We’re Not Bad For Business. Really!

 

In 1979, I rode in New York City’s Five Boro Bike Tour for the first time.  It was the third edition of what became an annual event and marked the first time the Triboro (now known as RFK Memorial) Bridge was closed to auto traffic.

I took the ride with two fellow students from Rutgers. We were among the few-thousand cyclists who participated; it had not yet become the sort of event that gets listed in TimeOut. It also didn’t have the $125 entry fee—a sum I never could have afforded as a university—of this year’s Tour.

I would participate in 19 more 5BBTs—two as a marshal—before deciding that it had become something people “did” rather than rode. (Plus, I had long since decided I would not pay to ride in my hometown.) But a recent news story reminded me of something I experienced on that 1979 ride.

In preparation for being one the World Cup host cities, Mexico City built a 24 kilometer (15 mile) protected bike lane from the city center to the main World Cup stadium. As expected, there were complaints and protests. Were city officials concerned about snow removal? Did business owners worry about parking? Are drivers irate over losing one of “their” lanes to cyclists?

I am sure that those common objections—save, perhaps, for snow removal—were voiced in regards to the Gran Ciclovía Tenochtittlán. But GCT upset another group of people who, as far as I know, have never before been involved in a bike lane controversy:  sex workers.

GCT’s route includes part of Avenida Tlalpan, where sex work has flourished for decades. (I don’t know this information firsthand: I have my sources!☺️)  Before the bike lane came (no pun intended—really!) in, pleasure providers would stand by the outermost traffic lanes. This allowed potential clients to slow down, stop and negotiate.

GCT has “taken” that outermost lane. So the World Cup—which, one assumes, would have been good for business—has instead all but destroyed not only a potential bonanza, but also their future prospects.

Before I make the connection with my 5BBT experience, I have to mention something else that occurs to me:  I have heard of one instance in which someone solicited from a bicycle.  When I was living in Park Slope, Brooklyn during the 1990s, the area under the nearby Gowanus Expressway was known to be an active prostitution area at least since World War II. One raid—which took place around the time then-Mayor Rudolph Giuliani was “cleaning up” Times Square—resulted from a would-be “John” soliciting an undercover cop from his bicycle.  I heard that when he was arrested, his bike was impounded.

The route of the 1979 5BBT, like that of every edition since, included a long stretch along the Brooklyn waterfront. Not far from where that two-wheeled terror met his end years later, there was a checkpoint. Gentrification and hipsters were years into the future for Williamsburg and Red Hook; those then-largely-industrial areas were all but abandoned on weekends.

Note that I said “all but.” At the checkpoint, while we were getting our cards stamped, some of us were greeted, shall we say, by folks wanting to do business. Being a broke student was just one reason why I didn’t. (In case you were wondering:  I have never paid, at least monetarily or with goods or other services, for sex.) I wonder, though, whether any other 5BBT riders did—and, if so, whether it’s proof cyclists aren’t bad for business.

Bikes And Bombs?

 As bad as I am at math, my freshman year of university showed me that I could actually be worse in another subject: economics.  I took one course and have told people, only half-jokingly, that I passed it (with a “D”) only because I promised the professor I would never again disgrace his discipline by taking another course in it.

Although I understood nothing, I remember a couple of things about the class. One is that the professor would exclaim, “MR=MC Always,” while pounding the podium.  And I recall something about “guns and butter.” I think it was about choosing between the two.

Well, years later I saw a poster that read, Bikes Not Bombs.” I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment, not only because I love cycling:  I believe that the only htrue advance the human race can make is by ending war, now and forever.  But I am enough of a realist to see that it probably won’t happen, especially in the current political climate.

It seems, however, that more than one politician has flipped the “Bikes Not Bombs” slogan.   

Here in the US, we might expect a right-wing politician to make the argument that money spent on bike lanes and other cycling-related infrastructure and programs would come at the expense of the defense budget. (They have been making the same sort claim about arts and healthcare-for-all vs the military for decades.) But, interestingly, in the UK, Wes Streeting, a Labour politician who sought the party’s leadership made exactly that sort of false equivalence.  What’s even more astonishing is that as a former Health Secretary, he should know about the health benefits of cycling.

What made the parliamentary debate even more bizarre was not that Andrew Murrison, a Member of Parliament and a Navy veteran agreed, more or less.  It’s that another veteran and Member of Parliament, Al Pinkerton, shot down (no pun intended) their argument. “I am perfectly happy to spend money on both cycleways and defence,” he announced. 

