Full Moon Ride

This illustration alone would be enough to entice me to go on the ride it's advertising.  The only thing is, it's in Omaha, and I'm not going to be anywhere near there. But we have a full moon here in NYC!

From Omaha Bicycle Company

A Moment Of Tragedy: Cyclists Run Down In Brooklyn And Indiana

One of my favorite films is Night On Earth.  I won't argue that it's a great film or that Jim Jarmusch is America's answer to Fellini or Truffaut.  It's not the sort of film that will teach you any great lessons or makes any grand artistic statements.  Rather, it reveals people without judging them, which is--to me--one of the best things an artist can do. 

What all of the characters share is the kinship of the night and the confines of taxicabs.  The film shows us what happens inside cabs on a particular night in five different cities:  Los Angeles, New York, Paris, Rome and Helsinki.  Some of the actions and interactions are very, very funny--especially in the New York sequence.  But all of them reveal hopes, vulnerabilities, resentments and so much more.

I've often thought that if I were a filmmaker, I'd want to do something similar with cyclists.  Perhaps I could show a messenger in New York or London or San Francisco, for example, and, say, someone riding to or from work (or to shop) in Paris or Amsterdam and other kinds of cyclists in other places.  Of course, the point of such a film--if indeed there was one--would be to show what it means to be a member of the family of two wheels, if you will.

But there would be a terrible flip-side to such a narrative:  Cyclists who are on the losing end of encounters with motorists, or who are involved in some other kind of mishap.  I was reminded of this when I learned of two tragedies that occurred at around the same time, in two different parts of the United States.

One unfolded in my own backyard, more or less.  Thomas Groarke--suspected of driving drunk--ran down 17-year-old cyclist Sean Ryan near Marine Park, at the far southern end of Brooklyn.  Ryan was pedaling along Gerritsen Avenue, where I have ridden many times.  As the street is long and flat, and the streets that feed into it see little traffic--and even less from people who don't live in the neighborhood--some drivers seem to see it as a local version of the Daytona Speedway.  And, because the area is relatively remote, on the edge of Jamaica Bay, it is not as well-patrolled as some more central areas of Brooklyn.

The impact of the crash severed the bicycle in half.  I shudder to think of what it did to Sean Ryan's body!

Police investigate the scene where Sean Ryan was run  down.

A few hours after that tragedy unfolded on the East Coast, in the middle of Indiana, 36-year-old Theresa Corey Burris was riding to work, on US 40, just east of Hancock County Road 250W.  An 18-wheeler driven carrying an oversize load--a huge concrete slab that protruded onto the shoulder of the road--struck her.  Its driver, 55-year-old Reed Thompson, apparently was unaware he'd run her over until police stopped him half a mile from the scene.  

At the scene where Theresa Corey Burris was run down

Sean Ryan and Theresa Corey Burris were both riding at around the same time.  That unites them; so, unfortunately, is the way they met their endings.  I would prefer that we, as cyclists, share different bonds and that our fates are not similarly bound in a tragic moment.

Suspension Across State Lines

Another clear, hot, humid day.  There wasn't much traffic, and everyone seemed in a good mood, or at least not-quite-awake.  Given all that's going on in the world--what with the tragedy of Nice, the attempted coup in Turkey and the police officers slain in Baton Rouge (of which I would learn when I got home), the streets of the South Bronx seemed almost idyllic--ironically enough, even more so than Greenwich, Connecticut.

I saw very little traffic all the way from my place, through the Bronx and Westchester County, not even at The Hub or in the downtown areas of New Rochelle or Port Chester.  However, I found myself pedaling in the three feet or so between a traffic jam and the curb literally the moment I crossed the state line.

When I rode to Greenwich on Tuesday (and bumped into George), I saw signs announcing the sidewalk sales that, as it turned out, were in progress today.  Of course, I didn't pay attention (or, at least, remember) those signs.  Had I remembered, would I have come prepared?  Perhaps:  I could have brought my backpack (and, maybe, my American Express Centurion Card ;-)).  A few things I saw under the tents tempted me, particularly some batik-printed tops, shorts and skirts  that were surprisingly affordable.  I suppose I could have bought a drawstring knapsack somewhere and bought a few things, but decided I didn't want to haul stuff home.

Anyway...there seemed no way to escape the traffic in Greenwich, not even on the way out. Were people driving in circles (squares)?  As soon as I crossed the line back into the Empire State, the streams of cars and minivans disappeared.  I thought some of them would pass me in Port Chester or Rye or Harrison, but they seemed to be swallowed by some black hole at the end of Putnam Avenue.

