Curious George Never Could Have Ridden Their Bikes

When I was a little one, schools--including the one I attended--had book fairs.  There were books about famous people, sports, history, pretty things, and all sorts of other topics.  And, of course, there were the "story books".

Among the most popular of the latter category were the "Curious George" books.  I think I read every one of them; they were among the ones I most looked forward to seeing.

For those of you who didn't grow up with him, CG was a monkey adopted by The Man With The Yellow Hat.  As his name indicates, George could not keep himself from checking things out.  If TMWTYH told him to leave something alone, he'd open it, play with it, try to build something with it or even swallow it--any of which could lead him to all sorts of adventures and misadventures.

So it was in Curious George Rides A Bike.  The Man With The Yello Hat buys George a two-wheeler.  He goes to help a newspaper boy with his route but makes boats out of the newspapers and sets them adrift in a stream.  Then he runs the bike into a rock, wrecking the front wheel.  Some workers with a traveling animal show fix the wheel and invite George to join.  (Hmm...There's an interesting twist on "running away to join the circus"!)  They give him a bugle to play and tell him not to feed the ostrich.  But, somehow, the bugle gets stuck in the bird's throat,and the workers have to get it out.  Then they kick George out of the show for violating the rules and instruct him to sit on a bench until they can send him home.  Meantime, a bearcub escapes and climbs a tree, where it gets stuck until George rescues it in his newspaper bag.  The workers, now proud of George, let him ride his bike and play the bugle in their show.  His act is a hit with the audience, and he's allowed to keep the bugle--and bike.



At first glance, it sounds like the typical shaggy-dog story found in any other Curious George book, except that a bicycle is involved.  But--perhaps not surprisingly--it reflects, at least in some ways, a particular experience of the couple who wrote and illustrated the book.

Hans Augusto Reyersbach and Margarete Elisabethe Waldstein nearly eight years apart in Hamburg, Germany.  Both of their fathers--and Hans' mother--were Jews.  They knew each other briefly when she was a young girl, but would not meet again until she was 28 and he was 36--in Rio de Janiero, where they had gone to escape the Nazis.    They soon married and moved to Paris, where they settled in Montmartre.

While they were in Paris, Hans' animal drawings came to the attention of a French publisher, who commissioned him to write a children's book. The result, Rafi et les Neuf Singes (translated as Cicely G. and the Nine Monkeys) is little-remembered today and might be entirely forgotten had it not featured a monkey named Fifi.

The Reys

The couple--now known as H.A. and Margaret Rey--started to work on a book about Fifi.  But war broke.  One by one, European countries succumbed to the blitzkreig.  When German tanks rolled across the Belgian border, the Reys knew they couldn't stay long in Paris.

But how could they--as Jews (even though Margaret wasn't one by Halakhikh law, she was one according to Nazi codes)--travel without attracting attention?  If they'd taken a train, bus or boat, they would have been "outed" if a conductor or gendarme demanded to see their IDs.  And walking would take too long.

When they realized what their best alternative was, Hans got to work.  He assembled two bicycles from spare parts.  Margaret packed a few belongings--including the manuscript for The Adventures of Fifi, for which they had just received an advance.

They mounted their bikes and pedaled south and west--just two days before Paris fell to the Nazis.  They stayed in farmhouses and barns en route to Bayonne.  Along the way they were stopped once, by an official who thought they might be German spies.  He searched their bags and, after finding a manuscript for a story about a monkey, sent them on their way.  

In Bayonne, Portuguese Vice-Counsul Manuel Vieira Braga (following the instructions of Consul Aristides de Sousa Mendes in Bordeaux)  signed the visas that saved the couples' lives.  The Reys continued riding until they crossed the  Spanish border, where they bought train tickets to Lisbon. From the Portuguese capital, they set sail for Brazil.  Back in Rio, they made arrangements to move to the United States.

Four months later, they were in New York, where they settled in Greenwich Village.  Only a week after that, they found a publisher for their book.   However, that publisher thought "Fifi" was a strange name for a boy monkey and suggested changing it.  Curious George was pubished in 1941.  Over the next quarter-century, H.A. and Margaret Rey wrote, illustrated and published six more Curious George stories, including Curious George Rides A Bicycle in 1952.  

H.A. Rey reads to children in the 1970s.

