Day 2

 So what was Day 2 of 2026 like?

Cold, gray, windy.  A day of housekeeping. (Gotta start the new year right, right?) And a few very low-intensity miles, doing errands, on my bike.

I was the only cyclist I saw on a non-electric, non-motorized bike.  Was that a result of the weather? Or,  perhaps, many people are still away for the holidays: I didn’t see much traffic, even in normally- busy areas like Fordham Plaza. I hope it’s not part of a longer trend.  I’m not against assisted bikes, per se, but I believe they need to be better-regulated.

And most of the riders I saw are younger than I am.  People normally don’t switch from electric or motorized machines to pedal-only bicycles as they age.  Also, people who ride delivery bikes of any kind tend not to ride them for any other reason and stop riding if they get a job that doesn’t require it.

Then again, they might have a midlife “crisis” and return to, or stay on, two wheels and two pedals.  I can hope.

Happy New Year—And A Reflection On The Past Year

 

Happy New Year!

What was 2025 like for you?

For me, it was strange. Perhaps it has to do with the twinges of guilt I feel when things are going well for me, but not for others or when the world (or at least my native country) is going to hell in a handbasket.

Of course, the main highlight of the year, for me, was my trip to Japan.  I didn’t do a day-by -day posting of it because I wanted to get out early and make the most of every day and, at the end of every day, I was tired, from seeing so much—and the heat.  Although the places I visited were roughly at the same latitude as Virginia, it seemed that Tokyo, Osaka and Kyoto were even hotter than Cambodia and Laos, two countries well within the tropical zone, when I visited them in 2018.

Going to Japan may also be a reason why I’ve been posting less often. (Another is that I am working on another writing project.) Posting every day became a kind of addiction for me.  Of course, addictions aren’t always bad, as I believe that one wasn’t.  But for some reason, going to the Land of the Rising Sun taught me,  more than any other trip I’ve taken, that what’s comforting, as daily posting had become, can be a trap.

Also, cycling there changed the way I see bicycles and myself as a cyclist. I didn’t do any high-mileage rides, but the bikes I rented became my vehicles to temples and other sites—and to shop and simply get around.  Of course, many Europeans ride the same way, but I felt that bikes were more integral, and people seemed less self-conscious about them, than anywhere else I’ve been.  Now, for all I know, there might be forums on Japanese Reddit (or whatever they have) where people who, I suspect, post more than they ride verbally bludgeon each other over whether a 1971 Campagnolo Nuovo Record rear derailleur can handle rear cogs larger than 26 teeth or triple chainrings in front. But as I rode to Nijo Castle and parked the bike without locking it—and realized that I’d been leaving bikes unsecured in front of other sites, stores and the hotels where I’d stayed, much as people leave their shoes at the door when entering a home—those arguments seemed silly.  Just ride it.  If it doesn’t work, fix it.

Finally, since returning from my trip, I’ve felt the focus of this blog shifting more toward the “Midlife” part of its title. As I am becoming less obsessed with equipment, I also feel less of a need to report on bicycle stories that have been covered in other fora.  While I probably will continue to write about bicycle transportation and safety issues (and express outrage at drivers, especially those who are intoxicated—whether with substances or misplaced rage—killing or maiming cyclists who are following the rules) and how bicycles and cycling relate to history, art and culture, I want to focus more on what it’s like to be a cyclist and human being of, shall we say, a certain age in a society (and cycling world) obsessed with youth,

So what might 2026 hold for me?  Well, I hope lots of cycling and writing , time with friends and a trip somewhere.  Whatever I do might be influenced by a decision I made towards the end of 2025:  I will be semi-retired. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have left the teaching job I’ve had since 2021.  But it looks like I’ll be teaching part-time (as an adjunct) in another institution, where the commute will be shorter. Income is just one reason:  I also figure that being engaged with other people, even if for less time, is probably better for me and my writing than having nothing but free time.  Whenever I visited my parents in Florida, I saw too many people dying slow deaths—whether physically or mentally—in their retirements.

