Connecting, By Bicycle

This post is about Andre Breton.  

No, I'm not referring to the author of Manifeste du surrealisme.  But the man I'm about to mention is something of a philosopher. 

On 6 September, the 50-year-old began a "prologue," if you will:  a ride from Fort Collins, Colorado to Bradford, Kansas.  From Bradford, he undertook his "real" journey, which he dubbed "Connecting My Grandfathers."

His maternal grandfather was born in Bradford.  According to his website, he expects to arrive in Waterville, Maine--the birthplace of his paternal grandfather--some time later this month.  Along the way, he saw, and anticipates seeing beautiful landscapes, and visits with friends and family members.

The 50-year-old Breton is a relative newcomer to cycling.  He bought a bike on impulse in 2010, on Saint Patrick's Day.  He said he was "guilted" into the purchase because he was living in Fort Collins, Colorado, where he was working on his third post-doctoral fellowship as a wildlife biologist.  "That community rides bicycle far more than any community I've encountered in the United States," he explains. 

Buying that bicycle might've been one of the best bits of timing in his life:  He had just broken up with a paramour and felt ready to do the same with the academic world.  Riding again for the first time since he was a teenager sparked "a massive fire" in him that led to racing.    "This is my ninth season, the last two years as a pro," he says.  "I got my butt kicked, but when else am I going to do it?"  

He's also taken some long tours, in North America and Europe.  All of those hours in the saddle, he said, helped him out of a depression.  "There are lessons you can gain on a bicycle in a short time that can teach you about your whole life," he explains.

His current ride is to connect his grandfathers.  The real connection, I believe, is the one he made with himself.  In a way, that's not so different from what the French writer did when he used his dreams to tap into his creative subconsciousness.

Andre Breton. Photo by Della Taylor, for the Potter Leader-Enterprise.

From Mexico City To Colorado, And A New Purpose

There are times when I believe that cycling is the only reason why I have anything that can be described as mental or emotional health.  I become sad, even depressed, when I can't ride for significant periods of time.  Also, I took two bike tours that were, at least in part, attempts to restore myself to some degree of sanity, and another led me to the single most important transformation I had to make.  

The latter ride took me up the Col du Galibier as well as other famed Tour de France and Giro d'Italia climbs in the Alps.  I started that tour in Lyon, France as a guy named Nick.  Two years later, I began my current life as a middle-aged lady named Justine.

The other two tours followed crises in my life, one of which culminated in a sort of minor breakdown.  In both of those rides, I spent weeks--actually, months on the first tour--on my bike in foreign lands, living on a student's wages or less.  Don't get me wrong:  I experienced all sorts of pleasures on both of those rides, as well as the one in the Alps.  But they also were power-washes, if you will, against the detritus of some past experiences that had been causing me even more internal distress than I'd realized--or, perhaps, was willing to admit.

So when I came across Rafael's story, I felt as if I'd met someone after my own heart.  Of course, I don't imagine that his ride from Mexico City to Colorado will lead him to the sorts of changes I made.  But he does talk about the restorative powers of his ride, and how it led him to a mission, if you will:  fixing bicycles for underprivileged people in his newly-adopted community.

The next time someone asks you why you ride, ask yourself (and that person):  What would your life be like if you didn't ride?

What Should You Bring With You On A Ride?

You've just finished a long ride on a hot day.  Or, perhaps, you've been riding up and down hills, or spent the whole day riding into the wind.  Maybe you've been tearing up the turf or slogging through mud.

Now you're some combination of sweaty, dirty and tired. So, you wash up and put on some fresh, clean clothes.  What do you do with the clothes you wore while riding?

Some of you might hand-wash them.  That's what we did back when we wore Sergal or Kucharik wool shorts, jerseys, tights and jackets.  Later on, other companies offered wool clothing that could be machine-washed on the gentle cycle.  Many of the synthetic fabrics that came later could be treated in the same way.

If you are bike-touring, you might not have access to a washing machine.  And, if you hand-wash your vestments in the nearest sink, tub, river or creek, it will take forever for your stuff to dry.  (The "spin" cycle on a washing machine usually extracts much more moisture than most of us can wring out.)  That can be a real problem when you have to re-pack them, or want or need to wear them the following day.

One possible solution to such a dilemma is to bring a washing machine with you.   Then, it doesn't matter whether you sleep in the Hilton Hotel or in the woods:  If you bring a machine with you while cycling, you won't have to worry about whether or not you have access to electricity or any other power source.  Your bicycle becomes--or, more precisely, you become--the power source.

This Film Is Rated "T" (For Tweed)

Knickers.  Breeches. Knee socks.  Cardigans.  Blazers.  Rounded collars.  Pleated shorts.  Tweed! 

If you think that sounds like a sartorial portrait of a bunch of English men and women going on a bicycle tour in the country side circa 1955, well, your instincts are spot-on.  Those folks are indeed on their way to a jolly spin along the lanes that traverse  the moors and heaths, and front the castles and barns, in and around Rugby.

Apparently, the cycle-touring culture of London was still strong enough in the 1950s that British Transport commissioned a short film I've embedded here.  It chronicles a "Cyclists' Special" rail excursion from London to Rugby arranged by British Rail and the venerable Cyclists' Touring Club (C.T.C.)

It's interesting to hear discussions of "bonking" and the costliness of  good touring bikes with the then-newfangled ten-speed derailleur gears.  British cyclists only began to embrace derailleurs during the 1950's; until then, most cycle-tourists rode some version or another of Sturmey Archer's internally-geared hubs, even on frames custom-built from Reynolds 531 tubing.

I also love seeing those old wooden rail cars with rubber hooks for bicycles and the cafeteria car.  And tweed!  And some of those men are actually wearing ties.  Oh, my!

 

Cyclists Special, a short film about cycle touring in the UK, 1955 from Morgan Fletcher on Vimeo.

The Safari Before The Bikecentennial

On resiste a la invasion des armees; on ne resiste pas a la invasion des idees.

 Even if you have no idea of what this means, you have probably guessed that it was written by Victor Hugo because, well, he is the first French writer that comes to most people's minds.

The literal translation goes like this:  One resists the invasion of armies; one does not resist the invasion of ideas.  I rather prefer it to the most common translation because it keeps the symmetrical structure and somewhat echoes the sound of the original.

But, as Robert Frost once remarked, in poetry, what gets lost in translation is the poetry.   So it is with the version of the quote almost every English speaker has heard: There is nothing so powerful as an idea whose time has come.

That second translation, though, came to mind when I came across some photos of something I hadn't seen in a long time:

The Safari is a fully-loaded touring bicycle Nishiki offered from 1972 until 1975:  as the 1970's Bike Boom in North America was waxing and waning.  The year after Nishiki discontinued the Safari, thousands of Americans rode all or part of the Bikecentennial.  However, euphoria about the transcontinental tour did not translate into large numbers of dedicated bicycle tourists.  So, had the Safari been made for another year, it might have translated into another year or two of production, but no more.

Julius, on his Safari re-fitted with upright bars

When the Safari was introduced, very few Americans had ever used classical bicycle touring equipment, or anything that resembled it.  So we were unfamiliar with canvas panniers and "handlebar" (more accurately, front) bags like the ones on French constructeur and English touring bikes.  As you can see in the photo, the bags that came with the Safari closely resembled bags made by Sologne, La Fuma, Karrimor, Carradice and other British and French companies.  And the Safari's bags--like the rest of the bike, made in Japan--were solidly constructed from canvas and leather, though the materials on the Japanese bags were thicker--and heavier.

Those bags were affixed to carriers attached to brazed-on fittings (rather than the clamps in use on most bikes of the time).  The carriers, made of steel, were solidly-constructed but, again, heavier than the British and French racks on which they were modeled. 

And, like the custom touring bikes of yore, the Safari came with a generator lighting set.  Strangely, the generator was clamped onto the front fork rather than a brazed-on rear stay fitting (or even one on the front fork).  But it was said to be a good, reliable set that gave, for its time, good light output.

If one were to take away the bags, racks, brazed-on fittings, generator light and other accessores (such as the pump), one would have been left with the Nishiki Kokusai (which became the International in 1974), a solid bike with a smooth ride and a drivetrain that shifted better than most others of its time (thanks in large part to the SunTour VGT rear derailleur).  The Kokusai/International sold well (I had one) but the Safari did not.  In fact, it was derided by some of the same people, including bike shop employees and owners, who touted the Kokusai/International.  

