Leaving The Opposition In A Cloud Of Dust, Not Smoke

 Today’s post won’t relate directly to bicycles or cycling. I am, however, confident that many of you will find it relevant and interesting.

I can recall when a yellow fog filled coffee shops, department stores, subway station corridors and other public venues. Of course, almost none of us noticed it until it was gone.  

The first step in clearing shared air came exactly sixty years ago today.  Dr. Luther Terry made an announcement to a roomful of reporters: A longtime, wide-ranging study led him to conclude that smoking cigarettes causes cancer.

It may well have been the single most important announcement ever made by a U.S. Surgeon General. Smoking cigarettes was considered normal, even healthy, for adults. (Although I have never smoked, I gave cartons of Kools, Camels, Marlboros, Pall Malls and Viceroys as gifts for Christmas, birthdays and other occasions.) The tobacco industry was therefore much bigger than it is now, which is why Dr. Terry—himself a longtime smoker—made the announcement on a Saturday :  officials wanted to minimize the report’s effects on the stock market.

(On a related note, tobacco played a significant role in colonialism.)

Of course, Americans didn’t collectively drop their cigarettes once the report became public. But over a period of years, puffing, whether in a public or private, was pushed to the margins.  A year after the report came out, warnings were printed on cigarette packs; five years after that, television and radio ads for cigarettes were banned. During that time and afterward, entities from government agencies to real estate offices prohibited smoking on their premises.  Countless private citizens did so in their living spaces; cities forbade it in and around apartment buildings.

I’ve already mentioned one result—the disappearance of the yellow haze in public spaces—of the report and ensuing bans.  Another occurs to me now:  I rarely see an ashtray in anyone’s home, and never see them in public spaces. Also, it’s been a while since anyone asked me,”Mind if I smoke?”

For those of you who prefer empirical data to anecdotes, there’s this:  In 1965,  the year the Surgeon General’s warning began to appear on cigarette packs, nearly 42 percent of Americans aged 18 and older smoked; by 2018, that proportion had fallen by two-thirds, to just under 14 percent. (It climbed slightly during the pandemic.)

It’s estimated that the report and its effects have saved 8 million lives: nearly the population of my hometown of New York City.  Perhaps equally significant, that report precipitated a cultural change in which smoking is not as sociallly acceptable, let alone fashionable, as it once was.  And the anti-smoking campaign has spread throughout the industrialized world:  Even in France, where the image of a soigné sophisticate included a Gauloise or Gitane clasped with thumb and forefinger, cigarette packets bear the same stark warnings seen in other countries. And, during my most recent visit a year ago, I saw considerably less smoking—and clearer air in cafes and bistros—than I saw during earlier sojourns.

Oh, and I can’t recall the last time I saw a cyclist like an old riding buddy of mine who stopped at the bottom of any hill or ramp and lit up before starting his climb. And I don’t think a scene like this will ever be repeated during a race:

Hey Dude! Catch This Wave!

For a few years, I did a pretty fair amount of mountain biking.  I even had two "crews" I rode with.  In one of them, I was the only white, non-Caribbean rider; in the other I was the oldest.  We rode, went out to eat, went to movies and engaged in all sorts of ribaldry.   And we talked a lot of trash--to and about each other and everyone else in the world, it seemed--all in good fun, of course.

I have never surfed, but somehow this milieu reminded me of what I always imagine "boarders" enjoyed with each other.  We had a kind of high-octane testosterone-fueled camaraderie and egged each other on in making fast turns and drops and, on occasion, chatting up women.  (Oh, if they could see me now..;-)).  Much of the slang we, and other mountain bikers, used at that time was that of surfers.  Someone who took a tumble "wiped out", tough terrain was "gnarly" and anything particularly pleasurable or exhilarating was "bitchin'! and could leave us "stoked".

Oh, yeah, and the way we, and other mountain bikers used the word "dude".  Yes, it was a slang term for anyone male, but it was also used as an all-purpose rhetorical exclamation. "Du-u--de!" Lots of riders would yell it when bombing down a steep drop. 

It all made sense to me when I realized that in some ways, mountain biking--especially the downhill variety--has a similar thrill, a kind of adrenaline rush, that "riding the waves" does.  Even cross-country riding has some of that feel:  When you ride fast through turns and over rocks, creeks and such, after a certain point, it's not about how hard or fast you're pedaling; you stay on your bike and move forward to the degree that you can ride the "waves" of whatever terrain your tire treads roll over.