Hmm..bikes and bombs? I guess that isn’t so far-fetched when you consider that one of earliest British bicycle manufacturers—and, for a long time, the most respected maker of bicycle components—was Birmingham Small Arms Ltd.

At What Age?

 

After Saturday’s ride to Point Lookout, I was very tired. I thought it might’ve had to do with my age, but I realized that as beautiful as the day was, the direct sunlight was draining me. So was the wind I pedaled into for most of my way back. 

I got to thinking about age again today, after riding to a few errands—and to vote in the primary.  The election workers were great.  One, a sweet-faced Black lady a decade or so younger than me (or so I guessed), was impressed that I pedaled to the polling place: a nearby high school gymnasium.

Only one other person who wasn’t a poll worker was in that room at the same time I was.  I wondered what he was doing there. On our way out, we exchanged greetings. “I apologize if I was looking at you too long.  But you look very young.”

“I’m 22. But people tell me I look 16.”

“That’s exactly how old I thought you were,”

We laughed. Somehow I knew then he was mature beyond his years. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

Later, I thought about how looking so young must complicate some things for him.  He’s old enough to vote, drive and drink, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets passed over for dates, jobs or other opportunities, or if he’s simply not included in some circles because of assumptions people make about him.

When I was his age—and when I was 16, for that matter—people thought I looked older.  Now I am one of the youngest residents of my senior citizens’ building, and people tell me I look younger.

Actually, I’ve been thinking about age a fair amount lately, ever since I had a dream about a high-school classmate, only to find her name on the “In Memoriam” list of my class’s round-number reunion page. While some, like me, looked older and others seemed younger, nearly all of us were just to one side or the other of 18 years old on the day we graduated. I was one of the ones who hadn’t reached that milestone and was therefore not considered an adult in New Jersey (where I graduated) or most other places.  On the other hand, those who got to the big one-eight could join the military, open a bank account, sign a lease or do a myriad of other things without their parents’ or guardians’ permission.  And, of course, they could vote.

What’s even stranger is that those of us who went to college or university were perceived as adults, more or less, even if we had yet to turn 18.  Even on the day I first set foot on the Rutgers campus, I knew I wasn’t a very, if at all, different person from the one I was a couple of months earlier, when I received my high school diploma. That fact became more obvious as the years went by.

In recalling my encounter with the young man at the polling place, I can’t help but to think that the standards we use, especially ones like age, to confer one kind of status or another on someone, are so arbitrary. I can only imagine what the young man I met today experiences because of his very boyish appearance.

Happy Father’s Day

 

She Will Always Be In The Middle of Her Life

This blog is called “Midlife Cycling.” Today’s post will emphasize the first part of a title.

Opal Lee of Fort Worth, Texas is 98 years old. But she is still in the middle of her life.  Like 99 percent of us, she doesn’t know when her life will end. But, as I will explain later, there is another reason why she still is, and most likely will remain, in midlife.

When she was a girl, her family, like many in Texas and in the African-American diaspora, celebrated “Juneteenth” (a portmanteau of “June” and “nineteenth “) with picnics and other gatherings.  On 19 June 1865–two months after the US Civil War ended and more than two years after the Emancipation Proclamation—Major General Gordon Granger of the Union Army read, from several public places in Galveston, the proclamation that the slaves of Texas we’re free.

The following year, newly-freed slaves held commemorations in the places where General Granger made his pronouncement. During the ensuing years, observances and celelebrations spread to African-American communities in other parts of the country.  They petered out, ironically, as the Civil Rights movement began in the 1950s, mainly because the Great Migration slowed down and there were very few surviving former slaves.

The happy memories Ms.Opal, as she calls herself, ended on Juneteenth of 1939:  White vigilantes took the occasion to burn down her family’s home and toss out all of their furniture. That act, barbaric as it was, actually strengthened her connections to the day.  After earning a Master’s degree and retiring from her work as a teacher and counselor, she became active with the Tarrant County Black Historical and Genealogical Society, which was responsible for overseeing local Juneteenth celebrations. 

She soon realized, however, that those celebrations (which included picnics that made my mouth water just from reading about them) weren’t enough, given the importance of the day.  So, at age 89, she began the campaign, which included some very long walks and impromptu visits, to make Juneteenth a national holiday. Her persistence paid off on 17 June 2021, when President Joe Biden signed a bill to recognize this day, 19 June—“Juneteenth”—as a Federal holiday. Banks, post offices and other institutions are closed in observance.  

