A Quick Ride, The Race And A Race To The Bottom

Today I had breakfast with my mother and a friend of hers who's of a generation that didn't, and still doesn't, do brunch.  Later, I went to see La-La Land (nothing deep, but not bad)and went out to dinner with my mother and father.

In between breakfast and the movie, I squeezed in a bike ride. I just made enough turns to ride in circles (and sometimes squares and triangles and other geometric figures) that brought me back to where I started.  

Along the way, I visited an old friend:

Well, OK, I first encountered "The Race" two years ago.  Its creator, Wes Cackler, actually seemed to understand cycling.  Perhaps he is a cyclist?

Unfortunately, nobody in the city or county seems to understand that pubilc sculptures require maintenance as much as buildings or other structures do.  Well, to be precise, while there was grant money (apparently from outside sources) for the sculpture, no money was budgeted for its upkeep.  To be fair, the city's and county's arts budget is all but non-existent.

Enough about politics and philistinism.  The ride was pleasant, with early afternoon weather much like yesterday's.  I did something, however, that I regret--at least a little:  I stopped at "Wally World".

It was the same branch of Walmart in which I bought a tire and two tubes during a visit here a few years ago because I flatted, it was Easter Sunday and no place else was open.  Today, I had no such excuse.

You see, we don't have a Walmart anywhere in New York City and, to my knowledge, the nearest one is at least 100 km away.  The only department stores in the Big Apple that rival Wally's in size are those of Macy's.  But Macy's, shall we say, caters to a different clientele, and doesn't offer building tools and supplies or sporting goods, among other things.  And the other department stores, such as Kohl's or Target, can fit into one or two floors of Macy's.

The day I bought the tire and tubes, I took a quick glance at what was offered in the bicycle section and was neither pleased nor surprised.  Today, I wasn't looking for anything bike-related, but I decided to check out their bike section anyway.  

Now, it was sad enough to see brands I once respected, such as Schwinn, Mongoose, affixed to bikes that were, frankly, junk.  And it was rather disheartening to see Bell--the creators of the first bike helmet that offered both protection and performance--on generic bike parts and accessories to make them seem, well, less generic, as well as useless plastic "baskets" for the handlebars of toddlers' trikes.

Today, though, one of the mighty really had fallen, at least in my estimation.  A company that has a long history in cycling, and whose products I've used for almost the entire time I've been a serious cyclist, are now embossed on emissions from Chinese factories:

I can't believe the company that made the first really good frame pump for clincher tires--as well as other fine accessories--in France, for decades, is now on the shelves of stores owned by a company that has done more than most to enable child labor and other kinds of worker exploitation in developing countries.

I doubt that Walmart has ever sold anything made in France (except perhaps for some cheese) or any other European country, or the British Isles.  I don't think much, or perhaps anything, at all the store sells today was produced in Japan.  None of that, however, is as galling as the fact that the company continues to label merchandise "Made in USA" when, in fact, it is made in China  or other low-wage companies, or is made from components manufactured in those countries and assembled or merely finished in the 'States.

Zefal products, made in China, on Walmart shelves:  How the mighty have fallen!

Out Of Season, Again

Earlier today, I wrote about a "winter" ride in a place that doesn't have winter--at least, not in any way people in my part of the world--let alone places like Minnesota and Canada and Scotland and Finland--experience it.  In other words, I was writing about a warm-weather ride in January.

Well, I had the opportunity to experience such a thing.  If you've been reading this blog for a while, you might have guessed where I am.  

Yes, that is the ocean on the horizon.  Of course, there are places not far from my apartment where I can ride up the slope of a bridge and, at its apex, gaze out into an expanse of sea and sky:  the Veterans' Memorial Bridge from Broad Channel to Rockaway Beach, for example.  But yesterday I rode in a place where I could do it in shorts, sans jacket.

Here is another clue to where I am:

They don't sell fishing equipment in the Key Food or Stop & Shop supermarkets in Rockaway Beach--or, to my knowledge,anyplace else in New York.  For that matter, you can't buy a hunting rifle--or any other kind of firearm--from the Walmart in the Green Acres Shopping Mall, just over the city line in Nassau County. But you can get them in the "Wally World" about two kilometers from where I am now.

