Michelangelo: Works Of Genius

 Nearly a year ago, I moved into my current apartment.  It took me a few weeks to figure out how to organize and arrange my new space.  One part of the process was fairly simple:  I bought three Delta bike storage racks, enough for my six Mercians.  Two of those racks are the "Michelangelo" model and, if they aren't works of genius, they certainly are very practical and attractive.

It makes sense that such an item would be named for the man who gave us "David."  Interestingly, he all but denied that he was a painter:  He considered himself a sculptor and sculpture to be a superior art form.  In fact, he so disdained painting (including his own) that he wrote this about his "Creation of Adam" in the Sistene Chapel:

Michelangelo: To Giovanni da Pistoia
"When the Author Was Painting the Vault of the Sistine Chapel"

I've already grown a goiter from this torture,
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water's poison).
My stomach's squashed under my chin, my beard's
pointing at heaven, my brain's crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy's. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!

My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine's
all knotted from folding over itself.
I'm bent taut as a Syrian bow.

Because I'm stuck like this, my thoughts
are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.

My painting is dead.
Defend it for me, Giovanni, protect my honor.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.

(Translated by Gail Mazur)

So why am I talking about him today?  Well, in addition to having a bike rack named after him, he's one of my artistic heroes.  Oh, and it just happens that he was born 550 years ago today.  Some people and things really do get better with age.

Under a Bridge, Through a Gate

The semester has begun and I’ve been busy.  I had just enough time the other day for a 25 kilometer non-commute ride.

I pedaled to Randall’s Island, where I did a couple of laps that took me under the Art Deco-inspired Queens span of the RFK Memorial Bridge 

and the Gate of Hell

or, more precisely, the Hell Gate Bridge.

Why Did He Build This?

 During my “afternoon delight” ride, I came across this:

In the Bronx, one can find many buildings like it: handsome, even beautiful, structures built during the early 20th century, just after the Bronx became a borough of New York City.

(Most of the Art Deco buildings for which the Bronx is famous were constructed during the interwar period.)

Like so many structures in the Bronx—and throughout New York City—it is not serving its original intended purpose.  Today a moving and storage company operates in it. From some of the building’s details, I am guessing that it was once a medical or health facility of some sort.

What really intrigued me, though, was this:

Apparently, a “Cuneo” family was involved.  That caught my eye, in part because I cycled to Cuneo, Italy during a bicycle tour of the Alps.  But I couldn’t help but to notice the inscription for Lorenzo Cuneo, born during the same year—1913–Anthony Cuneo erected the building but who died in 1924.  I would think that he was Anthony’s son, nephew or grandson.  Why did he die so young?

When I stopped to look at the building, someone gave me a suspicious glance. Did she think I wanted to buy the building (which I am in no position to do) and price her out of the neighborhood? Or is she one of many people in this city who pass things that are beautiful, interesting or simply unusual but has no curiosity about it?

A New Way To—And Off—The Island

 Here in New York City, we’ve gone from two months of unusually warm Fall temperatures and almost no rain to nearly two weeks of cold and almost daily rain.

The other day, I “played chicken” with the rain, all but daring it to fall on me as I rode, with no particular destination in mind.  More than anything, I wanted to ride for its own sake and to declare (at least to myself) an end to the flu or whatever turned my respiratory system into an EPA Superfund Site for a week.

Well, the rain chickened out (What else can I anthromorphosize in this post?)—perhaps out of spite, as I was riding one of my fendered bikes. So I had a dry, if chilly, ride with one pleasant surprise.

The RFK Memorial (formerly Triborough) Bridge is really a complex of three different spans that converge on Randall’s Island. One span, the Art Deco-inspired (and prettiest), connects Astoria, Queens with the Island and has a pretty good walkway/pedestrian lane.  I often crossed it when I lived in Astoria. Another, shorter, span links the Bronx to the Island. Its walkway, which zig-zagged up to East 132nd Street from the Island, closed nearly a decade ago, after the much better Randall’s Island Connector opened.

The third span, to Manhattan, includes a walkway that was accessible only by a sharply-winding ramp like the one on the Bronx span. But the entrance to the Manhattan ramp was easy to miss because it was tucked into a spot under the span itself, obscured by fences lining an NYPD maintenance facility. Also, it was very poorly lit: I am not the only one who wouldn’t use it at night.

