In The Middle Of His Life

 Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

In honor of a hero who was killed in the middle of his life (he lives through his legacy), I am reposting what I wrote five years ago:

Today Martin Luther King Jr. Day is observed in the United States.  If I had Napoleon's prerogative of re-inventing the calendar, there are some holidays I'd do away with. But I'd keep this one.  Perhaps I'd restore it to his actual birthday, 15 January.  But I understand why it was moved to the third Monday in January:  It's easier to keep government offices, schools, banks and the like closed for three consecutive days than it is to close for a day in the middle of the week.  Also, who doesn't like a three-day weekend?

Seriously, though, there aren't many other people more deserving of their own holidays.  He truly was a martyr for a just cause.  But for all of his seriousness of purpose, he seemed to really enjoy himself sometimes.  At least, he looks that way in the photos I've seen of him on a bicycle--and there are more such photos than I ever expected to find.

Martin Luther King Jr rides bicycle with William Wachtel (the son of King's lawyer, Harry Wachtel) on Fire Island, NY, 3 September 1967,  Photo from Hofstra University collection.

I get the sense that riding a bike was, for him, a release from the rigors of touring, speaking and preaching--and the tension from FBI spies and CIA snipers lurking allies who became rivals when, among other things, he announced his opposition to the Vietnam War.

Also, from the photo, and others I've seen, riding a bicycle was a way for King to show that he was one of the common people.  When he was assassinated, in 1968, the dawn of the North American Bike Boom was just starting to flicker.  American adults  were, for the first time in half a century, mounting bikes and taking early-morning or after-work rides--or, in a few cases, riding to work or school.  Bicycles were still ridden mainly by those who were too young--or poor--to drive.  

I can't help but to think that those bike rides were at least one reason why he gave speeches that instructors (including yours truly) have used as models of good writing and effective communication for their students.  As lofty as his rhetoric could be, it reached all kinds of people:  Anyone could understand it.  In the above photo, he's on level with a young boy; when he rode a bicycle, he experienced the places where people lived in a way he wouldn't have if he were in a limousine.  And people saw him eye-to-eye--as, I suspected, he wanted to see them. 

Which, I believe, is a reason why he would call the the devastation wrought by the COVID-19 pandemic--or, more precisely, the President's inept or callous (depending on what you believe) response--as the racial, economic and social injustice that it is. He had an acute moral compass honed by, among other things, his bike rides.

Fame (No, Not The David Bowie Song)

 About 20 years ago, I was talking with a fellow faculty member who, like me, had written about sports for a local newspaper.  Somehow the length of professional athletes’ careers became a topic.  He pointed out that while Joe Di Maggio lived 84 years, we know him for what he did for only 13 of them. I am referring, of course, to his time playing for the Yankees, which was interrupted by World War II. Ironically, his career as a commercial spokesman for various products and businesses, such as the Mr. Coffee and Emigrant Bank, lasted nearly twice as long as his baseball tenure.

Why am I thinking about that now? Well, although I am in—ahem—midlife, I am still a good bit younger than Joe was when he passed. And I have worked in a career even longer than he spent making TV commercials, let alone playing center field. Even so, my time as a university instructor and writer (I still have a hard time calling myself “professor,” even if it comes easily to my students!) constitutes only a fraction of my life. That will be the case even if I continue for another decade or more.

That work won’t make me famous, nor should it. And one of the few things that I’ve done for longer won’t, either (unless you count the readership of this blog as fame): cycling.

It’s funny, though, that being off my bike for most of the past week seems like an eternity.  And I know, intellectually, that I’ll be back in the saddle once my pain subsides.  But it’s still odd, and troubling, not to be doing, however temporarily, something I’ve done just about all of my life.

I wonder whether Joe Di Maggio—or, for that matter, Eddy Merckx, whose professional cycling career spanned as many years as Joe’s with the Yankees—ever thought about how short a segment of their lives so defined them.

Since I have mentioned two famous male athletes, I can’t help but to think that almost all who have been able to live off their exploits on the road, track, court, field, rink or other athletic arena have been men, I wonder how many great female athletes—say, Caitlyn Clark or Simone Biles—will have the same privilege, or will be so thoroughly defined by the relatively brief part of their lives when they could dominate and elevate their sports. 

Why Won’t I Go There?

I have cycled to and through places that stirred up seemingly-conflicting emotions in me. For instance, during my recent trip to Japan, I pedaled to temples, shrines, gardens and other places with great beauty and terrifying histories. The Nijo Castle in Kyoto was one such spot: It is wonderful to behold and can teach so much about Japanese culture and history, including the fierce battles and brutal ways in which rival families and groups vied for, and held, power.  I also felt awe and terror all over Osaka, which the Allies bombed heavily during World War II. (Kyoto, in contrast, wasn’t as much of a target because it didn’t have the military-related industries found in other Japanese cities.)

I similarly felt awed by the beauty and devastation of Cambodia and Laos where, as a legacy of the Vietnam War, there is said to be more unexploded ordnance per square mile, kilometer or whatever unit of measurement you choose, than anywhere else on Earth.

And I could write more posts, possibly even a book, about former battlefields of France and other European countries I saw during my bike trips, not to mention the Place de la Concorde: Today it’s one of the most elegant public squares in the world, but contemporary accounts describe “rivers” of blood flowing from the guillotines stationed there during the Reign of Terror.

