You Can Do That On A Bike

 As I pedaled across the bridge from New Brunswick to Highland Park, New Jersey, a police cruiser pulled up alongside me.

That should have been easy to do because no one else was crossing the bridge at that hour.  But I noticed that the cruiser approached me in an almost hesitant way. 

The officer in the non-driver rasped, “Stop.”  I complied.  He opened his door.

“You know, you were weaving all over the road.  I know there’s no traffic, but still...

I looked at him sheepishly.  “Where are you going’?”

He realized I was only a couple blocks from the apartment I shared.  “OK.  Be careful.  And next time, get a ride home.”

I don’t know whether he smelled the hooch or simply knew, from looking at me, that I could just barely see—let alone ride—straight.  (Had I understood then what I understand now, I would have realized that I can’t do anything straight!;-)

I was about 20 and since then, much fluid has passed under that bridge. It was one thing to ride home drunk from a party because of youthful folly combined with a lack of planning. So I have to wonder about the wisdom of a

bike ride with stops for alcohol consumption.

Apparently, some folks in Scottsdale, Arizona think it would be fun.  They’ve planned a  bicycle pub crawl  for Leap Year Day (29 February).

I wonder:  How does one crawl on a bicycle?  And how far do they ride between each pub? 

In The Year Of '39

One of my favorite Queen songs is '39.  In it, a group of space explorers go on what they believe to be a  year-long voyage.  However, when they return, a hundred years have passed due to the time dialation effect in Einstein's Theory of Relativity.  So, the loved ones they left when they embarked on their journey are dead or aged beyond recognition.

Brian May, who composed and sang the lead vocals for the song, had studied astrophysics before embarking on his music career.  He has always insisted that '39 is "a science fiction folk song" (hmm...) and denied any political, social or historical references.  But it's difficult to hear the song without thinking of the year 1939, after which the world would not be the same because nobody who survived would be innocent (if they ever were) again.

They would never again be like these boys, who were discussing what would be the last Tour de France for another seven years:

Photo by Robert Capa

 

Yearning For A New Journey

I am itching to go to France, to Europe, again.  Actually, I really want to do what I did as recently as 2001, just before 9/11:  Buy the cheapest round-trip ticket to Paris I can find, bring my bike with me and decide where I’m going to ride once I get there.

The first time I did that, I didn’t come back for a long, long time.  (Actually, I bought an open-ended round-trip ticket to London.  Are such things still available?) I rode through the English countryside to Dover and took the ferry to Calais, from which I rode through Belgium, the Netherlands and back into France, where I stayed for as long as I could.  Other times, I pedaled to Italy, Spain, Germany, Switzerland or the Netherlands and back. 

When I took such trips—even the first, my first outside North America—I never felt like a tourist.  Even though my French—or, for that matter, English-- wasn’t nearly as good as I thought it was after the classes I took, I felt (with much justification, I believe) I was experiencing the countries, the cultures and all of the architecture and art I’d seen in books and classrooms in ways that those who followed trails emblazoned with American Express signs never could.

On the other hand, when I went to Prague three years ago, I knew I was a tourist.  It didn’t have anything to do with the way people treated me; for that matter, it didn’t even have to do with the fact that I knew nothing of the Czech language.  Many residents of Prague speak German—of which I know a little-- nearly as well as they speak their own language, which is not a surprise when you consider that the area’s history.  And I found it surprisingly easy to find people who spoke English, or even French.  But I stayed in a hotel and rented a bike which while, enjoyable enough to ride, was nothing like the ones I brought with me on previous trips.  In contrast, in all of my other trips, I usually stayed in hostels.  Sometimes I’d camp, and once in a while I’d stay in a pension or inexpensive hotel if the other options weren’t available or I was too tired or lost to find them—or I simply wanted to treat myself.

During the first years of my gender transition, I wasn’t thinking about taking a trip like the ones I took every other year or so.  Then, for a few years, I told myself I didn’t want to take such trips—or so I told myself—because I saw them as part of my life as a male being, which I was leaving in my past.  I also figured that I couldn’t take such trips, which I usually did alone, because I believed that travelling solo as a woman would not be safe.

But I realize that other women have taken bike or other trips by themselves.  More important, I think I still have the same ability to function on my own that I had when I was younger, and male. If anything, I can function better on my own, in part because I have a better sense of when I need to ask for help, or when I want to do things with other people.