Maybe the laws of physics were suspended in Greenwich.  What else could explain this?

Now, sometimes Arielle seems to defy gravity when I'm pedaling her on a day like today.  But this is something I've never seen her do, until now:  She's not propped against that tree, or anything else.  Nor--as you can see--is the pedal serving as a "kickstand".   I was going to lean her against the trunk when I accidentally let go for a split-second, and she stood on her own. The tires just happened to fit between the roots of that old tree in just the right way.

Hmm...I wonder if it had anything to do with the traffic or sidewalk sales.  Or maybe the laws of physics just work differently when you cross state lines.

Everything I Need

For today's ride, I brought some things I usually take with me:  spare inner tube, tire levers, Park Tool MT-1 and a patch kit. But I didn't need any of them, thankfully.

I did bring two things I definitely needed:  water and sunscreen.  During the course of  my ride, the temperature rose from 27C (81F) to 33C (92F) and I pedaled under bright sunshine, at least until the last half-hour or so of my ride.  Also, I spent much of my ride by the ocean or bay, which intensified the sun--and the wind.  Fortunately, for most of the ride out, I was pedaling into the wind, which meant that it blew at my back for most of the way home. That's especially nice when you're riding a fixed gear--Tosca, my Mercian fixie, of course-- as I did today.

OK, so everything sounds good, right?  In fact, my ride was very, very nice:  I felt good, the bike felt great and as hot as the day became, it didn't feel oppressively so.  And the rain waited until half an hour after I got home. (You didn't know I had the power to so influence precipitation, did you? ;-))  When I got home, I gulped down some seltzer as Marlee and Max curled up with me.  I cooked some pasta to use up the last of a batch of pesto I made a while ago. (I don't know how much longer it would have kept.  Besides, I think there's some nice fresh basil on the way!)  I dozed off, awakened about an hour later by a friend who called "just because."

You might say I lived a privileged life today.  I wouldn't dispute that.  Still, I'm going to complain about something.  (Aren't privileged people the first to do that?)  Here goes:  I had everything I needed, and almost everything I could have wanted.  Notice I said "almost":  I forgot to bring my camera, or even my cell phone, with me.  

Funny how, even at this late date, I can recall having spent the majority of my cycling life without a cell phone.  And I have done many other rides without a camera.  As it turned out, I didn't need the phone:  I had no emergencies and, when I got home, I saw that no one had tried to call me.  But there is something I would have liked to record with my camera, or even my cell phone.

Today I rode to Point Lookout.  I followed the same basic route I've taken for most of my PL rides over the years.  I didn't see anything out of the normal or meet anyone new, so, perhaps, there was nothing to record.  However, when I arrived at PL, I noticed that it was fenced off behind the ballfield and playground.  

Actually, it looked as if only the parking area was blocked.  So I did what the German Army did to the Maginot Line:  I marched (OK, walked my bike around) it.  Although I didn't see anyone else on the rocks or sand by the water, and I didn't see anyone walking their dogs or significant others on the sandbar (The tide was out.), I didn't think I was anywhere I wasn't supposed to be.

Tosca

Then I heard a whistle behind me.  No, someone wasn't admiring my physique.  It was that unmistakably shrill tweet--almost a shriek, really--of an "official" whistle, perhaps one of the police or the military.  Turns out, the guy who blew the whistle was connected with the latter:  the Army Corps of Engineers.

I must say, he was friendly and polite when I asked him why he was chasing me away from the beach.  The folks at ACE decided that there was a lot of damage--some from Superstorm Sandy, and some that preceded it--to the beaches, rocks and habitats.  To be fair, even before Sandy, I had noticed erosion and other kinds of damage to the environment over the years (more than 20) I've been riding there.  

Certainly, I was disappointed that I wouldn't get to spend some time propped up on the rocks, feasting on the reflection of the water and  and reveling in the sun and wind against my skin.  But, I reasoned, it would be nice for all of it to still be there when I ride to it again:  something I may do soon, even if I can't walk on the sandbar when the tide is out.  After all, the ride is still great.  And I have everything I need.

Raleigh Super Tourer: It Didn't Sell In 1974. But Everyone Wanted One In 2014.

A few days ago, I recounted a chance meeting with a fellow named George in Greenwich.  He complimented Arielle, my Mercian Audax, and showed me photos of his very nice Raleigh Competition GS, on which he converted the drop bars to uprights and made a couple of other changes.