And what else do I hope for 2026? Health and happiness, for me and you. And that the Fake Tan Führer and his cohorts don’t do more damage. Isn’t hope what a New Year is about, after all?

How Did They Miss Him?

 BuzzFeed is practically the definition of “click bait.”  How do I know? I go straight to it.  

Does admitting a vice make someone better than a person who hides theirs?  Jean-Paul Sartre once confessed he preferred detective fiction to “serious” novels. Frank O’Hara once confessed there were only three American poets he preferred reading to going to the movies. (Do people still do that?) And nearly every TV critic says Jerry Springer’s show was the worst ever to disgrace the small screen.  But it ran for, what?,  twenty years.  A lot of people must have been watching, whether or not they would admit it.

Anyway, a day or two ago BF had a piece about athletes who died on the field, court, rink or other competitive arena. (Sorry I didn’t save the link!) Ray Chapman succumbed after a Carl Mays pitch hit him in the head. (Almost believed Mays’ claim that it was unintentional.) Bill Masterton (for whom an NHL trophy for perseverance and dedication is named) collided with another player, fell backward and hit his head on the ice.  

While they, and the other athletes mentioned in that article, met tragic ends, one of the most egregious examples wasn’t mentioned.

Tom Simpson was, arguably, the best male British cyclist before the English riders who dominated major races during the first half of the 2010s. How good was he? His team’s manager and sponsors wanted a young, talented Belgian teammate to help him win.  You might’ve heard of that fellow from Flanders:  a chap named Eddy Merckx.

Simpson had a plan entering the 1967 Tour de France:  He would try to hold the maillot jaune (the leader’s yellow jersey) for at least three key stages and place well, if not stand on the podium, on the race’s final day.  In his eighth year as a professional cyclist, and nearing 30, he knew that more of his career was behind than ahead of him and therefore wanted to make enough money to retire comfortably.

The plan seemed to work during the Tour’s first week, which ended with him in sixth place.  But as the race entered the Alps, he started not to feel well and moved down in the general classification. Other riders in the peloton noticed; a friend and teammate advised him to cut his losses and bail out.  His personal manager, however, insisted that he continue.

On 13 July 1967, Simpson embarked on the 13th (hmm…two 13’s) stage of the Tour, which includes Mont Ventoux.  This climb has a particular notoriety, not only because it’s so high and steep, but also because of its harsh weather conditions and, unlike Alpine and Pyrenean peaks, it is a singular monolith in the Provençe countryside.  So riders might’ve spent the day riding in blazing heat and fierce winds before reaching the “beast.”

So it’s easy to imagine that Simpson’s body was already spent from hours of pedaling when he should’ve been in an infirmary. (His drug use, which he freely admitted and wasn’t stigmatized as it is today, probably didn’t help.) Other riders and observers noticed that he was zig- zagging and feared, not for his ascent, but his descent.

About a kilometer from the summit, he fell off his bike.  His team manager and mechanic urged him to quit, but he was hearing none of it. They helped him back on. He pedaled 460 meters before he began to wobble.  Three spectators tried to hold him up, to no avail:  He collapsed again, his hands still clutched to the handlebars. Team mechanics and members of the Tour’s medical team took turns giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation before the Tour’s chief doctor, administered an oxygen mask.  After about an hour, a police helicopter arrived and took him to a hospital in Avignon, where he was pronounced dead.

Was the BuzzFeed writer simply not aware of the Tour’s biggest tragedy? That would be understandable, given that baseball, hockey and other professional sports get more attention in North America. Or did the editors want no mention of Simpson, given his drug use?

I know this much: Click-bait, like television shows or anything else that’s addictive, can lead to a letdown or “crash” when it doesn’t meet expectations or anticipations. Does that mean I’ll stop looking at BuzzFeed? Probably not.

