If you were following bike racing in 1974, when this photo was taken, you'd know that the racer in front is none other than Eddy Mercx. I mean, who else had muscles like that in his legs?
Now, the question: Was this photo taken in le Tour de France, which he won that year?
Well, from what I'm told, the fans were shouting "Allez! Allez!" to Eddy. That would probably rule out le Tour, as French cycling fans actually weren't very fond of him.
So let's see...Where else would people have been shouting 'Allez! Allez!" ? Specifically, where would they be directing it at Eddy?
Hmm...His home country of Belgium, possibly? Of course, it would mean the race was in Wallonia, or possibly around Brussels, which is a bilingual city. Either one is a possiblity: He seems to have been popular in those areas, though not as well-loved in his home region of Flanders.
Switzerland is a possiblity. After all, there's a mountain in the background. And, he seems to have been more popular in the Francophone Helvetian provinces than he was in France.
We could rule out the French-speaking African countries, as Eddy never raced them. Ditto for French Guiana and the departements in the Caribbean.
Saint Pierre and Miquelon? We're getting closer: At least we're on the right continent (more or less). If we go a few hundred miles west, we come to a city whose flag is a white field with a clover, thistle, rose and fleur-de-lys.
You guessed it : Montreal. A few weeks after his fifth (and final) Tour de France victory, Eddy won the first World Professional Championship held in North America. In the photo, he's ascending Mount Royal (for which the city is named), a climb he described as one of the most difficult of his career.
Now that we've placed it geographically, there are a few clues that tell us that the photo was indeed taken in 1974. One, of course, is that Eddy is still young. Also, the bike he's riding is a give-away. But most important of all, in my opinion, are the clothes of a fan near him. I mean, he wouldn't have gotten away with wearing them--especially those pants!--a year or two earlier or later.
He doesn't have opposable thumbs. He can't balance on two feet. He doesn't know how to use foot retention. The top tubes on all of my bikes are too long. (So, for that matter, are the seat tubes and cranks!) He's doesn't like Brooks saddles. And it's raining.
Oh, the excuses he has....
And you know why he gets away with it? Marley is just unbelievably, ridiculously cute, even when he squints.
Of course, I could say the same thing about Max.
And he has one more excuse than Marley: He's older (in cat-years, anyway) than I am.
This morning I managed to get in a ride just ahead of one of the worst storms we've had in a while.
Just after I got home, I could hear the raindrops pinging like BB's against the awning. We may have had hail, as some other parts of the NYC Metro area did.
Whatever the precip was, a sudden, fierce wind drove it. Some people on Long Island said they saw a funnel cloud; I know that a lot of trees came down.
When I'd finished riding, the temperature was near 100 F (39C). The one good thing about the storm was that it dropped the temperature by about 20 degrees F within an hour. But I could just barely see out my window, so I didn't go for another ride.
But, as brief as my morning ride was, it gave me a pretty good workout. And I felt a sense of victory, however small, over having beaten that storm!
You win a few, you lose a few...
Today I rode to the Steeplechase (a.k.a.Coney Island) Pier. For years, it's been ravaged by storms and tides; the section that meets the boardwalk literally had beach sand "growing" through it.
Well, it's been re-boarded. (Roads are re-paved; I figure that boardwalks and anything else with planks on it is re-boarded. ) Thankfully, actual boards, and not concrete substitutes, were used.
So far, so good. But I got about fifteen meters onto the pier (It's about 150 or so meters long.) when an earnest young woman in a green Parks Department polo shirt blew a whistle. "Miss! Miss!" I turned. "You have to walk the bike!"
Well, that was a first. And how did she know I'm not married, anyway?
Given that it was so hot (The temperature was close to 90F, or 32C, when I left my apartment at 9:30 this morning), I expected to see more people on the pier. If nothing else, it offers, in addition to views (and good fishing, if you're into that sort of thing), nature's first air conditioning: sea-breezes. It was--or felt, anyway--about ten or fifteen degrees (F) cooler than it did when I left my apartment.
