Why I Rode

 This, on a Friday afternoon, in one of winter’s last moments:

I mounted Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike for a ride I needed to do for no other reason that I needed to do it.  Perhaps it had to do with the changing season: My ride took me to, among other places, a spot I reached in May, on the same bike:

I took that photo from a somewhat different angle,  but from the same street, the aptly named Cliffside Drive in Yonkers.

Then, in the middle of Spring, the lush trees and fog made for a lovely sight. On the other hand, those (mostly) same trees wove a wizened fractal pattern against the kind of blue sky and dark scrim of clouds on the horizon one sees only after a long, cold season.

So, since I am a self-indulgent writer, you, dear reader, may be forgiven for thinking that I “read” something about my life into seeing what I saw the other day, especially in comparison to what I saw last Spring.

Well, there hasn’t been a life-changing event recently—at least since my Japan trip— but I feel that this not-quite-finished winter has highlighted the passing of time, at least for me.  As far as I know, I am still in Midlife because I don’t know when my life will end. 

So what brought on thoughts of future becoming past? The seemingly endless, brutal (at least by the standards of this part of the world) Winter certainly has had something to do with it.  But something else—a dream about someone I hadn’t thought about in decades brought me to Google and an “In Memoriam” page for my high school class’s upcoming round-number-year reunion.

I looked up that classmate, whom I didn’t know well, but whom I could count as a friendly acquaintance. I couldn’t find an obituary or any other information about her death—or life since we graduated—because she had an extremely common name. She might’ve married and taken her spouse’s name, but I couldn’t even find any such account.

Was she recently claimed by one of those diseases that takes increasing numbers of people as they age? Or did she die, like another classmate, not long after we graduated in a motor vehicle crash? I hope someone, whether a jealous ex or some random stranger—whether in gang colors or another country’s uniform—didn’t kill her over so some conflict that would or could not be resolved.

You might think she’s the girlfriend I wish I’d had.  You would be at least partially right. Had I been less socially inhibited than I was, I might’ve known her better. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was what someone I knew would’ve called “presentable “:  in good shape (she was a basketball player) and always (as I remember) well put-together.  Most importantly, at least for me, she was (or seemed to be) the most intelligent kid in my school and had a sense of herself that I completely lacked at the time.

Perhaps I was riding for her.

Where Have This Bike—And Its Rider—Been?

 What is an occupational hazard of browsing sites like eBay and Craigslist? Distraction. That is to say—especially with algorithms and AI making suggestions—it’s so easy to fall into to a “rabbit hole” and find yourself looking at things that may be only peripherally, if at all, related to what brought you to the site in the first place. 

Looking at bicycle-related items, which is the reason for much of my browsing, is especially hazardous:  I can spend hours gazing at bikes, parts and accessories, especially if they are old or unused.

Today this beauty caught my eye:

It might have been a custom build. In any case, it looks like a quality machine:  the frame’s workmanship and construction chrome finish look nice and the parts seem to be high- or medium-high class for their time.

The person (I assume it wasn’t AI) who wrote the description said “a friend” raced the bike in “the early 1960’s.” That seems plausible to me, given what I know about bikes from that period. But it’s not just the bike or some of its rarely-seen-today parts, like the Altenburger derailleurs (the front is a dead-ringer for the Campagnolo Valentino “matchbox” design) that linger in my mind.

Six decades have passed since the early 1960’s.  The world is a different place today. Where has that bike been during those years?  Has anyone besides the “friend” ridden it?  Even more to the point (call me morbid) I wonder whether that “friend” is still alive and what he (I’m guessing he, like most racers of the time, was male) did after racing on that bike.  Did he continue racing, or riding at all, on another bike? Or did he “hang it up” after getting a 9-to-5 job and starting a family? Perhaps he turned his attentions to another sport because, at least in the US, there was even less support for cycling than there is now.

That bike definitely has a story!

If It’s The Cruelest

 “April is the cruelest month” is one of the most famous opening lines in English-language literature. What led T.S. Eliot to believe, or at least write, that? In The Waste Land, he tells us ihe month is a time of “breeding lilacs out of the dead land” and “stirring dull roots with spring rain.”

Rebirths certainly can be painful or, at least, arduous. Perhaps that is why lilacs and cherry blossoms have long been my favorite blooms. Not only does their vibrant colors stir me; they inspire—as strange as this may sound—as much empathy in me as any plant can.  Even before I read Eliot’s poem, I felt, even if I couldn’t articulate, how their beauty was as much a denouement of pain as an expression of joy or, at least, relief.

So, if April is the “cruelest” month, what is March?  

Perhaps it’s the month of uncertainty.

That occurred to me the other day, as I rode to work and saw this:

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What Kind Of Cyclist Woukd They Be?

 I haven’t heard the expression “cool cat” in a while. (Maybe I hang out in the wrong circles.) It meant, as I understood it, someone who was unflappable, self-assured and stylish. Or, at least, such a person had their own un-self conscious sense of style and their ease with it was exactly the reason why others tried to emulate it, but couldn’t.

What sort of image would a “cool cat” cyclist project?

A Brief Ride, A Bit of Hope

 The other day I lamented that this winter has felt brutal and seemed endless, not only because of the weather.  