Well, the pleasant surprise I encountered is a new, much safer, way to access the Manhattan span for cyclists, pedestrians and people with mobility aids.

I hadn’t planned to ride across the Manhattan span, but I did, just to check out the new entrance. It helps, I believe, to make the Island more accessible. I don’t think it will entice me to ride on or through the Island—I already do so more than most people—but I believe it might encourage others.

50 Kilometers--For Dumplings?

Bagel runs.  Pizza runs.  Taco runs.  Crepe runs.  Beer runs. 

I have made all of those "errands"--usually, at night--on my bicycle.  Some of those trips spanned only a few blocks; others were considerably longer, like the rides I took from Rutgers in New Brunswick, New Jersey to Brooklyn for bagels.  It's not that decent bagels couldn't be had in NB or, more precisely, neighboring Highland Park.  I simply believed that the bagels in Brooklyn--at one place in particular--were the best.

And, of course, those 50 or so kilometers (depending on which route I took) left a bagel (or two) sized hole in my stomach.  

I've probably taken rides of similar length within the bounds of New York City to taste a food that, while available in whichever neighborhood I resided, was better in some ethnic enclave or another:  knishes from Mrs. Stahl's in Brighton Beach, dim sum in Flushing, jerk chicken in Flatbush and, of course, soul food in pre-gentrified Harlem.  Oh, and few things can cap off a winter trek like pho in Sunset Park.

So I fully empathize with four students who made a 50 kilometer late-night run from Zhengzhou to Kaifeng--for soup dumplings. Of course, those young people claimed that they weren't riding only for a midnight snack:  They say they also took in some cultural attractions in Kaifeng, a city that has served as China's capital eight times during a history that stretches as far back as the Athenian Empire.  I believe them simply because I would do the same--while sampling the local cuisine, of course!

That all would have been fine with the local authorities if the ride was limited to those four students, maybe a few more.  But news of the trip went viral on social media. As a result, the quartet would be joined by 100,000 other cyclists, mostly young.

To put that into perspective, the Five Boro Bike Tour, one of the world's largest organized rides, attracted 32,000 riders this year.  Some people complain because they lose "their" lanes and parking spaces when streets are blocked off, but otherwise there is little public or private criticism because the ride is planned well in advance.  Thus, people are prepared for the street closures and police have an easy time patrolling and protecting. (Plus, one assumes, they don't mind the overtime pay.) 

The Dumpling Run, on the other hand, was a spontaneous event. Thus, no one else was prepared for the ensuing traffic jams and other interruptions it caused and local officials were, needless to say, not happy. Nor were bike share administrators:  They had to shut down their networks because most of the riders used share bikes and the networks simply couldn't keep up with the demand.  Also, the ride led to a glut of share bikes in Kaifeng and not enough in Zhengzhou.

Then again, some local papers, like People's Daily, have praised the event.  They cite the "energy" and "spirit" of the ride, not to mention the boost to restaurants and other hospitality businesses.  I can understand:  I've pedaled 50 kilometers, and more, for art, history, culture--and food!

14 Years!

You’ve probably seen many “on this date” articles or blog posts.  Here’s another.

On this date in 2010, I published the first of my 4463 posts on this blog. I had just resumed cycling after my longest layoff from it: nearly a year after my gender reassignment surgery.  I had been writing another blog, Transwoman Times, which I began two years earlier—one year before my surgery. On that blog, I’d written a few posts about my first post-surgery rides.  This blog began with a suggestion by someone who’d been reading those posts.

One way this anniversary is different is that it’s my first in my current apartment and neighborhood. So it might not surprise you to learn that, after yesterday’s longish ride to Connecticut, I took the opportunity, this morning, to do a bit of exploring closer to home before pedaling down to 83rd Street and Riverside Drive, where I joined a walking tour of Gilded Age monuments and mansions.  Aside from my inherent interest in art, architecture, history and New York City, it was an opportunity to meet the tour’s leader, Esther Crain, who authors one of my favorite non-cycling blogs: Ephemeral New York.

So, this anniversary is, for me, not only a time to celebrate this blog—all 14 years of it!—but to think about other developments in my life.  They may not all relate directly to cycling,  but they are all part of my life as a cyclist.

Happy Mother’s Day

 Some would argue that I have never been a mother because I have never had human children.  I wouldn’t argue with them.

