Midlife Rock Stars?

On this date in 1969, Apollo 11 landed on the moon. The following day, Neil Armstrong and “Buzz’ Aldrin became the first humans to walk on the lunar surface.

I was a kid, so those days were not like any others I had ever known.  It was the first time that I could recall when, it seemed, the world stopped: regularly-scheduled television programs, baseball games and other events were paused, postponed, canceled or rescheduled. There was nothing else on TV because, really, not many people would have wanted to watch anything else.

Perhaps not surprisingly, Aldrin and Armstrong—and Michael Collins, who remained in orbit around the moon and, arguably, was the most important person in Apollo 11’s success— were given a hero’s welcome. I would go as far as to say the that they attained a status in people’s minds that no one else has before or since.

In one sense, they were like rock stars: They seemed larger than life and so many young people wanted to be like them—or, at least, the image they held of those men. And that image includes one of youth: The fame, fortune and glamor of being a rock star seems attainable because some achieve it in their 20s or even earlier: They aren’t much older than siblings, cousins or, in some cases, aunts or uncles. And in one sense, the astronauts seemed young because they were fit and energetic (and, depending on your perspective, handsome) and represented the future.

The image, of course, differs from the reality. Just almost no young person has any idea of just how much hard work it takes to become a successful musical performer, even if you have Jimi Hendrix’s talent, they don’t know how much intensive training someone has to undergo—sometimes at the cost of marriages and other things in life—to become an astronaut.

Oh, and the astronauts weren’t as young as they might have seemed. Aldrin, Armstrong and Collins were born within a few months of each other in 1930. That would have made them nearly 40 by the time of Apollo 11. While that is not old, I think some would say they were middle-aged. Given Armstrong lived to be 82 and Collins to 90–and that Aldrin is 96–they could all be said to have been, literally, in the middle of their lives when they took that historic flight.

Did that make them midlife rock stars?

Bicycling in (the) Middle Age(s)?

 Bicycling in (the) Middle Age(s)?

Midlife Bikes

 

Yesterday I pedaled Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike, to City Island and back. It wasn’t a long ride: about 16 miles (26 km), and only because I took a slightly convoluted route on my way out. But I was happy because I felt good: My body and bike felt as if they were were one, an absolutely perfect form of energy spinning across pavement and dirt.

I have been riding Tosca for nearly two decades, longer than any other bike I’ve ever owned. It was repainted once. I can’t think of anything I’d change on her. I feel the same way about my other bespoke Mercians—Dee-Lilah, my Vincitore Special and La-Vande, my King of Mercia—and Vera, my Miss Mercian mixte.  

Why am I praising my bikes now?  Somehow Infound myself thinking about how, in my youth, I would’ve followed the Tour de France (running now) and other races and wanted to make my bikes more like those Eddy Merckx, Bernard Hinault, Lance Armstrong (before I knew how much he’d cheated) and other champions. Their bikes weren’t very different from the Colnago or Land Shark I rode. But I always felt the need to keep my bike “up to date,” even long after I’d stopped racing or even riding with wannabe racers.

Today I hardly follow racing and am much less interested in professional sports (except for women’s) than I once was. Today I ride only for transportation or pleasure. My bikes serve those purposes; the ones ridden by the pros would not. Integrated cockpits might be great for efficiency, but they don’t allow for adjustment. Disc brakes are more work than I am willing to do; I have not had trouble stopping with caliper brakes as long as I keep them adjusted.  And I don’t need 12 or 13 gears on the rear of my drivetrain.

In other words, the bike I might’ve wanted if I were, today, the young rider I once was has no use or appeal to me as a midlife cyclist.

“Senior Citizens” Should “”Limit” Their Outdoor Activities

 We’ve been warned to limit our outdoor activities if we have chronic medical conditions or are “senior citizens.”

Since I am, ahem, in midlife and know that the definition of “limit” can be, shall we say, elastic, I did go for an early ride.  City Island and back: entirely agreeable—especially on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike—and fits the word “limit,” at least for me.

