When The Weather Outside…

What a day for a ride!

You mean it isn’t?

Did I hear “mush!”?

Which City Is The Worst For Cyclists?

  I feel more or less the same way about bicycling in New York City as I did more than four decades ago:  It could be better, it could be worse.

Perhaps that is normal, given that the Big Apple has been my hometown for all of that time (and perhaps even when I lived away from it.) I have encountered better-designed and -executed bike lanes—and, more important drivers and other non-cyclists who don’t treat us as “the enemy”—in other places, mainly in Europe and Japan.  On the other hand, I have seen even worse bike infrastructure, or none at all, along with chaps who believe that their Jimmy Dean breakfast links will become chorizos if they intimidate, harass or even endanger cyclists—mainly in other parts of the US.

So, I suppose it’s no surprise that New York sometimes comes up in lists of the best US cities for cycling but not the worst, at least in recent years.  Possibly the worst place for cycling in the New York City Metro area is Jersey City, and it’s not even as bad as some places that made the National Highway Traffic Safety “worst” list for pedestrians and cyclists.

Interestingly, one city often cited as the worst, according to Momentum magazine, didn’t make the list:  Houston.  I was there for a few days, decades ago and, to this day, I can hardly imagine a more hostile or dangerous place.  Momentum readers reported streets that were all but impossible to cross—one visitor to H-town reported wanting to go to a restaurant across the street from their hotel but couldn’t find a legal, safe crossing after half an hour of searching. Finally, that vexed visitor gave up and drove!

That story, and others, remind us of a point the Momentum article made:  While most of the cities on the NHTS list are indeed inhospitable to cyclists and pedestrians, there is a flaw in the way it ranks those cities: mainly according to the number of fatalities per capita. While those cities indeed had unenviable (unless you believe someone isn’t fully human if they don’t drive) statistics, in cities like Houston, the numbers are spread out among a larger population (Houston is #4 in the US) and geographic area.  So while a city like Houston appears to have a lower death rate, its lack of cycling and pedestrian infrastructure (and relatively poor mass transit system) along with hostile drivers on seemingly endless highways and “stroads” makes it a non-favorite.

Standing Against The Current

How did it get there?  

People have asked that question about Stonehenge, the Easter Island Moai and the Newport Tower for ages. The answer(s) seem as elusive as ever, even with the technology and research methods that have developed over the years.

Turns out, a structure or object doesn’t have to stay in one place for as long as the aforementioned monuments in order for its origins to be forgotten—or never known in the first place.

Such is the case with the “bicycle log” in the Missouri River near Great Falls, Montana.

KRTV reporter Quentin Shores (You can’t make this stuff up!) tried to unravel the mystery. First he went to the police.  Then he looked at Facebook and asked around town. After all of his sleuthing, he has no more an answers than I have.

A few people, naturally, suggested aliens. (Trained linguists and anthropologists have offered a similar explanation for Basque language and culture, which are completely unrelated to those around them.) Others have suggested it might be an art installation.  I could believe that, but I wonder why no one has taken credit (or blame) for it.

As he mentioned, it could simplify have been a prank. Perhaps someone put it there just to keep people guessing, just as James Joyce admitted that he filled Finnegan’s Wake with so many enigmas and puzzles to “keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant.”

Whatever the story behind the “bicycle log,” it’s fair to wonder how long it will be there. After all, the river’s current could erode or sweep it away. Or some official could deem it a hazard and order it removed. Personally, I hope it stays there a long time to confound and inspire generations.

 

In The Middle Of His Life

 Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

In honor of a hero who was killed in the middle of his life (he lives through his legacy), I am reposting what I wrote five years ago:

Today Martin Luther King Jr. Day is observed in the United States.  If I had Napoleon's prerogative of re-inventing the calendar, there are some holidays I'd do away with. But I'd keep this one.  Perhaps I'd restore it to his actual birthday, 15 January.  But I understand why it was moved to the third Monday in January:  It's easier to keep government offices, schools, banks and the like closed for three consecutive days than it is to close for a day in the middle of the week.  Also, who doesn't like a three-day weekend?

Seriously, though, there aren't many other people more deserving of their own holidays.  He truly was a martyr for a just cause.  But for all of his seriousness of purpose, he seemed to really enjoy himself sometimes.  At least, he looks that way in the photos I've seen of him on a bicycle--and there are more such photos than I ever expected to find.

