Assembling, In Words And Pictures

What are the most important pieces of writing you have ever read?  

I know that's a biiiig question.  Interpret "important" in any way you like.  And the pieces of writing can be just that--whether they're works of Literature (with a capital L) or a warning label.

For me, those pieces of writing would include three of Shakespeare's plays:  The Tempest, Othello and Macbeth.  They would also include T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock, Victor Hugo's Les Miserables and Sappho's Odes.  And, I must not forget NSC-68, Christine Jorgensen's autobiography (which I read as a teenager in the local public library) and The City of Ladies.

Oh, here's another:  Everybody's Bike Book by the late, great Tom Cuthbertson.  Mechanics tend to think spatially and visually rather than verbally, so anyone who can turn bike mechanics--or any kind of mechanics--into prose that's understandable, much less enjoyable to read, is a truly special kind of writer.

Here is something I am sure Tom, rest his soul, would appreciate:

From Visual.ly

What's On A Woman's Mind?

While looking through one of my discs, I came upon this photo:

I won't claim it as a contemporary counterpart to Le Penseur.  But it got me to thinking nonetheless.

 I recall taking it at a WE Bike meeting in June at Bike Works NYC.  The shop offers a good selection of vintage and vintage-inspired bikes and accessories, as well as high-quality tools and parts.  It's in a space about the size of a Texas closet: Only in New York could such a claustrophobic space house a bike shop!

Anyway, I didn't take any notes about the photo.  So, perhaps, you could supply some.  Perhaps you could come up with a caption or one of those thought-bubbles you see in a comic strip.

What's on this woman's mind in a bike shop?

Krof

For the past few days, I've had a relapse of the respiratory illness I had during the winter.  So, I was off the bikes and generally out of commission.

I finally got out today, to go to the store.  Along the way, I saw a bike that normally wouldn't capture my attention:  one of the many department-store "mountain" bikes you see parked on the street.  However, something struck me as odd about this one:

Did you notice what was off?  Here's a shot that might give you a clue:

Did you notice that the brakes are mounted to the rear of the fork?  That was the first thing that tipped me off to something else that's wasn't quite right:  Look at the angle of the fork legs.

Yes, the fork is mounted backward.  Was it deliberately installed that way by some kid who wanted to make his bike "different"?  I don't know whether that's more or less disturbing than the other probable explanation:  Whoever assembled the bike simply didn't know any better.  

Look at how far the front wheel is from the rest of the bike:

It's not merely an aesthetic concern, however. I simply cannot imagine how the bike rides with the fork in such a position.  I would expect the shopping carts in the local supermarket to have quicker, more responsive and more accurate steering than the bike with a fork mounted that way.  In fact, with such handling, I'd be afraid to ride the bike, especially in traffic.

I wonder whether the bike's rider notices anything odd or unusual about the ride.  Perhaps he or she has never ridden anything else and so has no basis for comparison.  Perhaps  this person thinks that bikes normally handle like that one.

Now that's a scary thought--at least to me.

Bicycles: Food For Thought

Some years ago, Santa left a package of this in my Christmas stocking:

It was actually very good pasta.  If I recall correctly, it was made in Italy.  At any rate, it came in the trecolori of verte, blanco e rosso.  As much of a Francophile as I am, I'm not so sure that I would have wanted pasta en bleu.

I have seen cookies and other foods--usually sweets--shaped like bicycles.  I can easily imagine cutting vegetables and fruits and forming the pieces into two-wheeled crudites.  However, I have a harder time seeing meat, fish or fowl as velocipedic viandes.

All of this begs a question:  Has anyone ever eaten an actual bicycle?

One Michel Lotito--a Grenoble native who performed under the name "Monsieur Mangetout"-- would have answered, "Moi!"

The best part is that he ate not one, but eighteen, bicycles during his lifetime.  Apparently, it was his favorite non-food delicacy:  He also consumed fifteen shopping carts, seven televisions, six chandeliers and one Cessna 150 aircraft, among other objects you won't find on the menus of restaurants in his hometown. (I know: I've been there!)

Before partaking of his meals, he cut the objects into pieces and, when necessary, ground up the parts.  I don't know whether or not he said grace, but he did gulp some mineral oil before downing his repasts, and drank water throughout each "course".  If you ask me, his exploits give new meaning to the term "slider".

He claimed never to have suffered any ill effects from his galvanized gourmandizing, even though he consumed some substances that are considered poisonous.  He also said he never had trouble passing any of the estimated nine tons of metal he ingested between 1959 and 1997.  No Montezuma's  Revenge for him.  However, he also said that bananas and hard-boiled eggs made him sick.

On 25 June 2007, ten days after he turned 57, he died "of natural causes".

All of this, of course, begs another question:  Did he ever eat a carbon fiber bike?  If so, did its fiber content aid his digestion?