The island looks like a bit like a New England fishing village. But the thing that reminds you it is, after all, part of New York City (and a tourist trap) are the restaurants and their patrons.  I could smell the fried clams which, somehow, I don’t think New England fishermen eat—and I know weren’t bivalves from local waters. I also noticed the youngish couples who, I assume, were “doing brunch” even if, by most people’s standards, it was breakfast-time.

But, of course, nobody goes to those restaurants for the seafood which is delivered frozen, in trucks, just like the fish and crustaceans one might order anywhere else in the city.  And those restaurants aren’t exactly bargains.  People go to those eateries for the same reason the island is one of my “limit” ride destinations:  the views.

So I will not judge anyone for “doing brunch” at overpriced mediocre restaurants where they could eat exactly the same stuff served on the mainland. I will not judge them, any more than I will judge anyone else riding a bicycle, no matter how decrepit or simply inferior it may be—precisely because I used to judge such riders (some of whom brought their bikes to the island on carriers attached to their cars). It was a lovely morning, and wildfire smoke had yet to shroud the sky.  Let them enjoy it as they will!

Code Orange

 This evening the sun will set at 20:26 (8:26 pm) where I am. 

This was the view from my window two hours earlier:

The cause? Wildfires in Canada, like the ones that blazed our midday skies three years ago.

But remember; Climate change is a Chinese hoax. Dear Leader says so.

(Sarcasm meter: Code Orange.)

What Is Bastille Day To A French Footballer?

 Today is Bastille Day.  The French don’t call it that, just as most Americans don’t refer to the 4th of July as Independence Day.  Instead, in France it’s referred to as “Le Quatorze Juillet” or simply “Le Quatorze”—or “La Fête Naionale.” 

Every year, observers speculate that, perhaps, this time a French cyclist will win the day’s stage of the Tour de France. Perhaps not surprisingly, that didn’t happen: Tadej Pogaćar, who has seemed invincible, took the victory and extended his overall lead.

This year, the French national football team played its semifinal World Cup game against Spain.  As with the Tour de France stage, many fans and observers thought the day would provide a boost of adrenaline that would propel the Gallic players to victory.  That was not to be: the Spanish prevailed 2-0.

In watching that game, I found myself thinking about Frederick Douglass speech, “What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?” While nobody would argue that the French players, most of whom are highly-paid professionals for some of the world’s best teams and leagues, I had to wonder whether at least some of them —who are products of colonialism—aren’t stirred by the day’s celebratory mood.  While France itself may have freed itself from the oppressive ancien regime, its colonial subjects had no more liberty than the people still in bondage in the US when Douglass took the podium.

I do not mean that the French players didn’t give their best effort. Rather, I imagine that it might be as complicated for them to play for a country that exploited their parents and grandparents as it was for Black American soldiers to fight for a country that enslaved their parents and grandparents and denied them the same rights as White soldiers who wore the same uniform.

Perhaps Looks Don’t Matter So Much After All

 This story has nothing to do with cycling and relates only peripherally to midlife.

Recently, I chanced upon “Press Box Chronicles,” a series of YouTube videos by Jeff Pearlman, a self-described “cranky middle-aged sportswriter who’s seen it all.”

A few of his videos cover famous athletes and teams, but they are far from hagiographies. On the other hand, he also talks about sports personalities you may not have hesrd about. Like a true writer, he’s not as interested the team or athlete as the story. And he can tell a story!

Some are funny, like “The Sexiest Man Alive.” He recounts how, during his days as a Sports Illustrated writer, he and some of his colleagues inadvertently helped the folks at People magazine, which shared the same building, pick the wrong person for the “Sexiest Athlete“ for the magazine’s annual “Sexiest Man Alive” issue.

The gist of the story is that the People writers went to their SI counterparts for help in choosing the sexiest athlete. Someone told them “the Kansas City Chiefs’ starting quarterback.” They meant Rich Gannon but, when the People photographer phrased the request that way, someone in the Chiefs’ office sent Elvis Grbac, who was starting that week.

Now, Elvis is a fairly average-looking guy. Gannon, on the other hand, fits most people’s definition of “handsome” quite well.