Others, mainly people who have pets, would say that I am a mama, or at least a parent, to Marlee—and that I was one to Max, Charlie II*, Candice, Charlie I, Caterina and Sara*. I often refer to the six cats and one dog I’ve housed, fed and loved as my children or “babies.”

There is at least one thing, though, I couldn’t do with them that, perhaps, I could have done with a human child: ride a bicycle. Perhaps even more important, I never could have taught them how to ride one.

In any event, to all of you who are moms (Your children are always your children even after they move out—or, felines forbid, die) : Happy Mother’s Day.

Check out this image, and others, here: https://www.redbubble.com/i/art-board-print/Mother-s-Day-Bicycle-Ride-by-kilkennycat/47181892.TR477

*—Sara was a beagle-hound pup I had briefly, before any of my cats. While out for a walk, a man petted and played with her.  “My grandkids would love a dog like that.”  They played some more. “They could play with it in our backyard…”

“Your backyard?”

“Yeah, in my house in Pennsylvania.”

I let them play for a moment. “How would you like to take her?”

The man’s eyes widened. “How much do you want for her?”

“Nothing. She’ll be happier in your house and yard than in my apartment. She gets to go outside only when I get home from work.”

The following weekend, he took me and Sara to his house, where I met his grandkids. She was happy to meet them. And I was happy for her.

Really Going Dutch

 Probably the first “normal” thing—besides cycling—I did during the COVID-19 pandemic was to visit the hospital Metropolitan Museum of Art just after it reopened.

Of course, there were restrictions: Visitors had to wear a mask and have their temperatures taken. And, of course, we had to follow social-distancing protocols.

But one thing I loved—along with the Japanese exhibit I went to see—was a service that was provided:  a bicycle valet.  That person parked your bike in a nice safe spot in the parking garage and gave you a ticket, just as if you had checked a coat or backpack.

Now another venerable institution—actually, annual event that’s been held since 1929–is offering a similar convenience. Cyclists can ride to the event, check their bicycles with a valet, and spend the day exploring, not only a museum, but a large part of a town.

The town in question is holding its festival—Tulip Time—from the 4th until the 19th of May.  And, since tulips and bicycles sound so very, very Dutch, you might think that town is in the Netherlands.

Well, it’s not. Rather that town is the Netherlands—or, more precisely, Holland. And it’s located, not among canals, but amidst lakes.

The Holland in question is in the Great Lakes State, i.e., Michigan. Not surprisingly, it was founded by immigrants from the eponymous nation and the Tulip Festival features, not only the colorful flowers, but all things Dutch.

What better way to get there than by bicycle—especially when a valet will park it safely?

A Big Dipper Under Wrap

The Tumbleweed Bicycle Company has just introduced its Big Dipper drop handlebars.

They may well be the most comfortable long-distance bars ever created, and I just may try them.

Of course, with any new drop bar, there's the question of what kind of tape--and which color--you'll use to wrap it.  Most of the time, I use cotton cloth tape, which is available in a variety of hues.  "Basic black" is usually the safe choice, as it doesn't show dirt or clash with most bikes.  Some people like to match their saddles, if that's possible.  

Or, you could be adventurous

Photo by Ron Frazelle

and make your handlebars look like a piece of '60's Op Art. 

Where Were You When You Broke The Law?

 I broke a law.

Well, it may not have been a law where I committed the evil deed.  But a man did the same thing in another locale and was arrested.

To be fair, there was a warrant for his capture.  And the violation was just one charged to him when he was apprehended.

The cops who effected the bust were based in barracks in a town with one of the most quirkily beautiful toponyms I’ve heard:  Shickshinny, Pennsylvania. Imagine answering the query, “Where are you from?” with that.

Anyway, the benighted soul they ensnared, 51-year-old David Thomas Totten of Wilkes-Barre, was riding a bicycle eastbound in the westbound traffic lane of West End Road in Hanover Township.  It was just after midnight on 4 September 2023 and Totten didn’t have any lights on his bike.

Now, some officers might ignore such breaches of bicycle safety protocols. And unless the officers on duty had been involved with whatever led to Totten’s warrant—or there’s some tagging technology we don’t know about—they couldn’t have known about that warrant . So the question remains of what prompted the ones on duty to stop Totten and conduct a search that yielded a cigarette pack hiding suspected methamphetamine and a syringe.