George's 1978 Raleigh Competition GS

His "conversion" is nothing unusual these days (except that his is nicer than most):  Lots of people are taking nice (and sometimes not-so-nice) vintage ten-speeds and turning them into city or country bikes, upright tourers or stylish commuters.

In a comment on my post, George said he was trying to replicate a Raleigh Super Tourer.  It's a bike one rarely finds:  I've seen only  four or five of them.  And I don't recall seeing one on eBay, Craigslist or any of the sites that list used and vintage bikes.  (Then again, I check those sites only occasionally.  Really! ;-))

One reason why it's so rare is that not many were made--at least, in comparison to other Raleigh bikes. As best as I can determine, it was made during four model years:  1974 through 1977.  Another reason is that not many Super Tourers were exported to the US, and even fewer sold.  The few American shops that ordered Super Tourers, as often as not, got "stuck" with them for years.  I would suspect that more than one Super Tourer owner came by his or her steed the way George encountered his Competition GS:  A bike shop had it in the back room (or on the showroom floor) a few years after production ceased.

This parallel between George's experience and the possible scenario I have envisioned is not coincidental:  In essence, the Super Tourer and the Competition (the original as well as the GS) were the same bike.  Well, more or less, just about, anyway.  

Raleigh Super Tourer, ten-speed version 1975

Both iterations of the Competition and the Super Tourer had frames constructed of double-butted Reynolds 531 tubing with quality lugs and dropouts.  As a matter of fact, the original competition and the Super Tourer even had the same geometry.

Much of the componentry was the same: mainly high-end French stuff.  The pre-GS Competition had Normandy "Luxe" hubs and Huret Jubliee derailleurs; so did the Super Tourer.  The short-cage Jubilee--which came on both bikes--shared an interesting trait with other European derailleurs of the time:  It could wrap up miles and miles of chain, even though it wasn't made to handle a rear cog larger than 26 or 28 teeth (depending on your dropout's configuration).  Thus, it could handle triple and wide-range double front chainrings. That is one reason it was often used on randonneuses from the constructeurs.

1974 Super Tourer, 5-speed version (saddle not original)

The Specialites TA three-arm crank graced the pre-GS Competition. Interestingly, the first GS version had the three-arm Campagnolo Gran Sport crankset--with a chainguard! 

Now here's where things started to get weird:  The Super Tourer was made in ten- and five-speed versions.  The ten-speed had what seemed to be a triple version of the Stronglight 93 crankset, with a guard (very pretty, actually) where the outer chainring would have been. The five-speed sported a Specialites TA "Criterium" chainset:  essentially, a a Pro-Vis 5 (a.k.a. Cyclotouriste) with one chainring, and a chainguard..  

For some more weirdness, the Competition GS came with Weinmann "Vainqueur" centerpull brakes while the first year's production of the Super Tourer had Weinmann's short-lived "Dynamic" brakes--sidepulls.  In those days, sidepull brakes came only on bikes at the very top and bottom of the price spectrum; almost everything in between came with Weinmann, Mafac, Dia Compe or Universal center-pulls. The high-end sidepulls like Campagnolo's were ridden mostly by racers.  Most cyclists never saw them:  The only sidepulls they saw were the lower-end models found on cheaper bikes. As an example, the Schwinn Continental was equipped with centerpulls, but the Varsity came with sidepulls. 

So, some people assumed the Competition was a "better" bike because it had centerpulls.  Or, if they knew how good the Super Tourer frame was, they wondered what sidepulls were doing on it.  Unfortunately, they had good reason to wonder--about those sidepulls, anyway.   A few years earlier, Altenberger made the "Synchron", an early version of dual-pivot brakes.  Like most of the company's offerings, it was cheap and crudely finished, intended for lower-end bikes.  Weinmann tried to clean it up a bit. The stopping power was OK, at least in the beginning, and with the levers that came with the Super Tourer. But, in time, the pivots worked loose and, as we used to joke, the Dynamic would devolve into a brake with the worst features of centerpulls and sidepulls.

(And you thought Shimano invented dual-pivot brakes in the early 1990s!)

The Super Tourer also suffered because of another notion novice American cyclists developed during the Bike Boom.  It's a notion I admit I had for a long time:  A "serious" bike had dropped handlebars and a narrow saddle--usually leather Brooks or Ideale, though Italian-style plastic-and-foam saddles were starting to make their appearance.  Shift levers were mounted on the down tube, and such a bike didn't have fenders.