Yes, I am in Florida, for my more-or-less annual visit with my parents.  I got here this morning.  After the snow that turned to wind and rain during the past week, it is almost surreal to ride in bright sunlight and into a warm breeze that would later blow at my back as I spun and glided up Route A1A, beside dunes covered with sea oats and cacti that rippled and echoed the rustling hiss of the roiling tides.

Then again, it might be just as strange, or even stranger, to encounter unseasonably warm weather when I return to New York!

From Sunshine To The Empire

Today I leave my parents, and Florida.  I took some great rides on bright, sunny days and spent time with my parents on the chilly, stormy days.  Make what you will of that.

In New York, I might experience a winter like the previous two, with weeks of snow and ice on the ground.  Or it could be a very mild season, as we had a few years ago.  One thing is certain:  I will be with bikes that are much nicer than the one I rode during the past week and, most important, my own.  The question is how much I will get to ride them during the next couple of months.

Goodbye, Sunshine (State)--for now, anyway. Hello, Empire (State), my home for more than three decades and most of my life.  Going from Sunshine to the Empire.  Hmm...what do I make of that?

A Rainy-Day Journey

Rain was forecast for today.  So, I made a movie date with Mom and Dad.  Surprisingly, we all picked the same film:  The Revenant.  Dad likes anything with action in it; Mom likes Leonardo di Caprio. I'd heard it was a really good film.

And it was, mostly.  If someone asked me what it was "about", I'd say "revenge".  The same could be said for any number of other films or plays, including Hamlet.  Now, I'm not going to whine that this film isn't as good as Shakespeare's classic.  After all, how many things are?  I am happy that The Revenant features fine acting perfomances as well as some of the most powerful cinematography I've ever seen.  

I haven't read anything the critics have written about it, but I'll venture that at least one has used the word "uncompromising" in his or her review.  It is, in a certain way:  It didn't try to soften the horror of the brutality and carnage that takes place in it.  In that sense, it's rather like Picasso's Guernica which, to me, is a good enough reason to see and recommend the film.  

However, there is another way in which the film didn't go far enough.  Yes, we see the events that motivate the killings, and I could, at least to some degree, empathize with those characters who sought revenge.  On the other hand, I don't think the film probes very deeply into the characters' hearts and minds.  So, instead of a probe into man's inhumanity to man, we're given a portrayal of the sort of masculinity found in a John Wayne or Sylvester Stallone movie.

So...how does all of this relate to cycling, or even this blog?  Well, very few pursuits have taught me as much about myself as cycling has.  Also, whatever perseverance I might have is, in part, a result of pedaling to the tops of mountains or simply not giving up when I'm tired.  More often than not, there is a reward at the end, even if it is as seemingly trivial as my food tasting better.

Speaking of which: We went to dinner at Cracker Barrel this evening.  Their Sunday Chicken dinner--which consists of bird fried in buttermilk batter, along with two sides (I had carrots and friend okra.) and a choice of biscuits or cornbread.  Soo good!

Back In The Sunshine--And Heat

Like everyone else in northeastern US, I've been complaining about The Winter That Won't Go Away.  It hasn't been the snowiest or coldest season, but it's been so gray and dreary, and the snow and ice cover were all but constant from the beginning of the new year until a couple of weeks ago.

Mind you, I don't mind cold or snow.  I like changing seasons.  I don't want endless winter more than I want any other endless season.

So guess where I am now?  You guessed it:  in a place that has a couple fewer seasons than New York.

  

Yes, I'm in Florida again, having come just as the weather was starting to warm up (or, at least,turn more springlike) at home.  

Bicycle tubes at the Trailhead Beach 'n' Bike Gallery, Palm Coast, FL

I'm glad to see Mom and Dad again.  And today I got on the old beach cruiser they keep here for me and kept on pedaling, into the wind, up Route A1A.   I could feel some of the dust flying off and the cobwebs breaking away from my muscles.  And the sun grew warmer--and, I would discover, more intense on my skin.

The result?  I pedaled 51 km (31.5 miles), encountering almost no traffic and, before my destination for the day, my only obstacle--lions .

I had to get past them to enter the historic downtown area of St. Augustine.  Surprisingly, those lions don't chase cyclists.  At least, they didn't chase me.  Maybe they know I love cats.

And they stood aside as I crossed their bridge to leave the city and pedal another 51 km back to Mom and Dad's house.  The 102 km I covered today made it my longest ride of the year, so far.