Well, the last couple of days have given us a respite. Today the temperature reached 75F (24C); yesterday it soared to 81F (27C). I’ve managed to sneak out for rides between my classes and student conferences. A jaunt to Randall’s Island revealed that, even if winter resumes, it will not bury eyes opening from beds where remains of skeletal limbs lay and turned to mud.

The Endless Season—And War

 Spring may not have “officially” arrived. 

I woke up just before sunrise, which arrived an hour later than it did the other day because of daylight savings time. Could that have been a reason why dawn today gave a hint or tease, depending on your point of view, of the season people are anticipating more than any other in recent memory.

More snow has fallen and ice has covered local waterways this year than in the past few; people seemed to get sicker and age more.  Of course, weather and epidemiology aren’t the only reasons why this winter has seemed so brutal and endless. Pundits have chattered about our chances of “entering” “another” war; the truth is that this country hasn’t not been in one, declared or not, at least since World War II. Even if he hadn’t attacked Iran, the Fake Tan Fūhrer has been at war—with the people of this country. 

Some have fought against him and paid dearly.  Others are looking for refuge. Either way, they want this winter of discontent to end.

Solo Near Winter’s End (I Think)

The roads are free of snow and ice, finally, but full of sand and salt. The skies were overcast,  but the temperature reached 50F (10C). I took my longest ride in weeks, to Fort Totten and back:  about 45 miles (70km).  

In spite of the mild Saturday, I saw very few people out: not many people drove, even fewer walked, cycled or scootered (Is that a real verb?) and I had Fort Totten to myself, save for a young man who climbed the fence between the main path and the water.

Although what I saw along the way—all familiar—and the weather were nothing like what I experienced in Japan, I was somehow reminded of my trip there.  Perhaps seeing this on the water’s edge had something to do with it:

Why They Don’t Ride To Work

 

In earlier posts, I have written “lines of paint does not a bike lane make,” or words to that effect.  Ron Johnson’s article in Momentum magazine concurs with that—with caveats.

Johnson reports that, according to a study published in The Journal of Cycling and Micromobility Research, some 61 percent of paint-only bike lanes—that is, those that are not delineated by a physical barrier, or separated altogether, from the roadway—are on “high stress” roads which, Johnson explains, are “fast multi-lane corridors where traffic speed and volume make riding uncomfortable for most people.” That, in itself, is problematic, but what makes the situation particularly vexing is that about 77 percent of all US bike lanes.According to my trusty iPad calculator (You don’t want to rely on my math skills!), 46.97 percent—nearly half—of all American bike lanes are paint-only and on “high stress” roads.”

With all due to respect to John Forrester and his crusading for “vehicular cycling,” people who haven’t ridden since they were kids, or recreational riders who want to commute or otherwise use their bicycles as vehicles, aren’t going to cycle in or near traffic if they don’t feel safe. And those are the very people—in addition to brand- new cyclists—we need if cycling and other forms of “micromobility” are to be seen as viable alternatives to automobiles.

Of course, some of the offending “lanes,” particularly those in large cities with extensive networks of streets, are the result of planners who aren’t cyclists. In such environments, there may be alternatives, such as quieter side-streets, to a poorly-conceived of -constructed bike lanes, But in many rural areas, particularly in the South and non-coastal West, the “high-stress” road is the only one connecting one village or county to another. There is also little or no mass transportation, which all but forces people to rely on that “high-stress” road, whether they’re on two, three, four—or no (i.e., pedestrians) wheels.

People in such environments will eschew cycling or other non-motorized transportation as long as there’s nothing but a line of white paint between them and SUVs and semis doing 70 MPH, whatever Mr. Forrester might’ve said.

Was He A Provocateur?

 This is why you should get your news from more than one source.

No, I am not going to talk about the attack on Iran, although that is definitely an example of why.

Rather, I will mention something that happened in Brooklyn last night. It doesn’t have the same ramifications as the war Fake Tan Fũhrer started, but it does have implications for relationships between drivers and cyclists, based on common assumptions about the latter.

According to a Yahoo News story, a sixteen-year-old boy allegedly held onto a  B6 bus as it moved along Bay Parkway near East Second Street. ABC-7 News says he appeared to be holding on, which is somewhat different (in legal terms as well as semantics) but conveys more or less the same impression to most people. The New York Daily News headline, on the other hand, claimed that the boy “interfered with the driver’s route.”

(All italics are mine.)

Whatever happened, the driver—42-year-old Michael Brown—and the boy got into an altercation.  Now Brown is under arrest for punching him in the face, leaving him with a broken nose.

If we can accuse the boy of anything, it’s recklessness and maybe stupidity.  But neither makes him any worse than any other kid. (Confession: I did similar things at his age, and even later.) And it certainly doesn’t warrant what Brown did.

I hope the boy is OK.  I worry, though, that whatever he did could reinforce stereotypes too many people—including, possibly, Brown—hold about cyclists.

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And I Can’t Even Train One!

 Including Marlee, I have had six, and lived with eight, cats in my life. I have also petted, played with and fed others— more than I can count. But I have never been able to get even one to ride a bicycle.

Who trained them? Or did these fabulous felines teach themselves? Inquiring minds want to know.