Lael Wilcox Beats All Comers--Yes, Including The Men--In The TransAm

In previous posts, I've mentioned the Bikecentennial.  

A few years after it, something called the Race Across America started.  Lon Haldeman won its first incarnation in 1982; Severin Zolter of Austria won last year.  

It is comparable to the European super-races like the Tour de France, Giro d'Italia and Vuelta a Espana mainly in its overall length.  Those races are in stages and consist of a number of diffent kind of events, such as mountain stages and sprints.  On the other hand, Race Across America is a straight-through race, from some point on the West Coast to some point on the East Coast. (The first edition began on the Santa Monica Pier in California and ended at the Empire State Building in New York.) This means that riders choose when and where they stop and how much or how little they sleep.  Another difference is that roads are not closed to traffic for the race's course.  So, perhaps, it's not surprising that both of the fatalities in the race's history are the result of collisions with motor vehicles.

It seems that someone had the bright idea of combining Bikecentennial with the Race Across America.  Thus was the Trans Am race born.  

Run every year since 2014,  it is a transcontinental race, like RAAM.  Also like RAAM, it is not in stages, so insomniacs can ride through the night, if they like. (I imagine it is better for the mind, as well as the body, than binge-watching Gilligan's Island.)  The most interesting aspect of the race, though, is that it's run on the Bikecentennial route--which is 6800 km (4200 miles) long.  That's at least several hundred kilometers longer than any RAAM, Tour, Giro or Vuelta route!

The other morning, the first American to win the race arrived in Yorktown, Virginia 18 days and 10 minutes after departing Astoria, Oregon.  Lael Wilcox came in ahead of 51 other riders.  As of this writing, four others have finished and eight others have scratched.  That means 38 others are still en route to Yorktown.

(You can follow the riders' progress here.)

For most of the race, Wilcox chased Steffen Streich (who, in spite of his name, hails from Lesbos, Greece) and caught him when, after awaking from a 2.5 hour sleep on the last night, began riding the course backward.  When she encountered him (They'd never before met.), he suggested that they ride together to the finish.  She reminded him that they were in a race.

Now, if you're not from the US, you might not care that Wilcox is the first American to win the race.  You might not even care that Wilcox rode the second-fastest time in the history of the race. Only Mike Hall (of England), who won the inaguaral edition of the race, completed it in less time: 17 days and 16 hours.  

The most interesting aspect of Wilcox's feat is--at least to me--is that she is one of the few women to have ridden it.  Think about that:  The only man who bettered her in the history of the race is Mike Hall!

She is making me think of Beryl Burton, of whom I've written in earlier posts. For two years (1967-69), she held the 12-hour time trial record.  Not the women's record, mind you:  the record.  Moreover, her 277.25-mile (446.2 kilometer) ride was a full five miles (eight kilometers) longer than any other 12-hour time trial!

Hmm...Could Lael Wilcox beat all comers in the RAAM--or some other event?

N.B.:  All photos by Nicholas Carman, from the Gypsy By Trade blog

The Safari Before The Bikecentennial

On resiste a la invasion des armees; on ne resiste pas a la invasion des idees.

 Even if you have no idea of what this means, you have probably guessed that it was written by Victor Hugo because, well, he is the first French writer that comes to most people's minds.

The literal translation goes like this:  One resists the invasion of armies; one does not resist the invasion of ideas.  I rather prefer it to the most common translation because it keeps the symmetrical structure and somewhat echoes the sound of the original.

But, as Robert Frost once remarked, in poetry, what gets lost in translation is the poetry.   So it is with the version of the quote almost every English speaker has heard: There is nothing so powerful as an idea whose time has come.

That second translation, though, came to mind when I came across some photos of something I hadn't seen in a long time:

The Safari is a fully-loaded touring bicycle Nishiki offered from 1972 until 1975:  as the 1970's Bike Boom in North America was waxing and waning.  The year after Nishiki discontinued the Safari, thousands of Americans rode all or part of the Bikecentennial.  However, euphoria about the transcontinental tour did not translate into large numbers of dedicated bicycle tourists.  So, had the Safari been made for another year, it might have translated into another year or two of production, but no more.

Julius, on his Safari re-fitted with upright bars

When the Safari was introduced, very few Americans had ever used classical bicycle touring equipment, or anything that resembled it.  So we were unfamiliar with canvas panniers and "handlebar" (more accurately, front) bags like the ones on French constructeur and English touring bikes.  As you can see in the photo, the bags that came with the Safari closely resembled bags made by Sologne, La Fuma, Karrimor, Carradice and other British and French companies.  And the Safari's bags--like the rest of the bike, made in Japan--were solidly constructed from canvas and leather, though the materials on the Japanese bags were thicker--and heavier.

Those bags were affixed to carriers attached to brazed-on fittings (rather than the clamps in use on most bikes of the time).  The carriers, made of steel, were solidly-constructed but, again, heavier than the British and French racks on which they were modeled. 

And, like the custom touring bikes of yore, the Safari came with a generator lighting set.  Strangely, the generator was clamped onto the front fork rather than a brazed-on rear stay fitting (or even one on the front fork).  But it was said to be a good, reliable set that gave, for its time, good light output.

If one were to take away the bags, racks, brazed-on fittings, generator light and other accessores (such as the pump), one would have been left with the Nishiki Kokusai (which became the International in 1974), a solid bike with a smooth ride and a drivetrain that shifted better than most others of its time (thanks in large part to the SunTour VGT rear derailleur).  The Kokusai/International sold well (I had one) but the Safari did not.  In fact, it was derided by some of the same people, including bike shop employees and owners, who touted the Kokusai/International.  

One reason is that most Americans had never seen, let alone used, touring bags like the ones on the Safari.  The state-of-the-art panniers and other bags  Kirtland, Eclipse, Cannondale and other American companies offered at that time were made from pack nylon and, later, Cordura. They were much lighter and didn't need the special racks and fittings the older canvas bags required.  Plus, the American bags could be had in a rainbow of colors.  (Isn't it funny that back then, nearly all bike components were silver--black was a big deal--but the bags were brightly-colored.  Now we can get neon-hued rims and such, but most bags come only in black!) 

Also, because most of the ten-speeds sold during the Bike Boom didn't have fenders, most new American cyclists came to believe that only clunkers and kids' bikes had them. We used to joke that you knew a "serious" cyclist by the mud stripes on the back of his jersey and shorts! 

But one of the real "nails in the coffin" for sales of that bike was its weight:  42 pounds.  It's actually not as bad as it sounds when you consider all of the equipment the Safari came with.  The Kokusai was a 31-pound bike--typical for its time--and the International shaved a pound or two off that.  To most people, though, buying a Safari meant getting the weight of a Schwinn Varsity at twice the price--even if it cost less than half of what other fully-equipped touring bikes cost.

All of those issues aside, a dedicated bike tourer would have found one other (easily remediable) flaw:  the gearing. In the 1970's, it was common to have "half step" gearing in the front to compensate for the wide gearing gaps between cogs on wide-range five-speed freewheels.  Said freewheel had gears ranging from 14 to 34 teeth--the widest range available at the time.  It was paired with chainrings of 48 and 54 teeth.  Yes, you read that right. The small chainring was 48 teeth--on a fully-loaded touring bike! 

Had that flaw been corrected, and had Nishiki shaved a bit of weight off the Safari, would it have sold better--and would Nishiki have continued making it? Could it have become an idea whose time had come?