Springing Forward

It's hard to beat athletic events for displays of intense concentration.  I don't think the competitors are being melodramatic when they grimace, shout or contort their faces and bodies, and focus their eyes, in ways that do not allow for the recognition of anything but the task ahead.


It was especially striking to see on a clear early spring (more like mid-spring, weather-wise) Sunday in a Corona park.

I try not to think or talk too much about teaching when I'm away from it. (Goddess knows that I have to spend lots of time reading and grading papers and tests, and preparing lessons.)  However, I couldn't help but to think of a comparision-and-contrast exercise: between the kinds of intensity displayed by the bocce player in the first photo and Bernard Hinault in this one:

Although my ride was leisurely, the bike that got me there seemed to be focused on getting me there and wherever else I wanted to go.  Track bikes, I think, are rather like that:  The fixed gear wastes little energy to flexing or bending, or to the friction of the mechanisms that would be necessary to allow the bike to coast. This also means the rider can't waste motions, even when riding in the meditative way I was.  

Being Green

All right. Since it's Saint Patrick's Day, I'll show you a nice green bike--one that's not Vera, anyway.

I found this image of a Freddy Grubb track bike on Megadeluxe Sports.  You'll find other interesting stuff there.

Must It Have Rust?

If you're involved in any sort of endeavor or follow any sort of passion for long enough, you see all sorts of trends come and go.  So it is for me (and, no doubt, some of you) and cycling.


What inevitably happens is that some people cop the style rather than the substance of the trend. That turns the trend into a parody of itself.


I fear that may be happening with Porteur bikes and racks.  When I first started seeing them here in the US, I thought "Great! People are actually going to ride to work and shop."


I'd say that more people are doing those things, at least here in New York, than were doing them a few years ago.  Also, not everyone who commutes or rides to the farmer's market is a racer or wannabe, or simply a "bikehead."  I see more and more people who are primarily commuters and who might, on occasion, ride for fun.


But then the look of Porteur bikes and accessories became fashionable, and those items became fetish objects for some.  Now, if someone has the money and really intends to carry the loads, I can understand spending over 200 dollars on a Porteur rack.  On the other hand, the fact that such racks and bikes are now fashionable makes them more inviting to thieves.  I'm not so sure I'd want a fancy rack on a  bike that was going to spend large portions of every day parked on the streets.


Perhaps the solution is this:

The bike is a Bridgestone from, as far as I can tell, the early '80's (pre-Grant Petersen). I think the rack came off an old pizza delivery bicycle.


For me, that begs the question of whether something can be called "Porteur" (or even "utility") if it's shiny and new.

The Bikes Stop Here--And There

A series of neighborhoods dangles along the banks of the East River like a cedille from Astoria Park to the Williamsburg Bridge.  They include Astoria and Long Island City in Queens and Greenpoint and Williamsburg in Brooklyn.  There may be more cyclists, per capita, in this corridor--in which I happen to live--than in any other part of New York City. In fact, I doubt many American urban neighborhoods outside of Portland (and, perhaps, Seattle) can rival the concentratration of bicycles and cyclists found here.

So I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to see this near the Long Island City (Queens) side of the Pulaski Bridge.

The first time I saw it, I wondered what all of those bicycles were doing in a bus kiosk.  Then I saw the sign.


On the block before it, there is a row of bike racks that's almost always full.

The bike at the front makes me wonder just how good an idea unsecured open-air bike parking facilities actually are.  On one hand, I'm glad to have dedicated bike-parking spaces. On the other, I can't help but to think that maybe they're targets for bike thieves and cannibals.


Maybe I'm just too accustomed to locking to parking meters and such--or not parking my bike and not doing business with stores that don't allow me to bring my bike in.  


Anyway, I got in a quick ride after work the other day. At times like that, I'm thankful for Daylight Savings time, and Tosca likes rhe photo ops available on the Greenpoint (Brooklyn) side of the bridge:

When I Was A Guinea Pig: Riding An Early Cannondale

Today I am going to reveal one of my dim, dark secrets.  Yes, even at this late date, I still have them.

Here goes:  I actually owned--gasp!--a Cannondale racing bike.  One of the very first ones, in fact. 

One might say it was one of my youthful follies. The year was 1984.  I was working for American Youth Hostels. Back then, the organization was located on Spring Street, near Wooster, when the neighborhood (Soho) still had some halfway interesting art galleries and eccentric stores and cafes.  At that time, AYH had an store and mail-order service that sold bicycling, camping, hiking and other outdoor equipment.

