At Journeys' End

Today seemed chillier than it actually was because of the wind--and a cold and one of those headaches that makes it seem as if a vise was clamping and squeezing at my temples. So I didn't ride.  I hope to feel better tomorrow.


Janine's death hasn't helped my mood much.  Although she wasn't a cyclist herself, she did a nice series (Click onto "Serie des Cyclistes")  of engravings with cyclists as her theme. 

One of the wonderful things about cycling in France is eating at the end of a day's ride.  If you've ever done a long or hard ride, you know that nothing tastes better than that roast chicken, pasta, ear of corn, salad, wine, pastry, fruit or anything you might consume afterward.  That's true even if you're eating in some truck stop off a highway in the middle of some place God seems to have forgotten.  So, imagine how good the bird, the grain, the soup are when your day's ride ends next to a chateau by the Loire--or in Paris.


It was even better when  that meal in Paris at the end of a day of riding was made by Janine.  I've spent enough time in France and eaten enough French cooking not to be impressed by all of it.  But I'll rave about Janine's culinary work.  So do her French friends, with whom I've shared some meals and other good times.


In recalling her, two words came up repeatedly: genereuse and vitale.  As creative and independent as she was, I never had the sense that she was, or felt, alienated from the world in which she lived.  Over time, I slowly came to realize how much the "cowboy" notion of creativity as the product of isolated, alienated individuals had crippled me as well as countless other people, particularly in America. 


For a long time, I rode because I was, or thought I had no choice but to be, that "cowboy."  I don't think Janine ever tried to teach or convince me of anything different.  She simply was a light at the end of those journeys--including the one that brought me from Nick to Justine.

Agoraphobia Opening, or Opening Agoraphobia

Marianela's ready for another commute:

She might be showing her age.  But, like girls of any age, she likes new accessories--especially a new bag:

And she especially likes it if the bag is retro:  real retro, like the OYB bag I described in an earlier post.


Down my street to start another day:

You can tell there's not much left of autumn.  Every day, the wind sweeps more leaves off the branches.  It leaves the trees more barren, and sometimes even a bit forlorn-looking.  And it exposes them to the expanse of sky:  a gray sky:

It's a bit like my morning commute:  the road and the world open before me, if only for moments. But some days what unfolds is a Mercator Projection of concrete lines and angles puncuated by windows filled with the ashen sky.  


At least, at the end of the days like that, I can ride away from it.  That was always the second attraction of cycling for me.  The first is to pedal into the open waves, whether they are in front of or within me.

For Two

The other day, I saw a tandem propped against someone's hedges

It's a Motobecane tandem from, as best as I can tell, some time in the late 1970's or early 1980's.  I am always surprised to see a tandem, much less anyone riding one.  But it was even more unusual to see one after the cycling season has passed its peak.

Anyone who drives in New York will tell you that parking is one of the most difficult things about life in this city.  I think it's just as true for tandems as it is for cars.  Actually, parking a bicycle built for two may actually be even more difficult than parking a car built for four.  After all, tandems don't fit very well in spaces where people park regular bikes.  And the spaces in which most New Yorkers live don't leave much room for a tandem.

I've ridden a tandem twice in my life.  The first time was, in fact, around this time of year.  I rode with a group that took rides to various ethnic neighborhoods in this city to sample foods and restaurants.  A young blind woman wanted to ride with them, but she needed someone to ride the front of a tandem the Light House supplied.  Enter me.

The bike was a single speed Schwinn:  heavy, but not a bad bike.  As I recall, it's what the bike rental places in Central Park offered.  So, while it wasn't the most responsive thing in the world, at least it didn't "fishtail" in the rear, as some tandems are prone to do.

I think my story-telling skills were more important than my bike-riding prowess for that woman.  I gave her a running narrative of the neighborhoods through which we rode and explained why we were riding them.  

After a while, I found myself sad and frustrated because I had to explain all sorts of things most of us take for granted.  For example, when we rode by the brownstones of Park Slope and Carroll Gardens, I realized she had no idea of what they looked like.  She didn't even know about red, brown or any other color.  

Unfortunately for that young woman, I didn't do quite as well as the narrator did at the end of Raymond Carver's Cathedral.

Then again, that narrator wasn't pedaling and balancing the front of a tandem! 

Commuting on the Fifteenth of November

If you looked at my other blog around this time two years ago (Now why would you have done that?) , you'd know that one of my favorite descriptions one person has ever given of another was what Gertrude Stein said about T.S.Eliot:  "He looked like the fifteenth of November."