You guessed it:  the Super Tourer had fenders.  The ten-speed version had some pretty neat-looking Bluemels Classiques, which were black plastic with a ribbed chrome stripe down the middle, a white mud flap on the front and a white-framed reflector on the rear.  The five-speed sported silver plastic fenders--which, I believe, were also Bluemels Classiques.  

Fenders?  Fenders!  And upright handlebars.  (I think they were North Road, or some similar bend, from GB.)  And...and...stem shifters!!

Oh...and the first year's production of Super Tourers (the ones with the Synchron brakes) came with mattress saddles. Yes, you read that right:  a seat even thicker than one of Dagwood's sandwiches--with springs!  Vertical springs!  Horizontal springs!  And bag loops that looked like they could carry the biggest offerings from Carradice, Karrimor, Chossy and all of the other classic cycle luggage makers, all at once.

In 1975, the Brooks B66 replaced the mattress saddle.  It had springs but at least it was a...Brooks.  Tensioned leather.  But the bike still had those bars.  And fenders!

You simply couldn't show up on a club ride, let alone ride in a pack of wannabe racers, in the mid-1970's with a bike like that unless you were 90 years old and accompanied by your grandparents--even if that bike had a hand-brazed Reynolds 531 frame, Huret Jubilee derailleurs, Stronglight or TA cranks, etc.   You could just as well have shown up in a petticoat or a chain of mail.

I actually prefer this brown finish--with silver "sable" panels and headtube--of the five-speed model to the green on the ten-speed version!

Now, you're thinking that it's very, very ironic that George and other people are turning classic road machines into bikes like the Super Tourer--forty years after you could have bought such a bike, stock, off a showroom floor--or asked a Raleigh dealer to order it for you.  (Vera, my green Mercian mixte, is really just a female version of such a bike--which is what I wanted it to be.)   Perhaps it's even more ironic that there are new bikes that are, at least conceptually, modern versions of the Super Tourer.  (One could argue that some  Rivendell and Velo Orange bikes are, at least to some degree, updated versions of the Super Tourer.)  A lot of people want sprightly but comfortable rides: something that's relatively quick but will allow them to ride the same clothes and shoes they wear to work or to shop, date or simply hang out.  Or, age and other things have caught up with them and they're not as flexible as they used to be--or simply have lost their pretentions to racing.

What if Raleigh were to introduce that bike today?  They wouldn't have to change much, really:  perhaps only the shifters, which would move to the handlebars from the stem, and would be indexed to accommodate contemporary derailleurs and cassettes. (I have always liked the Jubilee, but I don't imagine it would work very well with handlebar shifters or more than seven sprockets in the rear.)  And, of course, the 27" wheels and tires would have to be replaced with 700Cs.  Otherwise, Raleigh could re-introduce the bike "as is", I think.

Finally, if you think it's ironic that people are seeking out bikes like the Super Tourer--or are converting other bikes into versions of the ST--you'll appreciate (or perhaps wince at) this story.  Near my undergraduate university campus, there was a bike shop that seemed to be there for even longer than the university itself.  Its owner was ready to move to Florida, or any place with warmer winters than New Brunswick, New Jersey.  Nobody wanted to buy the shop, mainly because of its location on what was then the town's Skid Row.  So, he had to sell off his inventory, which--you guessed it--included a Sports Tourer he'd stocked several years earlier.

And, yes, he did sell it--after swapping the upright bars for dropped bars, the mattress saddle for a Brooks B17 and the Synchron brakes for Weinmann centerpulls.  And he took off the fenders.  In essence, he turned the Sport Tourer into a Competition.

Still, he took a loss on that bike.  I wonder whether the person who bought it still has it.  Wouldn't it be funny if he or she--or whoever has it now--"converted" it to an upright commuter or tourer?

Farce And Tragedy On Bastille Day

Yesterday, I complained about the lack of drama in this year's Tour de France.

Well, I guess I should have known better than to write such a post on the day before Bastille Day.  It's the French national holiday and, let me tell you, it's not boring. At least, the Bastille Days I've spent in France weren't.

Today, though, provided the sort of drama that I think almost nobody wanted.  For one thing, defending TdF champion Chris Froome--along with Richie Porte and and Bauke Mollema--crashed into a motorbike on Mont Ventoux, just a kilometer from the Stage 12 finish.

Chris Froome runs up Mont Ventoux

His own bike was wrecked, and his team's support car was five minutes behind.  So he ran until he could grab a neutral service bike; about 200 meters later, he switched to a bike from the Team Sky car, on which he finished the stage.