Now I am going to explain something I said earlier. Ms. Opal knows that, even at her age, her work is not finished. She continues to do what, she says, is the purpose of Juneteenth: informing and educating people about the significance of the event that prompted it.  “Great nations don’t ignore their most painful moments,” she says.  “They embrace them.”  Echoing Frederick Douglass, Martin Luther King Jr. and other freedom fighters, she explains that she wants to bring all people together:”Nobody is free until we’re all free.”

Anyone who thinks that way knows her work, and life, aren’t done.  Ms. Opal will always be in the middle of them.

The First Time, Again

 They say you never forget how to ride a bike. That’s true, more or less.

At least, that’s the case for “Carrie.” She’s the S.O. of “Sam,” the friend and riding partner I met not long after moving into my current place. We have become friends, not only because of her relationship with ‘Sam:” We “got” each other in spite (or because?) of our differing backgrounds.  Turns out, we have more in common than I ever would have imagined.

Among those common experiences is cycling, at least in her youth.  She hadn’t ridden in at least  25 years. At first, I thought she wanted to ride again simply to join “Sam” and me. After finding a suitable bike for her and seeing her on her first rides, I realized that she was looking for something else.

Getting a bike on which she would be comfortable was the first step.  She is about 5’3” 160 cm) and, while a few years younger than me or “Sam,” has trouble lifting her leg over the top bar of a “diamond” frame. (She tried one “Sam” found.) And she wanted something pretty, which I can well understand.

Here in New York City, shopping for a bike on Craigslist is, shall we say, an adventure. Some of the listed bikes are stolen. Others are billed as “vintage.” Translation:  The seller wants $400 for something they fished out of the Gowanus Canal. 

Somehow I lucked out:  A Trek bike with an aluminum frame and 24 inch wheels for a decent price. Although the location was given as “Upper East Side” it was, in fact in East Harlem. But the seller seemed OK:  She described the bike as accurately as she could and explained that she’d bought it for her daughter who no longer lives with her.  The bike was actually in pretty good condition:  The wheels were true and spun smoothly; the tires and tubes weren’t punctured or dry-rotted.  I did, however, replace the cables, as I would on any used bike.

Her first ride nearly stopped my and “Sam’s” hearts:  She wobbled and fell.  Fortunately, she didn’t have even a bruise or a scrape. And she wanted to try again.  And again. Finally, she rode straight as the chainline on my fixie down the block and back. “I did it! I can’t wait to do more!”  

“We will.”

Now I believe I understand why she wanted so much to ride. She probably wanted to share another aspect of my and “Sam’s” lives. But her exultation told me something else:  Getting on the bike and riding, even for such a short distance, is a genuine accomplishment. It’s something we need at any stage in our lives, especially as we age fret that “we aren’t what we used to be.” It doesn’t matter what that achievement is, whether it’s as big as earning a degree or writing a book, or as “small” as learning how to cook a new dish.

Oh, and “Carrie” looked like she was having fun she hadn’t had in a long time, if ever.  She needed it; we all need to experience that kind of joy, for the first time again, at any age.

What To Wear, At My Age?

 You’ve heard of MAMILs:  Middle-Aged Men In Lycra.

Although I am in the middle of my life, I can’t be a MAMIL for one reason, and won’t be one (or, for that matter, a MAWIL—it doesn’t have the same ring) for another.

Acting Our Age

“Sam”’s observation got me to thinking about my experiences as a young cyclist and one in the middle of my life.

When I first became a dedicated cyclist, in the early-to-mid 1970s, I participated in a few organized rides. The ones for charity (e.g., UNICEF or diabetes research) included riders of varying ages. Some adolescents, like me, rode with friends or alone. Younger kids, on the other hand, were accompanied by parents or other adults; I am guessing that was a requirement for children under a certain age.  The adults who weren’t accompanying kids seemed to go alone or as part of a contingent from some workplace or other organization.

The rides that weren’t charity events, like the ones the Monmouth County parks commission organized, had an entirely different demographic makeup.  I was almost invariably the youngest rider, often by decades. I hadn’t thought about that until now. It begs the question of why.

All of those adult riders, unless they grew up in other countries, lived through decades when few adults rode bicycles and nearly everyone traded two wheels for four, and two pedals for one, as soon as they had their driver’s licenses.  Some, I am sure, participated in that American rite of passage before re-discovering the joys of cycling. But, judging from their comments and conversations among themselves and with me, it didn’t seem as if they’d abstained from cycling for very long: They seemed to have a breadth of experience and wealth of knowledge beyond what my peers or the books and magazines could offer me.

