Don’t Try This At Home—Or On the Road

 After yesterday’s weighty post, here’s something that will lighten up your Sunday:

I used to joke that after “this won’t hurt” and “one size fits all,” the biggest lie is that you can walk in cycling shoes—at least the ones we were riding.

Prove It!

 Sometimes, no matter what we say or do, people just won’t believe us!

54? He’s not even in midlife yet! Wait’ll he gets to be my age!

Bowled Over

 My neighbors in my senior citizens’ complex think I’m a “kid.” Compared to some of them, I am:  After all, I am in midlife.

But some days I feel I’ve lived too long.  Like today: I learned that there is actually a “Pop Tart Bowl.”

What I think of what college sports has become could fill at least a few more posts.  As far as I know, the system in which colleges and universities in effect are minor leagues in service to the NFL and NBA (and, to a lesser extent, other professional sports leagues) is unique to the USA.  Even more singular is college football’s “Bowl” constellation. Years ago, there were only a few, such as the Rose, Orange and Sugar Bowls.  Now it seems anything advertised on TV has its own bowl game.

Now, I won’t judge you if you’re still eating those sugar bombs.  After all, as I related in an earlier post, they—especially the frosted brown sugar cinnamon flavor—were an “energy food” for me and my mountain bike buddies back in the day.

But a strawberry (as pink as you can get!) Pop Tart mascot accepting a marriage proposal—or grilling ‘tarts’ like they’re burgers, hot dogs or chicken wings?  Even on the most intense cinnamon sugar high, I couldn’t have imagined such things!

Becoming Whole

 Orange you glad you did?

You Silly Goose!

 For all of the times I’ve had to dodge geese while cycling the Hudson River Greenway, I’m surprised that this question never crossed my mind:  “What if a goose could ride a bike?”

Funny, how often I find answers to questions I never asked.

Well, all right, it’s a duck. Close enough. (Then again, I am not an ornithologist.)

How Did We?

About ten years ago, I was talking on the phone as I scurried down the hall to my class.

When I entered, one student wondered, aloud, how I survived with such a “primitive” device:  a flip-phone.

Mind you, neither he nor any of his classmates was wealthy, at least to my knowledge. But I was a couple of years away from having any desire, let alone seeing any need, for a “smart” phone.

Now I’ll confess that before my July trip to Japan, I “upgraded” to an iPhone 16 from the iPhone 8 I’d been using for seven years. I really wanted to stick with 8 because it was familiar, but the software wouldn’t update anymore, the battery took forever to charge and the charge didn’t last. Turns out that changing the battery would’ve cost more than getting a new phone, at least with the surprisingly generous trade-in allowance I got from Verizon.

Anyway, I thought about my old student when I got my new phone. And I wonder what he would think, if he were a cyclist, of some of the bikes I’ve ridden—and still ride.

What’s That About The Hill?

When people say that someone is “over the hill,” they mean that person is too old for some pursuit (usually in sports) or simply old.

As a cyclist, I always found that odd:  Pedaling up a hill (or a mountain), even if it leaves me tired, is a way of reassuring myself that I am not old, that I am in the middle of my life.

Who Would Win?

 Recently, I saw a bumper sticker that read, “My stick-figure family can beat your stick—figure family.”

I wondered, “At what?”

A bike race, perhaps?

Would Agnès Varda Approve?

 Yesterday I rode LaVande, my King of Mercia, against 20-35 KPH (12.5- 22.5 MPH) headwinds,, to Point Lookout. My reward: I coasted along the coast to Coney Island and its culinary delights .

Joy Without Motion

 How happy can you be while standing still?

Reaching

 What if Michelangelo had been a cyclist?

Sticks, But No Stones

 Well, I just got an answer to a question I never asked:  What would a stick-figure cyclist look like?

Why Do We Call It A Bike?

 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 Wheel Keeps Turning

 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.

Everybody Was Out

 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:

Her Way?

 Is she trying to coast on a fixed-gear bike?

Alternative Energy Source?

 Is this what they mean by “wind power?”

Women’s Work?

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:

*—I was less surprised by her skill and dedication than I was by her husband, who seemed completely sedentary.

Purple Is Always The Right Size

 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.

Taking One From The Team?

 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.

*-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.