Bowled Over

 My neighbors in my senior citizens’ complex think I’m a “kid.” Compared to some of them, I am:  After all, I am in midlife.

But some days I feel I’ve lived too long.  Like today: I learned that there is actually a “Pop Tart Bowl.”

What I think of what college sports has become could fill at least a few more posts.  As far as I know, the system in which colleges and universities in effect are minor leagues in service to the NFL and NBA (and, to a lesser extent, other professional sports leagues) is unique to the USA.  Even more singular is college football’s “Bowl” constellation. Years ago, there were only a few, such as the Rose, Orange and Sugar Bowls.  Now it seems anything advertised on TV has its own bowl game.

Now, I won’t judge you if you’re still eating those sugar bombs.  After all, as I related in an earlier post, they—especially the frosted brown sugar cinnamon flavor—were an “energy food” for me and my mountain bike buddies back in the day.

But a strawberry (as pink as you can get!) Pop Tart mascot accepting a marriage proposal—or grilling ‘tarts’ like they’re burgers, hot dogs or chicken wings?  Even on the most intense cinnamon sugar high, I couldn’t have imagined such things!

A Danger To All

 As a cyclist, I have always thought, to some degree, like a pedestrian. While I agree, again to some degree, with the late John Forrester’s philosophy of vehicular cycling—after all, in a auto-centric society like the United States,  cyclists are treated as second-class citizens because bicycles aren’t seen as vehicles in the way cars are—I have also seen that much of what’s good for pedestrians is also good for cyclists.  

That conclusion has been reinforced by living in a senior-citizens’ complex located next to a very busy intersection.  I frequently cross it.  So do people who get around with canes, walkers and wheelchairs.  The two streets that meet at that point are busy:  One is a major thoroughfare; the other is a two-way “main street” for this part of the Bronx. One end of that street connects to a “stroad”—Southern Boulevard—that feeds into a highway and includes entrances to the New York Botanical Garden. And too many drivers are impatient or distracted when my mobility-impaired neighbors are crossing to catch a bus.

Sometimes I wonder whether such drivers would behave differently, or if traffic safety laws would be better enforced, if not only drivers themselves, but also those who make policy and infrastructure, understood how often motorists’ bad behavior inconveniences, or even endangers, other drivers.

A wry, sardonic caption accompanied the above photo: “Bonus points for blocking 1/2 of the car lane, too.”

Merry Christmas!

 Merry Christmas!

Because I Want To

 Yesterday I mentioned that I am leaving a job because I felt “it was time.” There was no specific moment or incident that precipitated my decision. Nor had I checked all of the boxes on a list of things I wanted to accomplish. I can’t even say that I was bored or needed a new challenge. 

Have you done something simply because of a want or need that you have because, well, you have it? Some people will feel superior and be condescending to you if you can’t give them a rational explanation—or, at least, one that fits into the ways they frame their own narratives. I spent decades as the round peg trying to fit info a square hole, or the square peg in the round hole, because I couldn’t explain, at least in ways family members, colleagues, authority figures why I didn’t couldn’t make the career, lifestyle or other choices they proscribed for me.

The funny thing is that, as often as not, they didn’t or couldn’t make the same choices they were trying to make for me, or they were miserable with them (example:  marrying and having childfen). Or had ideas about how I should be doing what I did, even if it was something they didn’t do themselves.  I have had completely sedentary people wonder why I ride my bike as much as I do, why I don’t ride more or why I’m in the saddle when it’s “too” cold or wet or whatever.

I admit I have my limits:  We had combinations of rain, sleet and snow through much of today.  I didn’t ride.  There wasn’t anyplace I had to be, so I didn’t go anywhere, except to the store next door and the cafe across the street to pick up my dinner. (Taco Tuesday!) I curled up with. Marlee in the middle of the afternoon. It was time for all of those things, and perhaps it will be time to ride again tomorrow. Only I can decide.