But, in addition to the fisherpersons (Yes, I've seen women casting lines into the surf!), you see some interesting, if solitary characters:
Nothing like having the whole city--let alone the whole world--to yourself, eh?
Note: I apologize for the lack of detail in these photos. I took them with my cell phone.
Today I did something I haven't done in too long: I took an early-morning bike ride, and I wasn't going to work.
There was a time in my life when, if such rides didn't constitute the majority of my cycling, they were at least routine. On days when I worked in the afternoon or evening, I took such rides, and on weekends I got up early to take my long rides.
But I can't recall the last time I did such a ride. Part of the reason is the work schedules I've had. I also can't help but to wonder whether the hormones and other changes have made me into more of a night person: I stay and get up later than I used to. At least I can say that, as often as not, I'm writing or doing some other necessary work when I'm "burning the midnight oil."
Today I made a point of getting out early. For one thing, I wanted to avoid the heat this part of the world would experience later in the morning and afternoon. But I also wanted to remember what it was like to take such a ride.
Back in the day, my early-morning rides were solitary or in the company of other hard-core cyclists, all of them male. The latter kind left me pumped with adrenaline and testosterone: If I went through a day cocky, it was a result of such a ride. On the other hand, the early-morning rides I did alone left me feeling a peace with--if not within--myself and the world around me that I rarely, if ever, attained in any other way.
Today's ride--a little more than an hour and a half on Tosca, my "fixie," left me feeling contented and ready for the rest of the day. That was definitely a good thing on a day which is not structured by outside forces. I needed to do laundry (which I did), but there was nothing I absolutely had to get done today. But I managed to accomplish a couple of other things I could just as easily have put off.
I say this, not to congratulate myself, but to show what a wonderful thing it is to be able to ride early in the morning without going to work.
While riding to Randall's Island last week, I passed the block--9th Street, from the Noguchi Museum to a construction-supply store-- on which I lived before I moved to my current locale.
The day I moved there, nearly a decade ago, was almost frighteningly clear and blindingly hot. I had just left the last long-term relationship in which I'd been involved; I knew I was going to embark upon a part of my life I'd spent my life avoiding but which was absolutely necessary to become the person I've become, for better or worse.
I was struck by how much the light and shadows looked like the ones I saw the day I moved there:
When Velouria came to town for the New Amsterdam Bike Show, we rode down this block. It just happened to be along the way.
I made a wrong turn in the Bronx...
It sounds like the title of noir film, doesn't it? If such a movie were made today--in Hollywood, anyway--someone would tack a "happy" ending on it and the critics would call it "life-affirming" or some such thing.
Anyway, after teaching a class, I took a spin along the East River and into the Bronx. (Sounds so idyllic, doesn't it?) Because of construction (Why do they call it that when they're tearing something apart?), I had to take a detour. I found myself under the ramp for the Willis Avenue Bridge. If you've ridden the Five Boro Bike Tour, you've rolled across that bridge.
Underneath that overpass are some interesting old industrial brick buildings. It's sort of like DUMBO. From one of those buildings hung one of the more interesing--and, unless you know the area, incongruous--signs I've seen:
When I first saw that sign, I thought perhaps someone was making a film. Turns out, the place tunes, repairs and stores pianos. In fact, they've probably tuned at least some of the Steinway pianos that are made in Queens, not far from where I live.
That's all the more reason for me to be surprised if someone hasn't made a film (or part of one) there. It's hard to find a locale that looks more Victorian, in a shadowy sort of way, than that spot where Bruckner Boulevard begins.
Can you guess what comany made this bike, or even where it was made?
At first glance, it looks like a Dutch bike, doesn't it? And, in many ways, it resembles one. But it's at least a few pounds lighter.
I'll show you the men's version of this bike:
Its owner added braided cable housing,toe clips, a TA one-clamp water bottle cage and a Brooks saddle bag. Even if you can't see the decals, there's one detail that should give you a clue as to where these bikes were made.
