Cycling, In Living Color

Time was when I wore nothing but black:  black leather, black lycra, black latex and black everything else.

Yes, I even had an all-black bike outfit before carbon fiber and the "stealth" look became so prevalent!

Now, understand that I was young and had just moved back to New York:  to the East Village, no less.  Even two of the three bikes I owned at that time were black. The Peugeot PX-10 was available only in white the year mine was made. Somehow that was overlooked in the circles in which I found myself.  Actually, I know how:  None of them were cyclists, and I'm not sure that any of them saw me on my bike.  And if they had, I'm not sure they would have noticed or recognized me:  Rare was the occasion on which we saw each other sober or in daylight.

Anyway, in my "black" period I was keeping a terrible, terrible secret.  No, it's not the one that became the subject of my other blog. Well, all right, I was keeping that secret, but that's not the one I meant. Nor was it that I'd voted for Reagan. (I didn't, but I later learned that some of them had, in secret.)  Or that I was having splendid relationships with my family:  My father and I were barely on speaking terms at that time.

My hidden vice, if you will, had to do with my tastes in art. Actually, the fact that I cared about art at all would have enraged some of my not-so-fellow-after-all travelers.   Some of them thought the whole idea of art was inherently bourgeois; at least one wore a T-shirt that read "I Hate Art."  (I thought she was talking about her ex until I learned otherwise.)

My dim, dark perversion was...my weakness for Jean-Honore Fragonard, which I retain to this day.  Yes, he represented every excess of the ancien regime.  When the Reign of Terror descended upon Paris, he fled and died, nearly forgotten, a decade and a half later.  Given the sort of person I was in my faux-punk days, I could have hated him for painting such subjects as the wife of a nobleman on a swing in her garden, much as I once hated writers like Henry James for their focus on high society.  (I've gotten over that!)  

So what attracted me to such paintings as "Blind Man's Bluff" and "The Stolen Kiss"?  All right, the title--and the none-too-thinly-veiled eroticism--of the latter.  But even more important, to me, were those colors.  Oh, those colors!  And the way he used them!  

(Hmm...Maybe I'm really a magpie in a human's body.)

So of course I had to get myself out to ride today.  No classes on a cool, fairly windy day when fall is just starting to tip toward winter.  The sun shining brightly.  And colors everywhere.  

I figured that if the red, orange and yellow leaves were so vibrant in my neighborhood, they must be blazing in other places--like, say, New England.  Or, more specifically, the part of it closest to me:  Connecticut.

So now you know where I rode today.  I pedaled into the wind most of the way up, which sharpened my senses, I think. (That, or the colors were even deeper than I thought they were!)  And Arielle, my Mercian Audax, felt even more lively than she usually does, which is saying something.

Call me shallow or trivial or--if you want to sound like someone who's trying to sound like he or she knows better--a sensualist who has never grown up.  And I won't, as long as I can do rides like the one I did today.  They just might keep me from fading back to black!

At Least It's Not Electrical

Maybe I am old.  After all, I can recall a time when we didn't munch on "energy bars" or anything with the word "energy" in its name.  In fact, such terms--let alone the often-inedible snacks they denoted--hadn't yet been invented.

At least, not as such.  You see, there were other high-calorie bites that became our foods of choice when we needed a boost--and could be easily stowed in bike jersey pockets, tool bags or backpacks.  

One was "gorp".  Upon hearing of it for the first time, most people weren't sure of whether it was the sound of an alien swallowing or vomiting.  But the word was actually an acronym for "Good Ol' Raisins and Peanuts"--not, as some believed,  a synonym for "granola" or "trail mix", though gorp is certainly a type of trail mix.  In time, people started mixing the raisins and peanuts with M&M's or other bits of chocolate.  (I have always liked miniature nonpareils--milk chocolate in those days, dark chocolate now.)  Often, almonds, pistachios, walnuts and other nuts were substituted for peanuts--which are legumes, not nuts--and dried cranberries, cherries, blueberries and other fruits for raisins. 

We used to pack a couple of fistfuls of gorp, or other trail mix concoctions, into fold-top sandwich bags like the ones made by Glad. (If I recall correctly, Ziploc hadn't been invented.)  We did the same with granola:  Back then, nobody had thought to make grainy candy bars out of it. 

Aside from those concoctions, the most popular proto-energy snack was probably the banana.  In those days, I was riding with the Central Jersey Cycle Club and the Century Road Club.  One--or both, perhaps?--used to designate their rides with bananas:  a five-banana ride was long and/or involved a lot of climbing or other difficult conditions, while a one-banana ride was a "social" Sunday afternoon ride.  

While granola and trail mix had more calories and could keep you feeling full until your lunch or dinner stop, the banana was easier to eat and swallow, especially if your mouth was dry.    Also, although food allergies weren't as well-known, we knew that some people had trouble digesting, or simply ingesting, some of the concoctions I've mentioned.  (Who knew that one of the most common allergies was to peanuts?)  On the other hand, while banana allergies have been documented, they don't seem nearly as common. At least, I've never known anyone who couldn't eat bananas for that reason.

Bananas have one problem, though:  While they're easy enough to stash, they're even easier to trash.  And, in the process, they can trash whatever you stash them in.  All right, that's a bit of an exaggeration.  But if you're of my generation, you might have had a banana "explode" or "implode" in the pocket of your wool jersey.  Needless to say, it made a mess.

Perhaps such a memory inspired the creator of this:

 


I mean, really.  But, hey, it's versatile, right?:

 


Would this be allowed in states with a concealed-carry law?:


 


Then again, it's not that difficult to get a banana stain out of a pair of Levi's 501s.  Trust me, I know!

Do you think this is a joke?  Well, here's the real joke:  the price.


At least, neither the bike--nor the banana--is electrical.