The Purr-fect Endorsement

 You know I would never, ever use this blog to endorse a political candidates.  Really!  I have, however, no compunction about showing cats, whether Marlee or another, whether or not they're related to cycling.

So please don't read anything into my posting this tweet:

We’ve got to come together to defeat Donald Trump –– Democrats, Independents, Republicans, and yes, even Demo-cats. pic.twitter.com/LtsTWy7MmI

— Joe Biden (@JoeBiden) October 17, 2020

I've already voted.  I  won't tell you who I voted for because I don't endorse candidates. Really, really, I don't! (Try not to notice my nose growing longer.)

All I'll tell you is that the major candidate I didn't vote for probably doesn't like cats--or any other animal he can't or won't eat.

Why Can't I Teach Them?

I am a cyclist.  I am also an educator.

Ergo, I should be able to teach someone how to ride a bike.  Right?

Well, I've tried and I've tried. But I just can't get Marlee on the saddle. I also couldn't get Max, Candice, Charlie I, Charlie II or Caterina. There was always some issue:  Their legs couldn't reach the pedals. Or the top tube (or stem) was too short.  Or they worried, despite my assurances to the contrary, that dogs would chase them.

Tell me:  Where have I failed?

Not Going Anywhere--Well, Not Really!

Marleee won't let me go!

As soon as I walked into my apartment, she was at my feet.  As soon as I sat down, she sat on me and would not get up for anything--not even the promise of a can of tuna.

I was away for two weeks. She probably thinks that if I get up and out the door, I'll be gone for a long time, again.  I have a dentists' appointment. Really, I do.  I'll be back in a couple of hours.

I actually do have a dentists' appointment.  But I just might sneak out for a bike ride.  Dear readers, please don't tell her!  

Friday The 13th.

Today is Friday the 13th.  

I am not superstitious about that, or much else. The only reason why I am thinking about the fact that it's Friday the 13th is something that happened the last time Friday the 13th came in January.

The year was 2012:  five years ago.  I was pedaling home from work when, all of a sudden, I burst into tears.  I was crying so hard that I could barely see in front of me or control my bike.  I stopped in an ATM vestibule and let it all out.  Or so I thought.  I got back on my bike, but only for a couple of blocks before I saw a cat in a store window.   Then the tears streamed out even more and I could barely stand, let alone pedal.

I am almost entirely sure that some time during my crying fits, Charlie died.  When I got home, I found him lying stiff on the floor, his hind legs crossed.  

Max and Marlee, the cats who currently reside with me, are sweet and loving.  In fact, I adopted Marlee just a few weeks after I lost Charlie.  But I will never forget Charlie:  He came into my life as I was undergoing fundamental and sometimes dramatic (and traumatic!) changes.  He was with me through some very happy and very intense times, including my gender reassignment.  And, of course, he was reading over my shoulder (!) as I typed the early entries of this blog.

When anyone, human or otherwise, shows you nothing but love of the kind that renders you incapable of feeling anything but love for him or her, you don't "get over" losing him or her.  And you shouldn't:  That love becomes a part of you, along with all sorts of memories.  It becomes, perhaps paradoxically, why you find new friends or companions after such a loss:  They are a testament to what you have shared with the one who has departed.

Max and Marlee greet me when I come back from a bike ride.  So did Charlie.  So does he.

P.S.  The "Charlie" to whom I am referring was the second cat I lived with who was named Charlie.  So in earlier posts, I referred to him as Charlie II and the first as Charlie I.

Seeing The Signs

Caterina, Charlie (I), Candice, Charlie (II), Max and Marlee.

I have loved them all.  I miss Caterina, both Charlies and Candice.  At least I have Max and Marlee.

They all did, and gave, everything I ever could have wanted from the likes of them.  Well, all except one thing.

I never could get any of them to do this:

For that matter, I've never been able to persuade any cat to ride with me.  

A few years ago, on New Years' morning, I stopped for a cat I saw and who looked almost pleadingly at me.  As soon as I got off my bike, he darted to my ankles and rubbed himself against me.  I picked him up.  For a moment, he curled on my shoulder and I tried getting on my bike, figuring I could start off the new year by rescuing a feline friend.  But he was having none of it:  As soon as I lifted my leg over the bike, he dropped himself off my chest and landed on his feet.

I tried a similar rescue about a year ago, on another cat who greeted me.  It ended much like the first one I tried:  When I got on the bike, the cat decided to go airborne.

Perhaps those felines--and my own--saw this sign:

Well, now I know what they're doing while I'm riding!  Hmm...Maybe that's the reason they won't ride with me. 

Sometimes A Longer Crank Arm Is Only A Longer Crank Arm...

Time spent with cats is never wasted.

Truer words were never uttered.  (All right, very few truer words were ever uttered.)  Who said them?

The same person who said,

Everywhere I go,  I find that a poet has been there before me.