After fighting the wind on the way up, my feet were practically pedaling automatically on the way back.  That, in spite of tiring about halfway back. 

In June 1964, Andrew Young, then one of Martin Luther King Jr's senior field organizers, led a march through the old part of St. Augustine. He and the other marchers were beaten as they tried to cross to Plaza de la Constitution. One month later, the Civil Rights Act was passed.

I realized why:  I felt that glow I feel on my skin whenever I've just gotten more sun than I've had in weeks and months.  Not only did I spend a few hours in uninterrupted sunlight (except for a couple of brief incursions into St. Augustine landmarks and shops), I was wearing far less--shorts and a tank top--than I've worn in months.  And, as this ride reminded me, the sun is a good deal more intense here than it is in New York.

But I feel my body, my spirit opened again.  That, and something I wrote on the plane on the way down, help me to feel as if I am returning to normal in the good ways.  I'm ready to say "I'm back", though perhaps without the Austrian accent. 

Faux Winter

An ex of mine grew up in the Miami area.  I made a few trips there,including couple during the winter, with her. 

In those days, the stores sold what seemed to be fake winter clothes.  They had the plaids, weaves, muted colors and other visual cues of garments worn to keep the cold off our bods and Jack Frost from nipping at our toes.  I even saw jackets with faux-fur collars and hoods and fuzzy mittens.

But that is where the resemblance between those clothes and the ones I could buy in New York--or from, say, LL Bean--ended.  The garments and accessories sold in Sunshine State stores had about as much insulating value as a candy wrapper.  I'm not even sure those faux cold weather vetements could have shielded their wearers against that meteorological feature found in Florida's nickname.

I found myself thinking about those clothes when I came across this image:

From:  Language Architects

Could it really be that Pee Wee Herman is riding his bike through a fake winter scene?  I'm shocked, I tell you...

The Florida Tourism Board Won't Use This

Yesterday I got back from a few days in Florida.  I spent some time with Mom and Dad.  As usual, I ate too much:  How could I do otherwise when I'm surrounded by Mom's cooking.  (At least, it seems like there's food everywhere I turn when I'm there!) How does the saying go?  Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we can diet.  Or something like that.

Of course, we all know that, at this time of year, you go to Florida for the weather.  And indeed it was warmer there than it was in New York:  30F (-1C) when my flight landed in the Sunshine State.  It was 3F (-16C) that morning in New York.

As for the State's motto:  We did get sunshine, yesterday and the day before.  The two days before that looked more like this:

Hmm...The Atlantic Ocean at Painter's Hill might actually be even prettier under an overcast sky.

In such conditions, I am not the only one in Flagler Beach contemplating her existence:

We all know that the ocean is really an infinite road, perhaps the one not taken (Sorry, Robert!):

I'll blame the fact that I didn't ride further along this road than I did on the bike:  The rear wheel was literally falling apart.  I rode back to Mom's house as darkness was approaching.  I figured that the next day I could get the bike to the shop.  But Dad took me there the following morning.  By the time I changed the wheel, the sun was playing tag with the clouds and I followed more of that road--and A1A, along the ocean. 

I confess:  I was following this procession:

 

From Brazil To Florida: Fragmentos do Cotidiano

Today I'm going to plug another blog I enjoy:  Fragmentos do Cotidiano.  It's a cyclists' blog, but it's also interesting for the photographs and stories of daily life in Brazil.  It's in Portuguese, which I can more or less understand because I can read Spanish and French.  But even if you can't do that, the photos are worth looking at.

Here's one that reminded me of cycling in Florida:

From Fragmentos do Cotidiano

I couldn't get over how much the layout of that bike lane, and that intersection, reminds me of the ones nearest my parents' house.  The trees and sky also look like what I often see when I'm in the Sunshine State.

And the light is very much like what I'd see on a partly cloudy-to-overcast day when I rode down Palm Coast Parkway to the bridge for US A-1A.  Some things are universal, I guess.

What Happens On Painters Hill

I got home from Florida very late last night.   Once I set myself down on my couch, Max and Marley wouldn't let me back up!

They wanted to hear about Florida.  I assured them that although I met a couple of friendly and cute felines in the Sunshine State, none could compare to them.  But Mom's cooking and the bike riding were really good.