That story is particularly funny to me because I have a very distant connection to Gannon. He attended the University of Delaware at the same time as one of my brothers. Before she met him, the young woman who would become his wife, and my sister-in-law, knew Rich.  So did some of her female friends.  As good-looking and athletic as he was, none of them (including my sister-in-law) could stand him.

My SIL told me that story one Thanksgiving when Gannon played on a televised game. She even told me some of the unflattering names they had for him.

I wonder what they would have thought of Grbac—and what he would’ve thought about that story.  Would it reassure him that looks aren’t everything and that, perhaps, he really was the Sexiest Athlete Alive in 1998.

In Living Color

 Every cyclist should have a sense of style. Right?

“Lady DUi. Suspect”;Blocks Bike Lane

 Sometimes it’s safer to cycle in a traffic lane than in a bike lane.  Sometimes motorists pass or double-park, and ride-share drivers pick up and discharge passengers in them. I’ve even seen people, including cops, eating, drinking or simply hanging out in vehicles parked in the middle of a lane.

Then there is Genevieve Winston of Deltona, Florida.

The other day, a Sumter County Sheriff’s Office deputy responded to a call about someone driving recklessly and nearly hitting other vehicles before stopping in, and blocking, a bicycle lane.

When the deputy arrived, the white Nissan Rogue’s engine was running and Ms. Winston slumped over the steering wheel. The deputy knocked  on her window. Startled, she tried to hid the Budweiser can from which she’d been drinking.

At first, she refused to exit the car and participate in standard sobriety tests, as ordered.  When she finally stepped out, she staggered and tried to evade the deputy as he handcuffed her.

At the Sumter County Detention Center, her blood alcohol level tested at more than three times the legal limit.  She refused a second test, claiming she couldn’t see the breathalyzer machine.

She was charged with driving under the influence (her third such offense in ten years), refusing to submit to a breathalyzer test and resisting an officer without violence. After being booked, she was released after posting a $7000 bond.

If I had been cycling along that lane, I probably would have been either simply annoyed with her for blocking it or angry that she’d endangered me by forcing me back into traffic. But was it ultimately better that she’d stopped in that lane than if she’d continued to drive? After all, an impaired driver is a menace and danger to everyone—other drivers, cyclists, pedestrians—on the road or crossing it.

As an aside, I have to point out the Villages-News.com headline: “Lady DUI suspect sipping Budweiser beer found parked in bicycle lane.” I recalled how my supervisor on an early job told me his wife was the “first lady professor” in her department at the U.S. Naval Academy. That was in the mid-1980s and said supervisor was, I believe, still living in the 1950s. I can’t remember the last time I heard a female professional referred to as a “lady professor,” “lady doctor” or “lady congressman.” (Yes, I actually heard the latter!) In fact, I almost never hear a woman referred to as “Lady” unless she’s a member of a noble class. Somehow I don’t think that category includes intoxicated drivers. “Lady DUI suspect,” indeed.

What Will We Call It?

 

Someone left a very interesting comment on yesterday’s post. He could recall when automatic transmissions were still a novelty in cars.  Non-automatic transmissions were called ‘standard”—until automatic transmissions became standard. Now they’re called “manual.”

The commenter sees a possible shift (pun intended) in the nomenclature related to two-wheeled vehicles. In my post, I followed the now-standard (!) practic of referring to non-electric, non-motorized bikes as “traditional.” Others probably call them “standard.”  But as they are outsold by e-bikes in many areas, and far more are used in bike-share and -rental schemes, they could, as the commenter points out, become the new “standard “ bike.

If/when that happens, what will we call our “traditional” or “standard” bikes?  The commenter’s wife has a suggestion : “manual.”

I wonder whether John McWhorter rides a bike, with or without a motor, and what he calls it.

Hold Them Accountable

 

When Bicycle Habitat co-founder and proprietor Charlie McCorkle started to use an e-bike, I was glad for him:  He’s a decade older than I am and health issues, including an increasingly arthritic hip, made it difficult for him to mount and ride a traditional bicycle. At least, I thought, he would have a way of getting around and having fun that didn’t involve driving.