I didn’t mind being the new kid, literally and figuratively, on those rides. Those riders treated me well; for what may have been the first time in my life, I was with adults who weren’t condescending, even if they had reason to be. No one told me I needed a better (lighter) bike than my Schwinn Continental, though I must admit that I envied their seemingly-otherworldly Peugeots, Bottechias, Raleigh Competitions and Fujis. 

I now realize that, ironically, I was, in a way, doing the same thing as my peers who stopped cycling as soon as they were allowed to drive. We were, to the degree we could, emulating the adults in our lives. In the US, for the past century or so, learning to drive, getting a license and finally taking one’s place at the steering wheel has been equated with growing up. I am sure that the adult cyclists I met on those rides were, unless they came from elsewhere, inculcated with that belief. So, in order to become what I saw, they had to be confident and un-self-conscious: I am sure that they were told, at some point or another, they were “too old” for a “kid’s” activity like bike-riding.

I wanted to be like them. It didn’t matter whether they were teachers, aviators, store managers, artists or iron workers: They all looked like they belonged on their bikes.  And they were simply having fun:  something I didn’t know adults were allowed.

Looking back, however, I can see one glaring problem:  All of those cyclists were men. Not that their maleness was a bad thing; I knew, even then, that whatever I became when I “grew up,” I didn’t want to be a man. I don’t think I saw an adult female cyclist on an organized ride that wasn’t a charity event until I rode, years later, with the Central Jersey Bicycle Club.

Which brings me back to “Sam’s” observation: The riders we saw on non-electric, non-motorized bikes were indeed “older.” But at least some were women, a few of whom rode alone.  Now those are the adults I would have loved to have as role models!

In The Middle Of Our Journeys

 Yesterday Sam and I rode the Van Cortlandt Park trail to Yonkers, where we picked up the Westchester County trail to Millwood. Both of these routes are part of the Empire State Trail.

As we neared the end of our ride, he made an interesting observation.  “All of the riders we’ve seen on pedal bikes are older.”  He added that the e-bike and motorized scooter riders were young.

Now, I must say that given our ages, it’s a little odd to refer to “older” people, even if we are in the middle of our lives. Sure, some had gray or graying hair on their heads and faces.  But do they see themselves as “older?” Or so they share my belief that we’re in the middle of our lives as long as we don’t know when we’re going to die?

And what of this one, out for a walk on a beautiful day? Does she know whether she’s near the beginning or end, or in the middle of her life?

The Bike Knows

 “Where are you riding today?”

“Wherever the bike wants bike wants to go!”

The bike knows…

Poking (Or Drilling) Holes In Their Defenses

 Why?

The “drillium” craze reached its peak during the late 1970s and early 1980s. The ostensible goal was to save weight. So many folks beleved, then as now, that extra gram on a brake lever would cause them to lose a race, or simply face. So they went against manufacturers’ warnings not to “try this at home and bored into cranks, chainrings, brake calipers and any other part they could reach with a carbide bit.

While some “hokey” parts made sense and were even beautiful, there are some I will never understand. For example, unless you do all of your riding in surgically antiseptic environments, I cannot understand why you would make the inner workings of a hub vulnerable to dirt, dust and moisture.

The funny thing is that this hub has what looks like a partial freewheel attached to it. Did someone remove two cogs (it looks like a five-speed freewheel) to save weight?

Manufacturers always insisted that they drilled—or did anything else to save weight—only as much as they believed was safe. Ironically, some perforated parts—like Campagnolo’s Super Record brake levers and the version of Huret’s Jubilee derailleur with pinpoint holes in its pulley cage—actually weighed a few grams more than their un-drilled counterparts.

I would love to know how (or whether) that hub and freewheel were ridden.

If It’s Brown

 Throughout my decades of cycling, I’ve heard all sorts of advice about cycling, training, nutrition—and the bikes themselves. Sometimes, after receiving one dictum, I got another that contradicted it—sometimes from the same person or other source.

For example, I saw an article touting the benefits a new paint job. In the same publication, a few months later, another item by the same contributor said repainting a bike frame is not worthwhile because no refinishing is as good as the original.  The work Mercian did in restoring Vera, my Miss Mercian mixte and Tosca, my fixie, is evidence against that argument.

Then again, I can understand not wanting to give your frame a new coat. Perhaps you can’t afford it or justify the cost. Or you don’t care about looks or don’t believe your frame will rust or corrode away. 

I think the reason the owner of this bike might have had for not painting it is self-explanatory.