Back then, Cannondale was known mainly for its bags and outdoor wear. Their bike bags were actually well-made and reasonably priced:  I used a few in my time. And I used one of their backpacks for the longest time.  AYH employees were able to buy Cannondale goods at their wholesale prices.

So I became, in essence, a guinea pig.  I bought their original model racing bike, with a full Campagnolo Nuovo Record component grouppo, for something like $500. 

It was one of the first--and last--times I succumbed to the urge to be the "first kid on the block" with some new item. 

The photo doesn't do justice to just how ugly that bike actually was.  The welds were cobbly; later Cannondales have the smooth joints you see on today's models.  Plus, the oversized aluminum tubes were very in-your-face, especially if you were used to steel-tubed frames. 

Being a snot-nosed kid with something to prove, getting such a bike wasn't enough for me. I wanted to be really badass, so I got it in black. I don't remember what kind or color bar tape came with it; whatever it was, I replaced it with red Benotto cellophane tape. And, I got cable housings to match.

Aside from its proportions, another thing that struck me was how much lighter the bike was than others I'd ridden.  Also, it was--as advertised--the stiffest bike I'd ridden up to that time. Maybe it's still the stiffest bike I've ever ridden.

What that meant is that the bike could go very fast. However, it also meant that it rode like a jackhammer.  Even my young, sevelte self felt beat-up after a ride on it.  I think that it actually slowed me down, ultimately:  I can ride only so hard or so long when every bone in my body is aching.

A few people swore by those bikes.  It's hard to imagine that anything Cannondale--or any other bike maker, for that matter--has made since then could be any stiffer.

Those early Cannondales came with CroMo steel forks--Tange, I think. I'd ridden the bike for close to a year when those forks were recalled.  After I got my replacement, I stripped the Campagnolo components off  the bike and replaced them with other stuff I had lying around or that mechanics of my acquaintance filched fetched from their shops' parts bins.  And I gave that Cannondale to my landlord for a month's rent.

Those Campy components went on to bigger and better things (ha!) I'll describe in another post.

Note:  The frame in the photo is larger than the one I had.  Plus, it has different components. 

In The Beginning (Of The Season)

It may not officially be Spring.  Not yet, anyway.  But even with the mild weather we've had yesterday and today, it feels like the beginning of spring.

Or, could it be that riding just felt so good?  Yestersday I took one of the first seashore rides I've done in a while.  One thing about such a ride early in the spring (or on a mild day at the end of winter) is that you know that you're approaching the water because it's noticeably colder.  You see, even though the temperature neared 60F yesterday and 70F today, I don't think the ocean temperature has reached 40F yet.  So, a maritime breeze--let alone a wind--will let you know that you've underdressed, even if the sun feels good on your skin.

But the real essence of a first-of-spring ride is, for me, the feeling of emerging from a cocoon or a shell.  Of course, that might mean an ache or two if I ride a little harder or longer than I'd ridden during the winter.  But, still, it's an energetic feeling--or, more precisely, one of emergence, like a flower groping its way up from the barren earth.

In the spirit of the first of spring, I want to pay homage to someone who's been an inspiration to me over the past couple of years.  In that spirit, here is a "first ride of spring" photo from one of my favorite bloggers:

Velouria, I mean no disrespect or condescension when I say that this photo of you made me think, not only of the first of spring, but of evolution.  After all, according to Darwin's theory (and Genesis, for that matter), all life began in the sea.  So, in a real sense, cycling begins in the sea, or at the water's edge, at any rate. 

As it happens, her blog--Lovely Bicycle!--began in the Spring three years ago.  Coincidence?

Pink Bicycle Springs Ahead

Here's a friendly reminder to "Spring Ahead" for Daylight Savings Time:

Pink Bicycle With Springs, by Neil Heeney

This photo comes from Neil Heeney's photostream.  

Riding Across The Sea?

When I was a teenager, I went to Universal Studios in California.  One of the things I still remember about the visit is riding the tourist trolley through the "Red Sea."  Of course, I'm not talking about the body of water that separates Africa from the Arabian Peninsula.  What "parted" in front of me was the re-creation of it that was used in The Ten Commandments.


