 

Given FTF’s hostility to cyclists—and environmentalists, anyone who wants social and economic justice and any energy source that isn’t nuclear or a fossil fuel—I have a difficult time imagining those priorities including us.