A Father's Day Post For Tony Nelson and Larry Paulik

Here in the US, today is Father's Day.

I could have written this post about ties with bike motifs, or cufflinks and bracelets made from bike parts, that you could give to your father (or any man in your life) if he were a cyclist.  But you probably know about those things already.  Perhaps you received such a gift yourself.

Instead, I am going to dedicate this post to two particular fathers--and grandfathers:  Tony Nelson and Larry Paulik.

Tony Nelson

They are two of the five cyclists who were mowed down by a pickup truck driver near Kalamazoo, Michigan.  Three other cyclists, who were mothers (and, in one case, a grandmother) died with them. 

Larry Paulik

I implore every driver who encounters a cyclist on the road to remember that many are fathers and mothers, and all of us have parents.  In that sense, we are no different from you.  Thus, being mindful of us--as we are of you--is a family issue!

No Fish Tales On This Ride!

You've heard the expression "fish story". You know, the ones about the catches that grow bigger and bigger in memory--or imagination.  Or the catches that never were in the first place.  

Surely you've heard one or two in your time.  You might have told one or two yourself. (Don't worry:   I don't judge!)  Me, I never have. (I swear! ;-))  I really was leading thhat stage of the Tour d'Israel when a Mossad agent yanked me away and conscripted me into the Army.  Really!

Why am I mentioning "fish stories" now?  Well, I got to thinking about them yesterday, during my ride to the Jersey Shore.  Of course, if you live an any coastal area, you've heard your share of such tales.  The guppy becomes a grouper, which in another telling, becomes a marlin or some other species that isn't native to the region.

A hundred years ago, people believed that stories about sharks were "fish tales"--or, if you were, sailor's tales. In other words, men who'd gone to sea--or claimed they did--would tell stories about those "man eating" creatures to scare or impress other people.  Or, if people believed in sharks, they thought the sailors and fishermen who told of them were exaggerating their size, speed and ferocity.

Well, one hundred years ago next month, those people would learn that those seafarers were only telling the half of it.  

The first two weeks of July 1916 were brutally, frightfully hot in the New York metropolitan area, and in much of the Northeastern United States.  At the same time, there was a polio epidemic.  Seeking relief, thousands of people took to the beaches of the Jersey Shore.  The combination of hot weather--which, in turn, meant warmer-than-normal ocean temperatures--along with the increased number of people may have brought the sharks, who usually habituate the shores of Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas, to more northerly reaches.

Shark attacks killed swimmers in the Atlantic on the 1st and 6th of July, off Beach Haven (near Long Beach Island, which was so ravaged by Superstorm Sandy) and Spring Lake (near Asbury Park), respectively.  Even though both attacks resulted in the swimmers losing parts of their bodies before bleeding to death, authorities thought there was no cause for alarm.  When sea captains entering the ports of New York and Newark reported seeing large sharks, they were dismisssed.

So was Thomas Cottrell, another sea captain and a resident of Matawan.  He spotted an 8 foot (2.5 meter) shark in Matawan Creek.  For its last couple of miles, Matawan Creek is a tidal inlet of Raritan Bay, which in turn is part of the ocean.  

Matawan Creek, a couple of kilometers upstream--and a century after--the shark attacks.

In a way, I can understand why authorities were skeptical of Cottrell's claim.  It had nothing to do (at least, as far as I can tell) with his credibility.  More than anything, I think that if people had a difficult time believing that a shark attacked in the ocean off southern New Jersey, they had an even more difficult time fathoming that such a creature would swim within sight of the Staten Island Ferry.  

(Even though one has to ride or drive 55 to 70 kilometers (35-40 miles) to get to Matawan from New York, due to the curvature of the shoreline, they're really only a few miles apart "as the crow flies".)

What was even more incredible was that the shark would swim upstream in Matawan Creek, about 15 kilometers inland from the ocean.  Had Cottrell been heeded, two boys--including 11-year-old epileptic Lester Stillwell--might never have entered the water.  They saw what they thought was a piece of an old dock or some other flotsam.  But when they saw a dorsal fin, it was too late:  the shark dragged Lester under the surface of the water.  He did not survive; neither would his would-be rescuer, Stanley Fisher.

On my way back, I pedaled across a bridge over Matawan Creek, a few kilometers from its mouth.  The still waters belied a century-old tragedy, one that is anything but a "fish story".  There were tears then; there have been tears in recent days; for me, there was only sweat: sweat of my own choosing.

Before Cycling Caused Sterility, There Was "Bicycle Face"

Every decade or so, someone resurrects the rumor that cycling causes sterility--or other kinds of sexual dysfunction--in men.  And it usually dies down after some prominent cyclist or journalist points out that nearly all top-level racers--and most in the lower echelons--have more than one child.  

Hey, when I was riding with the Central Jersey Bike Club, one of our ride captains fathered a child at age 62!

Still, the rumor that cycling causes sterility might make the rounds again soon--especially since we have the Internet now.  But even with that technological marvel, another cycling-related rumor probably won't start.

It's not just becaue the rumor has been dead for a century or so.  The  reason, I think, the rumor I'll metion won't circulate is that it incubated in a social environment very different from what we have today.

That social environment was the first bike boom in America, during the 1890s and the first decade of the 20th Century.  In it, women started to unlace their corsets and toss them away--to a large degree because the women began riding bicycles.  They were still a decade from having the right to vote, and feminists of that time were working to make it happen.  Few things made some religious fundamentalists and social conservatives more leery than women going to the voting booth and choosing the candidates they thought best.

Those fearful men included some doctors and others in the health professions.  They were not above making up a condition to scare women out of riding--or to get the men in their lives to discourage or forbid them from getting on their bikes.

What was that malady those doctors concocted?  "Bicycle face".  Yes, you read that right.  "Over-exertion, the upright position on the wheel and the unconscious attempt to maintain one's balance tend to produce a weary and exhausted face,"  noted the Literary Digest in 1895.  



The article went on to describe the condition:  "usually flushed, but sometimes pale, often with lips more or less drawn, and the beginings of shadows under the eyes, and always with an expression of weariness".

Hmm...That describes a lot graduate students I've seen.

This Ride Includes A Currant Bun

Now here's a reason to go to Dublin this weekend:

Alice Coughlan of The Wonderland Theatre Company is leading a guided tour of the streets, pubs and historic buildings in which the stories of James Joyce's Dubliners are set.

The ride is one of the many events taking place from now through Sunday to commemorate Bloomsday.  If you've read Joyce--or some earlier posts on this blog--or simply paid attention to your English teachers or professors every once in a while (ha, ha), you know that his most iconic work, Ulysses, takes place on 16 June 1904.  

Now even if The Wonderland Theatre Company is absolutely wonderful (Somehow I wouldn't be surprised if they are!), I'm not sure that they could do a guided tour of everything recounted in Ulysses.  Actually, I'm not sure that anybody should try to depict anything in it:  It's somewhere in that space between dreams that are so real and reality that is so vivid, so intense, that it seems like a dream.  Also, although it's been called a novel, I think it's more like an epic which can no more be turned into a movie than Song of Myself can be.  

But doing a bicycle tour based on Dubliners isn't the "next best thing" or a "default choice."  I have long felt that the best tour guides (at least, the best I've experienced) are storytellers:  They provide lively, illuminating narratives of the place you are visiting.  Sometimes I can remember those stories even better than the physical details of the place!

And what better vehicle, if you will, for leading the reader/listener/audience through such a story than a bicycle?

Hey, I could be tempted to go on WTC's Bloomsbury ride just for this:   "Tickets include a currant bun with the boys of An Encounter at Dublin Port."  

Now, even though I've done a fair amount of riding in a skirt--sometimes with heels--I think it would be a challenge to ride in that green dress Ms. Coughlan (at least, I assume it's her) is wearing.  Even more of a challenge would be looking as good as she does in it!  

Fun Fact:  Given the stream-of-consciousness style of Ulysses, it's easy to believe that he picked the date on which it is set--16 June 1904--at random.  Which is a roundabout way of saying that it's what I thought, for a long time.  However, it is, in fact, the date on which he met Nora Barnacle, who would become his wife.

Another Fun Fact:  Darina Laracy Silone, the wife of Italian writer Ignazio Silone, asked Nora for her opinion of Andre Gide.  And she got it, all right. "When you've been married to the greatest writer in the world," Nora intoned, "you don't remember all the little fellows."

In Front Of Me

I love when those who read weather forecasts (and call themselves "meteorologists" when they parrot meteorological prognostications) talk about "gusty breezes".  They've been using that phrase a lot lately.  To me, it's still in the same category as "military intelligence", "dietetic candy", "nuclear safety" and "true love".

Anyway, I heard it again in today's weather report.  There was indeed something blowing when I went out for a ride today.  Was it a wind or a breeze?  I don't know.  What I can say about it, though, was that I pedaled against it out to Rockaway Beach.  Then it blew to my left side as I pedaled out to Point Lookout, and to my right on my way back to Rockaway Beach.  Then I rode it home.

Even when I pedaled into it, the wind (or breeze) wasn't onerous.  If anything, the bright sun--which has grown strong as we near the summer solistice--had more of an effect on my melanin-deficient (as an old African-American riding partner once jokingly described me) skin.

Strong sun came with a clear sky.  It was the kind of day in which everything seemed to stretch in front of me as I rode.  For one thing, I rode the entire length of the new Rockaway Boardwalk, which opened for the first time a couple of weeks ago.  Actually, disconnected stretches of it have been open for the past couple of years.  Nearly all of it was destroyed in the wake of Superstorm Sandy; there was basically no boardwalk for most of 2013.

Still, I have a hard time calling it a "boardwalk", though I do like its sort-of-Op Art look.  Its surface is better for cycling, except for one thing:  Sand collects in patches of it.  If you're riding a mountain bike or cruiser, it's not a problem.  But if you're on a skinny-tired (even 700X28!) road bike, they might cause you to skid or stop altogehter.

It was nice to see it stretch in front of me, though--and, more important, ride it all the way to Lawrence and the bridge to Atlantic Beach.

All along the South Shore of Nassau County, the sea and sky seemed to extend everywhere, in every direction, from the windows of bars and restaurants in Long Beach, the bungalows of Lido Beach--and, of course, from Point Lookout.

A good ride was had by all.

When Nobody Wanted Our Flags

If you are here in the US, you know that it is Flag Day.

Even if you aren't here, you've probably seen bikes--or, at least, bike parts and accessories--adorned with the Stars and Stripes.  Back in the days when CNC-machined aftermarket parts were all the rage, it seemed that they all had an image of Old Glory painted or emblazoned on them.  And one of SRAM's early mountain bike derailleurs was called the Betsy, in honor of the flag's creator:

And most of us, at one time or another, have had bikes, parts or accessories with an image of some flag or another on it.  I've owned Italian and French bikes that had little likenesses of their respective country's tricolore on them, and of course I've had handlebar plugs and such with those flags and others on them.  Interestingly, I can't find a Union Jack anywhere on my Mercians.  And I don't recall seeing a Rising Sun on my Miyata.  Oh well.

But there is another kind of flag I associate with bicycles.  When I first became a dedicated rider--late in the '70's Bike Boom, one could buy a triangular "safety flag", usually in bright orange, perched atop a plastic pole that attached to the rear axle or some other part of the bike.

I think they may have sold when they were first offered. But I never saw very many of them--and, usually, they were on recumbents, tandems or bike trailers.  It's hard to imagine a racer riding with one.

Someone, however, thought they were going to become the hot new bike accessory.  At least, that's what I thought when I went to work at American Youth Hostels.  Among my responsibilities was buying and inventorying bike equipment in the outdoor shop and mail-order service AYH ran from its headquarters, then located on Spring Street, near Sullivan Street.  Mostly, we sold panniers, handlebar bags and other bike luggage, racks, a few accessories (like pumps and fenders) and some commonly-replaced parts such as tires, tubes, chains, brake pads and cables.  We had a few components--mainly SunTour derailleurs and freewheels, which people often bought to replace their sick or broken Simplexes or Hurets, as well as a few high-end pieces such as SunTour Superbe brakes and Sugino triple cranksets.

Among the stock of bicycle equipment were boxes full of bike safety flags.  Turns out, there were about 1000 of those pennants, all told, all of them in the same corners of the store and stockroom where they'd been residing since the day they were delivered, nearly a decade earlier.

"Can you think of a way to sell them?"  That was one of the first questions David Reenburd, the manager, asked me.

"Sell them?".  I could just barely suppress a chuckle--and the impulse to say that my degree was in liberal arts, not marketing.

He explained that his boss wanted them sold.  Everyone else wanted to simply get rid of them, as they were taking up space. 

"Why don't we just give them away?", I wondered.

"He", meaning his boss, "said to sell."

"Did he say for how much?"  

I noticed that they had price tags of $7.95:  what they would have sold for (if indeed they had sold) a decade earlier.  David agreed we'd never get a price like that, but his boss wanted to get "as much as we can" for them.

"How about if we sell them for $1.00 with the purchase of anything else in the store?"

His eyes lit up.  And I thought that sooner or later they'd be running up the flag for me.

One week later, we had no takers.  So I came up with an idea that couldn't be carried out today.

In those days, bar codes for store merchandise weren't yet in use.  At least, they weren't in the AYH store.  So we entered the prices of items by hand in the register.    I realized that I could enter, say, a handlebar bag that cost $29.95 at $28.95 and enter $1.00 for the flag.  Then, if the customer questioned it, I could say that I "mistakenly" entered the wrong price and simply added the difference.  And they could take one of the flags.

A couple of days later, we still had no takers for the flags.  Even when I tried giving them to customers as "gifts" with their purchases, nobody wanted them.  

We even offered them to riders on the Five Boro Bike Tour--which, in those days, AYH sponsored.  Still no takers.  Perhaps I was hallucinating (from what, I don't know), but those orange safety flags were starting to look more like white "surrender" flags.

A few months later, AYH moved its facilites up the street, to a building on the corner of Crosby and Spring that today houses a Sur La Table store.   The boxes of flags got "lost" somewhere along the way! 

Did they send up a distress signal?  If they did, we never got it. 
 

Pedaling Away Pollution

After having my ride detoured by a brush fire--and, more important, seeing how much that fire darkened the sky--I can't help but to think about some of the possible environmental effects of cycling.

Here's one:  If just 5 percent of all New Yorker who commute by car or taxi were to switch to cycling, it would save 150 million pounds of CO2 emissions per year.  In other words, it would have the same effect as planting a forest 1.3 times the size of Manhattan.

Or this:  Half of all US schoolchildren are dropped off at school from their family cars.  If 20 percent of those kids living within two miles of the school were to bike or walk instead, that would prevent 356,000 tons (712 million pounds) of C02 from being released into the air.  It would also prevent 21,500 tons (43 million pounds) of other pollutants from ending up in the air we breathe.

You can read more about the environmental benefits of cycling here.

What I Thought About When I Didn't Have The Energy To Do Anything But Ride

While out for a ride, I stopped in a deli in Rockaway Beach.  A woman who, I would guess, has lived in the neighborhood for most, if not all, of her life chatted with the man behind the counter.  

"I don't understand how one person could go into a nightclub and just start shooting," the man said.

"I don't know what this world is coming to," the woman intoned.

"He's from Afghanistan, so right away they assume it's terrorism.  He said he hates gay people!", the man exclaimed.

The woman made the sign of the cross.  "They are God's children.  Didn't he understand that?"

It was one of those conversations I was tempted to jump into, but didn't.  I really couldn't have said anything that could have elucidated or even contradicted anything they were saying.  But I also had a perhaps-less-noble reason:  I was on a bike ride and that was all I wanted to do, besides buy a bottle of water and a bag of nuts in the deli.

I was riding, not only because it was a gorgeous day, but also because, after hearing the news about the shootings in an Orlando night club, I didn't have the energy to do anything else.  Perhaps that seems counterintuitive, but it was how I felt.  I didn't have whatever I needed to talk to anybody or to even locate, let alone process, my feelings about that tragedy--or the cyclists who were run down in Michigan or Muhammad Ali's last years, or about a few things in my own life.  The only energy that remained in me was the kind that propels me to ride.  Although it is mainly physical, it is not entirely so.

While continuing on my ride, I thought about those two people.  The man--whom I guessed to be younger than me, but not much, and from somewhere in Central or South America--seemed, in what he said, trying to cling on to some certainty because another he'd held was no longer valid or tenable.  The woman, who is probably a decade or older than I am and, from her looks, of Irish or some other northern European ancestry, seemed shocked because she thought she'd seen it all, but now she realizes there's something even more unfathomable.

When I stopped at Jacob Riis Park and stared into the ocean, I realized that they had both misunderstood something that I, until that moment, also misconstrued.  It's not a matter of what the world is coming to, as that woman lamented.  It's what people are doing in the face of such uncertainty.  Which relates to something the man said:  The shooter, Omar Mateen, may well have hated gay people and, as some authorities have said, been "self-radicalized".  But there are many young men like him who don't like gays or some other group of people or another whom they perceive as a threat or simply different, and who adopt extreme ideologies--whether political, religious or otherwise--because their experiences lead them to believe that what they have been taught are lies, or simply didn't prepare them for life.  Perhaps he sees the dream his parents had when they emigrated to this country as an illusion, or worse.  

Now, what I am saying about Mr. Mateen's mental processes is, of course, speculation, as I have never spoken with him and he is dead now.  But I have heard others in situations like his express similar feelings and, in my youth, I had times when I felt that nothing I'd ever learned, nothing I'd ever heard, could help me to achieve any sort of satisfying personal or professional life--or that those things were even possible.  Lots of young people have such thoughts and feelings.  Some find outlets for them; others turn their anger and anxiety on themselves.  At various times in my life, I did both.  But something--we'll probably never know exactly what--causes pepole like Mr. Mateen to tip into destruction of others, and themselves.

What's terribly ironic is that, in a way, he took out his frustration in exactly the way Donald Trump and his supporters are: by blaming people who are different from themselves, people they probably never meet in their everyday lives:  people they cannot understand.  They can only see such people as threats.  The difference, of course, is that Trump has the money and other resources to spark the resentments of those who feel that the world has passed them by and that those aliens, those icky gay men, are "taking over."  All Omar Mateen had was a gun.

His ex-wife has been talking.  He beat her, she says.  That makes perfect sense.  I have been in an abusive relationship, so I know that abusers abuse because they feel threatened--or they simply need for someone else to subordinate him or her self.  He was 29 years old and, I would guess, saw the future as a tunnel without light at the end of it.  He wanted to be a cop, but had been working as a security guard for nearly a decade.  That must have been frustrating, to say the least.

(I must add, too, that he was in Florida.  Law enforcement officials here in New York say that the majority of illegal guns on our streets are purchased in the Sunshine State and brought back along I-95.  It makes sense that in Florida, one can buy a gun in a Wal-Mart as easily as one can buy a fishing reel.)

Anyway...whatever his motivations, the world is moving on.  It will still be here, even if all of the nuclear weapons in the world are detonated and all of the ice caps melt.  But the question is whether or not it will be a planet humans, or other life forms as we know them, can inhabit.

I thought about that question as I was detoured away from the path I was riding on the Brooklyn side of Gateway National Park.

Look at the right side.  Then look at the left.  Then show this to someone who doesn't believe climate change has anything to do with burning stuff.

There'd been a brush fire along the shore of Jamaica Bay.  Flatbush Avenue, which the trail parallels, was closed to vehicular traffic.  We, cyclists, were diverted across the avenue onto the Greenway that skirts the South Shore of Brooklyn to the Canarsie Pier.  

Then I rode back home--into the wind, all the way, on Tosca, my fixed gear.  She was lively, but after a while, I wasn't.  But she got me home.   There were more reports of the massacre on the radio.  No news, except that a hospital spokesperson admitted that some of the 53 wounded would join the 50 who died in the Pulse nightclub.  

Saturday Silly: Don't Just Sit There!

OK.  After writing about cyclists mowed down by a pickup truck driver and the deaths of famous people, I think it's time for something light.  

I saw it in the corridor of the 23rd Street-Ely Avenue subway station:

So What Does Frejus Have To Do With Gordie Howe?

In one of my early posts, I mentioned that I once rode into a southern French town called Frejus.  It has quite a history, dating back at least to the time of Julius Caesar.   That history, however, doesn't include bike-building, in spite of the fact that an extremely well-known bike brand bears its name.  

In fact, Frejus bikes weren't even built in France:  they hailed from Torino, Italy.  Back in the days of the North American Bike Boom, they were, to many of us, practically the dictionary definition of an Italian racing bike.  Their top racing model, equipped with a full Campagnolo Record gruppo, fetched the then-princely sum of $350--a seemingly-unreachable dream for the high school sophomore I was.

Although I would later see that other Italian bikes--as well as some bikes from other countries, including the Schwinn Paramount--actually had better workmanship, to my eye almost not other bike was prettier.  In fact, even after I "knew better", I somewhat  longingly eyed one of their track bikes with blue panels that looked like stained-glass windows on the fully-chromed frame.

I'm not sure that I had, by that time, gotten over the shock of knowing that the town of Frejus has--and, as best as I've been able to learn, never has had--anything to do with the production of bicycles, with or without its name.  In fact, I don't think even so much as a fender bolt has ever been made there.

It's still a lovely place and worth a visit if you're in the area (near Nice).  

Anyway, I got to thinking about that upon learning of the death of Gordie Howe, one of ice hockey's legends.  

Now what, you wonder, does his passing--at the ripe old age of 88--have to do with Frejus, France or Frejus bicycles?

Gordie Howe late in his career.  Don't let the receding hairline fool you:  He was outplaying players half his age!

Well, if you know anything about hockey, you know that when a player scores three goals in a game, it is called a "hat trick".  As I understand, this term is also used in the game the rest of the world calls "football" but Americans call "soccer".  A "pure" hat trick is one in whcih a player scores three goals and no one else scores in between them.

Then there is something called the "Gordie Howe hat trick". It has to do with his reputation as a player.  He liked to say he was "aggressive", but opponents as well as fans of opposing teams said he was "dirty".  The man could use his stick--to score goals and to make plays, some of which weren't quite legal, at least according to some referees' interpretation of National Hockey League rules.  And he committed more than a few pure-and-simple violations.

Because hockey is a fast and hard-hitting game, his stick work often led to fights.  Also, he wasn't averse to dropping his stick and gloves when he thought an opponent was messing with one of his teammates.

This reputation led someone--probably a sports-writer--to joke that if a player scored a goal and an assist and got into a fight, it was a "Gordie Howe hat trick."

The funny thing is that in his long career, which spanned thirty-one seasons from 1946 until 1980 (He retired in 1971 but returned two years later), from the time he was 18 until he was 52, he achieved his namesake hat trick only twice.  What's even funnier is that both of those games came in the same season (1953-54) and against the same team (the Toronto Maple Leafs, who at the time had a spirited rivalry with Howe's Detroit Red Wings).  

To put that into perspective, Rick Tocchet, who played 18 seasons, tallied 18 "Gordie Howe hat tricks".  And Brendan Shanahan--of all the players I've ever seen in their prime, the one most similar to Gordie--achieved 17 such games in his 21 seasons in the NHL.

Hmm...I wonder whether any of them rode a Frejus bike made in France? ;_)