8 Years Already!

So why am I posting a picture of an 8 year old girl?

From Thanks, Mail Carrier

Well, she looks really cute on that bike. But she is relevant to this blog.  Better yet, she has something in common with it.

What?, you ask.

Midlife Cycling turns 8 years old today.   I wrote my first post on 2 June 2010.  I'm still "at it," 2567 posts later.  And I'll keep it up as long as I enjoy it.  Since I've never stopped loving cycling or writing, I don't think I'll lose the pleasure I've found in this blog and you, my audience.

So what has changed?  Writers are the worst judges of their own work, but I'm guessing that this blog has developed a "voice", whatever it may be.  In the beginning, I was probably making some effort to imitate other bike blogs I'd read, especially ones written by women. (I'm thinking particularly of Lovely Bicycle.) But I am a very different sort of woman, and cyclist, so I realized that I could do no more or less than follow my own instincts and inclinations.  Sometimes I write about my own trips or bikes; other times I write about other people's rides and machines; still other times I veer into topics that don't have much of a relationship to cycling.  Others will judge the results, but I am happy to be writing this blog and that others are reading it.

Aside from the blog itself, some other things in my life have changed since I started.  For one thing, I now have four bikes I didn't have back then:  Dee-Lilah, my new Mercian Vincitore Special; Vera, the twin-tube Miss Mercian mixte I bought about a year after I started this blog; Josephine, the Trek 412 estate-sale find and Martie, the Fuji Allegro that's become my commuter/errand bike.  And I no longer have Helene, the Miss Mercian I bought not long after I started this blog, and the two Schwinn LeTours I acquired and used as commuter/errand bikes.

Oh, and I now have one cat, Marlee, who wasn't even born when I wrote that first post.  Sadly, Charlie and Max, my feline buddies back then, are gone.  

On a happier note:  I have taken, in addition to hundreds of day rides, trips abroad which have included cycling: Prague, Paris (twice), Italy (Rome and Florence) and Montreal.  And I've been to Florida a number of times to visit my parents but also to enjoy some warm-weather riding in the middle of winter.  

I don't know what changes and adventures lie ahead.  All I know is that you'll read about them here!

Friday The 13th.

Today is Friday the 13th.  

I am not superstitious about that, or much else. The only reason why I am thinking about the fact that it's Friday the 13th is something that happened the last time Friday the 13th came in January.

The year was 2012:  five years ago.  I was pedaling home from work when, all of a sudden, I burst into tears.  I was crying so hard that I could barely see in front of me or control my bike.  I stopped in an ATM vestibule and let it all out.  Or so I thought.  I got back on my bike, but only for a couple of blocks before I saw a cat in a store window.   Then the tears streamed out even more and I could barely stand, let alone pedal.

I am almost entirely sure that some time during my crying fits, Charlie died.  When I got home, I found him lying stiff on the floor, his hind legs crossed.  

Max and Marlee, the cats who currently reside with me, are sweet and loving.  In fact, I adopted Marlee just a few weeks after I lost Charlie.  But I will never forget Charlie:  He came into my life as I was undergoing fundamental and sometimes dramatic (and traumatic!) changes.  He was with me through some very happy and very intense times, including my gender reassignment.  And, of course, he was reading over my shoulder (!) as I typed the early entries of this blog.

When anyone, human or otherwise, shows you nothing but love of the kind that renders you incapable of feeling anything but love for him or her, you don't "get over" losing him or her.  And you shouldn't:  That love becomes a part of you, along with all sorts of memories.  It becomes, perhaps paradoxically, why you find new friends or companions after such a loss:  They are a testament to what you have shared with the one who has departed.

Max and Marlee greet me when I come back from a bike ride.  So did Charlie.  So does he.

P.S.  The "Charlie" to whom I am referring was the second cat I lived with who was named Charlie.  So in earlier posts, I referred to him as Charlie II and the first as Charlie I.

A Love Letter To An Old Friend

About four weeks ago, I wrote about the first anniversary of Charlie's death.

He was sweet, adorable and smart, and accompanied me through some of most intense and, sometimes, wonderful times in my life.  

Charlie came into my life on this date in 2006.  My friend Mildred rescued him a few months earlier from an area of metal fabrication shops.  There are a few houses among them; still, the area is usually deserted after dark.  That's why people--and I use that term quite loosely--dump animals there.

Millie told me that as soon as Charlie saw her, he scampered toward her.   That meant, of course, that he was not a feral cat; he must have had a home only recently.  The vet said as much, and determined that he was about six to seven years old.  

She wanted to keep him, but she had other cats in her house and yard.  I said I would take him as soon as I was ready.  She didn't rush me; she understood why I couldn't take him right away.

He is the reason why.  You might be thinking that he looks like Charlie.  In fact, he is Charlie--just not the same one I've been talking about.

The cat in the photo--let's call him Charlie I--had been in my life for nearly fifteen years, from the time he was a kitten.  Only members of my family and a few friends have had, or had, more years with me.  

In addition to being adorable and sweet, he was smart and, it seemed, prescient.  You know he's intelligent from that photo:  He's in front of an Oxford English Dictionary.  Some people might believe that he read more of it than I did!

Another way I knew he was smart was the way he looked the camera.  He seemed to realize that I was photographing him, but he also seemed to know that it was simply impossible for anyone--even  yours truly!--to take a bad photo of him.

When I first met him, he was with the other kittens in his litter.  He half-walked, half-waddled to me on his little legs and looked into my eyes.  Somehow, he seemed to know all about me, and that he was going home with me.  I didn't even have to make the decision.

What's even more interesting, though, is that he preferred women to men and girls to boys.  Whenever I talked with a woman on the phone, he was at my side.  When a woman came into my apartment, he simply had to meet her.  And he and Tammy got along famously.

Someone suggested that he acted as he did the first time I met him because he knew that I'm a woman, even though I was still deep into my boy-drag phase!  For a few months, around the time Charlie I was a year old, I shared my apartment with a fellow graduate student.  Late one afternoon, Charlie I made a beeline for the door as I turned the key.  My roommate joked, "Charlie, Mommy's home!"

So, Charlie I was with me for that part of my life, through graduate school and a few jobs, in five different apartments (including the one in which I lived with Tammy) and, most important of all, through my last, desperate attempts to live as a man and the beginning of my life as Justine.

Now, you may be wondering why I named Charlie II Charlie.  The truth is, he was already so named when I brought him home.  Millie had given him that name and I didn't want to change it.  And, even though Charle II had a slightly different personality from Charlie I, he was sweet and loving. He was, not a clone of, or replacement for, Charlie I, but a continuation of him.  Sometimes I think it's exactly what I needed.

Charlie, One Year Later

Today was mild for this time of year.  Although it didn't rain, or even drizzle, the air felt damp, as it has since the rain we got the other afternoon and night.

It actually wasn't a bad day to ride, in my book.  It's nice to ride on overcast days sometimes: I have fair skin, so a lot of time in the sun tires me out as well as leaves me at risk for sunburn and other things.  Still, I was feeling sad.  

While riding, I saw one of those billboard signs that shows the time, temperature and date.  I then realized why my mood was darker than the sky:  Today is the 13th.  

Last year, this date fell on a Friday.  Now, I'm not normally superstitious, so Friday the 13th doesn't mean much to me. But I recall the one that came in January of last year for one reason:  Charlie died.

Although Marley is adorable and sweet, he can't replace Charlie.  I didn't expect that he would; he just happened to come into my life a little less than two months after I lost Charlie.  Max took to him very quickly; he was always a very affectionate cat.  But Max, like Charlie, was with me during a very special time in my life:  my transition and surgery.  One simply can't replace the kind of relationship one had with an animal during a time like that.  

At least Max is still here and will be for years to come.  And, I believe, Marley is special in his own way, and I am developing a relationship with him that's different from the one I have with Max, or the ones I had with Charlie or the other cats who came before him.  Needless to say, it's also different from the relationships I have, and have had, with people in my life.  I guess that was the point, at least for me, of taking Marley into my life.  That, and the fact that he's ridiculously cute.

Say Hello To Marley

Did a little bit more riding than I did the other day, without pain.  I think I'll be ready to resume regular riding soon.


Yesterday, though, I didn't ride.  I was welcoming the newest "addition" to my family.

Stephanie, who rescued Marley, brought him to my place yesterday.  So, naturally, I spent the day home so I could welcome him and ease the "transition."  Actually, Max is taking it pretty well.

Right now, my new family member seems to have two speeds:  sleep and "charge!"  As soon as we released him from his carrier, Max tried to play with him.  And, all through the day, Max tried to make friends with him.  It's been a bit more than a month since Charlie died, and Max seems to have been starved for feline attention ever since.


As my new friend is a "rescue" kitten, I can understand the nervousness and skittishness he felt yesterday.  I can also understand his need for sleep.

When Stephanie kept him in her apartment, she called him "Charlie."  Not only is that the name of my recently departed; it is also the name of a cat--also gray and white!--I had before him. So, I think I'm going to rename him.  For now, I'm calling him Marley.  I've read and seen "Marley and Me," but more important, I have recordings of just about everything Bob ever did.  My new friend doesn't particularly remind me of him, but I figure neither of us can go wrong with that name. Plus, I like the sound of it.


Speaking of sound:  I thought I heard a mouse squeak.  Turns out, it was Marley crying.  I've raised only one other cat from kittenhood--my first Charlie--and remember him crying that way, too.  What do they say? Big boys cry because they are always, at heart, little boys.

I don't know whether I'll ever try to carry Marley in a basket.  I never tried that with Max or my second Charlie  because they were big when I adopted them.  However, I took my first Charlie on a couple of rides when he was still small.  When he got bigger, he wasn't too keen on riding in a basket.  But, his being home was one more thing for me to look forward to at the end of every ride!  That's how I see Max's presence now, and how I will most likely see Marley's.

Ride On Ice

Lakythia and I had planned on going for a ride today.  But the temperature didn't rise much higher than my (American) shoe size and the wind gusted to speeds not much lower than my age.  So we opted for brunch--dim sum in Chinatown, to be exact--instead.


Now I am going to reveal one of the mysteries o the human race.  Or, perhaps, I'm simply going to tell you something you'd always suspected.  You've probably noticed that it's usually the men who think it's too warm and the women who think it's too cold.  Well, I've noticed that my sensitivity to cold, while still not as acute as that of other women I know, has certainly increased since I started taking estrogen, and intensified after my surgery.  Before I underwent my transformation, I was one of those guys who, it seemed. always felt too hot.


It's definitely hormonal.  I've read that estrogen increases sensitivity to cold and testosterone to heat.  I noticed that my sensitivity to cold increased after my estrogen dosage was increased about three months after I started taking it.  And, since my surgery, the level of estrogen in my body at any given time has increased, and most of the testosterone is gone.  


At least I know that neither training nor diets, nor anything else, will return me to being someone who cycled in shorts on all but the coldest days.  However, I'm hoping that increasing my mileage will bring back some of the strength I lost.  I've been told that I would have lost some of the hill-climbing ability I once had simply from age. but I don't want to use that--or the hormones--as an excuse.  


Then again, I enjoy my rides more than I did.  Perhaps that has to do with the changes, too.


Anyway, if the wind dies down, I think I'll go for a ride tomorrow:  It's a holiday.  Perhaps I can make it a memorial to Charlie.

Charlie R.I.P.

I really wish I didn't have to say this:  Charlie died last night.


No, I wasn't there when it happened.  However, I feel pretty certain that he died some time around 8 p.m.  


I was pedaling home from work when, all of a sudden, I burst into tears.  I was crying so deeply that I could barely see in front of me, much less control my front wheel. 


I spotted an ATM I sometimes use, opened the door and wheeled my bike in.  I sat in a corner of the vestibule, my tears rolling from my cheeks, down my neck and onto the collar of my jacket.  I don't know how long I was there and I don't think anyone came in to use the machines, in spite of its location in the middle of a commercial strip that remains busy well into the night.


When I thought I had my crying under control (a completely unrealistic assumption after my operation and years of taking hormones!), I wheeled out of the vestibule and stepped over the bike's top tube.  I rode about two blocks before I saw a tortoiseshell calico in a store window.  Even though she looked nothing like Charlie, the faucet was turned on once again.  And my legs developed the firmness of tapioca pudding.


Fortunately, there was a subway station only another block away.  When a middle-aged woman starts crying on New York City transport, some  passengers will look away or pretend not to notice (or, perhaps, will actually not notice), others will give you the widest berth they can, and one or two will give her looks of sympathy.  Now, if you're a middle-aged woman with a bike and a helmet dangling from the handlebar, some will react as if a giraffe got on the train, or like Agent Scully from the X-Files.  


A Latina who looked about ten years older than me gave me a tissue.


By the time I got home, Charlie was lying on his side, with his rear legs crossed as if he'd taken a tumble.  He may very well have done just that:  he was lying on a blanket and sheet I used to leave for him on my sofa, and they--and he--were on the floor.  I'm guessing that he might have tried to climb on the couch, and when he clawed the sheet or blanket, they slipped off the cushions.  I don't know whether that is what killed him, because he didn't look as if he had wounds caused by such a fall.  However, as weak as he was, he may have simply not gotten back up.


Anyway...What's the point of playing detective now?  He's gone, and I can't stop crying.  He's been in my life for six years.  Even though I had two other cats, whom I loved dearly, for much longer, I think I developed a bond with him that I have not developed with any other animal.  Part of it has to do with the time of my life in which he accompanied me:  He came into my home about two years after I started living as Justine, and was with me through all manner of change in my life.  And, he curled up by my side, in my lap, or even on my belly when I was lying down, during those days when I was recovering from my surgery.


That he never showed me anything but affection is all the more remarkable when I consider how he came into my life.  My friend Millie rescued him from the street.  How such a loving--and handsome--cat ended up on the street is one of those mysteries I'd rather not ponder:  If someone abandoned him, I don't want to think about the sort of person who would do such a thing.


When I think about that, I think that in my next life, I'd like to have a farm with a bunch of animals, especially cats.  When animals attack each other--something Charlie never did, by the way--they are only doing what they are made or hard-wired (or whatever you want to call it) to do.  They are not capriciously cruel, they don't maim or kill for fun or profit, and they don't invade other countries whose citizens never harmed them.


After being, possibly, abandoned on the streets, Charlie was always sweet-natured and never wanted anything more than to be fed, stroked, spoken to gently and cuddled.  People sometimes come from far more fortunate circumstances and are pointlessly mean and avaricious.  Or they simply think only about their own happiness, others be damned.


As I sit and write this, I have my shoulder bag in my lap.  It just doesn't feel right.

Not The Way To Commemorate Michael Jackson

For all of his foibles and questionable behavior, I always thought Michael Jackson was one of the greatest entertainers of his generation.  True, he made all of his worthwhile music before he turned thirty. (In fact, I think that was one of the things that caused or exacerbated many of his problems:  The only way he could "outdo" himself after those great albums and videos was through outrageous behavior.)  But you had to admit:  He could always put on a show.

Somehow, though, I doubt he did much cycling, ever.  I don't think much he ever did was conducive to pedaling two wheels.  And his fashion sense, as interesting as it could be, simply doesn't work when you're in the saddle.

One example of what I mean was his practice of wearing one white glove.  For one thing, about the only white articles of clothing I ever wore on a bike were the socks I raced in:  Back then, the USCF and the UCI didn't allow racers to wear anything else under their Detto Pietros.  Wearing white while cycling simply never made any sense to me; for that matter, I rarely wear much of anything in white because, when I do, I ruin it.  Also, when I haven't had much sun, I look sickly in white.

But back to Michael Jackson:  Wearing one glove isn't very practical on a bike.  Sometimes I ride gloveless, but not when the weather is anything like it's been the past couple of days. 

Sometime during my workday yesterday, I managed to lose one of my gloves.  By the time I was ready to leave, the temperature had dropped to 18F and a brisk wind blew out of the northwest.  The college in which I work is about half a mile from a strip of stores, all of which were closed. 

Another few blocks away, there's another strip.  By the time I passed it, only a Rite-Aid Drugstore and a Mandee's were open.  RA didn't have any gloves, though they had things like electric socks and blankets.  That left Mandee's, which had only those too-cute fingerless gloves that has a "hood" you can slip over the fingers--but not the thumb.  They weren't much, but I figured they were better than nothing.

So I bought a pair and, every few minutes, brought each hand to my lips and blew hot air (Some people tell me I'm full of it.) over each thumb.  Still, by the time I got home, my hands were tingling and my thumbs were numb.  I was only too happy that Charlie and Max wanted me to stroke them!

There are lots of good ways to commemorate MJ.  Emulating his sartorial style when you get on a bike isn't one of them!

Mixte-O-Mania

Miss Mercian II is almost there.  Today, Hal at Bicycle Habitat installed a new headset for me.  I'd hoped to get it in silver or gold.  However, because the original headset has a short "stack height," the number of headsets I can use is limited--unless I replace the fork with one on which the steering column wasn't cut.  And why would I want to replace the fork?  So the headset I got is black, albeit of high quality.


I'm also making a couple of other changes, which you'll see when I unveil her--after my first ride.


And the mixte-o-mania continues.  I found this photo of an old Raleigh Super Course mixte:

Back in my early adolescence, when I was barreling around town on my Schwinn Continental, I wanted--for a time, anyway--this bike.  Of course, back then I wanted the diamond frame, which was no less pretty than this one.