Martin Luther King Jr rides bicycle with William Wachtel (the son of King's lawyer, Harry Wachtel) on Fire Island, NY, 3 September 1967,  Photo from Hofstra University collection.

I get the sense that riding a bike was, for him, a release from the rigors of touring, speaking and preaching--and the tension from FBI spies and CIA snipers lurking allies who became rivals when, among other things, he announced his opposition to the Vietnam War.

Also, from the photo, and others I've seen, riding a bicycle was a way for King to show that he was one of the common people.  When he was assassinated, in 1968, the dawn of the North American Bike Boom was just starting to flicker.  American adults  were, for the first time in half a century, mounting bikes and taking early-morning or after-work rides--or, in a few cases, riding to work or school.  Bicycles were still ridden mainly by those who were too young--or poor--to drive.  

I can't help but to think that those bike rides were at least one reason why he gave speeches that instructors (including yours truly) have used as models of good writing and effective communication for their students.  As lofty as his rhetoric could be, it reached all kinds of people:  Anyone could understand it.  In the above photo, he's on level with a young boy; when he rode a bicycle, he experienced the places where people lived in a way he wouldn't have if he were in a limousine.  And people saw him eye-to-eye--as, I suspected, he wanted to see them. 

Which, I believe, is a reason why he would call the the devastation wrought by the COVID-19 pandemic--or, more precisely, the President's inept or callous (depending on what you believe) response--as the racial, economic and social injustice that it is. He had an acute moral compass honed by, among other things, his bike rides.

Don’t Try This At Home—Or On the Road

 After yesterday’s weighty post, here’s something that will lighten up your Sunday:

I used to joke that after “this won’t hurt” and “one size fits all,” the biggest lie is that you can walk in cycling shoes—at least the ones we were riding.

How Do I Write About Cycling Or Midlife After Renee Good’s Murder?

 In some of my earlier posts, I invoked my “Howard Cosell Rule.” It gives me the latitude to, if not the right, to write about something not related to bicycles, bicycling or even being in midlife. 

The rule’s namesake, along with Don Meredith and Frank Gifford, was calling a game when New England Patriots kicker took to the field to boot a potential game-winning field goal against the Miami Dolphins. 

Instead of helping to build suspense, he announced “an unspeakable tragedy” that came to him from ABC News: the murder of John Lennon.  “Remember, this is just a football game, no matter who wins or loses,” he intoned.

While some praised him, many more criticized him. A similar scenario ensued a dozen years earlier when he used his “Speaking of Sports” radio program to talk about another “unspeakable tragedy” from the previous night:  the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy, just two months after Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down.

Now, I have never received similar backlash for discussing, for example, bell hooks, mainly because I am not the public figure Cosell was.  Also, I suspect, most of my readers are at least sympathetic to my interests and proclivities even if we do not share them. On the other hand, many sports fans do not share Cosell’s views about society or culture or simply don’t want to hear about them when they tuned in for a football game.

All of this makes me wonder how readers responded to Matthew Miranda’s article. I suspect more than a few didn’t get past the byline: “I dunno how to write about the Knicks when the government is killing people.”

My guess is that Howard would have approved.  Certainly, I do.  

Jonathan Ross murdered Renee Good. Full stop.  In spite of what Trump administration officials are saying, she did nothing to endanger him or anyone else. Moreover, said officials have given no plausible reason for sending Ross and fellow ICE agents to Minnesota, where Good met her demise.  Oh, wait a minute, the Land of 10000 Lakes has welcomed more—wait for it—Somalis—than any place else.  Dark-skinned people in a land of Vikings. Oh, the horror! (sarcasm)

That folks like Ross can kill innocent people with impunity is hardly unique in history. What makes it, and the killing of alleged drug traffickers in the Caribbean and eastern Pacific, especially chilling—and why comparing ICE to the Gestapo is only partly accurate—is that Ross and his colleagues voluntarily signed up for their jobs. Hitler’s agents were recruited, sometimes forcibly, from police and military units, the latter of which were conscripted.

Oh, and agents of the Gestapo (and the SS, its umbrella organization) didn’t wear masks.