If I Want To

 

Woke up late yesterday. To those who live their lives measured out in coffee spoons, as per T.S. Eliot’s Prufrock, the results could’ve been anything from inconvenient to catastrophic: embarrassment on arriving late for mass or service, a missed appointment or a lost job. But as it was Sunday, and I haven’t gone to church in years, there was no place I had to be.

Now that I think of it, I “had” to be at church, or any place else, only to the extent that someone or some people expected me.  I guess most people have a moment—usually (or at least hopefully) well before midlife.  You can sleep in, make an omelet and go for a bike ride on Sunday, as I did yesterday. Or you can go to a gallery or museum (as I’ve done on other Sundays) for your own interests rather than some pedagogical agenda or to uphold some reputation you thought you had to uphold to whomever.  But then you realize you’re the only one who cares whether you rose with the sun or lay before yourself before the moon. Or whether you made yourself breakfast, went out for brunch or ordered takeout.

If I sound melancholy, well, perhaps I am. I enjoyed the ride, the omelet (with curried onions and red sweet peppers) and dinner with Sam and his girlfriend. Perhaps I am more affected by seasonal depression than I realize: Yesterday was the first day of winter. I didn’t mind the cold or even the wind when I was pedaling into it. I knew the sun would set—around 16:20–and night would fall earlier than on any other day of the year. But somehow the day seemed to end earlier still. 

Perhaps my feelings have to do with the other climate: the one ushered in part by the Fake Tan Führer’s return to (and defacement of) the White House.  When I told my friend Jay in France that I felt so calm in Japan, he suggested that I may simply have been happy to be out of the United States. He was right about that, but I also realized during that trip that I didn’t have to fulfill anyone else’s idea of what it “should” be: If I wanted to spend the day riding around and simply enjoying the sights; what whether I felt like spending my time in a temple or a thermal spring, it was my, and no one else’s time.  And I didn’t have to report to anyone.

Oh, and during the past week, on Thursday to be exact, I wrapped up my semester.  I submitted grades—for the last time, at least at where I’d been teaching since the Fall of 2021. (I lost my old job during the pandemic.) Another university is taking it over (but calling it a “merger), so my future there would’ve been uncertain. That isn’t  a reason I’m leaving, though.  Nor is my relationship with colleagues, which has been very good. The commute, longer than I expected after moving last year, has something to do with it. 

Really, I just felt it was time. I mentioned in an earlier post that I felt my trip to Japan is motivating me to make some life changes.  This is one but, I expect, a prelude. I worked to the best of my abilities. My department chair and a coordinator, whom I enjoyed working with, thanked me for my contributions.  And a student wrote to tell me how much she enjoyed her class. And I wrote back to tell her how much I liked working with her.

She will have other professors in other courses.  A colleague or, maybe, a new hire will teach the courses I’d been teaching. Or the university that’s taking over might cancel them. Whatever happens, will happen, whether or not I am there. Perhaps the only person, place or thing—animal, mineral or vegetable—that absolutely depended on me was:

He scampered up and let me stroke him as I was leaving.  I left him a can of Friskies Mariner’s catch and shed tears, for him as I mounted La-Vande, my King of Mercia, and pedaled away.

Perhaps I will return—for him, perhaps for some colleagues, but mainly if I want to. 

Fame (No, Not The David Bowie Song)

 About 20 years ago, I was talking with a fellow faculty member who, like me, had written about sports for a local newspaper.  Somehow the length of professional athletes’ careers became a topic.  He pointed out that while Joe Di Maggio lived 84 years, we know him for what he did for only 13 of them. I am referring, of course, to his time playing for the Yankees, which was interrupted by World War II. Ironically, his career as a commercial spokesman for various products and businesses, such as the Mr. Coffee and Emigrant Bank, lasted nearly twice as long as his baseball tenure.