I got to thinking about that today. While not an official holiday, this date—“Pearl Harbor Day”—was, until fairly recently, marked by parades and other commemorations to the attack on the American naval base.

 While such memorials still take place, they aren’t as numerous or prominent as they were, say, in 1991 (the 50th anniversary) or even twenty years ago because there are so few survivors of the attack or World War II generally.

From what I have read, there is a very popular bike lane that passes the attack site and offers beautiful views of mountains, ocean and rain forest.  Were I to ride it, I probably would have a similar combination of thoughts and feelings to what I experienced in Japan, Southeast Asia, France, Belgium, Italy and even some sites (the World Trade Center, anyone?) in and around New York City, where I live.

But I probably won’t ride the Pearl Harbor bike lane because I have never had any desire to go to Hawai’i. Any time I’ve ever embarked upon a journey (Doesn’t that sound quaint?) to some faraway place, one of my friends insists that I should go to Aloha land. I can’t explain why I’ve not only never had any wish to step off a plane in Honolulu; I have actively resisted going there. Something about it just scares and repels me. ( It has nothing to do with Pearl Harbor.) I understand that Anthony Bourdain had a similar feeling about Switzerland, where he never set foot in spite of spending considerable time—and hosting episodes of his show—in the surrounding countries (France, Italy, Germany and Austria). Could I, one day, find that I’ve cycled all around the Pacific Rim while skipping Hawai’i?

All For Veterans

 Today is Veterans’ Day in the US. 

Some time in my current life, my midlife, I noticed that I was becoming more pro-veteran as I’ve become anti-war. Those positions seemed contradictory at first. Then I realized that the best way to honor veterans—and people still in uniform—is to do everything we can to avoid needless, pointless conflict.  Oh, and to ensure that all enlisted people remember that they took an oath to defend the Constitution, not an office-holder.

Four Veterans and a VA Menlo Park Recreational Therapist pose for a photo on the first day of a 7-day cycling ride from Santa Cruz to Carmel, CA, called the California Challenge.

The next-best thing we can do is to make sure that everyone who serves has whatever they need, whether for their physical or mental well-being, for the rest of their lives.* If I had my way, I would give a bicycle to every veteran who wants one.  After all, what better way—for those who can ride, of course—to deal with stress and trauma while staying in shape?

*—Recently, I heard a mental health professional argue that everyone who serves in the armed forces, whether or not they see combat, ends up with PTSD. That actually makes sense to me. After all, the military trains people to, on command, do things very few people would do, and would result in severe penalties if they did them, in civilian life. Also, most service members join or are conscripted at a very young age, when they are more vulnerable to moral injury. Moreover, they are encouraged to bear or mask their suffering and call their denial “toughness” or “resilience.”

Need A Wheel Truing Stand? Go To Kent—And Thank Trump

 I am no economist. So, take what I am about to say for what it’s worth: I have had the sense that Trump’s tariffs would not have the effect he claimed. In fact, in one instance, however small, it’s having the opposite effect.

If the US economy is an ocean, its bicycle industry might be a minnow:  As I mentioned in my previous post, very few bikes and almost no accessories or parts are made here. Among the few bikes made here are custom frames and a relatively small number of top-of-the line machines like those of Specialized’s S-Works line.

But even those bikes are made almost entirely of imported parts. The same is true for the few mass-market bikes assembled on these shores—which, until recently, included offerings from Kent.

Most serious riders (who include, I confess, yours truly) turn up their noses at such bikes. But I would bet that more Kents are purchased in a day than élite machines are sold in a year. And Kent was one of the few companies that continued to assemble their wares in this country—in South Carolina, to be exact—as the rest of the bike industry outsourced its production.

Note my use of the past tense.  In June, the company laid off most of its employees. Now it’s auctioning its tools and machinery—including several Park Tool wheelbuilding stands and work stands and Holland Mechanics wheel-truing machines.

Why? According to a company spokesperson, assembling bikes in the US is “no longer feasible” because—wait for it—Trump’s tariffs have made it too expensive to import the necessary parts.

Of course, Kent is unlikely to be the only bike-related company, and the US bicycle industry the only enterprise, to be adversely affected by the global trade war the Fake Tan Fũhrer has sparked. But I have to wonder whether Trump (or more likely, his donors) knew that tariffs would decimate US industries and thus bring American workers to their knees while claiming that “the most beautiful word” would Make America Great Again—if indeed it, or any other nation, ever was.

The Scent of a City

 Many years ago, during my second European bike tour, I visited Marseille, France in spite—or, given the kind of person I was, because—some people warned me that it was dirty and dangerous. 

About the “dangerous” part: I had moved back to New York a few months earlier, just as the crack epidemic was unfolding. So I believed, like any true New Yorker (or someone who tries to seem like one) that no place could present greater perils than what Gotham could proffer.

I had no problems in Marseille. Parts of it were gritty, yes, but even they seemed like the Ginza or Avenue Montaigne compared to where I was living.  They did, however, have some pretty dive-y bars and cafes, which isn’t surprising when you consider that it’s a seaport. (Not for nothing was it the “French Connection.”)

Speaking of which:  The city seemed to have its own distinctive odor: a combination of fish and brine, tinged with bits of sisal and smoke. 