Hey, I can get with that, too.  Or:

Dreams are most profound when they are the most crazy.

Such a pronouncement is ironic, coming from a man who hated radios and telephones--he would use the latter, but only when absolutely necessary--because of the noise they made.  He even hated music!  He also hated motorcycles, which came out in the middle of his life, for the same reason.

He also hated bicycles, which no one--not even his closest family members and associates--could explain.  He never explained it himself.  However, I think it may have had something to do with his being a control freak, a label attached to him by everybody who knew him.  Or it may have been about his relationship with his son, who was an avid cyclist.

Ahh, father-son conflicts.  Did I hear "Oedipal"?  All right...now, perhaps, you have a clue to whom I'm referring.

Yes, I am talking about none other than Sigmund Freud-- who, if he were alive, would be 160 years old today.

What would he make of the fact that so many cyclists, particularly males, are riding longer cranks these days?  What would he have to say about wheels, and what our choices about spoke patterns--or discs--say about us?

About his hatreds:  Here's one that, perhaps, overshadows the others:

Yes, America is gigantic, but a gigantic mistake.

What would he make of the current Presidential race?
 

Nine Years, Nine Lives--With Max

It's hard to believe that I was once nine years old.

It's also hard to believe that, not so long ago, really, nine years seemed like a geologic age.

Now it goes by in the blink of an eye.  Periods of five and ten years start to blend with each other.  I realized as much when I made an offhand remark that something looked "Soo '80's."  

The person to whom I made the remark corrected me:  "More like early '90's".  After thinking for a moment, he said, "The '80's, the '90's--at our age, the decades run together."

That I can think of nine years as, in essence, a decade, says something about my perception of time.  I think I've also reached a point where any amount of time more than fifteen years becomes twenty.

Anyway...today, the 9th marks nine years of a relationship--with someone who, proverbially, has nine lives.

I am talking about none other than Max.  

Whenever I come home from a bike ride, he circles my wheels and my feet.  I feed him and, as soon as he's sated, he climbs onto my lap, whether I'm drinking, eating, reading or just spacing out.  

It still amazes me that such a wonderful cat came my way--and I didn't pay, or really do, anything to get him. In an earlier post, I told the story of how he came into my life. Whatever I've spent on him--which, really, isn't much--has been a pittance.  After all, when he climbs and walks on me, I feel as relaxed as I do after a good massage.  And when I'm tired or feeling blue, I talk to him and feel as if I've had a nice therapy sessions.

In  brief, he's a stress-reliever.  Of course, I don't tell him that:  I don't want to reduce him to mere usefulness.  I simply love having him around, and I hope he's around for some more years.  He's fifteen now, according to the vet who examined him just before I took him in.  In the scheme of things, that might just be the blink of an eye.  But it is a relationship, it is a love--which is to say, it is a life.

I Couldn't Put The Cat In My Bag

Yesterday, I managed to get out for a late-day ride:  a couple of hours spinning and making random turns on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.

Although I had clip-on lights in my rear bag, I didn't want to ride after dark. So, when the sun--which, early in the afternoon had emerged from a days-long absence--tinged the sky orange, I took a shortcut back to my place through the deserted (as they are on weekends) industrial areas of Maspeth and Long Island City.

As I pedaled up a street nestled between rows of warehouses, I saw what looked like a furry shadow slinking by a construction site.  It leaped onto the crumbling brick stoop of a house that seemed to be constructed of peeling shingles.  And I heard...

Meow.  Yes, that furry shadow was feline--but not, I would soon find out, feral.  I stopped and, after I looked into its eyes for a split-second, he (by that time, I had decided  he was male) made a tiptoed sprint toward me.

I rubbed my fingers on his head.  He rubbed against my ankle.  I stroked his back.  He closed his eyes and rolled, a little, on his side.

I really knew he wasn't feral when I picked up my leg and dismounted my bike.  That motion frightens off most cats (and many other animals).  But my new friendly feline acquaintance took a step closer to me.  Finally, I squatted and picked him up.  He didn't resist.  In fact, he curled himself on my shoulder and chest.


He stayed there as I lifted my right leg over Tosca and re-mounted.  I pedaled down the deserted street, crossed another and increased my cadence just a little when he started to squirm.  


Hmm...I know that even when I was at my best, my pedal stroke was never as smooth Jacques Anquetil's or Stephen Roche's.  Still, I tried to make my motions more fluid, if slower.  The cat squirmed more, and jumped off.

But he didn't run away from me.  In fact, he almost seemed to be waiting for me to dismount and pick him up again.  Which I did.  And I remounted the bike.  And pedaled--slowly--again.  He squirmed, but never clawed me.  Not only was he not feral; he had obviously never been on a bike before!

So I picked him up again and walked, with him on my left shoulder and my right hand clutching Tosca's stem, back to the construction site. He looked, rather forlornly, as I said goodbye. (If only I could have photographed him!)