Why am I thinking about that now? Well, although I am in—ahem—midlife, I am still a good bit younger than Joe was when he passed. And I have worked in a career even longer than he spent making TV commercials, let alone playing center field. Even so, my time as a university instructor and writer (I still have a hard time calling myself “professor,” even if it comes easily to my students!) constitutes only a fraction of my life. That will be the case even if I continue for another decade or more.

That work won’t make me famous, nor should it. And one of the few things that I’ve done for longer won’t, either (unless you count the readership of this blog as fame): cycling.

It’s funny, though, that being off my bike for most of the past week seems like an eternity.  And I know, intellectually, that I’ll be back in the saddle once my pain subsides.  But it’s still odd, and troubling, not to be doing, however temporarily, something I’ve done just about all of my life.

I wonder whether Joe Di Maggio—or, for that matter, Eddy Merckx, whose professional cycling career spanned as many years as Joe’s with the Yankees—ever thought about how short a segment of their lives so defined them.

Since I have mentioned two famous male athletes, I can’t help but to think that almost all who have been able to live off their exploits on the road, track, court, field, rink or other athletic arena have been men, I wonder how many great female athletes—say, Caitlyn Clark or Simone Biles—will have the same privilege, or will be so thoroughly defined by the relatively brief part of their lives when they could dominate and elevate their sports. 

An Early White Christmas

 I haven’t owned a mountain bike since I gave my Cannondale M300 to someone who worked in an emergency room during the COVID lockdown.

Do I wish I still had it, now that we’ve just experienced our first real snowfall in a couple of years?

Well, I guess I could put knobby tires on one of my bikes.

They Told Me There’d Be Days—Weeks—Like This

 When you’re young, people in midlife tell you about things you dismiss as “old people stuff.” They include what most grown-ups do: work mundane jobs, pay bills and navigate adult relationships, including those with the family you’re born into or create.  

Then there are the changes in your body.  Dieting and exercising but still gaining weight? Hair growing in places you didn’t know it could—or falling off the places you want to keep it? And discovering you need glasses to read books and menus?

Then there are those “mysterious aches and pains.” You know, when a limb, joint or some other part of your body hurts for no apparent reason. Did I land too hard when I stepped off a curb? Reach for something without using a step-stool or ladder? Put too much weight on one side when I got out of bed? Bump into something a little harder than I thought I did? Or is some injury I brushed off decades ago coming back to nag  me?

Of course, my cycling always gets the benefit of the doubt. I never want to blame it for any of my aches and pains, especially since it’s accounted for most of my physical conditioning and, along with my cats, nearly all of my mental health.

So what, exactly, caused that ache in and around my left ankle:  the one that’s kept me off my bike for most of this week?

I can live with mysteries about the big questions:  you know, the meaning of life, whether there’s anything after this one and why JFK, RFK, Martin, Malcolm and John were murdered. (Actually, I know who…wait, is that a sniper on the roof?!) But, dammit, I want to know why my body develops more glitches than my workplace IT system or breaks down like a Yugo when I think I’m doing everything right.

They warned me there’d be days—weeks—like this. But they never told me why, except that it’s part of “getting older.”  But as a wise old philosopher said, “I ain’t dead yet”: I am in midlife.  And I want to keep on cycling.

Why Won’t I Go There?

I have cycled to and through places that stirred up seemingly-conflicting emotions in me. For instance, during my recent trip to Japan, I pedaled to temples, shrines, gardens and other places with great beauty and terrifying histories. The Nijo Castle in Kyoto was one such spot: It is wonderful to behold and can teach so much about Japanese culture and history, including the fierce battles and brutal ways in which rival families and groups vied for, and held, power.  I also felt awe and terror all over Osaka, which the Allies bombed heavily during World War II. (Kyoto, in contrast, wasn’t as much of a target because it didn’t have the military-related industries found in other Japanese cities.)

