On A Journey With Sappho

Last night, I arrived in the place where I'm starting the epic (sort of) journey I mentioned in yesterday's post.

At least one epic is related to the trip I'm on now.  Think of the Odyssey.

Now, I hope I don't have to be like Odysseus and spend twenty years trying to get home.  For one thing, I still want to be a Major League Baseball player.  Hey, if I were to sign with, say, the Mets at this point in my life, I'd be the first known transgender player in history.  

All right, that was a bad joke.  But no less than Bart Giamatti, a former MLB Commissioner and Yale literature professor, suggested that part of the game's appeal is that its goal is to reach home.

Where I am now, I don't think very many people know much about baseball--unless, of course, they've spent time in America, or have relatives there.  The funny thing is that in the little bit of time I've been here, I've talked to a few residents and all have heard of the neighborhood in which I live:  Astoria.  If you're familiar with my "nabe," that might be a clue as to where I am: Astoria, until recently, was home to more of this country's natives or their descendants than any other place outside of this country.

I am talking, of course, about Greece.  I arrived late yesterday and fell asleep almost immediately afterward.  When I awoke, it was well into the night, but people were out and about.  

Such scenes were pretty common in the New York of my youth:  People would gather in parks and other public places to chat, eat, drink or just hang out.  That sort of public life is quickly disappearing from the Big Apple and is all but nonexistent among the young people who've moved in during the past fifteen or so years.  

As soon as I got back to the apartment where I'm staying, I booked myself on to a "Good Morning Athens" bike tour that starts, literally, just a few pedal strokes from the Acropolis Museum.  It's a very easy, slow-paced ride done on hybrid/comfort or flat-bar road/city bikes. (I chose the latter.)  But for me, the point of such a ride was not speed or distance or any other sort of physical challenge.  Instead, it was a way to introduce myself, and be introduced to, a city and culture I have previously seen only in books and images.

The entirely flat ride--something that seems impossible in this hilly city--was led by a delightful young woman named Sappho.  Really:  Even with my penchant for storytelling (if I do say so myself!), I could never make up such a detail.  Or, if I could, I would never use it because readers or listeners would never believe it.

All right, her name is spelled Sapfo.  Still, you can't come up with a better name for a tour guide in Greece. 

Our tour group consisted of, in addition to myself, a family from Atlanta, a couple who are about my age and live in the Washington DC area and a younger German couple.  Our ride spanned about ten kilometers and included a number of stops.  We didn't go into museums or the Acropolis, but we did see that symbol of world history and culture just about everywhere we turned.  We did, however go to the Cathedral of the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary, where all sorts of official ceremonies--and the marriages of wealthy and well-connected people--are conducted.  

Next to it stands a Byzantine church constructed on the site of an ancient Greek temple.  

We also stopped at the Roman Agora and the "original" Olympic stadium.  At least, it's the first stadium built for the modern revival of the Olympic games, in 1896.

That's about as close as I'll come to being an Olympic athlete.  Even if I were to become one, at this stage in my life, I'd have nothing on these guys:

We got to the Presidential Palace just in time for the changing of the guards.  While not as impressive as the ceremony at Buckingham Palace, it is a sight nonetheless, if for no other reason that those guys are performing their moves clad in heavy wool uniforms and shoes that weigh 2 kilograms in 34C (92F) weather.  

Sapfo pointed out that the "goose step" differs from others in that the soldiers bend their legs to make the number "4", commemorating the four centuries of oppressive Ottoman rule  (I couldn't help pointing out another kind of oppression that went on for 400 years in America) that ended with the War of Independence in the 1820s.

For their troubles, the guards--who are chosen for their height and abilities with weapons--are paid the princely sum of 8.5 Euros a month.  Granted, they are given housing, food and everything else they need when they're on duty, but on their days off (four a month), what can they do?  Most of them come from the countryside and, although a good meal and drink can be had for a good deal less than in New York or Paris, those young men still can't do much.  Even if they could "go out on the town," most would want (or be expected) to send money to their families, but the cost of doing so wouldn't leave much left to send.

It's no wonder, Sapfo said, that she and others refer to those young men, and everyone else in the military, as "victims."  Greece is one of the few European countries that still demands military service from all men, and all who end up on special assignments (such as the Presidential guard) are chosen them.  Oh, and everyone is paid that same princely sum every month.

(At least I wouldn't have to worry about being drafted if I were to move here:  I'm over 35 and, oh, only males are required to serve!) 

Now, just as I don't want you to think our ride was a race, I also don't want to give you the impression that we only concerned with such high-minded things as Hadrian trying to turn Athens into the cultural capital of the Roman Empire or the debates of Socrates.  We also partook of another important aspect of Greek culture:  food.  Across from the Agora, a group of people was leaving a church.  One of them had brought in a traditional ginger cake that's offered after a mass for a loss--of a person or any thing of importance in one's life. That cake, which I liked, is a symbol of hope that the person or thing will return, or that there will be a new beginning.

What I (and probably everyone else) in the group liked even better was served at a cafe where we stopped.  It's the best ice cream sundae I've eaten in my life.  At least, it looks like vanilla ice cream with red sauce. Greeks, however,  don't call it "ice cream" and, technically, it isn't:  It's made from yogurt.  But it--kaimaki -- is just as creamy, if almost chewy, and has the most enjoyable, complex combination of flavors I've ever tasted in a dessert.