On the Shinkansen, I realized that was a reason why Osaka reminded me somewhat of Marseille. Japan’s third largest city seemed to have its own distinctive aroma, everywhere I turned. It wasn’t at all unpleasant, though it made me hungry: I felt that wherever I turned, I could smell food being prepared. Near my hotel, and around the Doutonbori, frying tempura batter, scallions and soy sauce (or something like it) filled the air. Along other streets and byways, I could follow my nose to steaming fish and meats, sizzling takoyaki and bubbling ramen broths.

No wonder I felt hungrier leaving Osaka Castle than any other museum or monument I’ve ever visited! While learning about the castle‘s—and Japan’s—history and art might have been enough to whet my appetite (Is that why people like to have lunch or dinner after museum visits?) the olfactory enticements to eat seemed to be everywhere.

While there are temples and other historic and cultural sites in Osaka, there aren’t quite as many as in Kyoto, which is practically a World Heritage Site or Tokyo, which is a much larger city. One explanation I’ve heard and read is that Osaka had many military-related industries and thus was a major target of Allied bombings during World War II, while Kyoto, which didn’t have those industries, was spared.

But does that account for all of the eateries, street foods and the ever-present aromas of Osaka? Does steam from bowls of udon noodles rise from the smoke (and ashes) of munitions factories?

Hiroshima

(For this post, I am invoking my Howard Cosell Rule.)

Having just returned from an amazing trip to Japan, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention this:  On this date 80 years ago, Colonel Paul Tibbets flew a B-29 bomber (named Enola Gay, after his mother) over Hiroshima, where Major Thomas Ferebee dropped what has most likely proven to be the single most influential object of the 20th Century.

 I am talking, of course, about “Little Boy,” a 4400 kilogram (9700 pound) hunk of metal encasing 64 kilograms (141 pounds) of highly enriched uranium.

(That nickname should tell you that any military organization thrives on dark or sick humor precisely because it’s incapable of irony.)

Why do I say it’s the most influential object of the 20th Century? Well, if you will indulge me a cliche, the atomic bomb probably did more than anything else to change the world.

For one thing, the Hiroshima bombing, and that of Nagasaki three days later, underscored a point that only a few influential people seemed to understand after World War I: the human race, for all of its accomplishments, is the only one capable of willfully destroying itself. If one atomic bomb could cause so much death and destruction, multiple uses of nuclear weapons—indeed, the continuation of war itself and everything that enables or results from it—would be the end of us.

(Sometimes I think the leaders of nations, including mine, are doing everything they can to ensure our annihilation.)

Now, minds greater than mine —and people who, I admit, are simply more knowledgeable about the war and military history—argue that the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings hastened the end of the war. While Japanese forces indeed surrendered just days later, it could also be argued that for all of their will, they might not have been able to continue fighting much longer: major cities and industries had already been destroyed and people were deprived, even on the verge of starvation.

Here is something that, to my knowledge, is never mentioned in high school, or even college, history classes and textbooks:  On 8 August —two days after the Hiroshima nuclear attack and the day before the one in Nagasaki—the Soviet Union declared war on Japan and, a day later, invaded Manchuria, the region of northeastern China Japan invaded in 1931.

(A few paragraphs ago, I said military organizations are incapable of irony. But their actions sometimes have ironic consequences.)

Some military historians have argued that this was at least as much of a factor as the bombings in Japan’s surrender. Before the declaration of war against Japan, Soviet forces fought to defend their own country and with the Allies throughout Europe. When the Nazis surrendered on 8 May, the Soviets could turn their attention eastward, as per the Yalta agreement.

The Soviet Union, as badly depleted as it was*, nonetheless effectively doubled the number of troops available to fight their Japanese adversaries. Some have argued that alone would have been enough to bring a quick end to the war, as Japanese forces—many of whom were, by that time, ill-equipped and malnourished—were outnumbered by four or five to one.

Whatever the case may be, the lesson of Hiroshima and Nagasaki is not to repeat them. 

*—The Soviet Union had already lost 20 million people, or about 12 percent of its total population. That would be like the US, with its current population, losing every resident of California.

Taking In Tokyo On Two Wheels

 I have claimed this city for myself.

That is a bold, even bombastic statement, I know. But that is how I feel any time I’ve taken a bike ride after arriving for the first time in some place. That city, town or even country, even if I have experienced only a small part of it, becomes a part of me.

Tokyo is new to me. It doesn’t, however, feel as strange as it did last night when, the closer I came to my hotel, the more lost I became. Is it my imagination, or do Google Maps directions become more vague the closer you come to your destination? 

I had a similar experience this morning when I went to meet a group for a bike tour. When I got off the Metro at Daimon station, I was across the street from the meetup spot. That street is wide—like a “stroad”—and the point of reference wasn’t easy to spot. So I wandered away from it and missed the ride. Fortunately, the folks at Tokyo Rental Bicycle allowed me to join their afternoon tour. In the meantime I wandered around Shiba Park, which includes everything from traditional Japanese gardens and memorials to a modern playground, and fronts this:

Who knew that a flight across the Pacific would land me in Paris? Or that instead of the Champ de Mars and Invalides, I would see it from the Shoguns’ burial site?

Anyway, after seeing that, I entered the Zojoji Temple just as a ceremony was about to begin. I had just enough time to photograph the interior: Although I am not religious, I have enough respect to honor the request not to take pictures during the ritual. I thought it looked new for such an ancient temple. Turns out, it was reconstructed, using both ancient and modern techniques, half a century ago on the site of the Tokugawa Shogun’s family temple. That building stood on the site for centuries before bombing raids leveled it in 1945.

After spending time there, and in the Treasures Gallery, I figured out where the bike tours met and took a ride with Sho,  a young Tokyo native tour guide, a woman and her son from Strasbourg, France (I can’t leave wFrance, can I? and another woman, originally from Spain but living ini Belgium and speaking French (!) as her everyday language.

The first stop on our tour was the Zoiji Temple and the shrines, which I had just visited. I didn’t mind: Sho explained, among other things, the differences between a shrine and a temple (A shrine is usually for Shinto and has a gate delineating it from the rest of the world; the latter is more commonly associated with Buddhism.)and how the role of the royal family has changed. He told us to park our bikes right outside the temple’s entrance—without locking them. As a New Yorker, it amazes me that people leave their bikes unsecured in public places of such a large city!

From there, we rode to the Imperial Palace. Like the Zojoji Temple, it’s a reconstruction of a building destroyed by Allied bombing raids near the end of World War II. The Palace itself isn’t open to the public except on special occasions, but the grounds, which include a moat and fortifications, are nice—and a short from Tokyo Station.

Then we cycled to what Show half-jokingly called “the most expensive Air BnB: Akasaka Palace, where visiting dignitaries stay. From there, we made one of two climbs included in the ride (You have to get your money’s worth, right?) to the National Stadium, built for the “2020” Olympics held a year later due to COVID and, much to the dismay of taxpayers, hasn’t been used and to a Hachiko’s grave. (Yes, there’s also a tombstone for the dog who waited for him!) Sho mentioned that all of the trees in that graveyard, where some of Japan’s wealthiest and most famous people are interred, are cherry blossoms. It made me wish I could have come early in the spring!

As if to show us what a city of contrasts Tokyo is, Show took us to the Aoyama Fashion District and Shibuya Crossing, which makes Times Square seem like an intersection in one of those town’s where there’s only one traffic light. Aoyama and Shibuya epitomize everything you’ve heard about hyper-modern Tokyo.

Now that I’ve taken the Tour, with Show guiding us, I feel more confident and ready to explore a city that I feel is now mine, if in a small way. A bike ride always seems to do that for me.

Our group. Please try not to notice the weight I gained this winter!

I rode this.

What Hath Juneteenth Wrought?

 Today is Juneteenth.  On this date in 1865, two months after Robert E. Lee surrendered, Unon  troops arrived in Galveston, Texas to accept the surrender of the last Confederate regiment and inform Texas slaves that they were free.

Those events are significant because Texas was the westernmost slaveholding state. In fact, during the Civil War, some plantation owners fled the fighting in other states and brought their slaves with them. As a result, the Lone Star State had, by some estimates, the largest remaining slave population by the time President Abraham Lincoln issued his Emancipation Proclamation.

Also, Texas became a US state because of slavery. Although most of its people were English-speaking, it was part of Mexico when that country outlawed slavery in 1825. Cotton-growing and cattle-ranching, both of which were heavily dependent on slaves, were the mainstays of its economy. Rather than give up their unpaid help, they chose to secede, making Texas an independent country (some natives still refer to it as the “Lone Star Republic) for nearly a decade before the US annexed it in 1845.

Everything I mentioned in the previous paragraph was not taught when I was in school. I wonder whether curriculum-makers are still “forgetting” it.

Anyway, although Juneteenth as an official holiday is only four years old, it’s already becoming a capitalist bonanza. The bicycle industry is not exempt  As an example, State Bicycle Company is using the occasion to promote its limited edition “Bob Marley Clunker,” complete with a hemp saddle and bag—and, of course, a facsimile of the Rastaman’s signature.

Seeing that bike reminded me of a vogue from my youth—or, at least, a time in my life I could say I was young or, at any rate, not in midlife.  During the early and mid-‘90’s, it seemed that every twenty-something in California who had access to a lathe was making parts, mainly for mountain bikes, that were lighter and, supposedly, improvements over what legacy companies like Shimano and Campagnolo were offering .

How much of an improvement were they? Let me tell you about my Syncros and Control Tech stems that were recalled and the Nuke Proof rear hub that folded on itself during a ride—or the Syncros seatpost on which the head separated from the shaft while I navigated a switchback. Or two riding buddies whose Kooka cranks broke. 

But, hey, that stuff looked really cool. And some of those parts were offered in every color imaginable. (Violet and Lilac? Sign me up!) For a time, some were even available in the “Rasta Rainbow” of red, green, black and gold. (Fun fact: Jamaica has the only national flag whose colors don’t include red, white or blue.) I had a seat bag decorated with fabric in those hues, and a former riding buddy ordered his custom frame in those colors.

I’ll bet the maker of that frame—and all of the “Rasta” parts and accessories I mentioned—would have loved to have a Juneteenth sale—even if they knew nothing about the history behind that date, Texas or anything else because, well, they attended schools like mine.

By the way, you know that Juneteenth is a combination of “June” and “nineteenth.” There’s a term for that kind of mashup: portmanteau (port-man-toe).