I mean, how could it not be in a place called Painters Hill?  That's one of the places my last ride of this year's holiday visit took me.  Though it was chilly, the sky--and the sea--were as blue as could be.  Nobody was swimming or surfing, but I saw quite a few people (yes, including a couple of women) fishing.  

Well, maybe these fishermen are a little difficult to see.  After all, men often go fishing so that others--namely, their wives, children and girlfriends--won't find them!  On the other hand, this fisher is making no attempt to hide, but is doing quite nicely:

Since this winsome avian creature is not running away from anything, Santa sees fit to leave a reward:

I've no idea of how that got, or what it's doing, there.  Let's hope that there's no rule saying that whatever happens on Painters Hill stays on Painters Hill.  Well, at least for most things, anyway:

Christmas In Florida: The Unexpected And The Familiar

Where I am now--about halfway between St. Augustine and Daytona Beach--is not what comes to most people's minds when you mention "Florida."  Although some of the flora and fauna--at least the ones found here now--are similar to what's found further south, the climate is different.  Frost covered lawns on the first morning of my trip here; the next day was like one in May in the New York area.

And, contrary to what you might have heard, there are seasons here, though they are not as pronounced as the ones that rule the north.  There are no maples and oaks that blaze orange, red and yellow before burning into ashen shades.  Instead, you are more likely to see something like this:

And it's likely to be found in this sort of landscape:

With backdrops like those, houses festooned with lights and other decorations seem incongruous, and sometimes even disconcerting.  To me, some of the most attractively decorated houses actually look best in daylight:

Here is a view of the right side of that house:

At least the end of the day--the holiday, anyway--ends with something familiar and welcome:

and other rewards:

I shared the eggplant lasagna, stuffed mushrooms, meat sauce, salad, cheesecake and cookies with people I love. After all, even after a Christmas Day bike ride, I couldn't eat everything all by myself!

A Clarification In The Sunshine State

No, I didn't disappear in a cloud of smoke or get swallowed up by fissures in the earth.  I survived the 21st, the day the world was supposed to end.

The reason I haven't posted in a couple of days is that the end of the semester was more hectic than usual:  More work was crammed into it because of the classes that were cancelled during Superstorm Sandy and the Nor'easter that followed it by a week.  Then, I had to get ready for my Big Trip.

I'm in a place with a name that begins with "F".  No, it's not France.  And it's not Fiji.  That leaves....where else?  Florida.

Yes, I'm here, visiting Mom and Dad for the holiday.  I arrived last night:  The plane skirted the coast and descended, it seemed, with the sun. Twilight was turning to darkness as I disembarked and my parents met me in the airport.

I know I normally employ manner of cheap, sleazy writers' tricks.  But I did no such thing in my previous paragraph.  I meant it to be a literal statement, without metaphors or "deeper" or "hidden" meanings!

Anyway, today I rode the borrowed beach cruiser I've ridden on previous trips here:

If you've seen some of my earlier posts about this bike, you may have noticed some differences in this photo.

For one thing, I've installed a seatpost rack.  I picked it up at a yard sale for 50 cents.  I didn't need it for my own bikes, so off to Florida it went.

 

And there's the handlebar bag.  Really, it's just a nylon box with some kind of stiffener on the inside, at the rear, and webbing on the outside.  It looks rather well-made, and would probably work better with some sort of support or rack.  But I don't think there are very many things that would fit this bike without doing considerable violence to the handlebars or rack. (Actually, that's just a way of saying I'm too lazy to do the work and too cheap to buy another part!)

Anway..a stop at a service station brought me into contact with this bike and its friendly owner. 

As I was taking the photo, a burly guy with a droopy mustache and bandana chatted me up.  He said he's never ridden a bicycle in his life, but if he did, he'd want to ride "one like yours."  Although I tried to explain that the blue Raleigh is faster, higher-performance (and, for long rides, more comfortable), he insisted he "doesn't understand" why a bike made for men is built with a horizontal top bar.  "You know, if we stop short and land on that bar, it could cause all kinds of damage."

At that moment, I was trying very hard not to laugh and to reveal too much about myself. Of course, I knew exactly what he was talking about, and why his fears were unfounded.  But I said that, indeed, some men ride "women's" or mixte bikes, and that I had bought one of mine (Vera) the man who was its original owner. 