I have great respect for Froome's determination and conditioning.  But let's just say that when he's riding, he's no Stephen Roche.  Few elite cyclists ever looked more fluid and graceful while pedaling than the Irishman who won the Tour, Giro d'Italia and World road championship in 1987.  On the other hand, Froome's limbs seem to move at every angle except the one in which he's pedaling.  While running, he looked even more ungainly, if that were possible.

But the crash and Froome's run seemed rational and orderly compared to some of the roadside spectators.  Now, I have to make a confession:  On Chamrousse in 2001, I leaned within a tire's breadth of Lance Armstrong to take a photo of him riding to victory in the time trial.  Still, I am going to chide all of those spectators who simply had to get their .15 seconds of fame; one or more of them may have caused that motorbike to lose control.

Now, I've been in France enough to know that French people like spectacle as much as anyone, and they are not averse  to farce.  But I suspect today's events at the Tour de France might have been a bit much even for them--especially since it's their national holiday and they were hoping for a victory from one of their countrymen on a stage that ended with one of the Tour's most iconic climbs.

Then again, the French I know have perspective. (Wars, occupations and such will give you that!)  Anything that happened, or could have happened on today's Tour stage pales in significance with the tragic event in Nice.  Whoever drove that truck into the crowd, and whatever his or her motives, it was an act of terror:  It seemed to come out of nowhere and struck a place and people who were celebrating a holiday in one of the loveliest seaside cities I've ever seen.

Why Aren't You Paying Attention To The Tour de France?

Funny he should mention it:  The Tour de France is in progress.  

Yesterday, "Retrogrouch" said he is "barely" following this year's race.  I could say the same thing.  In fact, other cyclists I know who've followed Tours (and Giros and Vueltas) past say that they're paying little or no attention to the latest editions of these contests.

It got me to wondering why this is so, and whether it's just an American phenomenon.  Could Europeans' interest in those races also be waning?

Now, to be fair, the Euro football (soccer) championship ended three days ago.  It's held every four years, like the Olympics, and this year's version was held in France.  As it happens, les bleus made it to the championship game, which they lost to the Portuguese side.

Then again, the tournament was held in France in 1984 and 2000, both of which the French won.  This year's final matchup brought Cristiano Ronaldo-- who some regard as the world's best player-- and Antoine Greizmann--who could become his successor, according to some experts--onto the pitch as opponents.  So, even those football fans who aren't French or Portuguese (or simply fans of those teams) could find something interesting to watch.  Also, there was the "feel good" story about the Icelandic squad, which made it all the way to the quarterfinals against France (and, along the way, beat England).  This is especially shocking when you realize that more people live on Staten Island than in Iceland, where there are no professional leagues!

Stories like those keep casual fans interested in major sporting events.   Such drama seems to be lacking in this year's Tour.  There are favorites and "dark horses", to be sure.  But there aren't the sort of compelling rivalries, in part there is no rider-of-his-generation like Bernard Hinault and, thus, no one who's in a position to ascend to the throne, if you will.   There is also not a "feel good" story like the pre-fall-from-grace Lance Armstrong's (though, even in his heyday, there were whispers that he was doping).  




And, let's face it, there's nationalism in sports.  It's no longer startling to see British riders dominate the race, just it was no longer a shock to see Americans win after Greg LeMond.  While there are some very good riders from the former Soviet Bloc countries, none of them yet poses a challenge to the established order.  One reason, I think, is that those riders tend to dominate in sprints, often at the expense of other events, just as the best British riders--until about fifteen years ago--were time trialists.  Even Peter Sagan doesn't look ready to make the "breakthrough", and even if it did, it wouldn't excite fans in the US or the major cycling nations of Western Europe.

Finally, I think some people have given up, or are giving up, on cycling because of the widespread doping.  While football and other sports have their share of "juicers", the problem doesn't seem anywhere near as rampant.  At least, that's how fans seem to see it.

Anyway, if you want to read about a really exciting Tour, Retrogrouch wrote a very nice account of the 1986 version, which had everything this year's edition seems to lack.

A Compliment From Someone Who Would Know: George, WIth A Competition GS

Three days, three rides, three bikes.

Arielle

Yes, after riding Vera (my green Mercian mixte) the other day and Tosca (my Mercian fixed gear) yesterday, today I pealled Arielle, my Mercian Audax.

