When I was growing up, and when I was living as a man, everyone in my family called me by a shortened version of my old name, with an “ee” sound at the end of it. I always hated that nickname even more than my full name. There reasoning was that an uncle and my father shared that name.
(I hated being a “junior “ even more than my nickname.)
For some reason, however, no one ever called my brother Michael “Mike.”
What got me to thinking about all of that? This:
The debates about larger vs smaller diameter wheels and wide vs narrow tires have raged for as long as I can remember
and, probably, even before my time.
Yesterday was the first day of summer here in the Northern Hemisphere. I began the season with an early ride to City Island. An afternoon of exploring unusual buildings in unexpected places followed with the perfect companion for such a trek: Esther Crain, the author of Ephemeral New York, one of my favorite blogs.
In the warmth and sunshine one expects on the first day of summer, it seemed that everyone was out for a walk or ride. Even animated characters couldn’t resist the urge:
Yesterday’s military parade in Washington DC was a birthday bash for the Fake Tan Fūhrer, I mean, celebration of the US Army’s 250th anniversary.
I’ve marched in a few parades but I am not a fan of them in general. If I were to have one, however, it might look something like this:
When I rode with the Central Jersey Bicycle Club, more than four decades ago, not many women were dedicated cyclists. Save for one who was, probably, close to the age I am now*, they were usually accompanied by boyfriends or husbands.
In most couples, the male cyclist spent much of the ride “drafting” his partner: He rode a few meters ahead of her so she could pedal in the slipstream. There was, however, one couple who “flipped the script.” At first—being young and not knowing otherwise—I thought he followed because he liked looking at her from the rear. (Hate me, if you will, for saying this: I couldn’t blame him.) After a few rides, though, I realized she was the stronger cyclist.
I thought about them, for the first time in ages, when I saw this:
When you’re riding your bike (or simply out and about) you’re sure to see certain signs:
Some, however, you won’t see unless you stop—as I did at an intersection near my apartment:
Whenever I park my bicycle in a public rack, I am sometimes surprised by the variety of bikes.
Sometimes, though, there’s a bike that, no matter how different the others are from each other, just doesn’t fit, or just sticks out, depending on your point of view.
The other day, while pedaling into wind toward Rockaway surf, I spotted this:
It’s called the “Queens Flyer.” Lots of things related to New York City’s most diverse borough bear that color scheme because Queens is home to the Mets.
I have to wonder, though: Was this bike an attempt at fandom without paying a licensing fee?* You tell me.
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*-Although I have been a Mets fan for about as long as I’ve been a cyclist—which is to say, most of my life—I won’t lose any sleep over the team’s owner (reportedly the richest in sports save, perhaps, for members of Middle Eastern royalty who own European football teams) losing a licensing fee or two.
When some couples ride, one member has trouble keeping up with the other.
Here’s one way to solve that dilemma:
We’ve all seen sepia-toned photos of mustachioed, too-hatted men astride “penny-farthing” (high-wheeler) bikes.
You may even have seen an image of a woman—probably in “bloomers”—on one of those machines.
But what about the kids?
Daylight Saving Time began in most of the US today, when 2 am became 3 am. EST.
So…there’s more light at the end of today’s ride!
If “stationary” stores sell pens and other items for writing,
do “stationery” bikes exist only on paper?
(Now that I think of it, a store—at least a physical one—is, by definition, stationary. But can you ride a stationery bike?)
I have never ridden a donkey.
I have, however, cycled in places where people rode both mules and bicycles. The bikes, of course, were strictly utilitarian: You don’t see anything that would be pedaled in the Grand Tours on rural paths in Southern Italy or the Greek Islands.
And I don’t recall seeing anything like this:
You’re a couple of miles (or a few kilometers) from the end of a daylong ride. But every pedal stroke feels like a Herculean effort; every turn of your wheels seems not to move you any closer to home, the finish line or wherever your ride leaves off.
You keep on pedaling and hope for a rush from the energy bar (or other snack) you downed. In the meantime, do you tell yourself, “Hmm…Maybe something is wrong with the bike”?
What keeps you going?
Five weeks—or less—until Spring, depending on whether you believe Phil or Chuck.
Today is Groundhog Day.
According to ancient folklore, if Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow, six more weeks of winter will follow. If he doesn’t, spring is imminent.
Drumroll…
Six more weeks. Well, that is more or less when Spring Equinox, a.k.a. the “official “ first day of Spring arrives.
Sometimes I think Andy Warhol had Phil in mind when he said that everyone will have 15 minutes of fame.