I similarly felt awed by the beauty and devastation of Cambodia and Laos where, as a legacy of the Vietnam War, there is said to be more unexploded ordnance per square mile, kilometer or whatever unit of measurement you choose, than anywhere else on Earth.

And I could write more posts, possibly even a book, about former battlefields of France and other European countries I saw during my bike trips, not to mention the Place de la Concorde: Today it’s one of the most elegant public squares in the world, but contemporary accounts describe “rivers” of blood flowing from the guillotines stationed there during the Reign of Terror.

I got to thinking about that today. While not an official holiday, this date—“Pearl Harbor Day”—was, until fairly recently, marked by parades and other commemorations to the attack on the American naval base.

 While such memorials still take place, they aren’t as numerous or prominent as they were, say, in 1991 (the 50th anniversary) or even twenty years ago because there are so few survivors of the attack or World War II generally.

From what I have read, there is a very popular bike lane that passes the attack site and offers beautiful views of mountains, ocean and rain forest.  Were I to ride it, I probably would have a similar combination of thoughts and feelings to what I experienced in Japan, Southeast Asia, France, Belgium, Italy and even some sites (the World Trade Center, anyone?) in and around New York City, where I live.

But I probably won’t ride the Pearl Harbor bike lane because I have never had any desire to go to Hawai’i. Any time I’ve ever embarked upon a journey (Doesn’t that sound quaint?) to some faraway place, one of my friends insists that I should go to Aloha land. I can’t explain why I’ve not only never had any wish to step off a plane in Honolulu; I have actively resisted going there. Something about it just scares and repels me. ( It has nothing to do with Pearl Harbor.) I understand that Anthony Bourdain had a similar feeling about Switzerland, where he never set foot in spite of spending considerable time—and hosting episodes of his show—in the surrounding countries (France, Italy, Germany and Austria). Could I, one day, find that I’ve cycled all around the Pacific Rim while skipping Hawai’i?

Till Rides Do Us Apart—Or Not

 

Photo by Everton Vila

Yesterday, during my bike commute, I saw a man and woman—he, on a Canyon, she, on a Cannondale—pedaling down Creston Avenue, a narrow Bronx thoroughfare that parallels the Grand Concourse. They seemed about as equally matched in their pace and durability as their bikes: one didn’t seem to outpace the other.

Later, I got to thinking about how rare, at least ini my observation, such cycling couples are. When I have ridden with clubs, it seemed that cyclists’ spouses or partners rode with family or some other group that wasn’t connected to the club—or not all.  In fact, I can recall only three or four “marriages” (whether de jure or de facto) in which both members participated in the same rides and kept apace of each other. That I didn’t see same-sex couples may’ve been a consequence of the times and places in which I joined club rides.

I have never trekked, trained or raced with a boyfriend or other intimate male partner. But I have been accompanied by girlfriends and long-term partners. Only one—Tammy, my last romantic partner before I started my gender affirmation—did much cycling before we met. And I suspect she is the only one who continued after we broke up.

One long-ago paramour, Jeanne, gave her bike away after we split up.  I suspect she wanted to get rid of it because it brought us together in the first place: I fitted it to her when she bought it from Highland Park (NJ) Cyclery, where I worked.

 I wouldn’t be surprised if the other girls/women similarly parted with—or discarded or sold—bikes I gave them.  Upset as I may have been, I can understand why, apart from not wanting things that would remind them of me, they didn’t want to keep the Motobecanes, Miyatas and other machines I gifted them. Before meeting me, they did little or no riding once they got their driver’s licenses, and perhaps not much before then.

Did I pressure them into riding with me? I don’t like to think I did (of course not!) but it would be fair to say that at least one thought she should ride with me, even though she obviously wasn’t enjoying it. I’m not sure of whether she simply didn’t care for bike riding or she was frustrated because she couldn’t ride as long or fast as I did.

I have long enjoyed riding solo. But I couldn’t help but to wonder whether I will some day ride in a romantic liaison with someone-of whatever gender identity or expression—who is my equal, or even better. 