Another Legend Passes

 When George H.W. Bush was Ronald Reagan’s vice president, some press wag nicknamed him “You Die, I Fly” because his chief duty seemed to be attending state funerals.

Now, I hope nobody starts calling  me “You Die, I Write” after reading this post.

A few days ago, I reported the death of Cannondale founder Joe Montgomery. Now I’m going to tell you about the passing of another titan of the bicycle industry.

If you were embarking upon a fully-loaded bicycle tour at the dawn of the 1970s North American Bike Boom, and you needed something stronger and stabler than a Pletscher “rat trap,” you had to beg a shop to order an English or French rack made from steel rods—or order it yourself.  Then you had to hope you could fit it to your bike, especially your frame didn’t have brazed-on fittings.

A young industrial designer saw one of those racks and thought, “I can do better.”  

He then created a rear carrier from welded aluminum rods that could be fitted to braze-ons, clamped to the seat stays or secured with an adjustable stainless steel “tongue” that attached to the brake bolt.

He would introduce his new rack on the night “Saturday Night Live” premiered.  OK, that’s not quite true, but you have to admit it’s a good story.  But his creation first appeared in shops and mail order catalogs around the same time, in 1975.

The timing was fortuitous.  The following year, thousands of cyclists participated in Bikecentennial. They needed to carry panniers and sleeping bags (in some cases,  both from Cannondale) across mountain passes and prairies to the ocean white with foam.

The creator of that rack would use the same design basis to make sturdy water bottle cages.  In the meantime, he studied the ways French randonneurs and other long-distance touring cyclists carried their loads and used his training to determine the best ways to balance weight.  He used that information to design front pannier carriers that lowered the center of gravity, which made for a more stable ride without sacrificing handling.

You know that front carrier as the “Lowrider.”  And if you are using a rear rack, its design and construction is influenced, at least in part,  his rear rack—if you aren’t riding the “real thing.”

The man responsible for those bike luggage supports, and many other fine bike accessories, was none other than Jim Blackburn, who passed away on Monday.  He was 86 years old.  

You might say that seeing that English steel rack was his midlife “crisis.” And the cycling world is better for it.

(I never met him but it seemed that everyone who did, liked him.)

Photo of Jim Blackburn by Greg Hine

Do They Get Old Before Midlife?

 When does ‘midlife’ begin?

I have asked, and been asked, this question.  For more years than I care to admit, I’ve identified myself as being in ‘midlife.’ As long as I don’t know when my life will end, I am in the middle of it.

In certain milieux, however, people a good bit younger than I am are considered “old.” Top-level professional sports are a prime example. In most team sports, athletes are considered to be at their peak around 30 years old; most are out of the game by their late 30s.  Eddy Merckx, widely considered the greatest cyclist of all time, rode his final race at 33 years old. The only five-time Tour de France winner before him, Jacques Anquetil, rode his last at age 35 and the next “fiver;” Bernard Hinault, retired on his 32nd birthday. And some athletes, like gymnasts, rarely compete after their mid-20’s:

Knowing what is considered “old” in sports made this all the more impressive:

Aaron Rodgers joins Tom Brady, Drew Brees and HOF Brett Favre as the only QBs since 1950 to start a playoff game at 40+ years old 👏@steelers | #HereWeGo pic.twitter.com/ga6JXdX6aG

— NFL+ (@NFLPlus) January 13, 2026

Prove It!

 Sometimes, no matter what we say or do, people just won’t believe us!

54? He’s not even in midlife yet! Wait’ll he gets to be my age!

Joe Montgomery R.I.P.

 

What did Joe Montgomery and Steve Jobs have in common?

They founded iconic companies and created products that changed their industries and markets. And each of them took risks that led to losing their companies, though one got his back.

So much has been said and written about Jobs that, really, I could add only the comparison I’ve just made.  I am writing this post on an iPad and use an iPhone. Need I say more about his effect on my, and many other people’s, lives?

On the other hand, you’re not likely to know about Joe unless you’re (ahem!) a cyclist of a certain age. But even if you’re not an avid cyclist, you probably have heard of his company simply from seeing cyclists on their bikes.

Unlike Steve, he didn’t return to the business he started. That makes sense when you realize that Mr. Montgomery saw himself first and foremost as a problem-solver who relished a challenge.