And, although some are “cowboys,” I also don’t mind that delivery workers are also on e-bikes. Every one I’ve seen is an immigrant of color (no White South Africans!) and many don’t speak English well or at all. Thus, employment opportunities are limited and, as I understand, delivery workers are paid per delivery (as I, as a bike messenger, was). Also—again, as I’ve heard—delivery apps and customers themselves demand that pizza, sushi, tacos and whatever else arrive within a short window of time.

However, the majority of e-bike riders I see are decades younger than I, Charlie or even the delivery workers are. And too many of them are riding the way many of us did other things when we were their age: recklessly, without any regard for possible consequences, to themselves or others. And I am sure that some realize that they probably will not be held accountable for their mischief and mayhem, like the electric Citibike riders who struck and killed 69-year-old Priscilla Loke and sped away.

Across the Hudson River from where I sit, New Jersey has passed laws setting age limits and requiring registration (including plates) and insurance for e-bikes. While it won’t eliminate reckless riding, it at least makes accountability for injuries, deaths and property damage possible.  One would think that the mayor of my city, Zohran Mamdani (for whom, yes, I voted) would call for similar legislation. Unfortunately, he has done something that, if anything, will only embolden reckless riders: He has ordered the NYPD not to issue summonses to e-bike riders who break the law (e.g., run red lights).

While I am not convinced that more policing always leads to more public safety (and Blacks, LGBTQ people and other communities are over-policed), there are too many examples, such as stores that have closed due to rampant shoplifting, of communities suffering when “minor” offenses aren’t penalized.

I don’t think anybody believes it would be a good idea to tell the police not to ticket drivers who violate traffic laws. While e-bike (and electric scooter) riders aren’t encased in steel, they are as capable of causing serious injury and death to others.  I thus implore the Mayor for whom I voted not to criminalize them, but to hold them accountable.  So far, he has done exactly the opposite.

I Never Thought I’d Do This

 If you’ve been reading some of my recent posts, you know that I am very critical about the history of the country in which I’ve spent most of my life. At least, I have (some would say more-than-) healthy skepticism about the stories we’ve been told, whether in school or elsewhere.

That doesn’t mean, however, that I don’t appreciate what the United States of America offers, or even love much of what makes it unique. I’ll even admit that in international sports competitions, I root for American teams and athletes, especially the women. And, yes, I was as happy as any fellow countryperson (No sexism here!) when Greg LeMond and Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France. At least, I was a fan of Lance and, yes, even wore a Livestrong bracelet (remember that?) until I learned what a cheater and pure-and-simple bully he was.

Yesterday, however, I put my loyalty on pause.  Perhaps it wasn’t entirely fair, as I also found myself rooting against innocent people who worked very hard to achieve what they did.

So what, exactly, was my breach of sports patriotism—or, more accurately, nationalism? I hoped that Belgium’s national football team would beat their Yankee counterparts in their Round of 16 World Cup game.  And I was happy when they did.

Now, I want to make this clear:  I have no more love for Belgium than I have hatred for the United States. I enjoyed my one brief trip through the county, as part of a bicycle tour that took me into northeastern France, southwestern Germany, the Netherlands and Luxembourg. The people treated me well and, for such a small country, it offers a lot historically and culturally. But I don’t imagine that I will ever develop the kind of bond with it that I have even with France, let alone the US.

I also want to make something else clear: I don’t feel the same joy over a Red Devils victory that, under different circumstances, I might’ve felt if the USMNT had won. Rather, I thought, if anything, the outcome was a kind of vindication. 

Folarin Balogun was issued a red card late in the USMNT’s victory over Bosnia-Herzegovina’s national team. I won’t get into whether or not he actually deserved it; that will be a point of debate for some time to come.  He did, however, accept his penalty, which would have meant that he wouldn’t have been allowed to play in the game against Belgium.