Now I see two barriers to doing a trip like the ones I did in my youth.  One is cost.  The past few years have been more difficult for me, financially, than those years of my 20’s, 30’s and early 40’s.   Even if my income were keeping pace with the kind of money I made in those days—or if I came upon the serendipities that sometimes came my way—it would be harder to take such a trip because it’s much more expensive.  Back in the day, my biggest expense was the plane fare:  Once I got to Europe, I could live cheaply and relatively well, even when exchange rates weren’t so favorable to the dollar.  But, since the introduction of the Euro, everything has gotten much more expensive.  Europeans I know say as much.

The other is that I wasn’t in the kind of physical condition I was in those days.  Some people have told me it’s to be expected, simply because my age.  Also, more than a decade of taking hormones and my surgery left me with less physical strength and endurance than I had in those days.  Plus, as much as I love cycling, I don’t do as much of it as I did in those days. That, of course, may have something to do with my physical changes.

Still, I would love to take the sort of trip I used to take, and to experience it as the person I am now.  Some might say that’s an unrealistic hope.  But, until someone can show me that it’s empirically impossible, I’ll continue to hold out such a hope—and to do what I can to prepare for such a trip.

An Atala In Another Life

In my previous life--many years ago--I saw an Atala bicycle for the first time.  Then, it was as exotic to me as African masks and Japanese prints must have been to French artists in the middle of the 19th Century.  

Even next to other racing bikes I'd seen, it seemed almost other-worldly.  For one thing, it was probably the first bike I saw that was equipped with Campagnolo components--although I had no idea of what they were, let alone why they were so revered.  Hey, I didn't even know that the frame was made of Columbus tubing, which was the only equal to Reynolds 531.  

One thing I knew for certain was that the bike was pretty (even prettier than the one in the above photo):  painted in a kind of coral color with white bands and chromed lugs and dropouts, if I recall correctly.  In fact, I probably thought it was the prettiest bike I'd seen up to that time.

As I came to know about and ride other bikes, I was less impressed with Atalas.  Whatever awe I had for them was all but destroyed after I worked on a few in bike shops:  Other bikes, from Italy as well as other countries, had much better workmanship.

But seeing that Atala important for me for one other reason.  Atala was probably the first bike brand I encountered for the first time through its top racing model.  I knew of Royce-Union, Schwinn, Raleigh and a few other manufacturers through their three-speeds, baloon-tired bombers or their kids' "Chopper" or "Sting-Ray"-style bikes, and would later encounter their road bikes.  I first learned of Peugeot, Gitane and few other French makers through their lower-level ten-speed bikes, which seemed to appear like toadstools after a rainstorm during the early years of the BIke Boom.  A couple of years later, I would encounter Japanese bike makers like Fuji, Nishiki and Miyata in a similar fashion.

It wasn't until years later, when I went to Italy for the first time, that I saw an Atala city bike.  Back then, such bikes were all but unavailable in the US:  Bike shops would stock a model from, say, Peugeot or Kabuki; it wouldn't sell and everyone would conclude there was no market for such bikes.

Over the past two or three years, I have been seeing more city bikes from European and Japanese companies that, for decades, have been making them for people in their own countries.  One of those bikes is the Atala I saw tonight, parked just a few doors away from the apartment of a friend I was meeting.   

I'll bet that whoever rides that bike has never seen that Atala racing bike I encountered a long time ago, in another life. 

Going To The Beach And Riding To The Ocean

Many years ago (before many of you were born!), I dated an astrologer.  Apparently, I am a Cancerian--or, as some politically-correct types would say, a "Moon Child.  However, Astrologer was not politically correct, at least not in matters of pigeonholing, I mean pegging, people's personalities and destinies.  So, she told me that I was "such a Cancerian."  


Later on, she would remove the "ian" suffix and continue the sentence.  But that's another story.


According to her--and everything I've heard or read (admittedly, not much) about the subject since, Cancer is a "water" sign.  In fact, Astrologer claimed that Cancer is the "ultimate" water sign and, according to her charts, I was about as Cancerian as one could be.


If nothing else, it was a pretty good rationale, at least for her, for ending our relationship.  But that's yet another story.