The headlight has a yellow lens. Until recently, the bikes (and cars) sold in a particular European country came so equipped. That country is, of course, France.
Now do you know who made these bikes? Clue: They were the largest bicycle manufacturer, and one of the leading auto-makers, in Gaul. Oh, yeah, and they made those great pepper mills.
Yes, those bikes were made by Peugeot. When I worked at Highland Park Cyclery, I actually sold one of the women's version. Back in 1982, there was practically no demand for such bikes in the US. And, no "serious" cyclist rode anything but a diamond (a.k.a. "men's") frame. But the customer wanted a stable, upright, sturdy bike. Plus, she liked the style of it.
She wore a skirt when I was fitting the bike to her. She mentioned, just casually (ahem!) that she had long legs for a woman her height. As if I hadn't noticed...
Our relationship lasted, if I recall correctly, about a year. Looking back, I'm surprised it held as long as it did: I was in my early 20's and she was about a dozen years older. She was a surprisingly durable rider, and was a writer. However, beyond cycling and writing, we didn't have much in common. Plus, as the self-help folks like to say, each of us had our issues.
Still, I have some rather fond memories of riding with her. And, I am responsible for the only sale of the women's version of that bike--the Peugeot VX-40--at Highland Park Cyclery. In 1982, that was no small feat, if I do say so myself!
On a hot day, one of the best ways to end a bike ride is with a boat ride. That I did today on the Staten Island Ferry, after a ride on Helene that took me up the Bronx cliffs, across Manhattan, down the New Jersey Palisades into Hoboken, Jersey City and Bayonne, then, finally, over the bridge into Staten Island.
One of the nice things about riding on a hot day with low humidity, as I did today, is that the weather isn't nearly as oppressive as it is with high humidity. On the other hand, if you're like me, you drink anything and everything in sight. Still, I think I got to the Ferry less fatigued than these guys:
Helene is in front; the bikes behind her were ridden by the two recliners. At least nobody can be accused of reading over this guy's shoulder!:
As befitting a high-class English lady with some French culture, Helene was her usual modest self:
With her, the ride was definitely smooth sailing:
I've been to Hell.
All right. I confess (Do you still go to Hell if you confess): I wrote that first sentence to get your attention. I didn't see lakes of fire or papal prelates or industrial/military plutocrats with encased in ice up to their necks. And I didn't have an out-of-body experience.
But I did ride over something that, on a fixed-gear bike, can very closely resemble Hell:
Riding over this street made me think of the Paris-Roubaix race, often called L'Enfer du Nord (The Hell of the North). Every year in April, the race organizers look for the roads in northern France and Belgium with the pointiest cobblestones or with all sorts of other hazards.
Bernard Hinault is a five-time Tour de France winner and very old-school racer: Unlike, say, Lance, he used to ride--and, very often, win--all sorts of races all over Europe. But he flatly refused to ride in L'Enfer. It's hard to blame him: He had chronic tendinitis in one knee, a condition that caused him to abandon the 1980 Tour de France while he was wearing the leader's yellow jersey. Finally, the following year, he rode Paris- Roubaix--the only time he would do so--and won.
Wouldn't you like to see a race like that run through DUMBO, where I took the photo? From there, such a race could spin through other nearby industrial areas along the Brooklyn waterfront. There are also other areas--most of them industrial or post-industrial--with Belgian cobblestones like the ones you see in the photo.
When I had a mountain bike with shocks, I used to ride over those streets for fun. The experience was still jarring, because most mountain bike shocks are designed to keep the bike stable rather than to cushion the rider. It's the kind of joyously harebrained thing you do when you're young--or, as I was, full of testosterone (and, possibly, other substances).
After bouncing along the DUMBO cobblestones, I stopped in Recycle A Bicycle, where I have been volunteering. The young woman there was working on this bike:
She assured me that the paint job was as it appeared to me; I was not seeing an optical illusion induced by the ride I'd just done!