Its color remains, to this day, my favorite shade of red I've ever seen on a bicycle.  I don't remember what Raleigh called it, but I would say it's a deep candy-apple shade.  And it looked great with those white panels and outlines.  


I didn't get the bike.  It was just as well, really:  Later, I ended up buying a Peugeot PX-10, which was a much nicer bike.  When I started to work in a bicycle shop, during the mid-1970's, I saw that the quality of all but the three or four top models of Raleigh was declining.  In fact, I saw more than a few new (at that time) Records, Grand Prix and Super Courses--not to mention Sprites and three-speeds--with misaligned frames, bottom bracket threads that weren't cut properly and bearings that seemed to have sand instead of grease in them.  


Even so, those red Super Courses sure were pretty!  Not as pretty as my bikes though, just as no other cats are as cute as Charlie and Max! ;-)

Thirteen (Or More?) Ways Of Looking At A Cassette

For a time in my life, my favorite poem was Wallace Steven's Thirteen Ways of Looking At A Blackbird.  It's still a favorite of mine.


Now, as far as I know, there aren't any blackbirds anywhere near where I live or work.  In fact, there weren't very many living beings outside today.  Nineteen inches of snow fell on Central Park from last night into this morning.  Cold gusts whipped the snow around,  and thunder echoed the flashes of lightning that pierced the heavy clouds.  Why any living being would choose to be outdoors in such conditions is beyond me.


So, being indoors on a day that Charlie and Max slept through, I started to see the toes of glaciers creeping along my walls where the paint ran.  (No,I'm not taking intoxicants of any sort. )  And rows of tiles become an Andy Warhol painting of kaleidoscopes.


Which leads me to wonder:  How many worlds can be seen from the back of a cassette?

Cozying Up

I've tried to get Charlie and Max interested in cycling.  But they aren't interested in the hard work:  They like to supervise.

Max, at least, makes an effort at looking busy.  (Is that something like acting sincere?  I actually heard someone say that.)  Of course, there's no contract, but there are no rules about sleeping on the job.  Charlie knows that very well:

It was below freezing and, with the wind chill, about fifteen degrees colder.  I got on my bike to go to work.  Now you tell me:  Which species is more intelligent and evolved? 

A Sunday Without A Ride

The doctor was right when she said that my eye infection was viral rather than bacterial.  That's the reason why it's cleared up on its own, albeit slowly.  So my eyes aren't burning.  But the virus seems to have moved to other parts of my body:  I've been congested and my Eustachian tube (what connects the inner ear with the throat) feels as inflamed as my eyes felt.  


I think it's the reason why I felt so tired after riding home from work on Thursday night, and have felt tired ever since.  It figures I would feel this way when we were having a Perfect Fall Weekend.  


It's Sunday.  Perhaps a bit of worship(!) might be in order:

Is there a Church of the Long Island Rail Road?  (Yes, they spell it as two words.)  Near the foot of this "shrine" is one of God's creatures:

Her name is Kiki.  She patrols a tiny snack shop in Woodside, where I've stopped on my rides to or from work.  She claims to be Charlie's long-lost sister.  


Anyway...If I'm posting about railroad power lines and cats in delis, I really need to get back on my bike.  I will.  I'd argue that it beats other ways of transportation:

Is this the real reason why they're the only US automaker that hasn't gone bankrupt?

Adjustments and Sea-Changes

Today my ride consisted of a spin to the park next to the Queensboro Bridge and over the bridge itself to...Bicycle Habitat.  I had to bring in a rear wheel they built for me so it could be tuned up.  Most shops that build custom wheels will tell you to bring them back after two hundred miles or so for a check-up.  

Although the wheel was still rideable, some spokes had come loose.  But, as it's a custom-made lightweight wheel, I want to keep it in optimal condition.  Arielle, my Mercian road bike (which I rode today and the other day), deserves no less.

Hal Ruzal re-tensioned the wheel for me.  

More years ago than either of us will admit (well, OK, more than I'll admit), Hal built me a pair of wheels that I rode along the Mediterranean from Italy into France.  I carried a pair of panniers on my rear which progressively filled with all sorts of chotchkes from flea markets and such, as the exchange rates were very favorable to the dollar.

It's really a wonder I made it through that trip.  I drank way too much wine, and other things.  A glass-half-full person would say that I must have had good bike handling skills.  That's probably true.  But I still don't know how even my pedaling prowess got me through one particular day's ride.