This Is Your Brain On Two Wheels

Back when Nancy Reagan was telling us to "Just Say No," this commercial was all over the airwaves:

About a decade later, we were subjected to "This Is Your Brain On Heroin":

Last week, President Obama announced a brain-research initiative.  According to scientists who could be involved, this project is far more ambitious than the human genome project because, frankly, we know less about our brains now than we did about our genes three decades ago.  Also, the genome project had a clearly-defined goal; by definition, such a thing is all but impossible in brain research.

Anyway, I'm waiting to find out what they might tell us about bicycling's effect on the brain.  I'd love to see the commercial for that!

The Future Of Cycling Fashion?

I dream of the day I can go to a job interview or board meeting dressed like this:

From the Osprey Packs bike blog

I'd settle for looking as good as she does in a skirt, heels and chainmark!  

Now, if someone made those shoes compatible with Look, SPD or other cleats and someone raced in them, that would be interesting, to say the least!

The Grass Is Greener...

Believe it or not, I've actually mowed lawns.  For those few years I lived in New Jersey, my brothers, parents and I took turns cutting the grass around the house. And, I would sometimes make some money by leaving neighbors' and strangers' lawns shorn.

Having been a city girl for most of the rest of my life, I haven't cut very many lawns since those days in the Garden State.  But, if I ever have to leave the Big Apple (or urban life altogether), I now know what I need to make the transition easier:

Miyata 912

Today I saw one of my bikes parked on the street.  Well, sort of.

As I was on my bike, and in a hurry, I didn’t get a chance to take a photo.  However, I did find an old photo of a bike just like it. 

I rode this Miyata 912 for a couple of years.  At the time, it was Miyata’s second- or third-line racing bike.  It came with Shimano 600 components, or as a frame—which is how I got mine.

As you can see from the photo, I set it up as a sort of daytripping/light touring bike, with wide-range gearing, a rack and wider tires than would normally be ridden on such a bike.

The lugged frame was constructed from chrome-moly steel tubing which Miyata claimed was “triple butted”.  I wasn’t quite sure of what that meant.  All I knew that the bike gave a pretty stiff and stable ride.   I took it on a few overnight and weekend trips, with a light load in the rear and a handlebar bag on the front.  The bike handled smoothly, but I’m not sure I would have wanted to load it for a long tour, or with camping equipment.

I knew a few racers and other cyclists who rode the Miyata “Team Pro,” which was the company’s top-of-the-line racing bike.  At least two claimed it was the stiffest and quickest road bike they ever mounted.  Mind you, they were riding Italian bikes before they got hold of their Team Pros.

While the 912 was not quite in the same class, more than a few were raced.  I had the feeling that the differences between it and the Team Pro had more to do with geometry than materials or workmanship: The Team Pro didn’t even pretend to versatility, while the 912 had slightly longer clearances that probably could have taken fenders (albeit narrow ones) if I’d wanted them. 

The 912, as you can see, was also very striking, visually—especially, if I do say so myself, with the yellow cable housings I installed on it.

For me, there was just one problem:  The top tube was a bit long for me.  As a result, I rode it with a stem that had a rather short extension, which blunted some of its handling qualities, at least somewhat.

I finally sold the 912 to someone whose torso was longer than mine.  He was grateful.

Six Years With Max

Six years ago today, I took Max into my home.

A few months earlier, my friend Millie rescued him from a street that divides a shop in which metal is cut, bent and welded from another in which auto bodies are painted, sometimes in bizarre schemes.  Just down the block from it is a commercial bakery that supplies restaurants in Manhattan as well as in Queens:  the place from which Marley was rescued.

Millie kept Max in her house for a time.  But she already had other cats, and a guy who briefly moved into the neighborhood took him in.  He disappeared, as he was wont to do, for two weeks.  A neighbor heard Max’s cries.  Fortunately, the guy returned a day later, and Millie took Max from him.

I offered to take Max home—when I was ready.  You see, during that time, Candice, who had been in my life for twelve years, died.

I jokingly referred to her as my “ballerina”:  She was pretty and thin even though I fed her what I fed Charlie.  And she always seemed to be walking en pointe.


In some ways, Marley reminds me of her. She liked to jump into my lap, cuddle and curl, as he does.  Also,  she was a bit skittish, though very gentle, as Marley is. While Max always seems ready to greet anyone I bring into my apartment, Marley is more cautious:  It takes him some time to work up the nerve (or whatever cats have) to meet my guests.  However, once he “comes out”, he rubs himself against my guest and licks his or her hand.  Candice was like that, too.

She died  a little more than a year after my first Charlie.  They were about the same age (15 years), though Candice spent a little less time in my life because I adopted her when she was three years old, while Charlie came home with me only a few weeks after he was born.   But both he and Candice shared some important times in my life, including the early and middle parts of my transition.  And I owned about a dozen bikes (though not all at the same time) and rode about a dozen more during that time!

Then Max came along.  I’ve gone through some more changes (and bikes) and he has just loved, and loved some more.  He doesn’t have to do anything else.

The End Of A Day At The Beginning Of A Season

During my ride home, I stopped at the Long Island City piers just in time for this:

And, in one sign that Spring is finally springing on us, I saw a willow just beginning to open itself to the sun that's finally warming it: