Will The Velo Continue to Vive After The Greve?

I can recall three transit strikes in New York City.  The first began with the new year in 1966.  I was a child then, and the main thing I recall is my father missing a couple of days of work, then taking cabs with co-workers.  

The second lasted nearly as long, and began on April Fools' Day in 1980.  I was a student at Rutgers but was making frequent trips into New York.  Back then, buses along the Princeton-to-New York/Port Authority Route had large luggage hatches on their undersides.  Since they were almost never used for the intended purpose, and because the bus operating company didn't seem to have any written policy against using those hatches for any other purpose, I and a few other cyclists would stow our bikes in them.  I recall one friendly driver who'd help us angle our bikes into the compartments and make sure the door was shut; other drivers simply looked the other way.  So, once I arrived in the city, I had a convenient way of getting around.

The last strike I recall began just before Christmas in 2005. Subway and bus workers walked off their jobs for three days.  I was teaching at another college and, since the strike coincided with the end of the semester, we were concerned that exams would be postponed until January--and that I'd have to postpone or cancel a trip I'd booked for then.  Thankfully, that strike ended before the holiday and only a few classes and exams, none of which were mine, had to be rescheduled.

During the 1980 and 2005 strikes, many commuters walked or rode bicycles to work.  (In fact, the practice of wearing a business suit with sneakers and carrying dress pumps or wingtips in a bag is said to have begun with the 1980 strike.)  I have had a difficult time finding statistics to confirm my observation that, while some continued to pedal to their offices, stores, factories or schools after each of those labor stoppages, more people continued to ride to work after the 2005 walkout than after the 1980 halt to the trains and buses.  

If my observation can indeed be borne out by empirical data, it would indeed be interesting, especially because the conditions of each strike were very different:  The 1980 strike unfolded with some of the blooms in the city's gardens, while the 2005 strike coincided with both the official beginning of winter and that season's first cold spell. 

Also, because the 1980 strike was much longer, one might expect the habit of cycling or walking to become more ingrained than it would have during the 2005 stoppage.  

Then again, some who weren't so inclined to ride or walk might have seen having to do so during the long 1980 strike in the way people viewed shortages and other privations during World War II or other protracted national emergencies:  They were eager to get back to their old ways.  On the other hand, having to bike or walk for only three days might leave people with more pleasant memories.

Moreover, as I recall, 1980 was a "year without a spring".  A cold, damp April gave way to a heat wave in early May that presaged a hot, dry summer.   Perhaps such weather was a disincentive to continue cycling, at least for some people.  On the other hand, after the cold wave during the strike, the winter of 2005-2006 was mild.  Perhaps it is no coincidence that the surge in the number of commuters and recreational cyclists began to surge right around that time.

I mention all of these things because the strikes in France--which include greves on the Transports Parisiens et Transiliens--have ended.  The trains and buses, with a few exceptions, came to a halt for most of December and January.  So there is a valid basis for comparing the change in transportation habits as opposed to the previous year.

Turns out, on the whole, the number of January cyclists in the City of Light--at least as measured on its major bike lanes--increased by 131 percent--over the first month of 2019.  That is to say, the numbers more than doubled and on two--the Voie Georges Pompidou and le Pont National--more than three times as many cyclists rode by.

It will be interesting to see how many of those "new" cyclists continue their riding habit as Metro and bus services return to normal.  I suspect they will, simply because cycling culture, while not as prevalent in Paris as in other parts of France, existed to a greater degree than it did in the Big Apple when its conductors, drivers and maintenance workers walked off their jobs.  Also, Paris' system of bike lanes and other infrastructure is more extensive and generally more useful than what New York has even now, let alone 15 years ago or 40 years ago, when it was all but nonexistent.

All I can say is to Paris is Vive la Velo!

 

On Bastille Day, C'est Une Vie De Chien

I've cycled around la ronde of the Place de la Bastille more than a few times.  The first time, I did it because, well, it's the Place de la Bastille: As I circled around la Colonne de Juillet (July Column), several years before the Bastille Opera house was constructed, I tried to imagine a mob storming a prison and leveling it--and the Marquis de Sade escaping, even if that part of the story isn't true.

So it's not hard for me to associate bicycles with Bastille Day.  But a chihuahua?  

Hmm...Chihuahuas bark in Spanish, right?  So it couldn't be too hard to get this fellow to bark, "Joyeuse Bastille, mes amis!" 

Thank Billie Valentine for that adorable image.  Bikes and chihuahuas: at least they aren't tanks.

From The Water To The Port

Three years ago, the Canal St. Martin was drained.  The City of Paris does that about every ten or fifteen years.

In dredgings past (sounds like a series of old therapy sessions!), the "treasures" at the bottom of the Canal included home furnishings, street signs, gold coins(!), World War I shells and even a car.  But the most recent drainage served as a sort of geological record of changes in the neighborhood around the canal--mostly the 10th Arrondissement--and in the City of Light itself.

The streets around the waterway have become the sites of bars, restaurants and clubs.  (The Bataclan, site of a mass shooting during a November 2015 concert, stands literally steps from the canal.)  The area is home to "Bobos"--a term combining "bohemian" and "bourgeois".  They are probably the Parisian equivalent of hipsters. At any rate, they share many of the same tastes with their Brooklyn counterparts.  

They include a thirst for craft beers (French as well as American) and wines.  Empty bottles and cans bearing those labels littered the bottom of the canal when it was dredged. So did another passion of that evanescent group:  bicycles--specifically, those from Velib, the city's bike-share service.

As far as I know, neither of the city's two canals--the Harlem River Ship Canal and the Gowanus Canal--has ever been drained.  Interestingly, the Gowanus--one of the most toxic waterways in the United States--flows, like the St. Martin, through a hipsterizing (Think of it as the hipster equivalent of gentrifying.) neighborhood.  According to an urban legend, the Mafia used to dump their "hits" in the Gowanus because the bodies would dissolve.  

Which brings me to this question:  Could a Citibike survive a dive into a city canal?

Somehow I doubt it would be even as intact as the bike in the photo.  That Citibike, missing since September 2017, showed up in the bike-share service's port at 73rd Street and Riverside Drive, where filmmaker Ted Geoghegan found it.  Its coating of barnacles and mud indicates that it spent time in the Hudson River--which, at that point, is actually an estuary.  

No one, it seems, can explain how it got from the river (or wherever it was) to the bike dock?  Did a thief take it, dump it, feel guilty and dive into the water to fetch it?  That seems unlikely because, well, that's not what thieves usually do, but also because if the thief did indeed dump the bike in the river, he or she wouldn't have found it in the same spot, or anywhere nearby.  The more likely scenario is that some boater or fisher found it and, not knowing what else to do, quietly brought it to the bike port.

That bike is more than likely beyond repair.  Spending almost any amount of time in the water would have destroyed the bike's electronics, and the growth on the rest of the bike indicates that the brackish water has corroded the rest of the bike so that it's structurally unsound, and its moving parts are probably irreparable. 

(Interesting aside:  The Gowanus and Harlem Ship are the only two canals in New York City today. In the 17th Century, however, lower Manhattan was laced with canals. That's not surprising when you realize the area was then called Nieuw Amsterdam, and the Dutch settlers were following a model of urban planning for which their capital is famous.)

Saturday Ride: Empires And Connecticut

It's one thing to be reminded of Paris when you're in New York--especially, say, if you're walking down the Grand Concourse in the Bronx and looking at the Art Deco buildings--or pedaling along Ocean or Eastern Parkways in Brooklyn.  As I have mentioned in other posts, these places were inspired by the Grand Boulevards of Paris as well as the wide residential boulevards of London and other large European cities.

Also, I was in Paris a week and a half ago, so I have an excuse for thinking about it.

Now, it would be fair to ask what would cause me to think about Cambodia during a bike ride to and from Connecticut.  After all, there isn't much physical resemblance between the two places.  You might think that because I was riding on a cold day--the temperature didn't reach the freezing mark the other day, when I pedaled to the Nutmeg State--I was taking a trip, in my mind, to the warm weather I experienced in Southeast Asia.

Actually, I wasn't thinking about that.  Something I saw in the Greenwich Common reminded me, in an odd way, of something I saw in the land of the ancient Khmer kingdom.

Bare branches furled themselves around a monument to young men who marched, perhaps bravely, perhaps blindly, into their own slaughters.  In another year they are mourned, their young bones turned into mud:  They remain only as names on these stones after dying to capture hills and other terrestrial features that are recorded only as coordinates on a map or, perhaps, dates and times.  

All right.  I'll get off my soapbox.  When I see a war "memorial", I can't help but to think of what a colossal waste of lives--especially those of the young--result from the rise and fall of nations, of empires--whether said entities consist of real estate or simply numbers traded and sold from one electronic screen to another.

At least all those Greenwich residents who died too soon have names, at least for as long as those stones stand.  What, though, if the trees--not unlike the ones on the Connecticut state coin--were to wind themselves around those monuments?  What if they continued to grow, as they would if no one touched them, while the stones bearing the names of the lost were to crumble?

Somehow I don't think similar questions ever darkened the mind of Henri Mouhot.   He is often said--mistakenly--to have "discovered" Angkor Wat.  Of course, he no more "discovered" it than Columbus "discovered" America:  There were thousands of people already living in its vicinity, and they all descended from people who'd lived in the area.  Moreover, other French explorers and missionaries had seen and documented the temples decades before Mouhot.  He did, however, popularize Angkor Wat in Western imagination, in part by comparing them to the pyramids.

I have to wonder, though, what went through his and his colleagues' minds when they first saw Ta Prohm.

We know the name of the King--Jayavarman--who commissioned it.  Those who cleared the jungle, cut the stones, carved the statues and made the meals for those who did all the other work are anonymous to us now.  So are those who fought to build and maintain the Khmer Empire (or almost every other empire).  What we have now are what Mouhot encountered 160 years ago:  Trees reclaiming their home from monuments humans built.

Now, of course, I am not complaining about having gone to see Ta Prohm, or the rest of the Angkor Wat complex.  It really has been one of the great privileges I've enjoyed:  The temple sites are awe-inspiring in all sorts of ways, and the people are inspirational.  It should be remembered, though, that its glories, much like those of the Vatican and the grand cathedrals of Europe, as well as the pyramids, were the result of now-nameless people whose lives began and ended as fodder for the empire.  

And, I must say, it is ironic to be reminded of an ancient marvel in a tropical climate on a cold day in a modern suburban downtown--while riding my bicycle.

Cycling, Cubism, Computers And Commerce In Paris

I am certainly not the first cyclist to notice that pedaling enhances the senses.  We can see and hear more vividly, and whatever we taste or touch (or touches us) is more intense.  And we all know that our favorite foods and drinks taste even better during and after a ride.

Perhaps it's no coincidence that I found myself thinking about these phenomena as I pedaled around the Place des Vosges and through narrow streets lined with sandstone-colored buildings:  My morning's meanderings ended at la Musee Picasso.

So how are my ramblings and ruminations connected to the creator of Demoiselles d'Avignon and Guernica?

Well, actually, I started to think about the way we receive sensory details--on or off our bikes--on Saturday, while looking at an exhibit of Cubist painters in the Centre Pompidou.  The way Picasso, Braque and others dissected (visually, anyway), faces, objects and vistas, then re-assembling them in new ways, does not reflect the way our eyes see--or, at any rate, the way we are accustomed to thinking that our eyes see.  Rather, those artists were showing us how something besides our sensory organs--call it the mind, the intuition or the spirit (I mean that in a secular sense.) senses the world around us--which, of course, cannot be a re-creation of the object, the face or whatever we see.  

It makes sense when you realize that the words on this page, or any other words, cannot transmit the things they are supposed to communicate or represent.  All they can do is convey something--a code, if you will-- that the mind turns into an image or idea of whatever the words are supposed to convey.  The mind doesn't do that simply by taking in the sequence of letters that form the word; it turns them into something that the mind or consciousness, or whatever you want to call it, can use to portray an idea or essence of whatever that word is supposed to represent.  If you see the word "house", your mind provides you with an image of a house because it turns the letters of the word into something your mind can re-assemble into a visualization of some house or another.

I am not a neuroscientist, so I have been able to describe our conscious processes only in the language I could find in my own intuition, such as it is.  And I know even less about the way computers process data, so please forgive me if what I say next makes less sense than anything I've said before.

Here goes: It occured to me, while riding afterward, that Cubism may well have been a prototype of how computers process data--and, in particular, how information is conveyed through computer systems and, in particular, across the Internet. As I (mis)understand it, what I am typing right now won't be posted directly to my blog:  It must be changed into a format that can be sent and re-assembled into the intended message or content.  And that format, as I understand it, bears no resemblance (at least in terms of logic or syntax) to the language we use and has to be rearranged in ways we never would (or could) do in order to convey our message.

So..Could the Cubists have been proto-computer scientists?  

Anyway, riding is always a great primer for looking at art, or almost anything.  And within steps, literally, of the Picasso there are two other museums.  I was going to go to the Carnavalet, but it was closed for renovations.  So I went to one I visited on my previous trip to Paris:  the Cognacq-Jay.

Like the Jacqmart-Andre, it was the residence of a wealthy couple who collected art and objects.  The collection was on display, but there was also an interesting exhibit about "l'art du commerce."  It shows how artists like Jean-Antonine Watteau were instrumental in bringing about what we might recognize as marketing in the 18th Century.

The convergence of a few factors made it possible. One was, ahem, colonialism, which gave France and the rest of Europe access to a wider variety of materials--and designs they'd never before seen.  Another was the means to reproduce the exotic objects that came from afar, mainly the Middle and Far East.  Then there was the development of merchant and middle classes --whose tastes and demands drove these new markets--and, last but not least, a group of artists and other creative people.  

This is the era in which, essentially, department stores and catalogues began. That is why artists like Watteau others of his generation were so suited for this development: They had sketch-like techniques developed for creating portraits of  merchants, bankers and other professionals:  the sorts of people (and their families) to whom marketing was directed.  So, in some weird way, you can thank (or blame) Watteau for Amazon--or, if you're of my generation, Bike Nashbar, Performance, Supergo and all of those mail-order shops that sold all of those exotic and unaffordable bikes and parts we couldn't find at our neighborhood Schwinn dealers.

Could it be that the bicycle developed from the draisienne to what we ride today because of the l'art du commerce?

Whenever They Drain The Canal...

I remember hearing about it when I was in Paris last year:  the Canal St. Martin was drained.

Even before the neighborhoods lining it became fashionable, I enjoyed walking along its banks, or cycling the streets that ran alongside it.  The old houses and industrial buildings that stand beside it made it seem more like the Paris of my imagination than the sites along the Seine did.

The canal connects the Seine with the Canal de l'Ourcq, which in turn connects with the Marne River north of the city.  From what I understand, St. Martin is drained every fifteen years or so.  I've often thought the detritus found at the bottom could tell some interesting stories.

It was drained in January of last year and, the last time before that, in 2001.  As the millenium began, the 10th Arrondissement--through which much of the canal runs--was in its transition from a working-class neighborhood to an area full of some of the most interesting galleries and trendiest cafes in the City of Light.  (Indeed, it was this area that suffered the November 2015 terrorist attacks.)


In this country, we call it "gentrification."  But to the folks who cleaned out the canal, it meant more and different kinds of refuse.

As for "different kinds", you only have to think of one thing that Paris had by 2016 but not in 2001:

Unfortunately, in the early days of Velib--Paris' bicycle share program--a number of the bikes were stolen.  Guess where they ended up?

Now, bicycles have been dumped in the canal probably since, well, there were bicycles in Paris.  So have motorbikes, house furnishings and even an old camera or two.  But if some archaeologist or historian were to study St. Martin's detritus, what would they learn from finding Velib bikes?

Probably the same things they'd learn from comparing the wine bottles tossed into the canal in one period with those of another.    One thing is for sure: You don't see any of it in Amelie or any of Alfred Sisley's paintings!

Paris In The Bike Lane

If you were to ask, "What is the world's most bicycle-friendly city?", the answers you'd most commonly hear probably would be "Copenhagen" and "Amsterdam".

It would be difficult to argue against either.  And, although it's more bikeable than most American cities, not many people would put Paris ahead of either the Danish or Dutch capitals.

If you've been reading this blog, you know that I thoroughly enjoyed cycling in the City of Light.  That is not to say, however, that there isn't room for making it an even better place for cyclists than it is.  Mayor Anne Hidalgo recognizes as much, and has said that she wants not only to improve the cycling experience in her city, but to make the French capital into "the world's cycling capital".

Although one sees many bicycles and cyclists along the banks of the Seine, the portion of the population that rides regularly, let alone every day, is still fairly low, at least in comparison to places like Copenhagen and Amsterdam.  Nearly everyone agrees that one of the goals in making a city more "bike friendly" is to get people out of their cars and onto bike for their commutes, and to shop and visit the sights of the city.  That can be done when cycling is made available, affordable, safe and practical for those who are not, and do not wish to become, hard-core cyclists.

From what I can see, Paris has succeeded with the first two priorities:  You don't have to go very far to find a Velib station (or other bikes to rent or buy), and rental rates and purchase prices  are relatively reasonable.  The availability of Velib even well beyond city limits at least partially addresses the practicality issue.  But another part of it ties in with safety:  a coherent scheme of bike routes that cyclists can actually use to get to work, school or anyplace else from their homes and is physically separated from vehicular traffic.

The new Paris bike expressway.  Photo from a tweet by Marie Fugain.

Such networks are what separates Copenhagen and Amsterdam from nearly all other cities, according to Mikael Colville-Andersen,a  planner who regularly works with cities around the world to improve cycling conditions.  Of his native city, Copenhagen, he says, "Visitors who come for the first time will easily find their way around by bike because the network is uniform. That is not the case in Paris," where he points to "incoherent" choices like putting buses and bikes in the same lane on some roads.  Then there are "utterly stupid" ideas, he says, like the bicycle lane in the middle of the Champs-Elysees that is scheduled for completion next year.  "It will fail," he pronounces, because it will "lead to accidents" which will "give ammunition to the bike haters."

He does, however, see signs of improvement, like the new bike expressway" along the right bank of the Seine.  The route was created by taking two lanes from the Voie Georges Pompidou, a motorway that winds past the Louvre and the garden of the Tuileries, across the river from the Eiffel Tower.  This new "expressway" meets the standards of "Copenhagenization" in that it runs in a continuous axis in both directions, has enough room for cyclists to pass each other and has a separator between the bike and auto lanes, according to Colville-Andersen.

He says it could be the start of a bicycle network that could take its inspiration from another network for which Paris is justly renowned: its Metro.

No Idaho Stop In California--For Now, Anyway

Which is worse:

• a stupid, misguided, useless or pointless law that is passed by a legislative body

or

• a well-informed and well-conceived law that a legislative body votes against?

Yesterday's post concerned a mandate that may fit into the former category.  Today, unfortunately, I'm going to write about the latter.

As I've mentioned in an earlier post, way back in 1982, Idaho passed a law allowing cyclists to roll through an intersection at a red light if there is no cross-traffic.  Since then, no other US state has enacted similar legislation , though in 2011 a few Colorado municipalities adopted policies that allow cyclists to, in effect, treat "Stop" signs as "Yield" signs.  And the city of Paris, France has a statute allowing cyclists to do the same as long as they're making right turns, or going straight, through "T" junctions.

From the Portland Mercury

The so-called Idaho stop makes perfect sense because it allows cyclists to get out ahead of traffic and therefore be better seen by motorists, particularly those who are making right turns.  Even the policies of Paris and those Colorado communities are better than most others.

Recently, a bill that, if passed, would have given California cylists the same right that their peers in Idaho have enjoyed for more than three decades came up for a vote in the Golden State's Assembly.  After some intense lobbying (by, I think it's fair to assume, people who don't ride bikes), the bill was tabled.  Assembly member Jay Obernolte said the bill was being held up until the next legislative session so that "concerns" can be "worked out."

The one legitimate "concern" he mentioned came from groups representing the visually impaired, who say that people with vision problems could have difficulty hearing cyclists "whizzing by", as Sacrament Bee reporter Alexei Koseff put it.

That, in spite of researchers in the US and UK, working independently of each other and several years apart, coming to the conclusion that cyclists as well as motorists are safer when the "Idaho stop" is allowed.  Part of their research, of course, included a survey of Idaho's experience with its law.

The Idaho Stop: A Women's Issue (Or: Does Obeying The Law Kill Us?)

I learn some interesting things from my students.

From one of them--a criminal justice major--I learned that the vast majority of crime is committed by males between the ages of 15 and 25.  After that age, the crime rate plummets, and there is an even more significant difference between the lawlessness of males and that of females.

Or, to put it another way, females are more law-abiding than males.  Of course, that usually works to our advantage, but there are instances in which it doesn't.

One of those areas in which it doesn't is in traffic law, as applied to cyclists.  In most municipalities, the law requires cyclists to stop for red lights, just as motorists do.  Of course, such laws are not evenly enforced:  A state highway cop in a rural or suburban area is more likely to give a summons for running a red light than an urban police officer, and in cities, Black or Hispanic cyclists are more likely to get tickets (or worse) than a White or Asian person on two wheels.

But, according to studies, women are, proportionally, far more likely than men to be run down by heavy transport vehicles while cycling in urban areas.  As an example, in 2009, ten of the thirteen people killed in cycling accidents in London were female.  Of those ten, eight were killed by "heavy goods vehicles", i.e., lorries or trucks.  That year, about three times as many men as women cycled in the British capital.



That stark reality reflected conditions described in a report leaked by The Guardian's "Transport" section.  According to that report, 86 percent of the female cyclists killed in London from 1999 through 2004 collided with a lorry.  In contrast, 47 percent of male cyclists killed on London streets met their fates with a truck.

In unusually blunt language for such a study, the researchers concluded, "Women may be over-represented (in collisions with goods vehicles) because they are less likely than men to disobey red lights." (Italics are mine.)  They, therefore, confirmed what many of us already know:  We are safer, particularly in areas of dense traffic or in the presence of heavy vehicles, if we get out in front of the traffic in our lane rather than wait for the green light--and run the risk of getting smacked by a right-turning vehicle.



A DePaul University study of Chicago cycling and traffic patterns made use of the British study and came to a similar conclusion.  More broadly, the DePaul researchers concluded that it would be more practical and safer to mandate the "Idaho stop" for cyclists.  

In essence, the "Idaho stop" means that cyclists treat red lights like "Stop" signs and "Stop" signs like "Yield" signs.  It allows cyclists to ride through a red light if there is no cross-traffic in the intersection.  

Believe it or not, Idaho enacted that law all the way back in 1982.  Since then, no other state has adopted it, although a few Colorado municipalities have enacted stop-as-yield policies since 2011.  Interestingly, a 2012 decree allows cyclists in Paris to turn right at--or, if there is no street to the right, to proceed straight through-- a red light as long as they excercise prudence extreme and watch for pedestrians. Three years later, that policy was modified to allow cyclists to treat certain stop lights (designated by signage) as "yield" signs as long as they are making right turns or going straight through "T" junctions.

The funny thing is that you don't hear or read the kinds of flat-earth rants about cyclists in the City of Light that we regularly find in American discourse.  And, it has seemed to me, cycling is generally safer than it is in New York or just about anyplace else in the US I've ridden.

Now, back to my original point:  Allowing the "Idaho Stop", or even the policies of Paris or those Colorado municipalities, is not only a cycling or transportation issue.  It's a women's issue!

Happy To Ride Them Again

Today I luxuriated in riding another one of my own bikes.

Yesterday I took flight on Arielle, my Mercian Audax.  Today I spun the pedals on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike.  

Tosca

For over a week, I rode a relatively heavy hybrid/city bike with a geometry more relaxed than on any bike I own.  I understand why rental centers choose such bikes:  They stand up better than road racing or touring bikes to the rigors of city streets--which, in Paris, often include cobblestones.  Also, they are more responsive than mountain bikes.

The bike I rode in Paris this year, like the one I rode there last year, has a dropped-bar ("ladies'") frame made of oversized aluminum tubes.  The bike I rented in Montreal in October was also aluminum, but with a "diamond" ("men's") frame configuration.  Long-accepted wisdom (or dogma, depending on how you look at it) says that diamond frames are inherently more responsive than those with dropped bars because they are more rigid. My experience confirms that notion, at least for me.  I notice such differences on steel bikes, but they don't seem as pronounced as on the aluminum bikes I rode.  I wonder whether oversized aluminum tubes exaggerate the differences between these frame designs.

The Paris Bike Tour machine I rode this year.

Now, of course, my Mercians are lighter than those rental bikes, even though I made no effort to save weight in building my bikes.  And, even 700 X 28 tires--which both Arielle and Tosca sport--are narrower and much lighter than the rubber on the rentals.  So it's no surprise that my bikes would feel livelier.

But perhaps the most differences of all have to do with fit and my personal preferences.  Mercian custom-built the frames of both Arielle and Tosca for me, to fit the idiosyncracies of my body and riding preferences.  No amount of fiddling with the saddle and handlebar positions on rental bikes will make them fit me as well as my Mercians. 

Also, no matter how the handlebars are adjusted, the rental bikes all left me in a more upright riding position than even my most upright bike, the Schwinn LeTour that's become my beater/commuter.  Moreover, even that bike has a narrower and less-cushy saddle than any of the rentals had--and my saddles, all of which are leather (Gyes on the LeTour and Brooks on my Mercians) are broken in.

The Paris Bike Tour 

Then again, my riding in Paris did not have speed or even long distances as an objective.  I stopped frequently, whether to look at interesting things, shop or eat.  I suppose most people who rent bikes or use Velib (Paris' bike share program) are riding in similar ways.  

The bike I rented from Velo Urbain in Montreal

Don't get me wrong:  The bikes I rented this year and last from Paris Bike Tour were pleasant to ride and well-suited to their intended purposes.  So was the bike I rented from Velo Urbain in Montreal.  I would rent those bikes, from those places, again.  Still, I'm very happy to be riding my own bikes--especially Arielle and Tosca.

Do Places Change, Or Do Journeys Remain The Same?

I'm back in New York but still living on Paris time, at least for today.  That means I couldn't sleep when I got home, fell asleep after opening my suitcase (at least, that's what I think), feeling too tired to fall asleep (or not tired enough to stay awake?) , then falling asleep again by my kitchen table.

In between, I found myself thinking 

My fourth-favorite sculpture from my favorite sculptor.

about the trip, and other things.

Although some things in Paris change, if you go back to it, you'll find more similarities with the City of Light you remember from however-many-yearsh ago when you first visited, or lived or worked, there.  At least, that is how I felt last year--returning after being away for more than a decade--and this year, more than three decades after I first saw the French capital.

In contrast, New York--parts of it, anyway--can change more in a few years than Paris or other cities can change in decades, or even centuries.  I was reminded of that when the former neighbor I encountered in the Cluny recounted going back to our old block recently and noticing how it was "so different" from what we lived in.

In Paris, of course, there are buildings that stood for centuries before Europeans got lost on a trip to India and found themselves in the Americas.  (No, Columbus did not "discover" America!)  But there are also aspects of daily living that haven't changed much, if at all.  Although it's a major, fast-paced city, people still take time to enjoy meals and passing streams of humanity.  Those things happen to a greater degree in other parts of France (at least they did when I saw them about 15 years ago), but there are still lively street scenes that, I feel, are quickly disappearing in New York--and never existed in the first place in other parts of the United States.

And, let's face it, you are never going to see anything like this anywhere in the US:

New bikes might have technology.  But they--save for those made by custom and traditional builders like Mercian--or those, like Mariposa, who are inspired by them--don't have the heart and style of this:

Yes, it's a Peugeot, and many more like it were built.  But it has all sorts of details--which, like cornices on Victorian buildings or harmonies in Mozart sonatas--that are actually functional and not only aesthetic or merely stylistic. 

OK, so I wouldn't have seen a bike like that ridden to victory, or at all, down the Boulevard des Champs Elysees last Sunday.  And its rider wouldn't have dismounted under the Arc de Triomphe to ascend the winners' platform.  But its owner may well have ridden through this:

La Porte St. Denis is one of Paris's "other arcs" (the Porte St. Martin is the other)--and, in my opinion,  more interesting than that more famous one.   And a lot easier to ride.  I know:  I rode by and through la Porte St. Denis (in the above photo) the other day, and I've ridden round and round the other one!

And I went back, and came back.