Now, I’ve never smoked, owned or used a syringe or anything that could be construed as methamphetamine  or had warrant for my arrest (that I know of!). I’ll concede that I’ve ridden in the dark without lights or reflectors, though not within the past few decades. So what, exactly have both Mr. Totten and I done that resulted in an arrest for him, but not me.

He was carrying a table when he was stopped. I’ve done it, too, on more than one occasion. I’ve also carried chairs and bookcases—and a framed art pieces, including one that measured at least 2 feet by 3 feet (61 by 91 cm.).

The latter was a delivery I made, as a Manhattan bike messenger, from a Soho gallery to Judy Collins (yes, that one) on the Upper Wear Side. I made similar runs with oversized objets d’art and home furnishings in the steel and concrete canyons. I also hauled them as part of a move from one neighborhoods to another.

Of course, the prints, tables and such didn’t fit into my messenger bag, backpack, panniers or whatever I was using to haul stuff on my bike.  So, of course, I had to carry the item in one hand and navigate the bike with the other.

Such practices, it turns out, are transgressions against Chapter 35, Subchapter A, Section 3506 of the Pennsylvania vehicle code:

“ No person operating a pedal cycle shall carry any package, bundle, or article which prevents the driver from keeping at least one hand upon the handlebars.”

I guess it’s a good thing I was in New York and New Jersey when I committed my foul deeds—unless, of course, the Empire and Garden States have statutes like the one in the Keystone State.  Then again, if said laws exist, I would guess that the statute of limitations has run out. (Is that one of the benefits of getting older?)

Not Bolted Down

The Angkor Wat, which I visited five years ago, is definitely a marvel.  Of course, I was awed by its architecture, history, art and overall aesthetics, as well as its importance to the identity of a people--and the human race. But even if I didn't care about such things, and I concerned myself only with materialistic, quantitative and practical matters, I probably would have been just as awed as I was:  The temples were built without the use of cement, nails, screws or any other materials to fasten or bind the blocks to each other.  Rather, those stones were so precisely cut, and fit into each other so perfectly, that the temples have withstood a millenium (or more) of heat, humidity, torrential rains, wars, invasions and the ravages of the Khmer Rouge.

It doesn't take much for me to remember the Angkor Wat: It's one of those things you don't forget once you've seen and touched it.  But something in particular brought back, to my mind, the temples' construction. 

Since you're reading this blog, you've probably figured that something is a bicycle, or something that has to do with cycling.  But, aside from the fact that one can ride pedal to the monuments (I know, I did), what does a bicycle have to do with monuments built to Hindu deities and later re-purposed as Buddhist shrines?

Well, the bike in question is constructed without bolts.  At least, that's how it looks.

The two-wheeler in question is indeed a real bicycle--one that pedals, with no motors or other assists anywhere on the premises.  It's billed as the "world's most bespoke bicycle":  Not only is the frame fitted to the customer's exact measurements; so is everything that's fitted to the frame.  Some of those components, like the special-edition Brooks C 13 saddle, are modified versions of what you can buy in your local shop or an online retailer. But most of the other parts are custom-made.  As an example, crank arms usually come in lengths from 165 to 175 mm in increments of 2.5 mm. But for this bike, the length of the arms can be specified to a fraction of a millimetre.  Ditto for the handlebars and stem, which are 3D printed.

Also, the maker of this bike claims that it has the world's first fully integrated brake system:

Now, the way I spelled "millimetre" should give you a clue as to where this bike is made--and where you'll have to go if you want to be fitted for one.  Gaydon, a village in southern England, is home to, well, not much.  Nearby are the British Film Institute's National Archive (which includes some highly flammable nitrate films) and the former RAF V Bomber base.  Oh, and there is the British Motor Museum, home to the largest collection of historic British cars in the world.

That last fact is a clue as to who is involved in making the bike in question.

J. Laverack builds titanium bike frames nearby, and is teaming up with a local company to build the bike.  That other company is--wait for it--Aston Martin.

Yes, the same firm that made the vehicle--a DB 5--James Bond drove in 1964's Goldfinger.  The same firm that has had a Royal Warrant, since 1982, as a purveyor of motorcars (how British) to Prince Charles/King Charles III.  Why?  Because his wife simply would not be caught dead in a Mercedes-Benz.