Cannondale’s 2003 bankruptcy was a result of one of those challenges:  the company’s ill-fated foray into motocross. Perhaps his successes in the company’s other ventures, most notably in cycling, imbued him with more confidence than he should’ve had.  Whatever the explanation, another difficulty in his life—with joint pain—led him to create a product and start an enterprise related to it.

When he co-founded Cannondale in 1971, he had no training or experience as an engineer or a designer and while he described himself as an outdoor enthusiast, he didn’t claim to be an “avid” cyclist .

But the product for which Cannondale gained notice—the “Bugger” (I can hear my British readers snickering!)—was borne of his penchant for asking, “How can this be better?” As he recalled, he saw a cyclist struggling up a hill with a heavy backpack.    

The “Bugger” is believed to be, if not the first bicycle trailer, then at least the first commercially available. It’s essentially a backpack on wheels. While it was produced for only a few years, it was influential:  Not only have other bicycle trailers have been made, current cargo bikes and wheeled luggage are arguably its descendants.

During its early years, Cannondale was known mainly for bicycle accessories and other outdoor gear.  My first handlebar bag, which I used on my first multiday trip and European bike tour, may well have been one of Joe’s attempts to solve a problem:  Good front bag supports, and quality bicycle accessories in general, weren’t widely available in the US.  My handlebar bag was constructed something like an internally-framed backpack and mounted with looped aluminum bars on the bottom of a dropped handlebar. Although it bounced a bit on rough roads, I never had any problem hauling my Honeywell Pentax with multiple lenses, a snack or two and something for impromptu encounters. (I was young; I’ll leave that to your imagination!)

And for years, my off-bike luggage was a practical and very distinctive-looking backpack and my off-bike winter outerwear was a parka, both made in the USA by Cannondale. By the time they gave out, I had been using both for nearly half of my life!

Oh, and I wore those amazing leather-and-cotton cycling gloves Cannondale made in Pennsylvania. Like Brooks saddles, they were stiff at first but a few rides broke them in.  To this day, I haven’t worn any other cycling gloves as comfortable, or that lasted nearly as long.

As for the bikes: A year after they were introduced, I bought one of their racing bikes. While I was impressed with its speed and responsiveness, its ride proved harsh even for my young (at the time) bones.  I understand the designs have evolved; perhaps I will try one again some day.

A few years ago, I acquired one of the company’s 1990s mountain bikes. I briefly used it as a commuter/townie. It served the purpose well. But the COVID lockdown came, which eliminated my commute.  I gave that bike to someone who worked at Mount Sinai-Queens and had a two-hour walk to get his job when the subway shut down.

Whatever I thought of the racing bike’s ride, I never doubted the quality of Cannondale’s products.  And while I’m mostly a traditionalist when it comes to bikes (All of my frames are steel!), I think Cannondale spurred, directly or indirectly, positive developments in componentry as well as bikes.

For them, and other reasons (I met him once:  Nice guy!), I note the passing—and offer my condolences to the friends and family—of Joe Montgomery.

Filling The Gap

 About three weeks ago, I left for the last time. I’d been working at the college for just over four years.  I started there after going a year without teaching for the first time in nearly three decades, having lost my old job in the pandemic.

For the first five and a half semesters I worked there, I lived in Astoria.  My commute included crossing the Williamsburg Bridge.  I really enjoyed it—well, most of it anyway.

Until the Brooklyn Bridge opened its dedicated bike lane a couple of years ago, the Williamsburg’s bike lane was easily the best among New York City’s major crossings: It’s wide and has better sight lines than the Manhattan, RFK/Triboro, Queensborough/59th Street or George Washington Bridges.  And I loved that, like Manhattan’s lane, it runs alongside subway tracks. You could tell which passengers were tourists:  They were gazing at the urban panoramas that unfolded before them.  Some waved to me and other cyclists; a few even blew kisses my way. 

As with any major bridge crossing, you climb until you reach the apex.  That means, of course, you descend on the other side.Whee! 

Well, it’s fun until you reach Delancey Street on the Manhattan side.  You’re barreling down at about 40 or 50 MPH (65 to 80 KPH) when you encounter a passage not much wider than you, even if you’re young and skinny. Concrete blocks about your height flank it on either side.