Donuts and D-Day

 Today is National Donut Day here in the US.

I wonder whether it was someone’s idea of a marketing gimmick or sick joke—which are more or less the same thing—to merge a day devoted to sugar consumption with one the anniversary of a pivotal campaign in a war that consumed so many lives.

I’ll admit that I am not so ideologically or dietetically pure that I didn’t partake of a promotion:  I bought a cup of coffee—enough to entitle me to a freebie—and picked one of the most decadent-looking sugarbombs in the display case at the Fordham Plaza Dunkin’ Donuts: a chocolate cake ring with chocolate icing and pink stripes.

Now, did those (mostly) young American, Australian,  British, Canadian, Czech, Dutch, French, Greek, Norwegian, Polish, South African, Southern Rhodesian and New Zealand fighters risk—and in some cases lose—their lives so we can enjoy sweet baked goods? Of course not. But I did think about them because I think about them, and other like them, whenever war is commemorated. 

And I think about them precisely because I am (mostly) a pacifist. I believe, as Kurt Vonnegut (himself a WW II veteran) said, that Hitler was “pure evil” and had to be stopped.  But the conditions that fueled his rise to power—the devestation wrought by “the war to end wars” could have been avoided had the “haves” not wanted more from the “have nots.”

Am I the only one who thinks about stuff like this while riding? Or was it the sugar rush I got from that free donut which may have been responsible for the sprint I pedaled along the Bronx River Greenway.

He’s Not Just History

 Today I am going to do something I’ve never done before:  I am going to invoke my Howard Cosell rule two days in a row. In other words, this post won’t relate to bicycling. And while some of you may think I had a better reason to write such a post yesterday, I hope you will find this one interesting.

Perhaps no other athlete ever became as much of a worldwide celebrity and cultural icon as Muhammad Ali. In the world of cycling, it’s difficult to find an equivalent: Lance Armstrong might have attained such a status were it not for the allegations, and his admission, that he doped and bullied teammates into doing it or covering up for him.

An extremely small number of athletes have become icons, or have been deemed significant historical figures, even of their own culture.

Maurice Richard, who played for the Montréal Canadiens for 18 seasons and was their captain for the last four, is one such person. When I was in North America’s ville aux cent clochers, I was struck by not only how many statues, murals and other homages to “Le Rocket” I saw, but their seeming ubiquity. Here in New York, you’ll find such tributes to Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio and other legends mainly in and around Yankee Stadium. But in la belle ville, I encountered likenesses of Richard in nearly every part of town.

So I was not surprised when I learned that today, on the 25th anniversary of his death and 65 years after he played his last National Hockey League game, Québec government officials announced that he had been designated an historic figure in the province.

It is almost impossible to overstate what Maurice Richard has meant to the province’s people and to Francophones in other parts of Canada. Although they are roughly three-tenths of the nation’s population, for about two centuries, they and the province had, at best, second-class status. Québec lagged well behind neighboring Ontario and other provinces in economic terms as well as status.

About the latter: While other French Canadians excelled in sports and other endeavors before Richard came along, none carried the pride of his culture as he did.When he scored a goal, when he helped to defeat the Boston Bruins or Toronto Maple Leafs, it was a victory not only for him and the Canadiens, but also for the everyday Quebecois who, as one put it, had to “hang up” their “hat and customs” when they went to work every day—or for natives of the villages and farms north of Québec City who spoke nothing but French but were conscripted to fight for the Crown during World War II.

Some have argued that he helped to usher Québec’s “Quiet Revolution,” which campaigned for, and won, greater autonomy for the province—and modernized its educational system, which had been controlled by the Catholic Church. While it may not have been a direct consequence of Richard’s career or retirement, it could be argued that the pride be engendered helped to elect Jean Lesage as Premier of Quèbec in the same year “The Rocket” retired. Lesage, for whom Québec City’s international airport is named, is credited with modernizing the province’s educational system (and guaranteeing equal access for females) and economic system. He understood—correctly, I think—that preserving the province’s culture and language, and therefore its autonomy, would not be possible if Quebecois and other Francophone Canadians didn’t have the same educational and economic leverage as their Anglophone neighbors.

While Richard didn’t take overtly political stances as Ali did, he was fearless and proud. And, let’s face it, his looks didn’t hurt: handsome and fierce, he always seemed to be camera-ready, whether on the ice or in a boardroom.

Remembering

 I am about to invoke my Howard Cosell Rule.

Today is Memorial Day in the US—at least, officially. While it is a Federal holiday—banks and government offices are closed—some states have taken it upon themselves to declare their own “Memorial Days.” Some are being celebrated today. Others have chosen other dates: For example, in North and South Carolina, 10 May is Confederate Memorial Day: On this date in 1863, Confederate General “Stonewall” Jackson died after being accidentally shot by his own soldiers; in 1865, Confederate President Jefferson Davis was captured.

Given what we’ve seen so far from the Fake Tan Führer, I wonder whether he’ll try to end the current Memorial Day and replace it with the Carolinas’ (or some other state’s) Confederate holiday. Of course, it would include a military parade that wouldn’t honor the “suckers” and “losers.”