All right, I admit, that last sentence was a tasteless joke.  But I couldn't resist. Well, OK, I could have but, really, why would I? However, I promise nothing like it again on this blog.  Really!

Anyway, the bike can be finished in any Aston Martin colour. After all, you can't have one vehicle clashing with the other.

Bicycling And Hip-Hop: Filling A Void

On this date in 1973, a fellow named Clive Campbell threw a back-to-school party for his sister.  For admission, he charged female guests 25 cents and 50 cents for males.  The money went for his sister's new clothes and supplies.

Such a party would have been like many others except for one thing.  You see, he was a DJ with an interesting background and unique set of skills and ideas.  

Six years earlier, when he was 12, he and his family emigrated from Kingston, Jamaica to Bronx, New York.  In addition to his talents as a musician and host, he brought with him the memory of music from a dancehall near his old home--and a tradition of "toasting," or talking over the music.

He would "toast" over the records he played--as he extended their beats--"breaking" or "scratching"--to give guests more time to dance to them.  

Now, many have argued--plausibly--that other artists and performers were "breaking," "scratching" and "toasting" years before Clive Campbell's party. But that party is cited as the "birth" of what we now call "hip-hop" because it's the first recorded instance of those elements coming together to create, not just a musical style, but an artistic movement in which "toasting" came to be known as "rapping" and would include "break" dancing and the kind of graffiti that pulses like the waves of urban life across subway cars.

So what does the "50th anniversary of hip-hop" have to do with bicycling?

Well, the music, art and dance I've described are part of a response--and a way of coping--with the conditions--including poverty and violence as well as extraordinary diversity-- of life in the Bronx and other urban areas of the 1970s and 1980s. Soon, people in conditions and places far removed from those of 1520 Sedgwick Avenue--where Clive Campbell, whom the world would come to know as DJ Kool Herc threw that party--would see the music he pioneered, and the lyrics he, and others would "rap" over it--expressed something they were feeling or, at least, that it was fresh in a way that the popular music of the time wasn't.

In other words, hip hop filed, and continues to fill, a void.  So does cycling.  Shaka Pitts understands as much.  He co-founded the Baltimore advocacy group Black People Ride Bikes--and Pits Fights Battle League, one of the city's longest-running hip-hop events.  He says he's "doing the same thing" in the cycling and hip-hop worlds:  "I bring in other people.  I lateral things off."  That is how he fills the void--and helps people to cope with, and express the realities, of their lives.

You Don't Have To Ride To The End Of This Tunnel To See The Light.

 As a cyclist, I have an interesting relationship with tunnels. (A Freudian would have a field day with that statement!)  I've ridden, probably, my share and some long underpasses that could just as well have been tunnels.  (I think of one in particular that dips as it goes under the Long Island Railroad trestle at 130th Street in Queens.)  I can't say I seek out those long, enclosed passages, but when I enter them, I experience a mild adrenaline rush: Even if I know what's on either end of it, I like to imagine that I'm going to emerge in a different world from the one where I entered.

That said, one of the most gratifying experiences I've had as a cyclist took me through a tunnel. I detoured from one Alpine road--closed, probably, by an avalanche--to another, only to come to a tunnel in which an electrical outage extinguished the lights.    

A driver in a Citroen waved to me.  He told me to ride ahead of him, in the wake of his headlights, and the drivers behind him would follow.  And they did!

I thought of that day when I came across this news item:  A three-kilometer (1.8 mile) tunnel through the base of  Lovstakken mountain Bergen, Norway has just opened in Bergen, Norway.

While that, in itself, may not seem so unusual--after all, the Norwegians, French, Italians, Japanese and other people who live in or by mountains have been building them for centuries---the purpose of the tunnel makes it a record-breaker.  

Photo by Ronny Turoy

The Norwegian under-pasage is the longest such structure built specifically for cyclists and pedestrians.  There are separate lanes for each, and motorized vehicles are verboten. (OK, I know that's a German word.  I don't know Norwegian!)

Perhaps the most unique and gratifying part of the tunnel, though, is that its designers seemed to do everything they could to make it seem less like a tunnel.  The walls are lined with art and other visual delights, and the cave is illuminated with different colors of light in different parts of the tunnel, which helps to give people who pedal, walk and run an idea of how far they've progressed through it.  And, in the middle of the tunnel there's a "sundial" in a place where the sun will never shine.  It's intended, in part, to further break up the monotony of the tunnel, which is completely straight (which is something I never could claim) except for slight bends at the entrance and exit. 