He touched his chin (something I hadn't expected from him) and said, "That's nice to know.  I'm glad you explained it."

"No problem.  I hope you have nice holiday."

Thank you, Miss.  Perhaps we'll meet again."

A Simple Life?

Normally, I'm happy to get home from a trip to Florida.  These days, I'm happy to see my parents, in part because I don't know how many more years they'll be in this world.  But, apart from them and some lovely bike-rides (The good and bad news is that they're all flat!), I have almost no motivation to go to Florida.


Since I got back last night, though, I'm feeling a little wistful. I think the feeling started on Monday, when I rode down A1A through Painters Hill and Flagler Beach.  Along the way, I stopped, for no particular reason, in one of those stores that sells things made out of seashells.


The proprietress was one of those friendly, helpful and sun-bleached people you meet by the sea, though not necessarily by the trendy beaches.  "Anything I can help you with, let me know," she intoned in a voice of sunshine and sea salt.  She wasn't one of those surly, hipper-than-thou storeclerks you see working in trust-fund enclaves.  She probably wasn't making a lot of money, but she also, most likely, didn't need to. 


I imagined myself in her place, but with my cats and bikes.  I imagined myself closing the store and riding Tosca up and down A-1A or along any number of other roads.  It used to amaze me there weren't more fixed-gear bikes in Florida; this time, I saw a pretty fair number in and around St. Augustine.  Of course, their riders were young, or seemed to be:  I don't expect a senior citizen who hasn't been on a bike since he or she was a teenager to hop on a track bike.


Anyway, I'll be back to my normal rides, work and such soon enough.  One day, if I can afford it and don't have to worry about property values, I might have a house that looks like this (ha, ha):

On A Borrowed Cruiser, Again

Another holiday with parents in Florida means...another ride on the borrowed cruiser.

A neighbor of my parents bought the bike years ago.  Now, at age 85, arthritis and other health problems keep her from riding it.  Now the bike's riders consist of me and a couple of her kids and grandkids.  However, I think it hasn't been ridden since I rode it at Christmastime.  That's the reason why she was surprised when I told her I'd done some repairs, including the installation of a new rear wheel.

Last time I was here, I rode a few miles on a flat because I was nowhere near an air pump.  I'd been riding a stretch of A-1A along the ocean, past Gamble Rogers State Recreation Area and a bunch of foreclosed-upon or otherwise-abandoned houses.  I once had a wheel from which spokes flew off at high speeds; I didn't have to ride at such high speed for them to fly off the wheel on that bike.

Plus, the old rear wheel had one of Shimano's old coaster brake/3-speed hubs.  It's one of the worst Shimano parts I've ever used or worked on:  the gears never adjusted quite right.  If you've ever had an out-of-adjustment 3-speed (Sturmey-Archers made after about 1970 never stayed in adjustment), you know that's not just an inconvenience:  You're pedalling hard or spinning fast, and all of a sudden, you find yourself in "neutral."  You push a pedal forward and your face hurtles toward a very close encounter with your handlebars. Or, worse things can happen.

Plus, as a long-ago shop mechanic, I learned that hubs have to make up their minds as to whether they're going to be coaster brake or internally geared.  From what I've seen, a hub can't do both well.  Usually, it's the gears that suffer.  At least, that was the case on the Shimano, Sturmey Archer and Sachs coaster brake/3speed hubs.

To my knowledge, Shimano doesn't make such a hub anymore--or, at least, not the model that was on that bike.  SA stopped making them, but have started making them again since the takeover by SunRace and the move to Taiwan.  Sachs, after taking over Huret, Maillard, Sedis and other French component manufacturers, was in turn swallowed up by SRAM.  I don't think they're making internally geared hubs with coaster brakes.

Anyway, the bike now has a coaster brake rear hub, an Alex rim (not as good as Mavic or Velocity, but better than what was on there) and DT spokes.  Plus, it has a Michelin mountain bike tire, albeit one of the cheaper ones.

So far, so good.  But now I'm going to reveal that I've spent too much time around messngers, hipsters and wannabes.

Actually, I installed that pink chain as a bit of a joke. I don't know whether the nice (She really is!) old lady from whom I borrowed the bike, or her kids or grandkids, will notice.  If they do, I hope they share my twisted sense of humor.

