May The Best Creature Win

During my bicycle tour from France into Spain and back, I pedaled up some of the steepest climbs I’ve encountered.  As I pumped and grunted my way up a pass that crossed the border, some mountain goats seemed to line up for the spectacle.  I couldn’t help but to think they were chuckling, or even laughing, to themselves: “That human thinks he’s* all that.  We climb these mountains every day—and we don’t have low gears!”

I couldn’t have blamed them.  After all, compared to many other species, we’re not very strong, fast, agile, flexible or durable.  

If they learned how to ride bikes, would goats—or horses, cows or other creatures—beat us in a race? Or ride for longer?

L'Alpe, Le Col—And A Secret

Today is Bastille Day.

So, why have I posted a photo of a tide rolling in?

No, I am not making a hackneyed metaphor for the mobs that stormed the prison that became a symbol of monarchial tyranny and class stratification.  Nor am I making an equally tired cliche about the cycles of history.

I took that photo on Bastille Day, almost.  Actually, it's from a couple of days after, just ahead of a Tour de France stage--in the French Alps.

That scene is of something to which I've alluded in other posts.  I took the photo as I pedaled above clouds. To this day, I can't say whether I felt more elation over rising above the clouds or reaching the top of the mountain, which I did a bit later.

Now I am going to reveal one of my dim, dark secrets:

Yes, that's what I looked like on 17 July 2001, a bit more than a year before I started my gender affirmation process. (I am squinting because, at high altitudes, the sun is more intense.) Not only was my world different; so was the world.  For one thing, I asked some random stranger to take that photo:  In the days before i-phones, it was more difficult to take "selfies" without special equipment.  Also, 2001 was the last year of the franc and lira:  On my next trip to France, three years later,  I'd be paying in euros.  And less than two months after I rode to the top of l'Alpe d'Huez, ahead of the Tour peloton, the terrible events of 11 September would change so much else.

A couple of days after that climb, I would ascend to another iconic Tour climb:  the col du Galibier.  I described that climb, and how it--or, more precisely, descending from it and crossing the valley--led me to, among other things, becoming the midlife cyclist who authors this blog. (See this and this.)

So, on this Bastille Day--as the Tour de France climbs and descends through its second day in the Alps--I am writing in part to celebrate the country which I feel almost as much kinship as my own and ascending some of its most difficult climbs.  But I now realize that I am paying homage to the person--known as Nicholas, Nick or Nicky-- who brought me to the part of the journey I've recounted in this blog.  I hope I am honoring him in the way he deserves.

Oh, and today is the anniversary of the day I gave up his name and assumed mine, two years after I ascended those mountains.  I remember feeling, on that day--Bastille Day--that I felt more free, that I had climbed another mountain.

Whether they finish first, last or somewhere in between, the riders in today's Tour stage will always have that.  Just ask Phillipa York, nee Robert Millar.

Note:  I apologize for the poor quality of the images.  I'm still learning how to use my iPhone to take pictures of old pictures!

  

Polka Dots For This Mum!

In the summers of 2000 and 2001, I became a "Tour chaser":  I rode along part of the race's route.  Specifically, I rode the mountain stages, not far from the race itself.  In 2000, I rode up and down some of the Pyrenees climbs en route to Spain and back.  The following year, I ascended some of the most difficult Alpine climb, including a ride up the Alpe d'Huez in the morning, ahead of the Tour caravan.

I thought I was quite the rider.  So did anyone who saw me or heard about what I did:  I made all of those climbs and descents with a full set of panniers and handlebar bag.  So, although my bike--a Voodoo Wazoo Cyclo-cross machine--was relatively light, especially considering that I rode with sturdy tires, I was hauling about ten kilograms more than any of the racers.

I don't know what it would be like to do those climbs now.  After all, I was twenty years younger than I am now.  Oh, and those two tours (the 2001 ride took me into a bit of Italy and another bit of Switzerland) were the last I did before my gender affirmation process.  So I had a full dose of testosterone, if you will, powering those muscles in my legs.