I’ll Keep On Riding

“Are you going to keep on riding your bike?”

Photo by James Brey

Every year, as the days grow shorter, colder and darker, I’m asked that question, or some variant of it, even by people who’ve seen me pedal through winters past. But I think I started hearing it earlier and more frequently this Fall than in years past.

Perhaps it has to do with living in a senior citizens’ building. But—admittedly with a lack of empirical data—I don’t think I was so queried so often last year, my first in the complex. Maybe it has to do with familiarity:  More residents know me or, at least see me as a familiar face and are thus more willing to approach me.

But I believe another factor is at play. A number of my neighbors have expressed, to me and each other, their belief this winter will be exceptionally long and cold.  Something tells me they might be right. At any rate, whatever the coming season brings, it probably will be harsher than the past few, relatively mild, winters.

Then again, some of the folks among whom I live may be listening to their bodies: Their old wounds are throbbing, and their joints are aching. That, of course, could be a matter of health issues or simply aging. 

I can’t help but to wonder, though whether their personal Farmers Almanac weather forecasts might have as much to do with the political and social climate as El Niño, polar vortexes or the warming oceans, the latter of which causes weather extremes of all kinds.

One fellow I talk to, who was once a graduate student in Political Science and is not given to hyperbole, compares what has transpired since the Fake Tan Führer was re-elected to the Nazi regime’s early days.  If he’s right, and we don’t change, we are indeed headed for a long winter in more ways than one. And cycling through it could be a form of protest or subversion, depending on one’s political and social beliefs.

I plan to keep on pedaling.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 Happy Thanksgiving!

An Auntie—Or Just Not That Guy

 I have a confession:  Last night, I took the subway home.

It had nothing to do with the weather: chilly but neither unseasonable nor as inhospitable as some other conditions through which I’ve pedaled. I also didn’t forego riding home due to a lack of lighting or reflective gear.

Riding to work was great. I arrived invigorated and more than ready. Perhaps that, paradoxically, was the reason why I felt so tired at the end of the day: I stayed late and finished a bunch of mundane but necessary tasks. I had the energy, but I also was motivated by my wish not to go in tomorrow.

So I took the 4 train from Fulton Street, across from the World Trade Center, with gray-suited Financial District workers and pastel-jacketed tourists and tried not to be this person:

I took an end seat and held my bike as close as I could, at 45 degree angle to my left. That left the other seats open as my bike took up no more floor room than another passenger. With each stop, I offered my seat to boarding passengers. Some looked as if they needed it more than I did. All refused.

What struck me, though, was that I sensed no hostility from otner passengers. A few even smiled even though I suspect their day was harder than mine.

I wonder whether they were simply happy I wasn’t that guy in the photo. Or did they see a woman in the middle of her life—you know, someone’s auntie.

Spin, Spin Spin!

 Many years ago (yes, I can say that even though I am in, ahem, midlife), I dated the coxswain of a university’s crew team.

I don’t know how or why this question crosses my mind: Is there an equivalent in the world of cycling?

All I Cared About

 Yesterday I rode to Point Lookout. About an hour in, I chided myself for a late start: Since the end of Daylight Savings Time, it’s been getting dark around 17:00. But I stopped worrying once I saw this:

On my way back, I definitely needed my lights by then time I got to the stretch of Rockaway Boardwalk from about 38th to 52nd Streets:  It was unlit. To my right were undeveloped swaths of shrubs and sea grasses all the way to the elevated tracks;  to my left, the unprotected beach and ocean. 

The first time I went to that part of Queens, just on the other side of the tracks, I was leading creative writing workshops as an artist-in-residence at one of the schools. Teachers and pupils cautioned me against the stretch of boardwalk early last evening: Because of its relative desolation, strollers and joggers were beaten, robbed and worse.  