Today looked, well, like the fifteenth of November:

As gray and overcast as that sky was, it posed absolutely no threat of precipitation.  And it won't until late tomorrow afternoon.  The weather was cool-to-chilly, also typical of this date. I don't mind riding in these conditions at all.   To me, a day like this one is as much a reason to commute by bike as a sun-drenched morning in late spring is.

The street on which I live dead-ends onto the one from which I took the photo.  I was a mile or so from my apartment and had about an hour of daylight remaining.  That gave me enough time to notice the particular (and sometimes peculiar) geometry of that area of Long Island City, Queens:

The funny thing is that I don't like either of those buildings.  The one on the left is owned by Citicorp; it's across the street from the company's main tower, which is the tallest building in Queens:

"Citicorp" as in "Citibank":  When I had an account with the latter, I used to refer to them as "Shittybank."  And I wasn't the only one who did!

Anyway, I re-shot the second photo from another angle.  Did I unwittingly create a commentary on the government bailout?

It makes the fifteenth of November seem downright balmy.

Just What This Girl Needs: Another Bag!

Back in the day, I carried a boxy gray canvas shoulder bag.  I bought it from the sort of store that seems not to exist, at least in Manhattan, anymore:  Its merchandise was too disparate even to qualify the place as a "variety store" or flea market.  In fact, just in sheer size, or lack thereof, the place could hardly even qualify as a store of any kind:  It was just a few feet by a few feet of space that contained bins and a counter. And there didn't seem to be more than one of any particular item.


The shop or store or whatever you want to call it was on or near Canal Street.  The bag, if I remember correctly, cost 75 cents.  On its flap a serial number and a cross of the kind found on a few countries' flags were stenciled.  It had no stiffeners, so, when empty, it could be folded small enough to fit into a small pocket of a backpack or pannier.


I carried that bag through my last two years of college.  Then I took it with me on my first trip to Europe, where it served me nicely for carrying my camera and notebook when I was off the bike and wandering the back alleys of various towns and cities on foot.  When I lived in Paris, I used it to carry any number of things. And, after I returned to the States, I found that the bag served as a kind of musette.


When I first started carrying that bag, it wasn't socially acceptable for men to carry shoulder bags.  Then, a few men  would start to carry what others would refer to as "fag bags" and, later, "man purses."  And my particular bag, by the time I finally wore it through, would come to be known as a "Swiss Army bags."  When I first bought the bag, there was no benefit--at least from a marketing standpoint (What did I just say?)--to be derived from asociating it, or any product, with the Helvetian military.  Only those who actually worked in the outdoors (like rangers) and dedicated hikers and campers knew what a "Swiss Army Knife" was, much less used it.  


Fast-forward three decades.  Only stylized near-imitations of that bag are to be found now--at least, in any place where I shop.   I have, however, found something very similar, only better--and vintage, to boot.

I bought it from Out Your Backdoor (OYB).   The package in which it was shipped included, among other things, OYB's newspaper/magazine that reads like the copy on the label of the old Dr. Bronner's soap bottle if it had been written by hippies-turned-survivalists. The subjects include any and all outdoor activities from gardening and tree-planting to off-road biking, and music, literature and art from independently-produced "folk" artists.  Some of those writers, composers and performers wouldn't give themselves such labels, or may not even be aware that they exist.  It's not the sort of stuff people learn how to do in MFA programs.


Those stories, songs, drawings and such are a bit like the bag I bought:  Some might believe them to be too unrefined.  But if you like things with, or that can develop, a patina, you might like some of them.


In other words, the bag I bought from them fits perfectly into their ethos and aesthetic:  They're canvas with leather bottoms and fasteners and look used.  But they're not "treated":  The bags are military surplus, or at least look and feel the part.  


To these bags are added tabs and straps that allow them to be used as bike bags.  They're billed as "seven way" bags.  I tried three of those ways, and might try a fourth.


As a saddlebag, it would be good for a day ride.  It fits in a similar way to the Velo Orange Croissant bags and the Berthoud bag on which it is modeled, and seems to have about half again as much carrying capacity as either of those bags, but about half  as much as (or less than) a Carradice Barley.  Supposedly the OYB bag can hold three wine bottles.  But you didn't hear that from me, a non-drinker.


OYB provides three tan leather straps similar to the kind that come with the Carradice bags.  They work best on bag loops like the ones found on the Brooks B17 saddle, but can also be attached to the saddle rails.  As the bag is longer than its VO/Berthoud counterpart, its bottom may rub on the tire of a bike with a small frame, or one on which less than the traditional "fistful of seatpost" is exposed.  Of course, if you use a rack or fenders, or have a larger frame or more than a fistful of seatpost, this will not be a problem.