A Journey Blossoms

 What would my younger self have thought?

My younger self was not only, well, younger, but also stronger, skinnier and perhaps sillier: Even after I’d given up on racing, I prided myself on riding like a racer.  Some of that may have had to do with living as male and riding, if not solo, then mostly in the company of male riders who were racers, ex-racers or wannabes.

Now I’m going to make a confession: While I sometimes rode just as hard and fast during my solo rides, on other solo rides—and only on solo rides, I’d stop to look at buildings, trees or flowers.

Which is what I’ve been doing lately.  In this part of the world, we are entering the peak of cherry blossom season and I’m becoming a blossom rider—or a cherry chaser?

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you know that few things make me happier, if for a moment, than those pink blooms.  (Lilacs, which should be showing up soon, are another.) 

It’s not just their prettiness that moves me.  I must say that I never understood haiku or Japanese art (or why it so inspired Monet and other Impressionist artists) until I paid attention to cherry blossoms.

You see, haiku isn’t just about the syllable count and Japanese painting isn’t only a style.  Both are about experiencing the beauty and intensity of something in a moment but appreciating that moment’s ephemerality. And that, I believe, is the reason why there’s so much respect for elders and ancestors in Japanese culture.

So…while my recent rides have been sensual and aesthetic experiences—which my younger self would have secretly embraced—they have also been lessons which, possibly, my younger self could not’ve understood.

In Suspense--Or In Thrall To Aesthetics?

Sometimes I think the '90's were the end of an era:  when you could care about aesthetics and still buy a high-end road racing bicycle.

Today, you can get a beautiful frame from a builder like Mercian or any number of other custom makers.  But even though it can be sleek and relatively light, it's likely to be heavier and less aerodynamic than a new racing bike.  Those gorgeous frames with their beautiful lugs or filet-brazed joints and lustrous paint jobs are most likely to be steel, whether from Reynolds, Columbus or some other maker, but most racers are now astride frames made of carbon fiber.  Although I can appreciate the lightness and stiffness of carbon fiber frames, I know that their lifespan is nowhere near that of most good steel, titanium or aluminum frames.  Also, their Darth Vader shapes and surfaces are too often plastered with cartoony or just plain creepy graphics.

But during that last "golden era" for road bikes, two seemingly-disparate groups of cyclists seemed to abandon any sense of velocepedic voluptuousness.  According to Eben Weiss' latest article in Outside magazine, those riders were mountain bikers--especially of the downhill variety--and triathlon competitors.   As he notes, mountain biking and triathlon racing  came into their own as disciplines at roughly the same time, more or less independent of the prevailing cycling cultures (racing, touring, track, club riding).  Although many mountain riders came from road riding, they tended to be younger and not as bound to the prevailing traditions and conventions of riding.  Then there were those mountain riders who, like most triathloners, had little or no previous experience with cycling and were therefore even less wed to ideas about what bikes should look or ride like.

One result of that disdain for bicycle tradition was modern suspension systems.  One irony is that those who developed it for mountain bikes thought they were doing something new and revolutionary when, in fact, bicycle suspension  has been around for almost as long as bicycles themselves.  The chief question seemed to be whether to suspend the rider or the bike itself:  The former would offer more comfort and would, therefore, keep the rider in better control of the bike. The latter, on the other hand, would make the bike itself more stable at high speeds and in rough conditions: what would encounter in a downhill or on technical singletrack.

One of the earliest--and, perhaps, still most widely-used--forms of suspension is the sprung saddle, which would fall into the category of suspending the rider. Later, balloon-tired bikes from Schwinn, Columbia and other American manufacturers came with large bars and springs connected to the handlebars and front forks.  How much shock they actually absorbed, I don't know.  I get the feeling they were added, like the ones on the "Krate" and "Chopper" bikes of the '60's and '70's, so that kids could pretend that their bikes were scaled-down motorcycles. 

Around the same time as those wannabe Harleys were made, Dan Henry's (of the Arrows fame) rigged up a Reynolds 531 fork with springs which, he said, allowed him to ride the lightest rims and tubular tires even in the roughest conditions.  But the '70's and '80's saw little, if any, experimentation with, let alone manufacture of, suspended bikes or parts.