Oh, and right before that strait, the surface drops about half a meter—as if you’re going off a high curb.  At 40-50 MPH (65-80 KPH).

Photo by Lloyd Mitchell

And you have to navigate all of that as people are crossing Delancey, a busy commercial thoroughfare.

Well, say what you will about our new mayor, but Zohran Mamdani, himself a cyclist, did what previous mayors didn’t:  He had the gap filled.  Better yet, he doesn’t plan to stop there:  He’s proposed a rebuild.

Five Years— Or Five Minutes—Ago?i

 Time flies.  How often have you heard—or said—that?

The hours, the years seem to go by more quickly as we reach midlife.  Years ago, I came across a simple explanation: A day, a decade or any other amount of time seems to pass faster because it’s a smaller portion of our lives than it was when we were younger. When you’re four, next Christmas feels like a lifetime away; when you’re forty, last Christmas could have been yesterday—on Christmas Eve.

I’ve heard and read people saying that the pandemic further compressed the time that’s elapsed since. “I think something happened two weeks ago, then I realize it was in 2022,” one commenter related.  That remark particularly resonated with me when I returned from a late afternoon ride. I felt a sense of déjá vu, but it had nothing to do with my familiarity with the route I’d taken to Randall’s Island and back.  Rather, some part of my psyche was replaying an emotion I’d felt at the end of some other episode ride.  After dinner—Taco Tuesday from Webster Diner and Café—I remembered which ride etched the emotion that reflected in my mind’s eye this evening.

From the Astoria apartment where I lived, I pedaled briskly but aimlessly through Queens and Brooklyn  streets.  When I got home, I got the news everyone was hearing: A mob of Donald Trump supporters stormed the Capitol, believing they could overturn the election that denied their guy four more years in the White House—for four years, anyway.

Photo by Ben Stirton

That was five years ago today.  But, to borrow a cliché, it feels like five days ago, if that, even if this country— and the world—and so many of our lives—seem to have five centuries of change. But I have no idea of when any of it, including my life will end. So I am still in the middle, in midlife, with more—of what?—to come, five minutes or five decades from now.

Saturday Solitude

 How does one find peace and solitude without going to a retreat in the mountains?

That’s what I did yesterday.  What’s more, I did it without leaving New York City, at least not technically.

Fort Totten, near the border with Nassau County, is further from Times Square—or my apartment in  Bedford Park. Nestled by Long Island Sound on the eastern edge of Queens, it the former military base offers expansive vistas and has long been one of my favorite ride destinations.

After pedaling out there, I didn’t see a single visitor. That’s unusual for a Saturday, even if the weather was on the cool side for this time of year. Perhaps even more striking was how little traffic I encountered along the way.  

But what struck me even more, though, was the absence of bicycles, e-bikes or even motorized bikes anywhere I rode, from my apartment through the Bronx River Greenway, Randall’s Island and Queens neighborhoods from Astoria to Bayside. Not only did I not see bicyclists on training or simply “fun” rides; I didn’t encounter anyone on an e-bike or motorized bikes:  not even delivery workers.

On one hand, I enjoyed having Fort Totten, Randall’s Island and the Bronx River trail to myself.  On the other, it was a little weird to be the only one on the road or trail in New York City.

In a way, it reminded me, in my midlife, of some rides I took when I first moved back to New York City. In the mid-1980s, I could pedal from Manhattan, where I was living, to working- and middle-class Brooklyn neighborhoods like the one in which I grew up (some of which have “gentrified” or changed in other ways) without encountering another adult cyclist.

Hmm…am I “cycling back” in midlife? I used to enjoy the solitude in those days, especially when I knew it would precede a night out.   But I didn’t go out last night: I spent time with Marlee and “Cora,” the girlfriend of “Sam,” my neighbor and sometime cycling buddy.

Trains of Joy

 

Little riding  yesterday.   But I went to the New York Botanic Garden’s Holiday Train Show.

The electric locomotives and cars snaked their way through scale models of  New York buildings and landmarks, all made from tree and other plant materials.

 

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 confided he preferred detective fiction to “serious” novels. Frank O’Hara 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. (Most people 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 generation of 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 sacrifice his own ambitions help Simpson 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!