One reason is that most Americans had never seen, let alone used, touring bags like the ones on the Safari.  The state-of-the-art panniers and other bags  Kirtland, Eclipse, Cannondale and other American companies offered at that time were made from pack nylon and, later, Cordura. They were much lighter and didn't need the special racks and fittings the older canvas bags required.  Plus, the American bags could be had in a rainbow of colors.  (Isn't it funny that back then, nearly all bike components were silver--black was a big deal--but the bags were brightly-colored.  Now we can get neon-hued rims and such, but most bags come only in black!) 

Also, because most of the ten-speeds sold during the Bike Boom didn't have fenders, most new American cyclists came to believe that only clunkers and kids' bikes had them. We used to joke that you knew a "serious" cyclist by the mud stripes on the back of his jersey and shorts! 

But one of the real "nails in the coffin" for sales of that bike was its weight:  42 pounds.  It's actually not as bad as it sounds when you consider all of the equipment the Safari came with.  The Kokusai was a 31-pound bike--typical for its time--and the International shaved a pound or two off that.  To most people, though, buying a Safari meant getting the weight of a Schwinn Varsity at twice the price--even if it cost less than half of what other fully-equipped touring bikes cost.

All of those issues aside, a dedicated bike tourer would have found one other (easily remediable) flaw:  the gearing. In the 1970's, it was common to have "half step" gearing in the front to compensate for the wide gearing gaps between cogs on wide-range five-speed freewheels.  Said freewheel had gears ranging from 14 to 34 teeth--the widest range available at the time.  It was paired with chainrings of 48 and 54 teeth.  Yes, you read that right. The small chainring was 48 teeth--on a fully-loaded touring bike! 

Had that flaw been corrected, and had Nishiki shaved a bit of weight off the Safari, would it have sold better--and would Nishiki have continued making it? Could it have become an idea whose time had come?

Taking Cycling To Heart In Dixie

As Portland goes, so goes....Alabama?

April Fool's Day is on Wednesday, but I'm not putting in an early joke here.  You read the first sentence of this post right:  Some folks in Alabama are doing something folks in the Rosebud City--and Quebec--have been doing for some time.

Since you're reading this blog, you've figured out it's bike-related.  Indeed it is:  Today, the first Alabama Statewide Bicycle Summit brought together bicycle transportation and recreation groups, engineers, builders, planners--and state tourism representatives.

Cyclists in the  Selma 50 ride, which commemorated the 50th anniversary of  the march Martin Luther King Jr. led to Montgomery.  Photo by Mickey Welsh.

Yes, those reps were discussing bicycle tourism in the Heart of Dixie.  Now, I've never been there, but I'm told--even by people whose politics are well to the left of mine (Yes, there are such people!) that much of the state is quite lovely.  The few Alabamans I've met seemed like lovely people and, like neighboring Florida, it has warmer weather for longer parts of the year than most other states.

But those state tourism folks have figured out something their counterparts in Oregon and La Belle Province have learned:  making their state bike-friendly can be good for business.   A few years ago, Portland-based activist/writer/cyclist Elly Blue pointed out that 78 percent of visitors to Portland said the city's bicycle-friendly reputation played a part in their decision to travel there.  And, of course, numerous localities reap economic benefits from large, well-publicized rides such as the Five Boro Bike Tour in my hometown of New York.

So...Will it be long before we see a peloton whistling Dixie on their way through Sweet Home Alabama?  

What Did You Do In Your Youth?

My first multiday bike tour took me from New Brunswick, NJ (where I was attending university) into the Poconos.  From there, I rode down to Island Beach where, more than three decades later, Superstorm Sandy would blow a Ferris wheel into the ocean.  Then I pedaled gingerly up the Jersey shore back to New Brunswick. 

All told, I spent a week on the road.  For two days, I wandered the Poconos, and I spent a day hanging out at Island Beach where I slept on the beach and, surprisingly (in retrospect) nobody chased me.  Sometimes you get away with stuff like that when you're twenty years old and, in the eyes of the world, male.

That ride was one of the few things I'd done up to that point in my life that impressed anybody.  As a friend of my mother's said, on that ride, I pedaled more miles than most people ever pedal.  She was being a bit hyperbolic, but I understood what she meant.