It's often said that writers write what they know--which usually means their experience.  Curious George rode his bicycle to adventures--though not as harrowing as those his creators experienced!

"An Event That Can...Rival The Tour De France"

Three weeks ago, Geraint Thomas of Wales won the Paris-Nice stage race.  A week later, Arnaud Demare took first place the Milan-San Remo two weeks ago. And, this past Sunday, Peter "The Terminator" Sagan, claimed victory in Gent-Wevelgem.

The 2016 road racing season is well underway.  It includes hundreds of events all over the world, but the "main" ones are seen--at least by casual cycling fans--as the Giro d'Italia in May, the Tour de France in July and, in late August and early September, the Vuelta a Espana.

Although there are more races in North America than ever before, none has the profile of "The Big Three", or even the early-season classics like Paris-Nice, Gent-Wevelgem and Milan-San Remo.

It takes a lot of time and money to start a new race, let alone make it attractive to the top competitors as well as fans.  Folks with big bucks tend not to be the most patient of people; they want a quick return on their investment.  But there are some exceptions, such as the fellow who said:

I really look to the future.  I always do, with investments, with deals, with events with anything,  and I think this is an event that can be tremendous in the future, that can really very much rival the Tour de France.

Hmm..."rival the Tour de France".  He really is thinking big.  I'm surprised he didn't say, "It's gonna be huuuge!"

 

Aerodynamics Or Weight?

Ever since I wrote yesterday's post, I have been thinking about weight and aerodynamics. 

For decades, cyclists have debated which is more important.  Actually, when I first became a dedicated cyclist four decades ago, there didn't seem to be much talk about aerodynamics.  Then, the emphasis was on weight.  That makes sense when you realize that many new cyclists--myself included--noticed how much lighter those newfangled (or so we thought) ten-speeds were than the three-speed "English racers" or balloon-tired Schwinns and Columbias we and our parents had ridden up to that time.  We went faster on those new "lightweight" ten-speeds; racers raced on them (or bikes that looked like them).  Ergo (that wasn't yet the name of a brifter), light weight must equal speed and all-around performance.

The tuck

At that time, about all that most cyclists knew about aerodynamics regarded their own position on the bike.  We all knew that the "tuck"--in which a cyclist rides as far forward as possible with his or her arms and legs as close to the bike as he or she can pull them in--was the most aerodynamic way to ride.  Oh, and we thought that shaving our legs would cut down on our wind resistance.

Little did we know that around that time, engineers and scientists like Chester Kyle were experimenting with ways to make the bicycle more efficient.  An experiment to find out whether tubular (sew-up) tires were indeed actually better than clincher (wired-on) tires led to a research that culminated with the development of streamlined bicycles, fairings and recumbent bicycles.  It also was instrumental in helping to create much of what we see (and some of us ride) today, such as disc wheels.

At first, only he and fellow members of the then-newly-formed International Human Powered Vehicle Association (IHPVA) seemed interested in his work.  Part of the reason for that is that bicycle racers, especially at the top levels, were reluctant to change equipment that had been working for them.  Even if riders were more willing to experiment, there was the spectre of the Union Cycliste Internatonale (UCI) (yeah, those guys again!), which had a history of declaring records null and void if its members believed they had been set on bicycles that deviated much from prevailing standards.

But, slowly, racers started to take notice and a cottage industry developed in aerodynamic bikes and parts.  The first attempt to bring aerodynamics to a wider audience came in 1981 when Shimano introduced its Dura Ace AX components.   Shimano's motivation for creating and marketing such a group of parts had, not doubt, had at least something to do with its desire to challenge Campagnolo's then-near-monopoly as a supplier for the world's top racing bikes.  It also had to do with its desire to distinguish itself from other component manufacturers--including SunTour--in the eyes of consumers. 

 

Shimano Dura Ace AX Components, 1981

But Shimano didn't get the payoff it had hoped for.  Most consumers, accustomed to the aesthetics of Campagnolo and the new SunTour Superbe components, didn't like the way AX stuff looked.  Also, it was heavier than what either of those companies made, as well as Shimano's conventional Dura-Ace components, and more expensive.  Most cyclists wondered just how much of an advantage they would gain by using aerodynamic components.