And today I rode, again, to Greenwich CT.  One of the reasons I've been doing that ride is that I'm finding more and more of the East Coast Greenway in the process.  Also, the ride offers different kinds of vistas, terrain and road (and trail) surfaces--actually, quite a bit of variety for the area in which I take the ride and its distance.

Also, the ride calms my inner cynic.  You see, when weather forecasters say the winds are "light and variable", my IC says, "You guys just don't know.  Admit it!"  But, on the ride, the winds (or breezes) can vary because it ranges from urban streetscapes to marshland, low hills and the shores of a large bay and three different rivers.

Plus, today I realized one of the reasons why I ride to Greenwich specifically.  The parks and old houses have their charm, certainly.  But going to the shopping area--lined with designer boutiques and a "thrift" store where I once found a "pre-owned" pair of lavender made-in-France Chanel ballet flats for the modest (ha, ha) sum of $300 (Alas, they wer the wrong size!) also helps me to put my passions and obsessions into a different kind of perspective.  

That's the lesson I learned today from a fellow who, as I was about to mount Arielle for the ride back, remarked on what a "beautiful" bike she is.  (I used the quotations because he used that word.)  "The attention to detail is amazing", he exclaimed.  He liked everything from the paint job, the pinstriping on the lugs (especially the strokes in the "windows" of the lugs) and the Brooks Pro seat, bar tape and the RuthWorks bags.  Plus, he liked the fact that all of the equipment is first-rate--including the Dura Ace derailleurs (the first parts he noticed) and Mavic rims.

Now, I don't mean to boast when I say I get a lot of compliments about Arielle. (In fact, I got another--from a woman pushing a stroller-- on the way home when I stopped for a traffic light in the Bronx, near Parkchester.)  But the fact that this man--George--went into such detail intrigued me.  Which meant, of course, he had a nice bike--whether or vintage or new--with a lugged steel frame.  He pulled up some images of it for me.  If he ever sends them to me, I'll post them.  But for now, I'll post one that's on Old Ten Speed Gallery:

George's 1978 Raleigh Competition GS

George's Raleigh Competition GS is from 1978, the first year it came equipped with Campagnolo Gran Sport parts (and Weinmann Carrera brakes).  Through most of the '70's, the bike came with Huret Jubilee derailleurs and other high-quality French parts.  Now, as you well know, I like the Jubilee and the TA three-arm crankset that was standard equipment for a few years.  But some of the Campy parts--such as the hubs--were a clear improvement.

George says the bike was sitting in the back of a now-defunct shop on Gun Hill Road in the early '80's, when he bought it.  At some point, he changed the three-pin Campy GS crankset for a five-pin Chorus model "because I thought I wanted a 53 T chainring".  Later, he swapped out the dropped bars and stem for a Nitto stem with a longer quill and "riser" bars--which meant, of course, changing the brake levers. He also swapped the Camapagnolo GS quill pedals for MKS touring pedals.   "But I've saved all of the original parts," he reassured me.

Even with all of the changes, I think it's still a very nice-looking bike.  I told him as much.  Part of the reason is that silver finish, which Raleigh offered for the first time in 1978.  That year, the bike was also available in black, as it was through most of the '70's. I think that even after silver became available, more black bikes sold--at least, I've seen more black than silver bikes from the late '70's and early '80's, when the bikes came with Campy GS equipment.  I like the black, but I prefer the silver, which I think is more elegant.

I don't know whether it's my imagination, but the workmanship on those frames--constructed of Reynolds 531 double-butted tubing--seemed to improve when Raleigh switched to Campy GS.  At least, the lugwork and graphics look cleaner.  If I'm not mistaken,  Competition GS bikes from that period were among the last to be made in Raleigh's Carlton facility, where the top-line models (such as the Professional and International) were built by hand.  Carlton bikes have always been more esteemed than the rest of Raleigh's producton, justifiably so, in my opinion.

"Some people think we're crazy to spend as much time and money as we do on our bikes," George mused.  "But look at that car over there"--he pointed to a custom Bentley.  "That's about $800,000 right there.  And for what?  At least we know we're spending on something that will get us somewhere faster, or in more comfort or style, than a cheap bike will."

He had a point.  There were, probably, other cars on that street that cost more than I've made in my entire life.  And I'm sure that some of those people who were sauntering from store to store--and Starbuck's--probably spend money on things, and in ways, I simply can't imagine.