The USMNT appealed, as was their right—though, it must be said, such decisions are rarely reversed.  The last word of the previous sentence is the operative one and the current FIFA president, Gianni Infantino, is, shall we say, not seen as an ethical man, which is really saying something in a sports federation that isn’t exactly viewed as a paragon of high moral principles.

So, perhaps, it’s no surprise that he’s a friend of the Fake Tan Führer, a.k.a., the White House Squatter. In a fashion that’s so typical of him, he “influenced “ his compagno to “suspend” the decision for a one-year probationary period.

Perhaps it didn’t matter, at least in sporting terms, as having Balogun in their starting XI wasn’t enough to hold off a team that’s looking for a monumental triumph before its current “golden generation” of players retires. And I feel bad for the rest of the US team, as they won’t be able to enjoy further triumphs on their home turf. (Sports journalists usually say that teams are “going home” when they lose.  Where is the USMNT—or, for that matter, Canada’s or Mexico’s team, who also lost in the Round of 16–going?)

And, more to the point, where is this world going if FTF can bully, not only sports officials, but the rest of the world? That he is the face (literally) my country made me, at least for a day, ashamed to root for something else that represents it.

What Did Your Bike Look Like Yesterday?

 Here’s a 4th of July bike decorating contest unlike any other:

250 And A Long Way To Go

 

Yesterday I wrote about how I remember the summer when I graduated high school: a haze of long, hot days. Today is like one of those days. I took another early morning ride to City Island, where I saw only a couple taking selfies (couplies?) against a marine backdrop.

The summer after I graduated high school, though it seemed to be a procession of days like this one, also happened to be the US Bicentennial.  People seemed to celebrate it more than they’re celebrating this, the 250th. Part of the reason, I believe, is that the president whom I shall not name is trying to make it all about him, as if the signing of the Declaration of Independence wouldn’t have happened without him. While some people follow him like cult members, many more are ashamed that he is the (scowling, glowering, leering) face of this country.  Not many people were crazy about Gerald Ford, the bicentennial president, but I think it had more to do with the circumstances that brought him into the office than his policies (such as they were) or personality.

But I think there is another reason for this year’s less-festive mood.  Perhaps I am projecting my own journey in saying what I am about to say, but here goes:  While the MAGA crowd wants to “return” to a white heterosexual male-dominated Christian (their version, at least) society —as if that ever existed—more of us are aware of the rape, genocide, plunder and other crimes that helped, along with the principles enumerated in the Declaration of Independence and Constitution, to forge this country.  

At the time of the Bicentennial, I only knew of the history I’d been taught and whatever it would enable me to learn on my own. To be fair, that is probably as much as my teachers knew because that is what was taught to them.

Of the 2767 students in my high school, perhaps two dozen were Black and even fewer were Asian, Hispanic or Native American.  And Rutgers, which I would attend after that summer, wasn’t nearly as diverse as it is now. So I had —I was going to say  “fewer opportunities,” but I now realize “less reason” would be more accurate—to question, not only what I had learned, but the perspective from which it had been taught.

So today is for me, as a transgender woman who has friends of races, nations and cultures different from my own—and a cyclist in an auto-centric society—a reminder that there is still a long, long way to go in achieving anything like a fair and just society-and that we still have the tools to accomplish that.

A Hot Morning Road Trip In The Bronx

 Early this morning I pedaled out to Randall’s Island. Even then, it was hot, brutally hot:  Even the breeze and blue sky felt like waves of heat searing into the pores of my skin.

On my way back, I stopped at Addeo’s to feed one of my addictions:  their pane de casa.  That, a ripe tomato, a slice of red onion and some cheese:  (more Macadam’s Munster) are a great no-cook meal for a day like today. 

Just after I left Addeo’s, a small car with a big loudspeaker rumbled by.  Normally, I expect rap or Hispanic music, being in the Bronx.  To my surprise, I heard, “Take The Money And Run” by The Steve Miller Band.

It made sense, in a way: It always seemed like a summer road-trip tune to me.  As much as it annoys me, whenever I see someone, usually a young man driving a loud car with even louder music, I can’t help but to think the driver wants to be out on the open road somewhere. Especially if his girlfriend or one of his buddies is riding “shotgun:” sort of like Billie Joe and Bobby Sue in the song.