Unhoused veterans occupy 30 tents on the Veterans Row encampment in front of the West Los Angeles VA campus in April, 2021. George Rose/Getty

Me, I wish this day’s memorial were more about the tragedy of dying young (and, sometimes, for a questionable cause) rather than a celebration of “heroism”—or simply another shopping orgy. Oh, and wouldn’t it be nice if we made sure that those who served got the mental as well as physical health care they need—and that we don’t create more veterans who live under highway overpasses. Avoiding war and turning “swords into ploughshares” would be the best—perhaps the only—way to ensure that.

The Culture War’s Latest Casualty

 I am a non-Christian transgender female cyclist. That makes me a totem in the culture wars.

The MAGA crowd, White and Christians nationalists and all of the other far-right culture warriors (and their sympathizers), by definition, are opposed to anyone and anything that doesn’t fit their definitions of Christianity and womanhood (i.e. perpetual pregnancy and silent submission). Then, when the Fake Tan Führer (FTF)re-entered the White House, they were emboldened to turn their hate on transgenders and anyone else who doesn’t fit their notions of cisgender heterosexuality.

Now the title of Daniel Zawodny’s article in The Baltimore Banner tells us what the latest target of Faux News-addled is:  “What is the latest victim in Trump’s war on woke?  You guessed  it—bike lanes.”

Turns out, Mr. Zawodny is not being engaging in hyperbole or hysterics. Rather, he recounts how FTF’s Secretary of Transportation Sean Duffy—who claims he’s “not opposed to bike lanes” and that he “loves bikes”—confirmed a pause on all Federal funding for bike and pedestrian infrastructure pending a review considering the Trump Administration’s priorities. 

Given FTF’s hostility to cyclists—and environmentalists, anyone who wants social and economic justice and any energy source that isn’t nuclear or a fossil fuel—I have a difficult time imagining those priorities including us.

Arni Nashbar

 You were young (or not) and poor. Your local bike shop carried only the most basic stuff. If it was a Schwinn dealer, it might’ve had a Super Sport, or even a Sports Tourer/Superior on its showroom floor. But if you wanted a Paramount—or, perhaps, a Superior/Sports Tourer—it had to be ordered. Ditto for any bike lighter and more refined than, say, a Raleigh Grand Prix or Peugeot UO-8. Likewise, the shop might’ve had a Campagnolo derailleur in its showcase, but if you wanted other Campy parts—or even, sometimes, a SunTour VGT derailleur—the shop had to send for it.

Many of us lived and cycled in the circumstances I’ve described during the ‘70s Bike Boom and its aftermath. Online retailing was a quarter-century in the future. So the only alternative to brick-and-mortar stores (which some cyclists, mainly in rural areas, didn’t have) was mail-order catalogues.

Even during what Sheldon Brown has called the “Dark Ages” of US cycling (roughly two decades after World War II) mail-order companies like Cyclopedia catered to the relatively small and scattered community of American cycle enthusiasts. But, perhaps not surprisingly, many new mail-order retailers began during the Bike Boom.  Some were started by entrepreneurs who saw an opportunity; others were cycling enthusiasts for whom quality bikes, parts and accessories were either unavailable or very expensive at local shops—if indeed there were any.

Arnold “Arni” Nashbar was a cross between the two types of mail-order pioneers I’ve described. He had a background in advertising and marketing that, arguably, began when he sold T-shirts he airbrushed to finance his education at the Cleveland Institute of Art and Youngstown State University.

Arnold “Arni” Nashbar

He and his wife loved cycling. It was that passion, he said, that led them to form Bike Warehouse, which later became Bike Nashbar.

The original name offered a clue as to why he could offer merchandise many brick-and-mortar shops didn’t or couldn’t, and why his prices, even with shipping costs, were often considerably lower.  He and other mail-order companies like Bikecology (which became Supergo) and Performance had warehouses, which allowed them to buy in much greater volume than any local shop could. That purchasing power also enabled the mail-order companies to offer items, mainly high-end, most shops couldn’t. For example, Bike Warehouse/Nashbar could buy crates full of Campagnlo, and SunTour parts, or Mavic and Super Champion rims, whereas the friendly neighborhood shop could afford to keep one or two of any such items in stock.

Of course shop owners hated mail-order companies, just as they hate online retailers, because they couldn’t hope to match their prices. (Most shops have survived, then and now, by doing repairs.) But shop owners I’ve known and worked for have said they “can’t blame” people for buying online.

One reason I looked forward to getting catalogues—apart from prices—was that they offered glimpses at stuff I might not see in local shops. Even if I had no intention to buy or ride them, it was fun to see the “screwed and glued” Alan frames and ultra-light parts from cottage industries like Hi-E.

Bike Warehouse seemed to have a particular penchant for highlighting such items. But most of all, I eagerly awaited those Bike Warehouse catalogues because, shall we say, they had a particular charm evidenced by a page from this 1976 edition.

Oh, and it was printed on newsprint, in all of its black-and-white glory. When I learned of Arni’s background, I wasn’t surprised.

But surprised I was to learn of his passing last Saturday. Surprised in the sense that one is upon learning of someone’s death. Then again, he lived 83 years, which is a bit older than a typical American lifespan. And, to be fair, his legacy includes what he did to support cycling in his native Ohio and the US, and charity work.

But if anyone mentions him, I probably will think of those catalogues before anything else.