That was, if I recall correctly, not long after the Central Park jogger incident. You couldn’t escape the fear of crime. While, according to statistics, crime is way down from those days, the stretch might’ve been even more deserted than I’d been warned.  Before passing through that forlorn strip, the Boardwalk skirts an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood of Far Rockaway. Because the sun had set on Friday, the women in long skirts and flat shoes, the men with tzitzit dangling from their shirts weren’t riding or walking by the sea; they were at home, having lit their candles half an hour or so earlier.

I wasn’t worried; if anything, I felt more peace than I usually feel. Perhaps it was the knowledge that I was keeping up a good pace and, like a younger version of myself, could out-ride almost any danger.  

Some of that confidence may have come from riding my best bike: my custom Mercian Vincitore Special. But I wasn’t thinking about the bike which, some would argue, is a good sign: It fits and runs well.  Perhaps my confidence had to do with the fact that, in a stretch devoid of distractions, I could only ride, and I only wanted to ride. I had no reason to care whether anyone would be impressed (or not) with me or my bike. 

I wonder whether being in Japan and having spent considerable time in Europe, among people who simply ride, has something to do with my attitude. Or, perhaps, I have reached that stage of midlife I’ve heard about: when you stop caring about what other people think. (Hint: Many don’t think, or they’re simply not thinking about you.) Whatever the case may be, I had a great ride.

Becoming Whole

 Orange you glad you did?

They Can Ride

 Tall, rawboned Felix is about my age but looks younger. We often pass each other when entering or leaving the building.  Today, as he often does, he asked where I planned to ride.

I told him I had no destination in mind; I simply wanted to get out. “I’m going to do that, too,” he declared, “when I get my bike, after the new year.” Sometimes he and Sam, my neighbor and sometime riding partner, hang out beside the building. “Perhaps me, you, Sam and a few other people.  We could have our own little cycling group.”

“Maybe…,” he intoned.

A couple of weeks ago, “Elena,” who lives two doors away from me, wheeled her machine—a mountain bike in white and Easter-egg hues—into the elevator next to Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear. “I would like to ride like you,” she sighed.

“You don’t have to ride like me.” I was about to suggest riding with me when the elevator stopped on another floor and someone, apparently a friend of hers (whom I don’t know) started chatting with her. I didn’t want to interrupt.

And then there is “Richard,” who lives on a lower floor. When he sees me with my bike, he has to tell me about the rides he took “all over the city, and even further away.” I believe him; he seems to know about riding and looks like a former athlete. But, he explains, his life took some “really bad turns” through illnesses, which led to homelessness and “losing everything, including my bike.”  Many years have passed since then. “I wish I could ride again, but it was so long ago,” he lamented.

Not so long ago, I would have been dismissive of them, at least in my mind. I was one of those young (even when I wasn’t so young) cyclists who thought anyone who didn’t spend a certain number of hours or miles (or kilometers) on the “right” kinds of bikes and clad in “proper” bike clothes wasn’t a “real” cyclist.

Though I had begun to change long before I met Felix, Elena or Richard, I feel another shift (pun not intended) has happened for me since my trip to Japan. There, I saw probably as many, if not more, people pedaling to work or for pleasure as I saw in France or other European countries. But there didn’t seem to be the kind of self-consciousness (and, at times, self-righteousness) about equipment and other things that “cycle culture” seems to engender in my hometown of New York and other cities.   Most people rode utilitarian bikes with wide tires, fenders, racks and generator lights. You can’t one-up anybody who is riding a bike like yours, or those of most other people, for the same reasons you and they are riding. 

Even the cyclists—mostly young and male—I saw on lighter racing bikes didn’t seem to define themselves by their bikes (or, more precisely, those bikes’ price tags) or what they were wearing. They, and the commuters and families I saw, reminded me of why I came to love cycling. And I wish Felix, Elena and Richard could see them and realize they don’t have to ride like them, me or anyone else. Oh, and I don’t care that Elena’s bike is a Kent:  She’s riding it.