At that time, I knew a few cyclists--racers and the well-heeled--who used the AX stuff, usually on bikes like the Miyata Professional.  They all swore by the parts, and the bikes.  Mind you, they were the sorts of cyclists who believed that nothing could be better than an Italian (or, maybe an English or other European) bike with Campagnolo equipment.  Convinced as they were, though, they never seemed able to convince others to switch.

Laura Trott riding with disc wheels.  Oh, she won the gold medal.

Around that time, the first disc wheels and "deep V" shaped rims started showing up.  They, like the AX components and Miyata Pro, had their devotees, but could not convince others to make the switch.  The reservations expressed were the same:  looks, weight and cost.

(I must confess that I was one of those who didn't switch.  As my budget was very limited--I skipped meals and such to afford my Campy stuff--I simply couldn't afford to buy new parts.  Also, because my budget was limited, I was reluctant to try anything new or experimental.)

While the needle didn't move much for most cyclists, gradually time trialists and track riders started to adopt the new aero equipment.  Those probably were the disciplines in which the aerodynamic equipment made the most sense:  In the peloton, or in any other large group ride, you could probably be more aerodynamic just by riding within the group--or simply "drafting" one rider. 

Interestingly, the group of cyclists who did the most to make aerodynamic equipment desirable for others were triathloners.  Perhaps this has to do with the fact that the cycling portion of the triathlon more closely resembles a time trial than a road race, in part because there is no drafting. Also, riding in a more forward position takes weight off riders' legs, which leaves them fresher when the triathloner has to jump off the bike and start running.

It was for the triathlon that the first widely-used aerodynamic handlebar, the Scott DH, was developed. They made the "leap" into pure bicycle racing--as I noted in yesterday's post--when Greg LeMond rode them to victory in the final time trial of the 1989 Tour de France, which enabled him to win the whole event.

Greg LeMond riding to victory.

One thing I remember is that my Cinelli Spinacis added about quarter of a kilo (a bit more than half a pound) to the weight of my Colnago.  And the Spinaci was one of the lightest aero bar extensions available; others added as much as a full kilo to the bike.  Other aerodynamic components required more material, and were thus considerably heavier, than their counterparts. As an example, Mavic's 631 "starfish" crankset, which LeMond rode, weighed 723 grams. On the other hand, the company's 630 crank, patterned after the Campagnolo Record series, weighed only 525. For wheels, the weight difference was even greater:  1500 grams for a typical rear road disc of the time vs. 1110 or less for a wheel with 36 spokes, which was still the norm at the time LeMond rode.





Mavic 631 "starfish" crankset

Which brings me to the question everyone asks:  How much did LeMond's Bottechia aerodynamic weigh?  Well, according to the reports I've read, "more than 25 pounds (about 12 kilos) or even "more than 30 pounds" (about 14 kilos, which I find difficult to believe).  The lower figure is be about two to four pounds heavier than a typical road bike of the time; even if we go by that, we see that you don't ride an aero bike or components for the weight savings.




The bike LeMond rode in the last stage of the 1989 Tour de France.

So...the question remains:  Which is more important, weight or aerodynamics.  If I were a time trialist, I would certainly worry more about the latter. And for climbing or any kind of riding that requires quick acceleration (or deceleration), light weight is more beneficial.  For everyone else:  I don't know what to say.  And as for me: I don't worry about either.

 

Assuming A Postition: Scott DH And Cinelli Spinaci

Today, the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI) is one of those organizations almost nobody loves.  There are plenty of good reasons for that:  The organization is often accused of looking the other way when riders are doping--and taking bribes to do so, and threatening lawsuits against those who accuse it of wrongdoing.  It was, essentially, duped (or so it claims) into violating a country's sovereignty.  And the UCI makes and enforces all sorts of rules that defy logic or reason.

However, there was a time--believe it or not--when the UCI actually made rules that made sense.  One of those occasions came in 1997, when it banned aerobar (a.k.a. "tribar") extensions from competition.

Scott DH bar, circa 1988.  Don't you just love that neon yellow? ;-?

 

You have no doubt seen, and possibly ridden, them.  Originally, they were designed and ridden by triathletes.  They caught on with other racers and wannabes after Greg LeMond rode the final time trial stage of the 1989 Tour de France on a bike equipped with Scott DH bars.  He began that day (23 July)'s stage 50 seconds behind race leader Laurent Fignon.  Rarely does any cyclist--barring a crash or mishap to another--make up so much time on a single stage, let alone the final one, which is usually an individual time trial and is, as often as not, ceremonial rather than consequential.