So, I guess, it does make sense that someone actually created this:




From Charlie Kelly's website

"Soon to Revolutionize Self Propelled (sic) Recreational Vehicles"?  It must really be revolutionary if the rider doesn't need a helmet or other protective equipment!

An Old Riding Partner--Or Racing Rival?

"Mind if I ride your wheel?"

"No, not at all!"

He didn't realize it's the best--or, at least my favorite--question anyone has asked me in a while. It's  as good as "How old are you?  Forty?"

We'd been playing "tag" along Cross Bay Boulevard, the road that runs the length of an island in Jamaica Bay between Howard Beach and Rockaway Beach.  It's a long (about 4km) flat stretch, which makes almost anyone on a bike feel like a sprinter, at least for a few minutes.  The day was sunny, though chilly, and we were buffeted by the winds one expects at this time of year.  Still, I think both he and I felt  about ten years younger.

Actually, I felt even younger than that. A man--a trim one, who looked like he'd been riding more than I'd been--wanting to draft my wheel.  Hey, if he'd asked me, I probably would have pulled him with one hand!

Somehow he looked familiar.  He was maybe a centimeter, if that, taller than me and, as I mentioned, trimmer.  His dark beard was flecked with gray, and his fair black skin had a few small wrinkles.  I'd've guessed him to be close to my own age.  That guess would turn out to be correct.

As we talked, I couldn't help but to think we'd met--actually, ridden--together.  When I was living in Park Slope, he was living on the other side of Prospect Park, in Crown Heights.  Now he lives in Bedford-Stuyvesant.  So, naturally, we talked about riding in Prospect Park, and how we both had the "ten lap" rule:  Once we could ride that much in the park without much effort--something that would happen around this time of year, maybe a bit earlier--we'd "graduate" to longer rides outside the park,and even outside of Brooklyn or New York City.  I had a feeling I'd ridden with him on at least one of those longer rides; he had the same feeling. 

He also mentioned that he'd road-raced, around the same time I did.  Like me, he quit racing (and I also stopped riding off-road) after turning 40:  Although, ironically, I had more strength and endurance than I did 15 years earlier, my wounds weren't healing as quickly as they once did.  He also gave that as a reason for not chasing trophies, and other riders.

I rode with him for a couple of hours and, actually, off the route I'd planned to ride.  But I didn't mind:  Just as I was wondering whether I'd ever get myself into any kind of shape, ever again, he wanted to ride my wheel.  And he thought I'd been riding more than he'd been.  To be fair, I have to give at least some of the credit to Arielle:

To answer a question you might be asking:  He gave me his name (which was familiar) and told me where he works.

I Didn't Get Their Addresses; He Doesn't Have Mine

Today was one of those days that started off overcast and became almost preternaturally sunny and clear--during the course of my bike ride.  However, the temperature dropped noticeably as I rode toward the sea:  The water is still pretty cold and the wind was blowing from it.

At Point Lookout, a man who drove there with his girlfriend took this photo.  I took photos of them with their camera, and one with mine.  I'd promised to send it to them but didn't get their e-mail address!

Along the way, something even stranger happened.  I didn't take a photo, and I don't think I would've even if I could've.


I was riding along the Park Avenue, the main commercial street of Long Beach.  Along the way, I passed a cafe where a bunch of guys and their bikes were eating and drinking on the front terrace.  They were all in bright jerseys and had their racing bikes propped next to their tables.  I've seen countless groups like them; for many years, I rode with them.  Still, something felt even more familiar about the group I saw today.


As I passed directly in front of it, I caught the glance of a guy with whom I rode on any number of occasions.  The groups in which we rode were, for lack of a better term, spontaneously  assembled pelotons.  We weren't racing, at least not officially, but our competitiveness often turned from friendly to passionate to heated.  In other words, the testosterone level was high.


And the guy whose glance I caught for a moment was a kind of eminence renfrognee.  I think he scowled through his wedding and the birth of his daughter and when he ate lechon asado in holiday gatherings.  Heck, I even saw him scowl when he had a few beers in him.


I was told the guy was a photographer, but I never saw any of his work.  In fact, I never saw him working:  He was employed in a couple of bike shops and everyone who worked with him described him as lazy.  You'd never know that if you saw him on a bike.


Anyway, I don't know whether or not he recognized me.  I hadn't seen him--and, I presume, he hadn't seen me--in about ten years.  If you've been reading this or my other blog, you know that I've gone through a lot of changes since then.  I am a different kind of cyclist from the one I was when I was riding with him, and I'm not sure we could relate now.  For that matter, I'm not sure he'd want to.


I just hope he enjoyed his ride today at least as much as I enjoyed mine.