Because of the movie, which my family and I watched every year (If I recall correctly, it always aired on Good Friday.), whenever I hear or read the name "Moses", I think of Charlton Heston.  Having the "sea" part in front of me without the aid of Mr. Heston left me with an even crazier idea:  If I could part the Atlantic, I could ride to France and Italy.  


Of course, even if the logistics of parting the sea could be solved, there would be other issues.  The distance from New York to France or Italy (or England, Portugal or Spain) would be roughly the same as the distance from New York to California.  However, when you cross the country, there are all sorts of things to see and, more important, places to stop and eat,sleep, wash and take care of other needs.  Somehow I don't think such amenities would be available on a trans-Atlantic crossing.  And, as much as I love water, I'm not sure of how I'd feel about seeing nothing else at least until I got to the Azores (assuming, of course, my route went that way).


Now, having cycled in Europe several times, I'm not quite as taken with the idea of a trans-Atlantic bike ride as I once was.  (Also, I am older and, I would like to believe, have a firmer grip on reality.)  Still, if it were possible to do such a ride, I just might try it.


Maybe that's what the young man in this video had in mind:

Enforcing The Law Without Knowing It

The New York Police Department (NYPD) is notorious for its capricious enforcement of traffic rules.  What's even worse is that too many officers don't know what the rules are for cyclists.

Evan Neuman found that out the hard way.  He was cycling up Allen Street in Manhattan's Lower East Side when a cop pulled up and ticketed him for not using the bike lane on that street.

Allen Street Bike Lane, New York City

The thing is, he had been riding on the Allen Street bike lane.  He left it to make a turn onto Ludlow Street.  He got his ticket shortly afterward.

New York State law requires that cyclists ride in bike lanes when they're available.  It also stipulates that we can't ride on the left side of the road (against traffic) or more than two abreast.  A number of New York City cyclists have been ticketed for alleged violations of this law. However, these laws (like many State laws) do not apply in New York City.

Instead, the New York City code says the following: Whenever a usable path or lane for bicycles has been provided, bicycle riders shall use such path or lane except under the following conditions:  (i) when preparing for a turn at an intersection or into a private road or driveway, (ii) when reasonably necessary to avoid conditions (including, but not limited to, fixed or moving objects, motor vehicles, bicycles, pedestrians, pushcarts, animals, surface hazards) that make it unsafe to continue within such path or lane.  

My guess is that many police officers--and members of the general public--believe that cyclists must use the lanes, no matter what.  That may well have been the case of the one who ticketed Evan Neuman.  However, given that a fair number of "New York's Finest" patrol on bicycles, I would expect them to be more familiar with the law.  


Neuman has fought the ticket.  So far, he's lost in Traffic Court and a Department of Motor Vehicles appeals board has rejected his appeal.  Now he's filed a motion in State Supreme Court to have the ticket dismissed.

They Weren't Wearing Bike Outfits

On my way home tonight, three guys stumbled off a curb and nearly tumbled in front of my wheel.  I would have cursed at them, but they were dressed in very gaudy outfits that were somewhere between robes and dresses.  And they wore wigs, or what looked like wigs.


Instead of yelling at them, I thought, "Hmm...They look like they're doing a Chasidic version of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.  Or maybe La Cage Aux Folles. The loud but lilting music that echoed off the houses made it seem even more like a campy drag revue.


Turns out, I wasn't too far off.  At sundown, a couple of hours before I left work, the feast of Purim began.  Some people refer to it as "The Jewish Mardi Gras," which also isn't too far off.  


It commemorates the deliverance of the Jewish people from destruction in the ancient Persian Empire.  Hamman, a high-ranking advisor to King Ahaseurus, conceived of the plot, which is revealed to the king by Esther, who became his favorite concubine and, finally, his wife. Until the moment she tipped the king off, she did not reveal her Jewish identity.


It's a complicated but fascinating story, which is related in the Magillat Esther, the only book of the Torah in which G-d* isn't mentioned by name.  However, everything about the story, including Esther's concealment of her identity, shows G-d working in mysterious ways and in various guises.


That is one of the reasons why people wear costumes for the feast and it is the only day on which the prohibition against men wearing women's clothing is not observed.  


Hmm...Imagine if I'd run one of those guys over.  Can you just see the next day's New York Post headline:   Wrong Place, Wrong Time or Wrong Clothes:  Chasidim Dragged Under Tranny's Wheel.  Or something like that.




* I am using the name of G-d in the way an Orthodox or Chasidic Jew would.