As I left, I noticed a bowl and plate by the construction site: Somebody has been feeding him.  Still, I am somewhat tempted to go back--even if my landlady really means what she said about a two-cat limit (which I had to beg for when I moved in; she only wanted to allow one).  Plus, I have to wonder how my cats would take a new addition to the "family".  Max is friendly and curious; he seemed to be thinking "Great!  A new playmate!" the day I brought Marlee home. But Marlee is still fearful and skittish; she seems to come out of hiding only for me. 

From Boyz on the Hoods

I could go back with the LeTour, which has baskets on it, and a blanket or pillow.  And maybe the landlady, if and when she comes in, won't see him:  He is a smoky gray color, which means he could hide fairly easily.  Plus, Max would like him:  He likes everybody, or so it seems.  As for Marlee...

Family Portrait Day

Today is Family Day.  So you’re gonna see lots and lotsa pikshas.

In the previous sentence, my roots were showing.  I’m going to my hairdresser on Thursday.

Anyway…Now I’m going to show you some portraits of family members.  It’s a particular but close branch:  The Mercians.

Yes, I’m going to show you my bikes, after their winter makeovers and some riding.

First I’ll start with Arielle, the first Mercian to come into my life:

You’ve seen some photos of her already. But I wanted to show her after 500 miles, post-facelift (and overhaul):

I’m liking it more and more with the honey leather.  I think the bags have something to do with it:  The color of the canvas (“Nantucket Red”, which is really more like salmon pink) works with both the green and purple of the “flip flop” finish and the honey saddle, bar wrap and toe straps. What do you think?

As you know from a few previous posts, Tosca, my fixie (and the second Mercian I acquired) got a similar treatment.

I’m happy with the way the colors play off each other.  However, I wasn’t able to find a double track toe strap to go with the other leather accessories.  Then again, I guess the mismatch isn’t as noticeable as if, say, I wrapped the bar in a darker color.

The third Mercian to come my way is, I realize, one I haven’t written as much about lately.  Helene is a 2010 Miss Mercian with similar geometry (but with slightly more tire and fender clearance) to Arielle, which is a custom Mercian Audax.  

The rear bag is a bit larger than the one I use on Arielle and Tosca.  As you can probably tell, it was also made by Ely Rodriguez of Ruth Works SF. So is the handlebar bag, doubles as a clutch or shoulder bag when removed from the bike.

Finally, here is the last Mercian I bought. Ironically, it’s the oldest:  Vera, my “other” Miss Mercian.  It was made in 1994 and I purchased it in 2011:

Somehow the boxy randonneur front bag and larger saddle bag make the most sense—and look best—on this bike, although I could use them on my other bike.  Perhaps it’s because Vera has a longer wheelbase and is therefore the most stable with a load on it.  I wonder what it would be like on a longer tour.

She seems really happy to have those bags, and the Brooks B17 special.  So am I.  In fact, I’m happy with all of these bikes:  As similar as they might seem to someone who doesn’t know bikes or Mercians, each has its own character and personality.  Still, they all make me happy when I ride

Now, here’s the rest of my family:

 
La-Z-Boy, a.k.a. Max

 and La-Z-Girl, a.k.a. Marlee!

I Ride When He Lets Me Go

It's been mild, but windy, ever since I got back from Florida.  As far as I'm concerned, those are fine riding conditions, if not anything like what I encountered in the Sunshine State.

I've managed to do a bit of riding. But it hasn't been easy. Every time I try to go out, I have to get past the gatekeeper:

I mean, wouldn't you have trouble getting past that intimidating stare?

Yeah, I'm talkin' to you!

Fear Of Felines

Quick question:  What did Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Gengis Khan, Napoleon, Hitler and Mussolini have in common?

They all were ailurophobic.

(Hitler and Mussolini:  two ailurophibic who tried to take over  the world at the same time. Imagine that!)

I wonder what they did on Halloween.  They wouldn't have wanted to be with me on my most  recent Point Lookout ride.

It's a good thing I'm not ailurophobic.  I really, really had to go to the bathroom!

Happy Halloween! 

 

Rainy Saturday

Rain.  It would have to fall on a Saturday.  A driving, heavy rain.  I'm thinking of something Wallace Stevens wrote:  "the sort of man who prefers a drizzle in Venice to a hard rain in Hartford".  I guess it describes most people.

 Even though it’s fairly warm, seeing such heavy rain didn’t get me into the mood to ride.  Plus, more of same has been forecast for the rest of today.  Then the temperature is expected to drop from about 22 to 8C (72 to 45F) by early tomorrow.  If the rain stops, it could be a nice, crisp fall morning:  one of my favorite riding conditions.

For today: bike maintenance, reading, non-blog writing, quality time with Max and Marley and, possibly, cooking.