A Hunger For Innovation

 Now I understand why some bikes don’t have round frame tubes!

Midlife Or Middle Age?

 This blog is called "Midlife Cycling."

The reason for that is that as long as I don't know when I'm going to die, I'm in the middle of my life.

That, of course, isn't necessarily the same thing as being in middle age.

At least I know this:  There's no way to escape being in midlife.  As for middle age--well, perhaps one could outride it--if, of course, one could ride as fast as one did in one's youth!

Obedience Training

 Call me a curmudgeon or a misanthrope. But I think that if dogs could read, they’d be more likely to follow this sign’s directive 

than their human walking them would.

Doggie Pedaling

Image credit

Who says you can’t teach an old dog new  tricks?

The Colors of My Memories

 Once upon a time, I was a wannabe, unsuccessful, and then a manqué, racer. I wore jerseys—and sometimes shorts and helmets—that were veritable riots of color.

These  days, most of the Lycra bike outfits I see are in carbon-bike hues:  stealth black, carbon-neutral gray and the like.

Oh, I miss the good ol’ days!

Signaling

With one exception, each of my bicycles has a bell.  They are effective in signaling pedestrians and other cyclists I pass (yes, even at my age).

Well, most of the time, anyway.  Sometimes folks are wearing headphones—not just any headphones, but the kind that seem to completely seal off outside sounds. I ring, I shout, they don’t hear me.  On more than one occasion, I’ve tapped people on the shoulder or brushed them.

I can almost understand why someone would design a bike around a horn loud enough to clear the way for a ship full of grain in the Bosporus Strait.

Precisely

In a shop I frequented, a mechanic wore a lab coat and stethoscope while working on bikes.  

That was just one of his eccentricities. Turns out, he’s not the only mechanic I knew who viewed his work in medical terms: Another, who also owned a shop where I worked, told us that bearing surfaces should be “surgically” clean before lubing then.

Ironically, yet another mechanic of my acquaintance went to medical school and never talked about his work in that way. In fact, he didn’t talk about his work at all.

In case you’re wondering how the first mechanic in this story got a lab coat and stethoscope: His wife was a nurse in a nearby hospital.

May The Best Creature Win

During my bicycle tour from France into Spain and back, I pedaled up some of the steepest climbs I’ve encountered.  As I pumped and grunted my way up a pass that crossed the border, some mountain goats seemed to line up for the spectacle.  I couldn’t help but to think they were chuckling, or even laughing, to themselves: “That human thinks he’s* all that.  We climb these mountains every day—and we don’t have low gears!”

I couldn’t have blamed them.  After all, compared to many other species, we’re not very strong, fast, agile, flexible or durable.  

If they learned how to ride bikes, would goats—or horses, cows or other creatures—beat us in a race? Or ride for longer?

Everything Except The Motor

In the 1960's and 1970's, there was a genre of bikes, at least here in the US, aimed at kids (boys, mainly) by emulating a motorcycle as much as one could without using a motor.

These bikes were often called "muscle bikes" and featured high, wide handlebars, "banana" seats, wide tires and, if they had multiple gears, "stick" controls mounted on the top tube.  (I wonder whether the latter accounted for the decrease in birth rates after the 1970s.)  Examples of such bikes included the Raleigh "Chopper" and the Schwinn "Krate" and "Sting Ray" bikes.

Even the designers of those bikes, however, did not go as far as whoever modified this one:

 

It’s Just A Number. Really!

 “What’s the fastest you’ve ever ridden?”

That question invariably comes from non-cyclists.  They don’t want to know when I’ve kept pace with, or passed, vehicles or outrun storms.  Rather, they want the answer expressed as a number.  For them, I offer this:

Happy Easter/Passover/Ramadan!

 Today is Easter Sunday.  It's also the fourth full day of Passover and the eighteenth of Ramadan.

So, to be fair--and because I'm non-religious and love cats--I am posting this springtime image:

Image by Kilkennycat.

All praise be to Marlee. And thanks to  Max, Charlie, Candice, Charlie (Yes, there were two Charlie-cats in my life!) and Caterina for the memories.   