Old Salt, Or Diamond (Frames) With Rust

Steve of DFW Point-to-Point has a point:  Salt air really is rough on bicycle parts.  I should have taken a photo of the bike I rode when I was in Florida.  Every time I see it, the spokes and other parts are more corroded than they were the previous time I rode.  It seems the spokes get the worst corrosion.  At least, that seems to be the case for the non-plated, non-stainless spokes found on cheap bikes like the one I rode.

Whenever I'm in Florida, I see lots of bikes that have so much rust that it's a wonder they still run.  Even the more inland areas are affected by salt air, and there are many bikes that spend years or even decades in garages or on porches after their owners stop riding them. 

I must say that just about everyone who looked like he or she was riding long miles or doing any kind of training was astride an aluminum or carbon bike.  Those riders are young and tend to be more swayed by trends, but I suspect their choice of ride might be influnced by the salt air and humid conditions.  A mechanic with whom I worked spent a few years in Florida, where he worked in two bike shops.  He told me that he often saw parts rusted clear through, and hubs that rotted on the inside because of the humidity and salt air.

Well, this year is old, too, although it's not rusty.  So, as this will probably be my last post of 2011, I want to wish you a Happy New Year and lots of safe, enjoyable and fulfilling rides!

Christmas, 4512 Miles From Casablanca

Do you see what I see? 

This is what, among other things, I saw for my Christmas Day ride.  It ain't Rockaway Beach; that's for sure.

I saw these sights while pedaling along the Atlantic Ocean on Route A-1A from Matanzas Bay to Ormond Beach in Florida.  When I got to Ormond, which is about ten miles from Daytona, I encountered something you'll never find in the Rockaways:

This guy thinks it's about time we've been slowed down.  And he means business:

Seriously, though, he wishes us all a good holiday!

Not A Swamper

I've never pretended, even for a moment, that I could be a "swamper."  Even though I was born in Georgia, which has more than its share of swampland, I spent only the first few months of my life there.  And I know that, as much as I love Sweet Home Alabama, I will never have the same feeling for the places figure into that song as the ones who wrote and performed it.

However, spending a few days in Florida, especially when I have the opportunity to ride, allows me to appreciate the beauty of the wetlands I see here.  For one thing, they're full of flora and fauna one simply doesn't find on drier lands, or any lands north of the Potomac.  And, for another, these swamps glisten in the sunlight in ways that no other kind of landscape can.  I suppose that if I spent more time in and with it, I could describe it better.  For now, all I can say is that their perpetual greenness somehow makes the water seem bluer, and gives everything a feeling that is pristine and ancient at the same time.  It's as if those lands, and the water and plants that cover them, could neither reflect nor belie the ways in which the human race has or hasn't touched it.

But when you're out in the middle of one of these swamps--or even riding a bike lane that cuts through it--in the middle of a bright summer today, like the one I experienced today, it's just plain hot.  And it's even hotter when you get a flat and there's no shade to cover you when you're fixing it.

Now, having fixed it and eaten an Easter dinner (ham, baked sweet potatoes, Italian-style asparagus and tomato and mozzerella slices drizzled with olive oil, among other things), I can sit here and celebrate the beauty of what I saw. 

Route A1A and The Nomclemature of Two Wheels

It wasn't exactly jet lag.  But when I got to my parents' house last night, I was exhausted.  And as much as I appreciate you, dear reader, I wanted to spend whatever waking moments I had with my parents.  After all, they're getting on in years.  Then again, we all are, I guess.

Anyway...Today was very much a summer's day:  the temperature reached 90F (32F).  And the sun lit a nearly turquoise sky and a sea that was only slightly more opaque.  The temperature was a few degrees warmer than normal for this time of year in this part of Florida, but some brisk winds tossed flags about, particularly along the ocean.

Along the way, I stopped at Flagler Beach, where an outdoor market filled with people who shopped the produce stands and whose kids had just hunted for Easter eggs in a nearby park.  In the market, a woman who makes jewelery from beads and shells was selling her wares at discounts because it's going to be her last day at the marketplace until the fall.  Naturally, I bought a few items and got into a conversation with the woman, who says she's going to spend her summer in Wyoming, where she is going to manage the Native American jewelery section of a National Park's gift shop.  She can't sell her work there, she says, because it would be a conflict of interest.  However, being there will give her the opportunity to collect some Native beads and other items, as well as some ideas, she might use. And she'll be able to hike and camp in the mountains.

After shopping, I ate a banana, a pear and a Lindt dark chocolate bunny and washed them down with a bottle of spring water while sitting on a bench facing the ocean.  Another woman on a bike walked by; we exchanged pleasantries about what a beautiful day it was.  Her cell phone rang and her family said that they'd finished doing whatever they were doing, so she was going to meet them. 

She motioned to a bar across the street.  "I'm going to the bikers' bar," she explained.  "The one for the real bikers."  Of course--given that we were on Route A1A, about halfway between Daytona Beach and Saint Augustine, she was referring to the ones whose motorcycles, mainly Harleys, were parked outside that bar.

From "Motorcycle and Bicycle Illustrated, July 12, 1917

I didn't have the chance to ask her what made them "real" bikers, as opposed to us.  Now, if she'd said that they were "bikers" and we are "cyclists," that would have made some sense to me because I've never referred to myself as a "biker" and most other people I know who ride bicycles reguarly refer to themselves as "cyclists."  

Not so many years ago, "cyclists" were referred to as "wheelmen" and the first club to which I belonged was affiliated with what was then known as the League of American Wheelmen.  That organization dated from the days of penny-farthing or high-wheeler bicycles and, I guess, hand't yet heard about feminism.  Then again, if they had, what would they have called themselves?  "Wheel men and women?"  "Wheel people?"

Can you tell that I got more sun today than I've gotten in the past four or five months?

Cycling Where North Is South and South Is North

The local forecasters are saying that tonight we're going to have the coldest weather we've had for this date in at least forty years.  The temperature is supposed to fall to 27 degrees here; with the wind-chill, the "real-feel" temperature will be 20 or less.

Now, if I were in New York, I probably wouldn't give a second thought to this weather.  But I'm in Florida.  Granted, it's about an hour and a half northeast of Orlando, but still...

I guess this weather is Floridian compared to what they're having in New York and, in fact, just about all of the Eastern seabord north of Savannah, GA.  And I did get out for a brief ride this afternoon.  Although it was still chilly and breezy, there was scarcely a cloud in the sky.  Plus, I saw very little traffic.  On the other hand, I did see lots of pine trees.  I've nothing against them, but after an hour of seeing little else, they can get monotonous.  Perhaps I wouldn't have felt that way if they were magnolias or some other trees I don't normally see.

The other day, I described the apparent lack of commuter and utility cyclists in these parts.  That leads to drivers, whether intentionally or not, riding close to cyclists or turning into an intersection as a cyclist crosses.  To be fair, the latter may be due to the faulty timing of traffic signals.

Those same motorists, once they leave their steel cocoons, can be very pleasant and polite, or even charming.  I encountered one such driver today:  He made an uncomfortably close turn and, upon noticing me, rolled his eyes and said "Dang!" or something stronger.  As his window was closed and my lip-reading skills are only slightly better than my navigational or computational skills, I can't be entirely sure.

Anyway, I stopped in "Monkey," one of a local chain of 7-11 type gas stations/convenience stores, to use their bathroom.  On the way out, I picked up a pack of Crysto-Mint Life Savers.  As I walked up to the counter, that same man was chatting with the cashier.  He turned and, upon seeing me, drawled, "How d'ya do, ma'am?" 

"Oh, very well, thank you.  Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, ma'am.  I hope you're having a nice holiday."

"Why, thank you.  And I hope you're having the same."

When I used to come down here in boy-drag, I found that some of the young good ol' boys would run me almost off the road and whoop, yell or make comments about my obvious Yankee-ness.  Ironically, I was born in Georgia, though I spent only the first five months of my life there.  My father was stationed there with the Strategic Air Command, and during my infancy, they moved him, my mother and me back to New York. 

In the visits I've made since becoming Justine, I find that the motorists act more out of neglect or ignorance, or an unconscious sense of entitlement, than out of outright hostility than they did when I was Nick.  And, in my days as the "before" photo,  people were invariably polite and often friendly when they encountered me off my bike.  Now, I still find most of them polite and friendly, though some men are what some would characterise as chauvinistic and sometimes solicitous.

