A Meeting In Kool Orange

A week ago, I was pedaling Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike, along the very northern tip of Manhattan.  I had no destination in mind:  I was simply enjoying a ride on an unseasonably warm day.  

Just before the Broadway Bridge, I stopped for a light.  So did a fellow crossing the intersection from my left.  I couldn't help but to notice what he rode:

We greeted each other. "Don't see that bike very often," I exclaimed.

Bill bought it, and another just like it in another color--yellow--in Princeton, from a Craigslist ad.  The person who sold it told him it came from a shop in that town.

It was most likely Kopp's, I told him.  At the time the bike was made--the early '70's, from what I could see--Kopp's was one of the few shops where one could have bought that bike.  It was one of the few shops that sold high-quality bikes before the '70's Bike Boom; even as the popularity of bikes surged, it was one of the few places that stocked Schwinn Paramounts and the bike in the photo.

It's a Schwinn Sports Tourer, second in Schwinn's line after the Paramount.  The Sports Tourer was the re-incarnation, if you will, of the Superior, which was made in 1962-63.  The model in the photo was made in 1971, the first year Schwinn made the Sports Tourer--which became the Superior in 1976.

The bike Bill rode, like other Sports Tourers and Superiors, was built around a frame constructed from filet-brazed Chrome-molybdenum tubing. The workmanship is quite nice:  the joints are very smooth and rounded.

Ironically, those joints are probably the reason the Sport Tourer and Superior didn't sell well.  Bike books and magazines published at the dawn of the Bike Boom claimed, almost unanimously, that high-quality lightweight bikes had lugged frames.  The brass filets brazed around the joints of bikes like the Sport Tourer and Superior served the same purpose as lugs and, like lugs, made it possible to use thinner gauges of tubing than those used on welded frames.

But those bikes made for nice touring and even all-arounder bikes. Bill replaced the wheels and derailleurs that came with his bike, as well as the handlebar stem.  But he kept the Specialites TA crankset, which he meticulously cleaned and polished.

He also kept another TA item:  the handlebar bag, which LaFuma made for TA.  That bag and crank--and the Brooks B15 saddle-- are almost worth what he paid for the bike!

We enjoyed a pleasant ride into Westchester County and back into the Bronx, chatting about our bikes and lives along the way.  After our ride, he sent me photos of his other bikes.  He has quite the collection, including an early Schwinn Super Sport--which replaced the Superior in 1964 and became Schwinn's third-line bike when the Sports Tourer came out in 1971. 

Perhaps we will ride together again--he, on one of his other bikes, perhaps, and me on one of mine.

Home Yet?

I spent most of yesterday sleeping just long enough to wake up needing more sleep but not being able to get it--and staying awake just long enough to get nothing done.  I guess that's normal after crossing a few time zones.

Anyway, I am going to take a ride today.  I haven't decided where just yet.  Maybe I'll just get on my bike and let it decide, as I sometimes do.

One thing I must say, though, is that the streets here seem so wide after pedaling through passages like this:

Will my ride make me happy to be home again--or miss Italy?  Probably both!

"Where Are You Riding Today?"

Sometimes, when I’m about to mount my bike, someone—almost invariably, someone who doesn’t ride—will spot me and ask, “Where are you going to ride?”

Sometimes I have a specific destination in mind.  But, as often as not, I have no particular itinerary, let a landmark toward which my trek will be directed—when I lift my leg over my saddle.

Sometimes I lie:  “I’m going to the park.”  Or the beach.  Or some other seemingly-plausible terminal or turnaround for an hour or two or more on my bike. But, other times, I tell state the undeniable fact: “Oh, I don’t know.  I’m just going to ride for a bit.”

Perhaps paradoxically, I am most likely to take a “pointless” ride when I have a set amount of time—say, an hour or two—to ride.  At such times, I simply want to use my legs as something more than props for keeping me upright on a chair or standing in front of a classroom.  Or I simply want to experience sun, wind, clouds, heat or cold, or the sounds of leaves opening themselves or tires hissing on pavement without the filter of a window or the barrier of walls.

 

Sometimes I have a vague idea of where I’m going to ride—say, a general direction.  But my ride is just as likely to be directed by things that have absolutely nothing to do with my conscious mind. 

Sometimes my itinerary has to do with the day’s weather or season.  It could also be determined by the day of the week or the time of year:  I might decide to ride, or not, toward the ocean because a lot of other people might decide, or not, that it’s the perfect day to drive that way.  Or I might ride in a loop that will take me into lightly-trafficked or well-lit areas because there isn’t much daylight left.  I have lights for my bikes, but I still prefer to ride in daylight whenever possible—unless the night is lit by a bright moon or is simply more pleasant than the sweltering summer day.

But there are times when my ride is determined by things even less concrete or more intuitive, depending on your point of view, than anything I’ve mentioned so far.  Sometimes it seems as if my bike, or the ride itself, is determining my route.  It’s hard to explain to people who don’t ride, unless they’re writers or artists or other creative people.  Then, I can draw on my own experience of writing: My poem or essay or whatever I’m writing might start off as a work that’s ostensibly about some subject or topic or another.  But, as I immerse myself in writing, the piece I’m writing takes on a life of its own and develops, if you will, its own will, its own wants and needs. An image or even the sound of a word—or the rhythm or syntax of a line or sentence—can take my work in a direction I hadn’t envisioned, let alone imagined.

Sometimes I write, or ride, simply because it’s what I want to do, and nothing else will do.  The destination and scenery don’t matter, only the journey does.