I was about thirty kilometers south of Genoa, somewhere on the road that zigged and zagged along that rocky coastline--or, to be more accurate, along the edges of cliffs from which loose rocks--and pieces of that road--tumbled into the sea.  

The day was overcast when it began; by the time I got to that stretch of road, a storm that surprised me with its violence blew in from the sea.  I didn't know the Mediterranean could have such rough weather!  

I also didn't know--until I got to that stretch of road--that the Romans may have been the greatest road builders in the western world, at least until the nineteenth century.  But they didn't seem to think much about safety, at least not in the ways we think about it.

So that road along the edge of cliffs that drop into the sea was about the width of one and a half vintage Alfa Romeos.  The guard rail on the edge stood up to about my knees.  The wind that was waling at my side could have easily sent me over that guard rail into a wild blue yonder that was darkening in gray.

 

I may not know how I survived that ride.  But I can tell you how my wheels made it:  Hal built them.   

Hal is an excellent wheel builder and mechanic.   He and Charlie, the store's owner, treated me and my fellow employees very well when we worked for American Youth Hostels.  Back then, AYH's New York headquarters were on Spring Street, around the corner from Habitat.  We sent a lot of business there:  People would book their places on AYH-sponsored tours, or simply get their Youth Hostel passes and other necessities from us, and then would go to Habitat for wheels, tires, bags or other things they needed for their tour.  A few of those people even bought new bikes.

Back then, there were still real, live artists living and working in the lofts that abounded in the neighborhood.  The Soho stretch of Broadway hadn't yet become a fashion-designers' strip mall.  So, as you can imagine, the clientèle of the shop was a bit different.  

Then, as now, many messengers went to the shop, as it's along one of the routes they would take from the Wall Street area to Midtown.  Some of Habitat's customers lived nearby.   Most of the neighborhood's residents at that time didn't have a lot of money. One might say that Soho at that time (early 1980's) represented the last stand of genteel poverty in New York.  A few of the artists and others who lived in the neighborhood bought bikes at Habitat; many more had their mounts repaired or resurrected there.

Interestingly, the people who worked in the shop--including Hal and Charlie--reflected what some might have called the spirit of the neighborhood.  Hal is a musician; other current and former shop employees are and were artists of one kind or another, or involved with theater or dance.  And Charlie is a civil engineer by training who, like the so many of the personnel and clientèle of that shop, are or were trying to live in this city without becoming part of the "rat race."

Whether or not cycling was ever the most important thing in my life, it has been one of the few constants for me during the times I've described and the ones in which I'm living.

And now that I think of it, Habitat--like most enthusiasts' bike shops--was, back in the day, overwhelmingly male.  During the busy season, they might have a woman selling the bikes, but all of the permanent employees I recall--and nearly all of the customers that I can remember seeing--were male.  

I'll give you an example of how things have changed:

I couldn't get over how well Melanie's dress and shoes coordinated with her bike, particularly with the gold parts and the blue chainguard.  Can you just see her in the peloton now?

 

I didn't ask whether she chose her bike to go with her ensemble.  Even if she did, I won't complain:  I don't think anyone else in the shop minded.  

Who said that we have to become the change we want to see?

Flaneurs, And A Project Or A Patient

Here is what I am greeted with at the end of my rides:

OK, so that's what they're made to do:  taking it easy.  Can't fault their fashion sense, either.  The smug-looking guy on his side is Max; the one with the "You talkin' to me?" pose is Charlie.

Here are Arielle and Tosca resting for the night.


And here is my latest patient, I mean, project:

This is the Schwinn I bought from that charming young couple last week.  As I do whenever I buy a used bike, I'm taking everything apart.  I opened up the headset, which, I believe, has never been cleaned.  What I didn't realize is that it has loose bearings rather than ring-shaped retainers with bearings.  So the bearings scattered to the four corners of the floor.  (How is it that you can completely lose something inside a 12X 12 room?)  I'll find them some day.  But the ones I have look like Ignaz Schwinn installed them himself.  


The only problem is that I don't have any 5/32" bearings in the house.  My other bikes have sealed cartridge bearings, so I haven't used loose ball bearings in a while.  And the shop in which I stopped during my ride didn't have them, either.  


Like the truth in The X Files, they're out there.  I just have to find the right shop.  I'm sure Bicycle Habitat has them.  If I don't find them elsewhere, I'll go to Habitat next time I'm in Soho--which should be soon.


Speaking of which...They got word that my Miss Mercian frame has been built.  Now it has to be painted.  That actually is a fairly long process.  But, hopefully, I'll have it by the end of next month.