So, George taught me this:  That no matter how much we spend on our bikes, it doesn't come anywhere near what others pay for less practical, less fun--and, to my eyes, less beautiful--things.  That makes me feel better. But it's probably a good thing I didn't come to such a realization when I was younger.

Brooklyn Heights: Another Reason I Am Not A Racer

Yesterday, I wrote about the things that caused me to realize that I am not, at heart, a racer, even though I pretended to be one for a few years.  In brief, I care more about the feelings and memories I have, or associate with, my rides than I do with how fast or how far I rode.

Well, today, I had another insight as to why, even after a third-place finish in a race, I couldn't have pushed myself to "the next level"--whatever that might have been--even if I'd had the talent, trained harder and simply wanted to win more.

This afternoon I spun Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, through some Brooklyn and Queens streets.  Part of my ride took me through Brooklyn Heights, which today is--at least in the eyes of many--the very epitome of an urban "brownstone" neighborhood.

In 1965, the City's newly-formed Landmarks Commission--created in the wake of the outrage generated by the destruction of the original Penn Station--designated much of the Heights as the city's first Historic District.  Good thing, too:  During the two decades following World War II, Americans set their sights on modern houses in the suburbs, not historic buildings in the inner city.  As a result, those beautiful old houses began to decay, and Robert Moses thought they--and similar houses in nearby Park Slope--were simply obstacles to building the expressway he wanted to carve through Brooklyn.

I stopped to read the plaque on one of the houses that would have been razed--a Federal-style building on Middagh Street. No racer, I think, would have interrupted his or her ride in that way--or to look at other houses.  The fact that I had just a crappy cell phone with me--and, therefore, couldn't take good pictures--would have been enough of an excuse for a racer (or the racer wannabe that I was) not to stop and look at buildings.

And if I were training for the next Tour or Giro or whatever, I probably wouldn't have noticed that in a neighborhood full of Federal and Greek and Italianite Revival-style buildings--which brought the neighborhood its landmark designation--there was something that stood out:

The Cranlyn Building is beautiful, but it's not what people normally associate with the Heights.  If anything, it's practically a textbook example of Art Deco.  It would fit seamlessly on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx (though the Cranlyn is in be tter condition than most Bronx buildings) or even in Miami's South Beach.   But it's not just the visual contrast between it and the houses (and the Church of the Assumption) on Cranberry Street that's so interesting. 

To me, the Cranlyn has a different kind of energy to it. Yes, it is an apartment (condo) building with a chrome-zinc-and-glass Italian cafe on the ground floor on a street mainly of single-family homes.  More important, though, the building feels like jazz--just look at the pattern of those lines!--in a neighborhood that is, perhaps, more Mozartian.

The way those lines unite Art Deco with jazz reminds me of the relationship betwen graffiti, break-dancing and hip-hop. Just watch "Beat Street" (corny, I admit, but with great music from early hip-hip artists!).  Pay attention to the dancers and to the graffiti-covered subway trains as they rumble along Bronx viaducts:  Look at the way those lines of graffiti move, look at the dancers' movements and pay attention to the beat.  That relationship is, I think, something the movie captured brilliantly.

The funny thing is that, even though I was riding at a slow speed (for me, anyway!), I was still going about five times as fast as anyone walking the street.  Yet no one seems to notice the building, or its contrast with the rest of the neighborhood.  Even more ironically, as a pedestrian, I never noticed what I'm describing:  I first noticed it from the saddle of my bicycle.  

And, in the strangest twist of all, during my racing days, I had experienced the Heights only as a pedestrian:  I never rode through the neighborhood!

I'll Be Fine: I Went For A Ride

I once held a racing license.  And I actually rode in a few races.  Ergo (and you thought it was only the name of Campagnolo's "brifter"!), I was a racer.  Right?

Well, maybe not so much.  I fancied myself as one.  I even managed to convince a few people (and a couple of actual racers) that I was one.  I rode racing bikes, wore racing jerseys, shorts and shoes and ate and drank what I thought racers put into their bodies.  

And I actually placed well in a couple of races.  A third place, even!  For a time, I thought that if I rode just a little longer and a little harder....

(These days, it's difficult for me to think about doing things longer and harder.  But that's another story:  perhaps one for my other blog!)

Realistically, I knew I wasn't going to challenge Bernard Hinault.  But I thought that if I moved up a category every year I could become...a champion (of what?)...a pro?