Anyway, I will concede that there is at least some truth to what she said.  I am certainly drawn to water.  Not to beaches, necessarily, but to water--wide expanses and endless vistas of it.  I am so drawn, in fact, that sometimes everything along the way can seem like the desert.

Now, I've never actually ridden through a desert and, truth be told, never had any desire to do any such thing.  This is probably as close as I'll come to it.  I can hardly imagine anything that contrasts more with the ocean.

Sometimes, at the end of a bike ride, the ocean greets me:  "Where have you been?"

Sometimes I cannot explain; when I can, the answer never makes any sense to someone who's gone to the beach.  I know I am a different person when I go to the beach from what I am when I pedal to the ocean.

Another day, I will join them again.  After that, I will continue the ride I took today, on my bike, to the ocean.

The Freedom to Find Order

Today I didn't ride my bike.  Hopefully, I'll get to ride tomorrow.  But I had a good, if not long, ride yesterday.


It was  something I used to do in the old days:  I started with no plan or destination.   I just got on Arielle--my Mercian road bike-- and I could practically hear her asking me, "Where have you been?"


I found myself zigging and zagging between Queens and Brooklyn, mainly on side streets.  Most people wouldn't know whether they were in one or the other, but having lived for so many years in them (I can't believe I've been in Queens for almost eight years already!), I can see and feel the differences when I'm riding.


Back when I was writing for the Ridgewood Times, I routinely rode the five miles or so along Gates Avenue from Vanderbilt Avenue in Brooklyn to Fresh Pond Road in Queens.  From Vanderbilt, the first few blocks of Gates are lined with some lovely brownstones and other graceful old buildings.  But, after one crosses Nostrand Avenue, the condition of the houses begins to deteriorate somewhat.  Then, by the time Gates crosses under the tracks of the "J" train, the street is lined with cheerless tenement buildings on one side and auto body shops on the other.  Then Gates crosses under another set of tracks, for the "M" train.  A couple of blocks later, the small portals of those houses and apartment grow, as if they've been filled with light, and become  tall glass doorways framed in dark wood and etched with gold-gilt numbers.   These are not brownstones, but they are attractive and sturdy in a similar sort of way--and more orderly, as if those houses themselves were arranged by a grid pattern like the one that guides the streets themselves.  


When I saw those houses, I knew I was in Queens. And I was happier to be there than I wanted to admit. All right, I'll admit it:  I really liked seeing those pretty, well-kept houses.  They don't have the cookie-cutter sort of architecture one finds in too many developments today.  They have character; they are interesting and unique.  But they are also very precise and orderly, and--to me, anyway--it's no surprise they were built by German immigrants who settled the neighborhood a century ago.


How is it that whenever I look for freedom, or simply run away from something, I end up finding order and embracing it?  It occurs to me that I experienced exactly that when I took my first bike trip to Europe.  Five days after I graduated from Rutgers, I got on a Laker Skytrain flight to London.  I brought my bike, a pair of panniers, a handlebar bag, a couple of changes of clothes, a sleeping bag, a camera and a bunch of rolls of film, two blank notebooks and a few packets of condoms.  I had no set itinerary, save that I expected to be in France and possibly another European country at some point.  


But I gave my parents, and anyone else who asked, a more detailed itinerary than I actually planned to follow.  The truth was that I was taking that trip because none of them wanted me to take it and, frankly, I didn't know where else to go or what else to do with myself--and I didn't want to find out.  If I wanted to do anything, I wanted to show them that I didn't need a plan and that I would survive in spite of everything everyone tried to scare or warn me about.  I wasn't going to follow the rules and schedules that bound them:  I would have nothing more than myself, my bike, the road and the surprises of the world unfolding before me.


And what did I embrace?  The friendliness and politeness of people I met.  I actually liked that French people addressed each other as "Monsieur," "Madame" or "Mademoiselle" and appended their requests and sentences with "s'il vous plait."  I liked the order of London and Paris streets:  Even the plane trees that lined them seemed to have an erect, dignified bearing to them.  


That trip was not the first or last time I would get on my bike in search of freedom and would find order--and embrace it. That's what I did, again,  late this afternoon, when I steered my bike onto a street lined with neat brick houses trimmed with deep red, violet and yellow flowers.  I opened the door to one of those houses and  wheeled my bike in.  Charlie and Max were waiting for me.