Greg LeMond on his time trial bike--with Scott DH clip-on aero bars--in the 1989 Tour de France.

When it was over, LeMond--whose 1986 Tour victory was the first by an American--left Fignon in second place, 8 seconds behind in the overall classifications.  That was, and remains, the smallest margin of victory by any overall Tour winner. 

Until then, the jury was out on aerobars.  But a lot of cyclists looked at that result--an 8 second lead over a three-week-long race!--and thought that if the aerobars weren't the reason, then maybe, just maybe...

Sales of Scott DHs took off.   The "forward" position mimicked the "tuck" of a downhill skier, which is where the "DH" came from.  (Before they started making aerobars, Scott was a ski-equipment company.)  At that time, a lot of road bikers were taking up mountain biking, some in the form that would later come to be known as "downhill".  That, I believe, accounted for at least some of the popularity of Scott DHs with wannabes.  And, at that time, some cyclists who'd started off as mountain riders were "discovering" road cycling.  And those triathloners who hadn't adopted aerobars up to that time couldn't wait to get them.


The popularity of those bars, naturally, spawned imitators and tweaks.  Some, like Profile, were made by companies that had never before made bike components.  And most of the handlebar manufacturers of that time got in on the action.



Cinelli Spinaci, circa 1990.

One of the best-known of that new breed of bars was the Cinelli Spinaci.  Its forward reach wasn't quite as far as that of the DH.  So, while it wasn't quite as aerodynamic as the DH, it allowed the rider to assume a position more aerodynamic than the normal road-riding position for longer periods of time.   Also, the Spinaci could be set up in a greater variety of positions.  That latter quality also was one of its downfalls.

The ideal position, or at least the one recommended by Cinelli, set the clamps at 45 degrees and the bars parallel to the ground.  But some riders tilted their Spinacis to the "wheel licker" position in the mistaken belief that being in a below-horizontal position made you more aerodynamic.  Others rode them with the bars tilted so that the end were almost in a direct line with the rider's face.  That position was about as aerodynamic as a boulder.

How do I know so much about the Spinaci? All right, I'll make a confession that might cause some of you purists to lose respect for me:  I used it.  I like to think I was young enough to consider it now as a youthful folly.  Although I knew that the bars would wreak havoc with the aesthetics of my Colnago, I rationalized installing the Spinaci because, well, it was Italian--because it was Cinelli, the same brand as the handlebars to which I was clamping it.

I didn't ride them for very long, though.  As I have  mentioned, there was no benefit in tilting them upward or downward.  And even though riding them in the horizontal position was relatively comfortable (especially with the arm rests), I didn't spend much time riding that way.  So, after acquiring them in the spring, I had little trouble selling them in the summer, as they were at the peak of their popularity.

The biggest drawback, though of Spinacis, DHs or any other aerobar lies in using them while riding them in a peloton or any other kind of group or pack.  When you're riding on the extensions, your hands are nowhere near your brake levers.  On traditional road bars, if you're riding in the drops, you can move your hands to the levers relatively quickly, usually enough to avoid a crash or lessen its impact.  The real danger, though, is not just in one rider using it.  As the UCI folk realized, in one of their rare moments of anything resembling clarity or magmamnity, if a hundred riders are using them and one of them goes down, or there is any other emergency, the result could be, essentially, a race that ends by attrition.

Now, having said all of that, I am not trying to dismiss aerobars.  I never cared for the aesthetic, but I can understand why some riders, especially time trialists, would like them.  The UCI, in one of its increasingly-rare instances of clear thinking, realized that there are some situations in which those bars shouldn't be used, and banned them for that reason.
 

Through A Sea Of Molasses

If you commute by bicycle, you know that sometimes your ride home can feel very different from your ride to work.

Sometimes you're happy to get out and get on your bike at the end of your work day, especially if you have a couple of hours of daylight.  Then, your ride home might seem easier and go more quickly than the ride to your job.  You might even take a longer route, or a side trip, as you head home.

Then there are other days when the ride back seems longer and more tired because, well, you're tired.  You mght have had a stressful, or simply long, workday.  I know that when I have early morning classes, conferences with students and a meeting or two--or any unforeseen situation--the ride back might take me a few minutes longer, especially if I'm pedaling in the dark, in the dead of winter.

But yesterday, I felt as if I'd been pedaling through a sea of molasses for my ride home.  That sensation began with my first pedal stroke.  Even mounting my bike seemed more arduous than it did in the morning.

Mind you, I didn't have a tough day at work.   Things went well, actually:  Students were prepared and engaged.  So was I.  Exchanges with colleagues and office staff were pleasant.  Heck, I even stayed a bit longer to get a few things done--and write yesterday's post on a computer at my job.

By the time I got home, though, I felt as if I'd pedaled up every major climb in the Rockies, Alps, Appalachians and Pyrenees, and maybe one or two other mountain ranges.  Those eleven kilometers or so felt like a Tour de France stage--one that combined the mountains with a sprint.

Well, today I realize that I wasn't as out of shape as I feared I was.  My sinuses were spewing more than Mount Vesuvius and Mount Etna, and what it was spewing probably would have qualified my respiratory system as a Superfund site.  And, instead of eating pasta or noodles, my body has the lateral rigidity (sorry for the bikespeak!) of those foods--when they're overcooked.

So today I didn't go to work--or ride for any other reason.  It's odd that I managed not to be sick all winter, and the first week of Spring brought me to this.  Oh, well. It's temporary--I hope.  At least I'm not hurt. 

Forty Years Later--Bikecentennial, Punk Rock and Miji Reoch

Mention the year 1976 to most Americans, and they will think of their country's Bicentennial.

Mention that same year to most American cyclists--at least those of a certain age--and Bikecentennial will come to their minds.

Something else that became an important part of our lives is also about to turn 40 this year.

I'm not talking about punk rock.  (Whether you date it to the Ramones' release of their self-titled album in February or the debut of "New Rose" by The Damned that October, punk rock began in 1976.)  And I'm not talking about the founding of Apple or the debut of Big Red Gum or the Honda Accord--or, for that matter, the Laverne and Shirley series.

What I am referring to is the first race in Somerville.

But wait a minute, you say.  First of all, it's the Tour of Somerville, though it is in fact a race.  Second, it first ran in 1940.  Didn't it?

Well, yes--for half of the population.  For its first thirty-two editions (it was not held from 1943 until 1946 because of World War II), only men competed in what has been called "The Kentucky Derby of Cycling".  But in 1976, the Mildred Kugler Women's Open--named for the daughter of Somerville's first winner, a top competitor in her own right--ran for the first time.  Held on Memorial Day, the same day as the men's race, its list of competitors and winners reads like a who's who of women's cycling.  As an example, Sue Novara, one of the best of the generation of female racers  that put the sport "on the map" during the late 1970s and early 1980s, won the race four times.

The very first winner of the Women's Open is someone who, unless you are around my age or are immersed in cycling history, you probably haven't heard about.  But in her day, she--a few years older than Novara and Sue Young--was one of the riders who picked up the torch from those who kept bicycle racing in the US alive during its Dark Ages and became, not only a world-class racer, but later a coach to the generation of riders who included Young and Novara, as well as later riders like Rebecca Twigg and Connie Carpenter.

Mary Jane "Miji" Reoch first won the US National Road Race championship in 1971, at the age of 26. She would go on to win ten more national championships on the road and track before retiring from racing at the end of the decade.  She also led a contagion of American women cyclists on a tour of Europe, where they competed in, and won, still more events.

She also helped to shatter some prevalent myths about pregnancy and cycling.  While she was racing, most obstetricians--nearly all of whom were male--recommended that women stop cycling as soon as they knew they were pregnant.  Their advice was based on the notion, since discredited, that a woman would harm her fetus or baby if she continued to ride.

Well, Miji continued to ride all through her pregnancy.  In fact, she pedaled to the hospital where she delivered her baby!

Miji--almost nobody called her by her full name--managed to earn the respect and garner the affection of a generation of those who raced with and against her, as well as those she coached and fans of racing.   While coaching in Texas, she went for a training ride with one of her students on the morning of 11 September 1993.  She was riding behind that trainee to better study that student's position and technique on the bike when an out-of control motorist struck her from behind. 

That motorist--Mario Nambo Lara--was driving well over the 20mph speed limit on the wrong side of the road when he lost control.  Reports said that she flew more than 90 feet through the air before landing in White Rock Lake.  That night, she was pronounced dead at Doctors' Hospital in Dallas.  

The pickup truck Lara drove was later found, abandoned.  By then, Lara had fled to his native Mexico, where he was captured nearly three years later. It is believed that he was intoxicated on the day he crashed into, and killed, Miji.

The following year she was inducted into the US Cycling Hall of Fame.  Women's racing, as we know it, might not exist had it not been for her work.  And it's not hard to imagine how much more it could have advanced had Miji not met such an untimely and tragic death.  She'd be 70 years old now, but if she could cycle to her delivery room, it's not difficult imagine she'd be cycling and coaching now.

Happy Easter!

Happy Easter!

Is that your idea of a nice family ride?

Perhaps it's more like this:

or this:

Or you may like a more spirited, competitive ride:

Whatever you do, enjoy the day!

It's A Mountain Bike....And A Weight Trainer.

Yesterday, dear reader, I subjected you to another one of my "I remember when" posts.  If I do say so myself, I suspect some of you may have liked it, as the thing I was remembering is the sort of bike that's, sadly, not made anymore.

Today's post will also begin with "I remember when".  What am I recalling from the good ol' days?  Listening to a song with the lyric "all of the colors of black" with rainbows of polyester all around me?  Hearing Bruce Springsteen before the rest of the world would hear of him?  (Yes, I did!)  Seeing Michael Jackson when he was still black?  

No, I'll tell you about something that, if you're not of a certain age, you will find truly incredible.  No, I'm not talking about a time when the Rolling Stones and Joni Mitchell were actually worth listening to.  (Believe me:  There was such a time!)   I'm also not talking about the Knicks winning the NBA Championship. (Yo lo vi, I swear!)  Instead, I'm about to tell you something you may find even more unbelievable.  But I swear it's true.

Here goes:  Saturday Night Live was once actually worth watching. In fact, it was the funniest, and simply the best, program on TV for a time.  Really, it was.  In those days, it offered skits like this:



It's a dessert topping.  No, it's a floor wax.  Dan Ackyroyd, Gilda Radner and Chevy Chase were parodying all of those products hawked on late-night TV that try to serve disparate functions.  Can you imagine what the original SNL cast would have done with smart phones when they first came out?

Now, I'm not against products that can perform more than one function or task.   But just about every product has at least one thing it should never, ever be made to do.  As an example, I don't see how any device could be a juicer and a deep fryer at the same time.  At least, I don't think I'd want to eat or drink anything that came from such a device.

I have seen bicycles used to generate power for hair dryers and laptops, or spin grinding stones used to sharpen knives and cut keys.  I have even seen them used as amphibious vehicles.  I don't mind such uses; in fact, I applaud them.

But I don't think I like this:


If the bars and stem can flex enough to double as a gym machine for upper-body workouts, I'm not sure I'd want to ride them. And, really, you have to wonder just how good of a workout someone would get---whether in the upper body or legs--from the Revolution.

Seeing Red In The Gray Before The Neon: 1983 Miyata 310

You know the '80's were, like, totally, about big hair and leg warmers.  Yeah, totally.  And neon.  Neon, totally.  The '80's were just awesome!

All right.  I didn't talk like that in the '80's.  Even though I was, like, young enough.  

That is the '80's everybody seems to remember.  Or, at least, that's the stereotype of the decade.  You had to love it, though.  In what other decade could The Cosby Show and Miami Vice have made their debuts during the same week?

Those '80's really began, I think, around 1984.  Before then, during the early part of the decade, the '70's were hanging on:  Men were wearing ridiculous moustaches and even more ridiculous sport coats and ties, and young women could be seen in butterscotch-colored leather jackets and boots.  But leisure suits were gone--thankfully!--along with men getting perms.  

And--something else for which I'm thankful--some very, very tasteful and functional bikes were being made.  In 1983, while I was working at Highland Park Cyclery (before I embarked on life as a New York City messenger), it seemed that every bike manufacturer--at least the ones whose bikes I assembled and we sold--offered at least one model in charcoal gray with red highlights--whether the decals or transfers, head tube, seat tube panels or bands, or some combination thereof.  The red really was a highlight:  It accented the understated nature of the gray finish rather than called attention to itself, as the red-white-and-black blocks and and bands on every other new bike sold today seem to do.

That year, I assembled bikes from Panasonic, Motobecane, Trek, Miyata, Peugeot and Ross--the latter's "Signature" series as well as their cheaper bikes.  I saw red and gray in every one of those brands' gray bikes.  But I didn't get tired of it:  Those bikes all seemed tastefully finished, especially this one:

The 1983 Miyata 310 was--is-- a very nice bike.  I think they, along with Panasonic, made some of the best mass-market bikes I've ever seen.  Their lugwork was on par with all but the small builders.  Their component choices always seemed to be made with function and value in mind:  lower- and mid-priced alloy parts from Shimano, SunTour, Dia Compe, Sugino, KKT, MKS and the like.  And, of course, SR Laprade seatposts.

It seemed that every bike and component maker had a product or line called "signature".  I know, it was a marketing gimmick, but it was pretty inoffensive, I think, compared to some that I've seen since.

Shmano made derailleurs with the "arrow" you see.  This version, as far as I know, was made only for the Miyata 310 and a couple of other manufacturers' models:  The derailleur was usually finished in silver and the arrow was gold-toned.  Shimano didn't call them "arrow"; they just had some boring numerical designation.  Nobody--not even the Shimano sales rep who came to our shop--seemed to know what, if anything, the arrow meant.

Sarcasm aside, seeing the bike reminded me--in good ways--of what bikes used to be:  nice lugged frames and components that had real functionality.  Today you have to go to small builders like Mercian or Royal H to get new bikes like them.

I wish that Miyata weren't locked up behind a fence:  I would've liked to have taken better photos.  I hope that I still managed to give you a taste of what people could buy off a showroom floor in the moment before reason and taste vacated much of the bike industry.

Note: There's one thing I don't like about the 310:  the shift levers.  But they're forgivable on a bike that has so much else going for it!

What Cycling Can Teach Your Children

I have no children and don't plan on having any.  Still, I sometimes look at one thing or another and wonder what children or young adults might learn from it.  Perhaps that is a consequence of my being an educator.

(By the way, it's also one of the reasons why I find the Trump presidential campaign so abhorrent.  How can you teach your kids about honesty, respect and just plain good behavior, when someone like The Donald is one of the wealthiest people in the world and might become the most powerful?)

Anyway, I would like to think that if I had kids, they would learn a lot of good things from seeing me ride to work, and for pleasure.  I am sure that there are kids who are learning all sorts of great lessons from parents who ride bikes.    One might be simply that you're never "too old" to ride a bike.  Another is that you can have fun while doing (or getting to) the things you have and need to do.

From Kidical Mass Rockville

The author of the Bike to Work Blog once wrote about the "5 Things Your Bike Commute Teaches Your Children".  I might have come up with numbers 1,2, 3 and 5, or things like them.  But I'm not sure that I would have come up with number 4 unless I'd had kids.

Anyway, here they are:

1. Think outside the box. Riding bike to work is powerful because so few others are doing it. When you bike to work, you are teaching your children that there is more than one way to do something–even something as mundane as the daily commute. In a world in which the jobs your kids will have haven’t been created yet, the ability to “Think Different” is a powerful key to success.
2.  Be Frugal. We try to teach our children to understand value, thrift, and priorities but the average American family spends more on transportation than on food. For most of us, that means a car that sits in an expensive garage all night and in an expensive parking spot all day. By not spending a lot of money on a car, I am powerfully teaching my children what I value.
3. Be Active. We tell our children to eat right and be active (“go out and play!”), but we gain five to eight pounds each year. Many of us exercise before the kids get up or after they go to bed and they don’t see it. When you ride a bike your kids see you leave and come home under your own power; they know you value exercise and a healthy, active body.
4. Be Proactive and Self-Reliant. We want our children to anticipate problems and opportunities and we strive to empower them. When my daughter once asked why I was a little late getting home, I told her that that I had a flat tire. She seemed surprised and asked how I got home; I responded that I had “fixed it.” Watching her face as she processed the lesson that such a thing was fixable was priceless.
5. Tread Lightly. Regardless of your views on climate change, the excesses of the 20th century have to be recognized as unsustainable. I don’t consider myself to be a tree-hugger, but I want my children to recognize that we must consume less and think more. By choosing a bicycle over a car, I am demonstrating an awareness of my impact on the planet that I know my children are absorbing.