Coloring

 Sometimes bicycle safety really is a matter of covering your rear end.

Instagram post by Manish Kamdar

 

Don't Look Now!

I took an Art History course that  included a final exam with this essay question: "Explain the Mona Lisa smile."

I don't remember what I wrote. I am sure, however, that it wasn't profound, brilliant or original in spite of my belief that it, like everything I wrote in those days, embodied all of those qualities.  So it wouldn't surprise you to know that the grade I got--a B, if I remember correctly-- aroused my indignation. (It didn't take much, did it?)

So, being older and wiser, I won't venture an opinion about why the young woman has her hands over her eyes:

I simply thought the image is light and funny--just right for a Sunday morning.

A Ride I Never Did

 I spent a year as a bike messenger in New York City.  During that time, I did all of the stupid and crazy things bike messengers of that time (ca. 1983) did--one of which, ahem, is now legal.

(One of the great things about getting older is that the statute of limitations runs out--for most offenses, anyway!)

In the "crazy" category is holding my handlebar with one hand, and the rear of a delivery truck or New York City bus with the other.  I did that, oh, maybe a handful (pun intended) of times, and only when I was trying to make an extra-fast delivery--and was, oh, partaking of that which is now legal.  

Still, as young and stupid (and angry) as I was, I was never part of anything like this--either as pedaler or passenger!:

Where Did It Go?

Can I continue to call this "Midlife Cycling?" 

I'm really slowing down.  I started a moonlight ride along the water at 1:30 am.  It would normally take an hour, but I wasn't home until 3:30 am.

From The Bidon

It took me an hour longer than normal.  What's happening to me?

Oh, right:  I "lost" an hour.  We moved the clocks ahead for Daylight Savings Time.

Now I'm going to ride that route, again, and look for that hour.  Maybe it's lying on the side of the road.

I Can't Account For This Comparison

 "(Fill-in-the-blank) is like riding a bicycle."

The reason given is some variation of: 

 "Once you learn, you never forget", or

 "It's all about keeping your balance."

The second reason might apply to this profession:

I have to admit, it never occurred to me to compare accounting to riding a bicycle because, honestly, I know nothing about accounting.  Oh, I considered it as my life's work for about ten minutes because people suggested it would be a "nice, stable career."  Well, I took a class--called Introduction to Pre-Accounting, or some such thing--as a senior in high school  because I had fulfilled my core requirements and had to fill a time slot in my class schedule with something. 

That class quickly disabused me of any desire to look at rows and columns all day (Remember, this was before computers and spreadsheets!) and, beyond having used the services of accountants, I've had no other contact with the profession. So I'll believe what's on that mug, even if I don't quite understand the comparison.

(If any of you are accountants, I mean no disrespect. 

An Egg-Strodinary Rider

Eggs have become really expensive lately.

How expensive?

The bike may not have  cost as much! 

No Dry Rides

 Ya gotta hydrate, doncha no?

Only He Could Catch Me

In earlier posts, I mentioned that a long, long time ago (apologies to Don McLean) I raced.

Few people saw my meteoric rise because...well, because I was meteoric.  I rode so fast that nobody could catch a glimpse of, let alone catch, me.

Except for sculptor David Gerstein.  How he managed to capture me in my moment of glory, I don't know. 

Out Of The Habit?

Many, many years ago, I went to Catholic school.

How many years ago?, you ask.  Well, the nuns who taught us were covered from head to toe, except for their faces, in black.  I remembered them when, years later, I learned about the severe sartorial codes conservative Islamic states impose on women.

Needless to say, women who live under such restrictions don't do much cycling. To be fair, that also has to do with other restrictions--arguably, the most extreme have been imposed by the Taliban in Afghanistan--on where, when and with whom women can work, travel or simply be in a public space.

To my knowledge, even the most conservative orders of nuns aren't so constrained in their day-to-day movements. Still, I have a hard time imagining a woman riding a bicycle in one of those long habits.  Unless...