Tariffs Against China, Via Norway

 The other day, I recounted some of the ways Trump’s tariffs, particularly the ones levied against China, could affect the US bicycle industry and community.  Some retailers, distributors, importers and even manufacturers have said the new taxes could “devastate” or even “destroy” the industry. Whether or not those predictions are too dire, there will be ripples or even tidal waves no one will have predicted.

Case in point:  On Tuesday Norwegian company Bike Finder announced it is pausing exports of its devices to the US.  According to the company, the decision was made “not out of necessity, but strategy.”

So why is a Norwegian company essentially boycotting the US over its trade war with China?  You guessed it: While the bike tracking devices, which fit into the handlebars, and the software in them, are designed and developed in Norway, they are manufactured in China.

Other bicycle accessories (especially electronics)—and bicycles—have similar stories behind them: they are created and marketed by companies in North America and Europe but fabricated in China.

Backlash Against Bike Lanes

 One hard lesson I learned in my gender affirmation journey is that the euphoria of a victory, whether personal or for a community, is all but inevitably followed by a backlash.  Such a reaction could come from the same individuals or groups who initially supported the positive and necessary changes you and your community made.

In my own life, I think of how relatives, co-workers and (former) friends—and, yes, a lover—turned on me after voicing support when I started living under my current name and gender identity and, later, when I had my surgery.

Since its Civil War, the US has witnessed two major vocal, and often violent reactions against efforts to create a more just society. The first followed Reconstruction, when newly-freed African Americans were doing everything from running their own farms to running for office.  In response, White supremacist groups like the Ku Klux Klan formed and Jim Crow laws were passed. The second reactionary movement is one we’ve witnessed during the past few decades:  the current far-right movement, which includes, again, White Supremacists, allied with Christian nationalists and other reactionaries. It is the counter-current against the Civil Rights, feminist and LGBTQ+ movements of the past six decades or so.  Far-right members often talk about “taking back” “their” country.  Some were once part of the very movements they’re reacting against.

A similar phenomenon is brewing against bike lanes. San Francisco is removing the Valencia Street bike lane 18 months after the city installed it. (To be fair, the lane was supposed to be a 12-month pilot project.) Meanwhile, Ontario’s provincial government is taking actions to remove bike lanes in Toronto.  Other jurisdictions are making similar moves or stalling or canceling plans to build new bike infrastructure.

(In a related move, the self-coronated Fake Tan Fūhrer has ordered the end of congestion pricing in my hometown of New York. It’s not clear, however, that he has such authority.)

So why all of the hate for bike lanes?  If what I hear in the Big Apple echoes in other ‘burgs, much of the opposition comes from drivers and small businesses owners. The former believe that cyclists are taking “their” lanes and parking spaces, while the latter complain about lost sales.

Shop owners may have a point.  Malls (most of which are moribund) and big-box stores are inherently auto-centric. So are the business and commercial districts of most American municipalities:  They are designed so that customers can drive into, and park, in them.  While that characteristic doesn’t cause Wal-Mart to lose customers—such stores are usually surrounded by large parking lots—the downtown stores and cafes rely, in large part, on curbside access.

As for lost traffic lanes and parking spaces:  As I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, studies show that it isn’t the case.  Bike lanes don’t “cause” traffic jams:  In most cases, the road was already congested.  As more than one planner has observed, streets and highways are “build it and they will come” projects.

The real reasons for the backlash against bike infrastructure, as Ron Johnson writes in Momentum, include the following:  a.) even in large cities, transportation planning is made in an “imaginary world” in which there are only “suburban drivers “ and its corollary, b.) the lack of a true infrastructure that allows cyclists to pedal safely from Point A to Point B.  Too often, the bike lanes are just “tokens,” poorly-conceived, constructed and maintained ribbons that make no one safer.

Two examples are the Grand Concourse lane near my current residence and the Queens Boulevard lane near my former home. Both are center lanes along the divider. One problem is that every few blocks, traffic crosses the lane to enter or leave the service lane.  Another is that because those lanes are not physically separated, drivers use them as passing lanes. (Some seem to take out their aggression by passing as close and as fast as they can to cyclists.) Moreover, trucks park or idle in the lanes when drivers deliver to the businesses that line the Concourse and Boulevard.  Oh, and I’ve seen cops sipping coffee and munching their donuts (OK, accuse me of stereotyping!) in patrol cars parked in the bike lane.

In other words, such lanes benefit no one. Nobody is safer and, perhaps, shop owners are indeed losing business.  A better-planned bike network would take cyclists where they want and need to go and allow traffic to flow more efficiently.

But would it stop the backlash?  Well, maybe not.  As Johnson points out, it’s one of the “culture wars” in which cyclists and their allies are seen as “woke” granola-crunching gender-variant (whoops, I meant non-male- or -female conforming) “enemies.”  In other words, people like me.  So the backlash against bike lanes doesn’t surprise me.

“Kittie” Knox

 February is Black History Month in the U.S. In years past, I’ve recounted the life and accomplishments of Major Taylor (which I may re-visit this month), a Black cycling brigade and other stories related to the experiences of African-descended cyclists in America. Today, however, I want to call attention to someone who has been all but forgotten, save by a few African American history scholars.

Katherine Towle “Kittie” Knox was born on 7 October 1874 in Cambridgeport, Massachusetts. When she was seven, her father died. Shortly afterward, her mother moved with her and her brother to the West End of Boston, a largely impoverished neighborhood that many American Blacks and immigrants called home.