While the lyrics tell a kind of “Bonnie and Clyde” story, the rhymes, some of the lamest I’ve heard, sometimes distract.  But the tune is so catchy, and feels like a hot, hot day like today and yesterday, and what’s forecast for tomorrow.

And it brings me back to 1976, the year it was released—and, of course, the US Bicentennial.  For some reason, I think of that summer as a hot one. Perhaps it had to do with also being the year I graduated high school.  For many of us, the summer that follows is the last time we see people we grew up with and, perhaps, the last time we live with our family. (At least it was then; I know that many young people who today remain with their families for even longer because it’s so expensive to rent even a basic room.) There is something about the “last summer”—whether of a stage in our own lives or of history—that is remembered in a haze like that of long, hot days.   

Of course, we don’t always know that it’s a “last summer” and just how different everything that follows will be. Perhaps that is what beclouds memories:  We reminisce as different people from what we were when we experienced whatever we’re recalling.  In my case, that difference is literal: My body has changed, not only from age, but also because I was living as a young man who was trying to fit into the world of young men, at least as I understood it, and other people’s expectations of me. As silly as that song is, when I first heard it, it echoed my wish: to run away, which I equated with freedom.

This morning, I wasn’t running away from anything: I started my day exactly as I wished, as the person I’ve become—and only faintly envisioned on those long-ago long hot summer days.

Do Their Beliefs Hold Water?

 This morning I pedaled to Fort Schuyler and Maritime College. There, I stopped to enjoy some of the bread I picked up at Addeo’s and a piece of Macadam Munster cheese.  As I sipped some Poland Spring, I thought about the controversy over “hydration breaks” in this year’s World Cup football games.

Some commentators, including several former players, have expressed their displeasure over them.  Some claimed, perhaps rightly, that they were instituted simply to allow time for commercials. In most of the world, the game stops only at halftime, and that break is shorter than the typical halftime of an American football game. (That is one reason why soccer games don’t have halftime shows.) There are no stoppages for “time outs,” “downs,” “innings” or any other reason.  That lack of pause for commercials is said to be one of the reasons why soccer (and bicycle races, which also aren’t divided into quarters, periods or innings and don’t have time-outs) doesn’t have as wide an audience as (American) football or baseball:  If potential sponsors can’t advertise, networks won’t broadcast.

Those who complain that hydration breaks allow commercials say that it “cheapens” or “Americanizes” the tournament and sport. Now, I understand not wanting to see commercials, but talking about  “Americanization” reeks of snobbishness.  If they are going to say football is “the world’s game,” they have to be willing to include all nations, even the ones they don’t like.

(Having said that, I am ashamed of how American officials treated the Iranian team.)

Another objection to hydration breaks is that they “interrupt the flow of the game.”  Some athletes may feel that when they are in a “groove,” any sort of stoppage can disrupt their rhythm. But I suspect that they also realize those pauses, whether for halftime or any other reason, can come at any moment in their cycle. I am sure it frustrates them, but they deal with it.

Then there is another group of objectors who wonder, in coded language, whether the need for hydration breaks means that today’s players aren’t as tough—“less manly”—than those of generations past. It’s essentially why Tour de France founder Henri Desgranges wouldn’t allow riders to use derailleurs, even though the race includes “hors de categorie” climbs.

I guess I had some of that macho streak when I was younger. I took pride in riding higher gears at a higher cadence than my riding buddies—and on finishing a “century” (in miles, not kilometers) without taking even a sip from my water bottle.

What did any of that prove? The same thing as running and kicking for 120 minutes in 40c heat with 90 percent humidity. Or making every pitch a 100 MPH fastball. Or, in James Wright’s words, “galloping terribly against each other’s bodies.”

The only thing they prove is that there are some things human bodies simply aren’t designed to do, yet some people will do them with the hope of gleaming whatever rewards, whether in money, adulation or simple ego gratification, may accrue.

Poland Sprins sure feels good on a hot morning ride, whatever my younger self might’ve thought.