I was not impressed with myself because the ride was actually a bit easier than I expected it to be.  (Don't forget, I was twenty years old and full of testosterone!)  In fact, I castigated myself afterward because, even though riding wasn't difficult, I brought far more stuff with me than I needed.  Now it seems comical, especially since, in my memory of that ride, I hauled even more than this guy:

 

He spent 28 days on the road.  Actually, I use the word "road" loosely, as Edward "Ryko" Reichenbach's journey from Adelaide to Darwin took him through the Australian outback.  He tramped through sand, waded swamps and dodged all manner of obstacles.  In contrast, the most remote rural roads I rode were paved and never more than an hour's ride from a store or some form of habitation.



The time Ryko took to complete his 1914 ride was a record that stood for quite a while.  And being the keen photographer he was, he left a rich visual chronology of his adventure.

 

My Only 'Cross: Voodoo Wazoo

In much of Europe, cyclo-cross season is in progress, or getting underway.  Until fairly recently, this form of bicycle racing was all but unknown in the US.  Part of the reason for that may have been that around the same time that Greg LeMond was winning the Tour de France, bicycle racing was enjoying its first spurt of popularity in the US since the days of the six-day races, but mountain biking was also becoming popular.  Americans who were just starting to pay attention to cycling subscribed to the “road racing/mountain biking” polarity.  Some seemed to think that mountain biking and cyclo cross were the same thing. 

Here is the difference between the two:  In mountain (or, more accurately, off-road) biking, you ride—and sometimes jump or hop—over whatever comes your way, but in cyclo-cross, you might actually hop off your bike and sling it over your shoulder to ford a stream, wade through mud, climb rocks (or a fence!) or goose-step your way through un-strategically placed 2x4s, rocks or debris.  Having done both, I think that mountain or off-road riding is about riding over whatever terrain you encounter, while cyclo-cross is more about getting you and your bike over any and all kinds of obstacles.  To use a ski analogy, cross-country and downhill mountain biking can be compared to their skiing counterparts, while cyclo-cross is like the biathlon with bikes and without the rifles.

In the past, racers often fitted old frames with cantilever bosses and wheels with wider tires and treads suited to mud and other conditions for cyclo-cross.  Bikes built specifically for that kind of racing are a fairly recent development.  I’ve owned one in my life: a Voodoo Wazoo.

As you can see, the frame was made of oversized TIG-welded Reynolds tubing and stays, which made it stiff for a bike with its geometry.  One result is that, even though it was somewhat heavier than my road bikes, it climbed well.  It also remained stable even with a rack and full panniers.  As you might expect, I rode the Wazoo on three loaded tours: from France into Spain through the Pyrenees, along the vineyards and chateaux of the Loire, and through the Alps from Lyon into Italy and Switzerland and back.

The only real complaint I had about the bike was that it had an odd chainstay configuration, which made it difficult to install a triple crankset and get a good chainline.  I had one smaller quibble:  When I bought the bike (complete), it came with V-brakes and Shimano “brifters”.  V-brakes aren’t made to work with road levers, at least not the ones available at that time. Voodoo included a “travel agent”, which was supposed to compensate for the fact that road levers have less range of motion (or “pull”) than V-brakes are designed for.  Alas, the setup never worked to my satisfaction; before I embarked upon my tours, I switched to cantilever brakes. 

I bought the bike, as it turned out, during a transition from one model year to the next (1997-98).  I expected to get the 1997 model, which had the same frame in a shade of green rather like chartreuse.  As you can see, I ended up with the 1998 model, which was only available in a screaming bright orange.  The color wasn’t my cup of tea;   however, the components were actually, I thought, slightly better than the ones on the 1997 model.  And I paid the same price for the new model that I would have paid for the older one.

The Wazoo is the sort of bike you’d want to have if you lived in the country and could have only one bike, but you wanted that bike to give you a lively ride while holding up to varied conditions. I might, one day, have Mercian build something like it for me—with lugs and in finish #57, of course.  

To The Sea On An A-D

 Now I'm going to talk about another "parts bin bike" I built and rode.

I got the Austro-Damiler "Team" frame in the photo in a trade for one of my last sets of tubular (sew-up) wheels.  I don't recall which model it was, but I remember that it was made of Reynolds 531 tubing in the late 1970's.

As I understand, bicycles were sold under the "Austro-Daimler" name only in the United States. The company that made them was called Puch and marketed some bikes under their own name during the 1970's and 1980's.  With a name like that, you know why they felt the need to come up with another for their higher-end bikes!