But I must say that someone who followed Sunday's ninth stage of the Tour de France puts me to shame.  

#TDF2022 It's hard to be a good mom #respect #sharingpassion pic.twitter.com/vKZwPRso6I

— ProCyclingStats.com (@ProCyclingStats) July 10, 2022

Dubbed "Supermum" and "Mum of the Year," she pedaled up--and down--the Col de Croix with her kid in tow.  Some have suggested that since she was riding a Cannondale, and did something similar in the wake of the 2019 Giro d'Italia, the bike-maker should sponsor her.

If I'd been awarded the polka-dot jersey for my rides, I would gladly have given it to her. 

A Ride Inside

One of my most interesting—and gratifying—bike rides took me through a tunnel.

The day before, I’d pedaled up the Alpe d’Huez, with a few hundred other riders, before it was closed for the Tour de France peloton.  I was riding southeast, toward Italy, along a narrow Alpine road.  Ahead of me , I saw a sign:  Route Baree.  A gendarme directed traffic—which, at that moment, consisted of a Citroen and me—away.

I watched the Citroen turn   toward a wider road.  I looked at my Michelin map. (That’s what we used before GPS.). I could see a couple of  roads that trailed off in fields or forests.  So I followed the trail of the Citroen to a road that, according to the map, led to a mountain.  But it didn’t seem to go up or around the col.

After a few minutes of riding, I saw a bottleneck—at the mouth of the tunnel.  There was another sign: that Caution! Caution! Eclairage Interrupte.

The rockslides that blocked the other road caused power outages.  So that tunnel—about half a kilometer long—was very dark. I had a headlight, but it was more for being seen than to see.  

Oh—and the two lanes that passed through that tunnel looked about half as wide as a single American lane.  One of the lanes was closed.  And there was no shoulder.

Traffic stopped at the entrance.  So did I.  A man emerged from the first car.

“Allez,” He motioned to the other drivers. “Nous vous suivrons. Pouvez rouler sur le chemin de nos phares.”

I rode through that tunnel—in the wake of their headlights. None of those drivers honked, and all of them drove behind me all the way through that tunnel.

I thought of that ride  when I heard about the Round and Round the Underground Race. On 29 March, several hundred riders will thrust and twist their way through the Springfield Underground, a limestone mine in Missouri.

As far as I know, none of those riders will have to worry about lighting.



Somehow it seems less daunting than a ride through the subway tunnels of my home town!

Drones And Crits Don't Mix

When riding in the city, a cyclist has to be aware of--in addition to motor vehicles and their drivers--pedestrians.  All it takes is one darting across the street at mid-block, or someone ambling through an intersection while looking at an iPhone screen, to send a cyclist tumbling to the pavement.  

In fact, I have incurred two falls--one on Broadway in SoHo, the other in Coney Island--caused by pedestrians who barrelled across a street without looking in the direction of the approaching traffic (which included me).  In the SoHo incident, said pedestrian--who was shopping with a friend--at least stopped and apologized. In the other mishap, the boy who plowed into me--who appeared to be about 14 or 15 years old--simply kept on going.  

I wasn't hurt in either incident, but things could have been worse.  Even scarier, though, were two instances in which I didn't actually crash, but could easily have taken a hit and a tumble.  Both happened when I was riding down mountains and an animal crossed my path:  a deer in Pennsylvania; an Alpine Ibex just after I crossed the border from France into Switzerland.  

During my brief career as an amateur racer, I went down once and had a near-miss.  Both were the result of other riders who jackknifed in front of me.  In the crash, I wrecked an expensive front wheel but, fortunately, not the bike--or me.  In the near-miss, another rider incurred similar damage when he and a couple of other riders hit the pavement a bit further back in the pack from where I'd been riding.

Now it seems there's a new hazard that can take a racer out of the game, or leave a rider with  road rash or worse:



It almost sounds like one of those excuses I'd hear from a student who didn't show up for class the day a term paper was due.  (That's happening to me this week!)  "I got hit by a drone".  At least, that's now more plausible than "My drone ate it!"