These experiences remind me of what someone once told me:  In Florida, South is North and North is South.  Down to about Orlando, it's very much like one encounters in Georgia or Alabama.  But much of the area south of Epcot Center has been colonized by Yankees and Quebecois.

But as far as today's weather goes, North is North, all right. 

A Parliament of Fowles By The Sea

This week, I'm posting from a computer that's not my own.  So, for some reason, I'm not able to include more than one photo in any given posting. 

That's a shame, because even the two relatively brief rides I've done since arriving here have given me opportunities to seem like I'm a better photographer than I actually am!

As you can see, Christmas Day was a nice time to be at the beach.  Today, not so much.  Maybe they flew to Bermuda and are celebrating Boxing Day.

Monet, On The Other Side

No, I'm not taking a cycling trip in France with a stop in Giverny. (I did that once, though!)  This is a good bit closer to home and family.  And I am in a place whose name begins with an "F." 

And, much to my delight, I've found one of the best walking/cycling trails I've seen in a while.  Perhaps even more gratifyingly, it was built within the past two years, in a place with a terribly depressed economy.

Think of the places in the US that have been left on the verge of asphyxiation since the housing bubble burst.  I'm in one of them right now:  a county with an official unemployment rate of 18 percent.  That's where I'm going to be this week. 

Yes, I am in Florida.  The weather was warm today, and I overdressed a bit when I rode.  I guess I was expecting a repeat of yesterday's weather, which was cooler.  Before I came here, Mom and Dad relayed some details of the coldest December this area has experienced in the time they've been living here, and for many years before that.  As an example, my mother said, oranges fell off the tree in their yard because they'd frozen.

Well, whatever it's been here, it's still not Bedford Falls.  Last night, I watched It's A Wonderful Life with Mom and Dad.  It's the first time in many years that I've seen the movie.  It's actually a rather good movie; it is cloying and sentimental, which, I suppose, a holiday movie should be, at least if its makers want to have a large audience.  And it does make a timely and timeless point about the human condition.  However, even though it was worth seeing again, I can't honestly say that I saw anyone or anything in it differently than I did when I last saw it.  Then again, maybe I'm not supposed to.  After all, we're not talking about Othello, from which I learned a few new things when I taught it this semester.

About the bike riding here:  There are actually a pretty fair number of dedicated cycling/pedestrian paths that are set off from the main roads. In fact, one starts just down the road from my parents' house.  The problem with them, as in so many other places, is that they begin and end abruptly, and pick up in other places.  Such has been the case since I first came here seventeen years ago. 

It is perhaps the most frustrating in my favorite place to ride around here.  Route A-1A skirts the ocean from Marineland to Daytona Beach. (It may go further in either direction; I know only about the stretch I've mentioned--and cycled.)  It's as beautiful a ride as one can find anywhere, but it's narrow and full of turns.  And some drivers see cyclists as obstacles--to what, I don't know--even when we're nowhere near them.  Of course, that's no different from the situation in so many other places.  But it's frustrating, and even dangerous, to be cycling along a dedicated path that ends abruptly and to have to pedal out onto a roadway where drivers aren't anticipating you.

I guess the situation I've described is a result of two things.  One is that most of the drivers don't use that road on a daily basis, so they have no way of knowing what to expect.  The other has to do with the fact that almost no one here cycles for transportation.  I've seen a pretty fair number of cyclists in the times I've visited, but they were all riding for recreation.  Of course, I'm not knocking that:  After all, that's what I was doing, too. But, having spent most of my life in urban areas, and much of that time in communities where significant numbers of people pedal to work, shop, go to school, visit museums and to other daily activites, I am convinced that unless there is a critical mass, if you will, of cyclo-commuters, non-cyclists will treat cyclists out of ignorance or with disrespect, or even hostility. Lycra-clad racers and wannabes, of which I was both for long periods of my life, do nothing to change motorists' attitudes about cycling and cyclists.

Now I realize I've stumbled over one of the great paradoxes of cycling in America.  The places where people would most want to ride are the ones with the least (or non-existent) cycling culture.  On the other hand, the places where there are the largest numbers of people who use their bikes for transportation are the most congested and polluted, not to mention the sorts of places where people wouldn't choose to take a cycling trip.

Then again, Monet and other artists often had to get away from the art world in order to create their best work.  Would he have come here?  With his bike or on it?