I tried to get better photos, but the position in which it was parked, between a scooter and a building, foiled my efforts. You probably can see, however, how well that rust-streaked frame goes with the brown rims and saddle.

16=6,000,000?

 June is only two days old. Yet this month already includes two milestones for this blog.

Yesterday, this blog’s total number of views reached 6 million. That may not seem like a lot, at least in comparison with some other blogs.  But recently, days of five-figure viewer counts have become routine; a few days have included more than 100,000 visits.  When I first started this blog, I felt fortunate to have a double-digit daily viewership.

That was 16 years ago today. What, aside from the numbers, has changed? Well, this blog began as a sort of spinoff from “Transwoman Times” as I was returning to cycling after my gender reassignment surgery. I wasn’t quite sure of what recounting my experience as a transgender cyclist would or could mean. But I felt my gender affirmation was a turning or “middle” point on my life and, for the first time, I realized that if I didn’t know, exactly, when my life would end, I am still in the middle of it,That is one reason why I chose to call this “Midlife Cycling” rather than something like “Trans-portation” or “Tne New Girl on a Bike.”

( No, I won’t rename this “The Six Million Viewer Blog” because it sounds too much like “The Six Million Dollar Man.”)

Turns out, that title has given me flexibility: I do not have to write exclusively about cycling, bicycles, gender, age or anything else.  I realize now that what I’ve always wanted is a writing forum that allows me the freedom to go wherever my thoughts, dreams, memories—and wheels—take me. But I also wanted something that would seem, or at least feel, more meaningful, if only to me, than the diaries and journals I’ve kept at various times in my life. 

Now you know why I have not monetized this blog. After sixteen years and six million views, I want it, and my other journeys (on or off my bike) —and I—to continue wherever and however we want and must.

His Offense?

 I am not a fan of parades.  I’ve marched in a few, mainly because of social pressures. In some cases, like the Pride March (formerly known as the “Gay Pride Parade), I was in solidarity with the people, and wanted to commemorate the occasions, it represented. But I don’t like being forced to be on display, or part of a crowd, and nonstop loud noise drives me crazy. Also, I question the motives of many, especially politicians and other celebrities, for showing up.  Call me a cynic, but I think their appearances are mainly for photo ops and, in the case of politicians, endorsements and votes.

That said, I can understand why some were upset when the Mayor of my hometown didn’t appear at its Israel Day parade. I won’t get into what I think of the country’s leadership during the past few decades—that is well beyond the scope of this blog—but, having visited the sites of Jewish arrests, deportations and executions, I can understand the desire, and arguments for the need, of a Jewish state.  On the other hand, having seen people who are now Muslims, Arabs, Turks, Armenians and of other Middle Eastern religions and ethnicities on lands occupied by their ancestors before they were called Muslims, Arabs or any of their other names by which we call them today, I also understand their ties, and their rights, to those lands. And because I have experienced decency, kindness and hospitality from members of all of the groups I’ve mentioned, I can bear no ill will toward any of them.

Having said all of that, I can also understand some of the criticism of Mamdani (for whom I voted) for being the first New York City mayor to skip the Israel Day Parade since it was first held, in 1964. After all, New York City has the second-largest Jewish population of any city or metro area in the world. (Interestingly, the only city and urban area among the top ten that isn’t in Israel or the United States is Paris, France. And the only two others in the top fifteen are London, UK and Buenos Aires, Argentina.) And Mamdani is Muslim, albeit of Indian heritage and Ugandan birth.

Therein lies one of the complications in making his “no-show” at the Israel Day Parade into a Muslim-Jewish conflict. For one thing, his background (and that he doesn’t seem to be an overtly devout Muslim) doesn’t place him in the typical narratives about such a conflict.  Also, the only US metropolitan areas with larger Muslim populations than New York’s are Los Angeles and Detroit. Moreover,  Muslims in New York come from a wide variety of sects and cultural backgrounds spanning every continent except Antarctica.  (Just blocks from my apartment resides one of the largest West African Muslim communities outside of West Africa, and barely a mile from that is the largest Yemeni Muslim community outside of Yemen.) Thus, someone practicing, or simply descending from, Islamic roots is more likely to have something in common with someone like Mamdani than the young men who flew planes into the Twin Towers and Pentagon.

So…what to make of Mamdani not showing his face at the Israel Day Parade? Perhaps better minds than mine can answer that one. But the New York Post did what you can always depend on it to do: get it wrong.

I mean, they would have you believe that going for a bike ride on a beautiful Sunday afternoon was as big, or an even bigger, offense.