Also, the bag will install in somewhat of a convex shape if you mount it on saddlebag loops.  That takes away some of its capacity, but there's still enough room for almost anything you'd need for a day ride.

Without a support, the bag is surprisingly steady.  That may have to do with the structure of the bag which, while it has no stiffeners, holds some semblance of a distinct shape due to its thick canvas and leather.


The bag also makes a nice small shoulder tote in which you can hold a wallet, keys, pen, cellphone and a few other items, such as a hairbrush and compact.  I'm guessing that it would also be good as a handlebar bag  or small pannier for a small, light load, though I haven't tried using it for those purposes.  


Best of all, this bag is less expensive than just about any other saddle, handlebar or shoulder bag.  OYB will install a leather "blinky" strap for an extra five dollars.  Whether or not you choose that option, you'll get a bag that's sturdier than most others available today and has the cool "retro" vibe that looks great on vintage bikes, as well as current steel bikes.


I decided to try the bag on Tosca for the heck of it.  But ultimately it's going to Marianela, as I think its brown leather and brownish olive drab canvas will look nice on her.

Seeing One of My Old Bikes, Perhaps, Again

It was probably a good thing that I was in a hurry.  Why on a Saturday, you ask?  Well, I was running late because I slept late.  


I'd volunteered to be on a panel in a discussion at the Graduate Center of the City University of New York.  Silly me.  I gave up a ride on one of the best days we're likely to have for a while for the privilege of doing something I'm not crazy about in one of my least favorite places in New York City, if not the world.


Anyway... After I parked Marianela on 35th Street, just off Fifth Avenue, I turned the corner toward the GC-CUNY entrance.  About the best thing I can say about GC-CUNY--and the only thing that would ever tempt me to go to school there again--is that there are decent bike racks in front of the building.


On one of them was propped and locked a bike that, for a moment, made me--as Kurt Vonnegut said in Breakfast of Champions--woozy with deja vu.  I didn't photograph it, but I found an image of a bike just like it:

It's a Schwinn Continental from 1971 or 1972.  I can date it that closely because of the color:  Schwinn called it "Sierra brown;" it's sometimes referred to as "root beer brown."  The following year, the bike was available in a redder shade of brown.  I don't recall what Schwinn's catalogue copy called it.


As you've probably guessed by now, I had the "Sierra" or "root beer" brown Continental.  I bought it early in my freshman year of high school for the princely sum of $96.  My parents thought it was an absolutely insane amount of money to spend on a bike.  Little did they--or I--know what I was getting into!


The so-called "bike boom" of the Seventies was picking up steam then.  As I recall, I went to four different local shops that June, around the time school let out.  All were sold out and subsequent shipments from Schwinn were already spoken for.  None of the shops thought they could have a bike for me before November.  So imagine my delight when one shop--Michael's, on Route 35 in Hazlet, NJ (next to a drive-in movie theatre)--got a shipment a month earlier than promised.  And, yes, there was one bike on which nobody had dibs.  "As long as you don't mind this color," the shop's owner said, a bit condescendingly.


In my high school--and, apparently, most others--most kids got the Continental in a lemon yellow, or the Varsity in a shade of dark bottle green.  They were fine colors, but I was taken with the brown:  It was more elegant, with a golden-bronze undertone, than the photo in this post depicts.  Without hesitation, I plunked down the cash I'd earned from delivering newspapers.


Even though the bike came a month earlier than promised, I had to wait about three months:  a near-eternity for a kid entering adolescence. Now that I think of it, I waited almost as long for that Schwinn as I did for at least one custom frame I've ordered!  


Schwinn referred to the Varsity and Continental as "lightweight" models, though either one weighed about twice as much as my Mercian road bike, on which I made no effort to save weight.  Those Schwinns even weighed about ten pounds more than Marianela weighed when she was new, and she was even a couple of pounds heavier than her competition, which included the Peugeot U08, Raleigh Grand Prix and Motobecane Nobly.

Yes, the Continental was a tank.  (So was the Varsity.)  I'll bet mine is still out there somewhere.  Maybe it's still being ridden.  Hey, for all I know, the one I saw today might've been mine!

Cycling Professor Didn't Ride Today

It pains me to admit this:  On a lovely, if rather chilly, fall day, I didn't cycle to work.


I took the train instead.  It bought me time, of which I haven't had nearly enough, to look at some students' papers and to review a lesson.


Yes, the colleges were open, even though it's Veteran's Day. 