My A-D had what many now call "old-school" road geometry--73 degree head and seat angles, and a somewhat longer chainstay and wheelbase than what are found on today's racing bikes.  Any number of racing bikes from the time had similar geometry:  think of the Raleigh "International" or "Competition," Peugeot PX-10E (and its descendants), and other rides from makers like Gitane, Falcon, Frejus and Fuji.  Racing bikes in those days were more versatile than they are now:  It's not uncommon to see them used today as randonneuring or even touring bikes.

As a matter of fact, I took my A-D on a tour:  In August of 1994, I pedaled from Paris to the sea near Bordeaux, and up the coast to Lacanau.  As I stayed in hostels and pensiones throughout my trip, I didn't pack camping equipment except for a sleeping bag.  Everything fit into a small set of panniers and a handlebar bag:  I'd guess that I carried about 15 kilos with me.  Still, the bike gave me a stable and comfortable ride.  The top tube was a bit longer than I have on my custom frames, but I still was able to use a stem with a reasonable amount of horizontal extension.  Thus, the steering was still pretty responsive, but not overly twitchy.

I probably would have that bike now, even after getting my Mercians, save for its unfortunate demise a few months after that tour.  I was running an errand a few blocks from where I was living (in Park Slope) when, in order to dodge an opening taxicab door, I ran into a chuckhole that seemed not much smaller than a manhole cover.  The areas of the top and downtube just behind the head lugs folded like accordions, but the sounds that came out of my mouth weren't as pleasing.

Taming The Bicycle

From High Wheel Bicycle

On my bicycle, I've raced, toured, commuted and delivered pizzas, books, payroll checks, blueprints, contracts, machine parts and a few packages with "don't ask don't tell" policies, if you know what I mean.


I've thumped along potholed city streets, rumbled down rocky hills, rolled along county roads and routes departmantles past fields, castles, cathedrals and through forests and villages. I've woven my way through pacelines and drafted riders I would pass and others who would ride in races, and in places, I have never seen.   I've cycled over ice and through fire.  (I'm not making that up!)  I've ridden alone, with friends, with lovers and after breakups.  And I've pedalled away from a person or two.

On the other hand, I've never done BMX, bicycle polo or paintball on bicycles.  And I've never ridden a high-wheeler, although I sometimes think I'd like to.  After all, my cycling ancestors did so.  They include Auguste Rodin, H.G. Wells and Mark Twain, who wrote an incomparable account of the experience.  


He tamed his bike the way he tamed just about everything else: with his wit and irony.  Really, I don't see how a cyclist can not develop at least a little bit of either quality.  

Let The Profits Roll In

From Knox Gardner

 According to economic surveys, the price of gasoline is dropping, however slightly.  Still, it begs the question of how long prices will stay down, and when and by how much prices will rise again.  If the long-term trajectory for gas prices is upward, I have to wonder what it will do to the way people commute and travel, and how they will shop and entertain themselves.  While gasoline prices in the US are still nowhere near the levels in Europe and Japan, long-term increases will, I think, impact Americans' way of life even more than Europeans' or Japanese people's lifestyles because so much of this country's landscape and infrastructure is designed for the automobile.

Now, I don't expect people who are accustomed to driving a couple of days to their favorite vacation spots to suddenly take up bicycle touring.  However, there seem to be signs that more people, particularly the young, are doing that.  Almost any time I take a ride outside of New York City, or take a road or a path that leads out of it, I see couples or groups riding bicycles laden with panniers and, in some cases, camping equipment.  I am also noticing more and more families (or fathers and sons or mothers and daughters) riding on the paths and trails.

If more of us ride our bicycles, that could actually become a tourist economy unto itself, as it has in places like Portland.  In fact, Elly Blue, a bicyclist, activist and writer based in Portland, makes such an argument.  She points out that 78 percent of visitors to the city say that its bicycle-friendly reputation played a role in their decision to travel there.  She also shows how such tours as RAGBRAI pour money into local economies--which, I imagine, has a real impact in states like Iowa, which ranks 47th among the 50 states in tourism.  Even in New York City, a ride like the Five Borough Bike can boost revenues for restaurants, stores and hotels as thousands of people come in from other states and abroad to join local cyclists for the ride.

So...Will Tourist Bureaux establish committees on bicycle touring?  Stranger things have happened!