So what, exactly, caused me to realize that I wasn't going to realize such lofty goals?  No, I didn't crash and break my leg and wreck my Colnago during my next race.  Nor did I admit that, even at the relatively young age I was, I didn't have much (if any) of a "window":  There were riders my age who, even if they hadn't won a major race, had at least been riding for years in the European peloton.  The pack in Prospect Park, as invigorating as it could be, simply didn't compare. But even such an admission would not have been enough to make me realize that I wasn't a racer.

I think I finally understood, today, for the first time, why I never  was, or could be, truly a racer.  It has to do with an observation someone I was trying to woo years ago made about me.  According to this person, I don't care about things or experiences so much as the emotions and memories I have about, or associate with, them.

To this day, it remains one of the most perceptive things anyone has said about me.  Of course, back then, I didn't want to hear it, because she was one of the many attractive women I tried to make my "arm candy", I mean companion, in order to convince the world (in reality, myself) that I was indeed a macho heterosexual guy--if one with a sensitive soul.

Anyway, today I took a ride that really was bits and pieces of other rides I've done, spliced together.  I packed a bag of tortilla chips and some salsa I made into the Ruth Works Randonneur bag on Vera, my green Mercian mixte.  I intended to enjoy a roadside picnic somewhere along the way.  But that is not the only reason I chose Vera:  Yesterday, we had heavy rains; puddles and even mini-ponds lined the streets and roads, not to mention the paths.  Vera has fenders, with a flap on the front.

A gray glacier of clouds crept across the sky; after riding along the World's Fair Marina and Flushing Bay to Fort Totten, drops of rain stuttered across my skin as I ascended Bell Boulevard to Northern Boulevard, where I turned left and rode across a roadway that slices through a tidal marsh to Nassau County, where I followed no planned route.

So I found myself pedaling through shopping centers, suburban subdivision, country clubs and a couple of parks that had something resembling nature in them.  Finally, I found myself on a road that twisted through a wooded area--not exactly a virgin forest, but green nonetheless:  actually, quite soothing under the cloud cover that seemed to follow me, even if it didn't spill any more rain.

From Cyclopology

I knew, generally--though not specifically--where I was.  That is to say, I knew I was somewhere in the middle of Long Island, probably heading south or east, but to where I didn't know.  If I was lost, it wasn't such a big deal: I could get only so lost.  If I rode south for a few miles, I'd reach the ocean; if I pedaled east, it would take me a good bit longer to reach the Atlantic. (That's why it's called Long Island!)  And if I went west, I'd be in the general direction of home; going north would take me back to, well, the North Shore, where I could turn left and head in the direction of my apartment.

The real reason I was riding, though, wasn't to explore or get lost--or to challenge myself. (The wind would do that for me when I pedaled into it on my way home!)  Instead, I was riding with the echo, if you will, of a conversation I had last night with someone I hadn't talked to in a few years.  There was no "falling out" or other rupture in our friendship; life had just taken us in different directions for a while.  

We actually worked together for a time; neither of us is at that job anymore.  She decided to return to school and is almost done with the coursework for her PhD and, luckily, found work that allowed her to support herself.  But, along the way, she broke up with the fiance she had the last time we talked.

I, too, ended a relationship I was in at the time.  But mine didn't end as amicably as hers; it couldn't have.  She knew that and asked, several times, how I'm doing.  Better than I was in that relationship, I said.  

"Good.  Don't look back."

"I don't."

The funny thing is, the tears that rolled down my cheeks as I descended from the ridges in the center of the island to the South Shore weren't for him, or for what knowing him cost me (two jobs and an apartment)--or about what it took to get him out of my life.  I am happier in my current job than I was in the ones I lost.  

And, to answer another question my friend asked, I am finally working, again, on a book I started writing years ago--even before I knew her.  "Great!  You're going to be all right!", she intoned.

I hope she's right.  No, I take that back.  I know she's right.  I have no idea of how that book will turn out, but I know I have no choice but to write it.  When I started it, I was a different person, living a different life--literally.   But I know I was carrying much of what's in that book--at least in its current state--long before I started to write it.  

She understands:  She is a writer, too.

"Just keep writing it.  You'll be fine."


That is how I felt while riding today.  I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I'd be fine.  Whether or not by design or choice, where I'd been had gotten me to where I was.  All of it:  All of my rides, all of my work, all of those days and years I lived a life not quite my own and, finally, in a relationship with someone who, just as I was claiming my own self and life, almost kept me from living it.

The road that had gotten me to today's ride: My old friend reminded me of it, and why I continue--even if I don't know where the ride, the journey, continues or ends.

Has any racer ever thought of his or her ride that way?