Seriously, though:  We have to watch for low-flying or falling drones.  Imagine if one caused a pileup in, say, the Tour, Giro or Vuelta!

Riding On Paths Through History

During my first European bike tour, I pedaled along la Cote Opale:  the French shore of the English Channel.  It was difficult not to think about all of the wars that ravaged Calais, from Edward III's siege in 1347 to the Nazi invasion of 1940.   But even when I wended along the coast through more bucolic towns like Montreuil-sur-Mer and villages like Neufchatel-Hardelot, it was difficult not to remember that, as the sea lapped on their shores, blood once ran through their streets and mortar shells strafed the air where breezes flickered leaves and flowers.

I got to thinking about that today, on the 75th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor.  I have never been to Hawaii, but I can only imagine what I might feel if I were to ride the Pearl Harbor Bike Path--especially if I were to see this:

Actually, there are sights other than those mothballed warships along the path.  From what I've read, though, it's far from the most scenic bike route on the islands, even if parts of it look pleasant:

What Do I Miss? Mes Chats et Mes Velos

In 1992, I did a bike tour from Paris to Chartres, and from there to the Loire Valley and Burgundy to Dijon, before heading back to Paris--and, from there, taking a train, boat and train to England to visit my aunt.  

As I was about to head to Blighty, I was away from home for nearly a month.  I spent time with one of my friends, who lived near Paris at that time.  She asked what I missed most about home.

"Ma chat":  my cat.

Charlie I:  The cat who brought me back home.

Now, it  wasn't as if I didn't have friends in New York or anywhere else in the US.  Ditto for family: An aunt, uncle and cousin were still in Brooklyn, and my parents and one of my brothers were still living on the (New) Jersey Shore.  But the previous year had been a very difficult--though, in many ways, fruitful--time for me.  I wrote a lot.  How could I not?:  I was in graduate school, studying poetry.  My marriage had officially ended that year (though, in reality, it was dead long before that), and from Memorial Day until Christmas of 1991, I lost five friends to AIDS-related illnesses and the brother of someone I dated was murdered in the hallway of the building in which I was living.

Max

I was tempted not to go back, even though I had only to take a couple more courses, complete my dissertation (a book of poems) and take my comprehensive exam (which wasn't as difficult as I expected) to complete my degree.  After experiencing the losses I've mentioned, I had a kind of crisis from that happened much earlier in my life.  In retrospect, I realize that dealing with it--in part, by taking the trip I've mentioned--led me, if as indirectly as the route that took me from and to Paris, to the transition I would start a decade later.  

Marlee

Anyway, aside from the pain of past experience, I wanted to leave the United States behind, or so I believed.  Oh--I should mention that an acquaintance of mine was killed during our first invasion of Iraq.  I really believed that the country in which I'd spent most of my life was not, and could not be, a force for good in this world (I still feel that way, often) and it looked like Daddy Bush would be re-elected.  Him!--after eight years of Reagan!  I simply did not want to be associated with such things.  

(Would that I could have seen the future!)

Anyway, it seemed as if the only answer to my friend's question was, indeed, "ma chat".  (I had one at the time.)  She was convinced there had to be something else waiting for me:  she pointed out the family, friends, studies and writing I've mentioned.  And, of course, there were my bikes, although the one I was riding during that trip was quite nice.

The funny thing is I felt almost exactly the same way a couple of days ago, as I was leaving Paris.  In so many ways, my home country, and even my home town, are less tenable than they were nearly a quarter-century ago.  We have had non-stop war for the past fifteen years, and Donald Trump makes Bush The Elder seem like Nelson Mandela.  The idea of leaving is even more tempting than it was then, though I know it will be more difficult than I realized it could be in those days.

Arielle

I am back, for now.  And what did I miss, aside from some people?  Well, Max and Marlee--yes, I have one more cat than I did in those days.  And, today, I realized, I missed my bikes.  After spending more than a week riding a rental--which, as rentals go, was actually pretty good--taking Arielle, my Mercian Audax, for a ride today, with its perfect weather, seemed heavenly.  

So I missed my cats, my bikes and....