That all changed when the first Rock Shox forks and Girvin Flex Stems were introduced in 1989.  The latter defied all notions of the graceful "gooseneck" in mirror-polished or milky silver, and Rock Shox looked nothing like those curved or tapered blades seen on classic road bikes.  Then, it seemed, all sense of aesthetics went out the window--unless your idea of art is a sex toy or something that would render a man incapable of bringing any new cyclists into this world--with the Softride.

I must admit I never tried Softride:  Even though I was leaner and lighter than I am now, I was leery of mounting anything that didn't have support from below. (Read that as you will.)  Weiss rode one recently, three decades after its introduction, and found it to be "more subtle" than he expected though, he pointed out, he could have been just as, and more elegantly, cushioned from road and trail shock with a leather saddle or wide tires.  Subtract the "diving board" and Girvin Flex stem, he notes, and one is left with a rigid mountain bike like the ones riders had been riding before. 

If I had a couple of barns or garages, I'd probably acquire a Soft Ride to complete the collection I'd have.  But even if I liked its suspension qualities, I'm not sure how much I'd ride it:  I'm still too wedded to my vision of a beautiful bicycle.  There are some things I just don't want to be caught dead on. 

Don't Look Now!

I took an Art History course that  included a final exam with this essay question: "Explain the Mona Lisa smile."

I don't remember what I wrote. I am sure, however, that it wasn't profound, brilliant or original in spite of my belief that it, like everything I wrote in those days, embodied all of those qualities.  So it wouldn't surprise you to know that the grade I got--a B, if I remember correctly-- aroused my indignation. (It didn't take much, did it?)

So, being older and wiser, I won't venture an opinion about why the young woman has her hands over her eyes:

I simply thought the image is light and funny--just right for a Sunday morning.

If I Were A Museum Director...

 Every museum should have bicycle parking facilities--preferably indoors, with a valet.

The Metropolitan Museum in New York offered it briefly, thanks to a collaboration with Transportation Alternatives, when it re-opened after its pandemic-induced closure.  I was reminded of that during my latest Paris trip, when I went museum-hopping on the bikes I borrowed and rented.

In nine days, I visited the Rodin, Picasso, Modern Art (twice), Jacquemart-Andre and Orsay Museums. Sidewalk or curbside bike racks stood just outside all of them, secluded from the traffic.  Also, there were Velib ports near all of them.  So, in Paris it is easier than it is in New York to bike from museum to museum, without having to worry about whether your bike will be where you parked it after spending a couple or a few hours looking at paintings and sculptures.  Still, I would love to see indoor facilities--and even more encouragement of, not only cycling in general (which Paris' current mayor seems to be doing plenty of) but of riding to museums and other cultural sites.

"The Scream" isn't Edvard Munch's only painting.

I mean, for me, there is nothing like taking in the colors and forms, and the ideas and feelings they convey, after a ride along city streets.  The people, buildings and streets I see, almost kaleidoscopically, put me in a mind and mood about how artists see the subjects of their work and transform them into transmissible visions. 

Perhaps it has to do with the blood that pumps into my brain as much as the sensory stimuli I experience while riding.  That might also be the reason why I can go into "old favorite" museums like the Rodin or New York's Guggenheim, or newer favorites like the Jacquemart-Andre,  and feel as if I am, not only re-connecting, but re-discovering.

Lady Macbeth, by Fussli

Now, in the Jacquemart- Andre, I sauntered through a special exhibit of Johan Heinrich Fussli, an artist I knew peripherally through his connections with the London literary and theatre worlds of the 18th Century.  But its permanent exhibit, like the one in the Rodin, also felt fresh. So did seeing the more as well as the less famous Edvard Munch works in a special exhibit at the Orsay:  Even the "Scream" resonated for me, as did the works of Oskar Kokoschka in a Modern Art special exhibit.

Oskar Kokoschka, self-portrait

If I were a museum director, I would make bike riding a requirement for entrance.  Or, at least, I would offer a discounted admission price. (I can't exclude people who can't ride, after all!)  On second thought, if I had my way, all museums would be free.  It would be the only policy that would be fair to everybody, wouldn't it? 

That I think that way is probably one reason why I never could be a museum director:  They have to raise money somehow.  But perhaps one will listen to me when I say that cyclists make the best museum visitors.  Really, we do.