Here's a video of a cycling professor:  http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=5251769227304946424 

Autumn Light In The Darkness

Tonight, during my ride home from work, I cut through Flushing Meadows-Corona Park.  It's most famous as the site of two Worlds' Fairs (The Unisphere was built for the second), the US Open stadium and the setting for parts of Men In Black.  Even on a night as chilly and windy as tonight has been, people walk, run, cycle or otherwise transverse the park, and it's heavily patrolled.  


Anyway, Marianela, my LeTour, wanted to stop under this tree:

She knows a photo op when she sees one.  "Do I look autumnal, or what?" she intones.  Yes, she does, even in her battered condition.

I'm Not A Purist, But...

I've seen trust-fund kids wearing Mao and Che T-shirts--which, when you think about them, are a bit oxymoronic.  Perhaps that's not as much a contradiction as having or pursuing tenure while professing Marxism.  (I guess my ex's family, who escaped from Castro, still influences me after all!)  And some genius thought that a song about the apocalypse was just the thing to sell cars.  I love the song (and most others by the artist who wrote and sang it); I just thought it was odd to hear in a VW commercial.


So I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to see a porteur-style rack on the front of a "hipster fixie."  I wish I could've taken a photo of it.  But almost as soon as I saw it, the bike's owner unlocked it and bolted down Broadway.  Even if I'd had enough time to take a photo, I wouldn't have been able to take a very good photo, as I didn't have my camera with me.  


But it was quite the sight:  all neon colors, except for the flat black rack on the front.


I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.  Some "hipster fixies" are actually used for transportation, and even to haul stuff, although they're not the best bikes for the purpose.  And, within a certain segment of the population, it's hip to have a porteur rack.  Still, the combination doesn't seem right.


Mind you, I am  not a purist, at least not about most things.  When I realized how silly and futile it is to preserve racial purity, which is a fiction anyway, I lost whatever desire I had to uphold homogeneity.  


All right, I'll admit to being a purist about a few things.  I still don't think that pineapple belongs on pizza or chocolate chips in bagels.  (Actually, that's the New Yorker in me.)  And, all other things being equal, I'd rather mount merrie olde English Brooks saddles and hang equally merrie-olde Carradice bags on my even-more-merrie-olde-English Mercian frames.  But if you looked at my bikes, you'd see that, even though they have lugged steel frames, they're not entirely "retro," which is something I've never tried to make my bikes.


Still, I'm trying to wrap my mind around the idea of a hipster fixie with a porteur rack.

Bike Porn and Stuff I See From My Bike

I know that some cyclists' blogs include "bike porn."  I don't know that mine does.  If I have any kind of porn in this blog, I'd say that it's of land- and sea-scapes, skylines and people who may or may not have known that I photographed them.  


Perhaps the following photo doesn't qualify as any of the kinds of porn I've described.  But I did take some sort of perverse pleasure in taking it:

Aside from the actual or non-porn, there are things I see.  I'm trying not to turn this blog into Stuff I See When I'm Riding My Bike, but it may be going that way in spite of my efforts.  Here's an example of the genre, specifically something I saw yesterday:

To take a photo of this car without the light pole in it, I would have had to risk being flattened by the traffic.  I want to be skinnier than I am now, but that's not the way I had in mind.


At first glance, I thought I was looking at a Renault that had been left on a radiator.  Or, at least the front had been left there.  I rather liked the color--a shade of orange rather like a dusty vermilion.

Now, what the car was doing in front of a service station in Glendale, Queens, I'll never know.  I know that there are Polish and Albanian communities nearby, but not very many Romanians, as far as I know.  (Where are there very many Romanians outside of Romania?)  Even if Queens were full of emigres from Bucharest, I doubt there are very many who would have taken the trouble--or had the means--to bring a Dacia from their native land.


I did some quick research (translation:  I read a Wikipedia page) and learned that Dacia was founded during the 1960's with assistance from Renault.  Hmm...Romania gave France one of its best twentieth-century playwrights (Eugene Ionesco) and the French started their auto industry.  Who got the better of that trade?


Anyway, Dacia are still making cars.  In a not-too-surprising twist of fate, Renault bought the company.  The French automaker saw a growing market in the former Communist-bloc countries, and believed that Romania would make a good base of operations for their incursions into that market.  (Renault also makes cars in Turkey, among other places.)  


Now, while I'm out riding my bike and filling my brain with stuff that I'll turn into pointless ruminations, other people are slaving away over hot grills.

I've mentioned these guys on other posts in this and my other blog.  They make a chicken-and-rice platter to die for.  I'm not the only one who feels that way:  Once again, they won the "Vendy" award:

All I can say is that in the majority of the world, and through the majority of history, art is and has been utilitarian.