Kaimaki is perfumed with mastiha, a spice that comes from a tree that grows only in one area of Greece, and is served with the most delectably sweet-tart cherry sauce I've ever savored.

If today's ride were only about riding, I'd wince that I rode ten flat kilometers, with stops, and consumed as many calories as I did.  Then again, the kaimaki and even the cake may not have as many as I might expect.  Even if they do, well, I am not on a journey to count calories, or kilometers (or miles).  

Not Epic, But Another Journey

You may have noticed that my last two posts were about epic journeys:  the Apollo 11 moon landing and Eddy Mercx's first Tour de France victory, in which he dominated as few riders (or athletes of any sport) ever have dominated.  

Well, I am on a journey. It's not epic, but it'll be interesting, at least for me.  I'll tell you more about it when I've arrived--or, more precisely, when I'm at the start of it.  I'll just say one thing about it:  Epics will be involved, sort of.

To The Moon--And The Finish Line

Yesterday, I wrote about how Eddy Mercx's ride to his first Tour de France victory was overshadowed by Neil Armstrong's first steps on the moon.

Well, as it turns out, that day--20 July 1969--isn't the only connection between "The Cannibal," who left his competition in the dust, and the fellow who stepped off the Eagle into the lunar dust.

What Mercx's and Armstrong's (and Buzz Aldrin's and Michael Collins') journeys had in common were the vehicles that took them to their places in history.

By now, you might be wondering whether I've partaken of one of the substances consumed at another watershed event of 1969:  Woodstock.  I assure you, though, that the Kessels bike Eddy rode and the Apollo 11 spacecraft both had the same hand involved in them.  Well, sort of.

Tullio Campagnolo (center) in front of NASA OSO 6 satellite, for which he built the chasis (1969).

That mano is Tullio Campagnolo's.  Yes, the same uomo who designed the hubs, brakes, cranks, derailleurs and other major parts for the bike Eddy rode to the finish line also designed--and made--the chassis for a 1969 NASA satellite.  It's not the same craft that took the astronauts to another world.  But, certainly, much of the same technology and techniques were involved--and Tullio had a hand in them.

How many other people can say they helped to put men on the moon and get men (and women) over the finish line--in race cars as well as on bikes and motorcycles?

Ask Him Where He Was On 20 July 1969

Three days ago, on the 50th anniversary of Neil Armstrong's first steps on the moon, my post highlighted Dr. Rhett Allain's engaging article, "How Long Would It Take To Bicycle To The Moon?"

In my post, I said that everything stopped for Armstrong's historic stroll. Well, almost.  That same day, another legend was born, if you will.  A certain athlete would achieve one of the most resounding victories in his sport and begin a dominance that is all but unrivaled in any sport.

Now, since you're reading this blog, you probably know who that athlete is.  Hint:  He's Belgian.

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Yes, the incomparable Eddy Mercx rode to the first of his five Tour de France victories on 20 July 1969.  To be fair, the ride wouldn't have had to be pre-empted because it took place during the day, while the moon trek took place at night. That is, night in most of the Americas.  Paris time is six hours later than New York's (or Cape Canaveral's) and seven hours past Houston's, so by the time "The Cannibal" crossed the finish line--18 minutes ahead of second-place finisher and 1967 winner Roger Pingeon, one of the widest margins in Tour history--most Americans were still asleep or just waking up.

Although Mercx would become one of the most famous athletes of his or any generation, his ride in France was overshadowed (no pun intended) by the walk on the moon.  That was especially true in the United States, where there was little, if any, recognition of bicycle racing outside a few enclaves in California, Boston, New York, Chicago and, interestingly, Detroit.   And, of course, the 'States were the home base of the NASA.

So, even if bicycle racing becomes as popular as basketball or baseball in the US, if most Americans are asked "What happened on the 20th of July in 1969?," they respond, "Neil Armstrong walked on the moon!"  Then again, if you asked most people what happened on 22 November 1963, how many could tell you that C.S. Lewis died? 

The Only Way You Can Pin Down A World-Class Rider

A few cyclists who are even more dedicated (to what, I don’t know) than I am, or are simply more Retro-grouchy than one of my favorite bloggers, has a pair of wheels with wooden rims.

Once upon a time, such wheels were de rigueur.  After all, wood is light (at least compared to metal), strong and resilient.  All racers used them until Mavic developed alloy rims.  While road riders embraced this new development, track racers used wooden rims until they were banned for competition during the 1950s.

Why were wooden rims banished from the velodrome?

Well, when an metal wheel is crashed, it bends or crumples.  But a wood rim is likely to shatter. That is made all the more likely because on track wheels, the spokes are tuned to a higher tension, and the tires are pumped to higher pressures, than on road bikes.  

The result of an “exlpoding” wooden rim was often a cloud of wooden shards that could shush-kebab riders or spectators.

Decades after the ban on wooden rims, many velodromes have wood surfaces. Nobody anticipated such hazards from them—until now.

Lorenzo Gobbo suffered a previously unheard-of mishap.  Apparently, when he went down, his pedal scraped up a half-meter length of the track that ended up in his back—and pierced  his  lung

He is expected to make a full recovery.  But  you have to wonder: how many other cyclists  have come out of a race looking as if they’d  been attacked by an  by an archer?