She would work as a seamstress and her brother as a steamfitter. In addition to helping her family, her work allowed her to save money and buy a bicycle, which was a “big ticket” item. Her job also helped her to create a unique, and sometimes controversial, identity.

Ms. Knox came of age just as the first American bicycle boom was building up steam. And the Boston area was one of its epicenters. Kittie’s enthusiasm and talent were quickly noticed, and she was invited to participate in races and other events—and to become a member of the League of American Wheelmen (now known as the League of American Cyclists) in 1893.

In one of cycling’s more shameful episodes, one year after Knox became a member, the L.A.W. amended its constitution to mandate that only White cyclists could join. Disputes about Kittie’s membership ensued. She did not give in to pressure to resign and the amendment was not retroactive. “Kittie” Knox thus remained a member and a popular rider in its—and other—events.

But her popularity didn’t shield her from the “double whammy” of race and gender discrimination. Even as a card-carrying L.A.W. member, she was denied entry to races and other rides. And she was refused service in hotels and restaurants.  A newspaper account from 1895 describes an all-too-typical incident:

Asbury Park, New Jersey was a fashionable beach town and the site of a prestigious race. That newspaper account offers a glimpse into its troubled racial history. It’s a morning’s or afternoon’s bike ride from where I lived during my high-school years. Whenever I rode through that part of the Jersey Shore, I couldn’t help but to notice how I was pedaling from White to Black, or back, when I entered or left the city, which was ravaged by a race riot in 1970. And neighboring Ocean Grove was a “sundown town.” Both municipalities, like my high school town, are part of Monmouth County—which, according to some sources, had the largest Ku Klux Klan membership of any county north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

The newspaper account of that time also highlights, if unintentionally, the other “prong” of discrimination she faced. The “pretty colored girl from Boston” used the skills she acquired as a seamstress to create outfits that, in addition to allowing more freedom of movement than typical women’s cycling attire of the time, had a distinctive look. So, even when she won a race, reporters and much of the public focused on her appearance rather than her aptitude or hard work.

Unfortunately, not enough has changed. I can recall sports journalists and commentators tamping their praise of Serena Williams’ other-worldly tennis playing with criticisms of her inability to conform to their ideas of femininity.  Rebecca Twigg probably made more money from modeling clothes than from winning a rainbow jersey. And, for all of her dominance on the basketball court, much of the media and public seem more infatuated with Caitlin Clark's Midwestern “girl next door” persona.

Given what I’ve just said, it’s interesting and possibly disturbing to think of what her post-racing life could have been like. Would she have kept the flame of American cycling alive after World War I? Could she have become a fashion designer or created a line of clothing for athletic women? Or would she have been part of the “Harlem Renaissance,” whether on-site or in spirit?  We’ll never know because she died on 11 October 1900–four days after turning 26–from liver disease.

A Ride Through History

 One of my passions—obsessions, perhaps—is learning the history, especially African-American and colonial, I wasn’t taught in school.

I got to thinking about that when I realized that next month is African American history month—and the sixtieth anniversary of at least two important parts of that history are coming up.

One of them is the marches from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama. The other is the assassination of Malcolm X.

About Malcolm:  He was completely misrepresented, if he was mentioned at all.  I first realized as much when I read his autobiography. (That, I believe, motivated me to learn as much as I can about the history I wasn’t taught.) It seems that educators—and the culture generally—has misunderstood and misused “by any means necessary” to paint Malcolm as a maniac with homicide in his heart. He was changing even as he told his story to Alex Haley, his collaborator on his autobiography and, I believe, would have repudiated some of the things he said then—let alone in his earlier speeches—had he lived longer. But even the portrait that emerged from his autobiography and his speeches made him heroic to me because one of his underlying messages was that people have to free themselves from whatever enslaves them, whether it’s an exploitative system, an addictive substance or William Blake’s “mind forg’d manacles.”

Speaking of enslavement:  The March from Selma to Montgomery occurred just a few weeks before the 100th anniversary of the American Civil War’s end. (Anyone who tells you that the war wasn’t about slavery is ignorant or dishonest.) But a century later, Blacks—and poor Whites—weren’t free of their shackles.  Moreover, they were paying a tax, if you will, on those restraints they bore. But they we’re fighting—and often paying with blood and flesh—to fight them, and their imposers, off. That is about as far from the picture of the Civil Rights movement textbooks and the media painted for us: a sunny diorama of Martin intoning “I have a dream” and well-intentioned people chanting “We shall overcome,” all of it sepia-tinged to make White liberals of the time look heroic and those of today feel good about themselves for admiring them.

All right, I’ll get off my soapbox. (Standing on it while wearing cleats is precarious!) There will be a number of commemorations, including a marches. And, the other day, a bike ride followed the route.

The War To End All Wars

 Today is Veterans’ Day here in the US.

I can remember when it was called Armistice Day, after the treaty that ended World War I, a.k.a. “The War to End All Wars.”

I wonder how many soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen/women and other military personnel go into battle hoping that their battle, their war will be the last.  I think that’s what I would hope.  “Hey, let’s not do this shit again, OK?”

And then swords would be beaten into ploughshares—and mortar into bicycle parts.