Wearing Your Message On Your Sleeve (Or On Your Chest And Back, Anyway)

I stopped wearing bike-specific clothing (except for gloves and helmets) years ago.  I just might start again, at least in response to folks like Peter King and Heath Evans.

Actually, I would have a whole wardrobe of cycling tops.   For rides in which the possibility of encountering homicidal drivers is relatively low, I might wear this:

For times when there's a greater chance of a brush with a drunk or simply inconsiderate motorist--I could slip into this:

On days (or nights) when there might be more careless drivers--and there is a chance that one might be somewhat homicidal--I could sport this:

Finally, when it seems every other person behind a steering wheel has regressed to the emotional age of twelve, this just might set the right tone:

These jerseys are on Active.com.

They're So Funny I Forgot To Laugh

If you have ever taught a remedial class, you know that none of the students in them are happy.  I can't blame them, for a number of reasons.  What used to bother me, though, was that they sometimes directed their hostility--usually in passive-aggressive ways, but sometimes more covertly--toward me, even though, as I would point out, I was doing everything I could to keep them from repeating the class.

One day, in one of those classes, a student remarked that he'd seen me riding my bicycle on the way to class.  "How do you do it?" he wondered.

"I get on my bike and pedal," I said, somewhat impudently.

Another student, in the rear of the class, chimed in, "I'm going to run you over."

I stepped out of the room and summoned a campus security officer.  (This was before cell phones were widespread.)  I told the officer what happened.  "He had no business saying that to you," he declared.  Then he came to escort the student out of the room.

"I didn't mean it!  I was only kidding!," the student squealed.  The officer took him away, and I never saw or heard from him again.

Nearly two decades have passed since that incident.  Apparently, some things haven't changed:  Some guys (Sorry: It is usually dudes who engage in such behavior!) still think it's a joke to talk about putting cyclists' lives in danger--or, worse, actually doing it.  Some even think it's funny, or simply their "right" to kill cyclists for taking up "their" roadway.

Even when I was more of a fan than I am now, I used to watch many sports events--especially NFL games--with the sound turned off.  Most sports have their share of television announcers and commentators who were star performers in their day but have never grown up.  It always seemed to me that American football commentators in particular had the need to pepper their chatter with the kind of "humor" that only frat boys of all ages find funny.

Just within the past two days, two such commentators openly expressed their contempt for cyclists.  One actually engaged in behavior that could have maimed or killed a rider--or a jogger or a mother or father pushing a stroller--while the other, who wears his "Christianity" on his sleeve, said that he wants to kill cyclists.

First, to the one who was reckless:  

NFL writer Peter King sent this tweet of his car speeding through a bike lane.  "I told driver Jenny Vrentas to get to Qualcomm as fast as she could," captioned the photo. 


That he thought he was being funny makes sense, I guess, when you realize that he writes for Sports Illustrated, a rag that, as Bike Snob NYC points out, keeps itself in business by publishing a soft-core porn issue every year.  I admit that a long time ago, I actually used to read SI (Someone gave me a gift subscription.  I swear!).  Then again, I also used to read Mad Magazine.  Point is, my tastes grew up (or, at least, I like to believe so)--and, to be fair, I made a major life-change.  Sometimes I think SI's readership never graduated from their junior high-school locker rooms.  So of course they would think endangering cyclists (After all, if you don't have a motor, you're not a man) is just good fun.

Speaking of locker rooms:  Heath Evans played in the NFL for ten seasons.  It's fair to assume that he took a pretty fair number of hits.  So, perhaps, we could chalk up occasional incoherence or silliness on his part to a concussion or some other injury his own helmet couldn't prevent---and, perhaps, another player's helmet caused.  But even the most brain-damaged of former players doesn't casually talk about killing people.  

Apparently, Evans is in another category.  

If there is anything amusing about that tweet, it's that he used the word "Respectfully" before declaring his wish to hit cyclists with his car.  Maybe he is brain-damaged.  Or maybe he was one of those "student-athletes" who went to college on a football scholarship and took classes in tackling and trash-talking for his major, whatever it was.

(I think now of the coach who said of one of his players:  "He doesn't know the meaning of the word 'fear'.  In fact, I just saw his grades, and he doesn't know the meaning of a lot of words.")

Now, if he couldn't see the incongruity of his word choice, it's understandable that he could profess to be a Christian, or adherent of any other faith that instructs its followers to do unto others as they would do unto themselves, or to love their enemies.  Lots of other people have the same gap in their cognition:  Countless kings and generals have led their minions into war "in the name of God."

(Interesting that the NFL has so many players who are adamant about their faith.  Why is it that the most violent sports have the most doggedly religious players?)

Anyway, both King and Heath have gotten a lot of backlash on the Twittersphere.  But neither seems in danger of losing his job, or anything else that matters to him.  As long as guys like them can get away with, essentially, pinning targets to cyclists' backs, building all the bike lanes in the world isn't going to make us any safer.

N.B.:  Thanks to Alan Snel of Bicycle Stories and the inimitable Bike Snob NYC for their reporting on King and Heath.

Impressionist Camouflage?

When you get to a certain age, you become more honest with yourself because, really, you have no other choice.  I think that it was the Spanish philosopher Jose Ortega y Gasset who said that at age 45, a person can no longer live in fictions.

One thing I've finally admitted to myself is that when I talk about what I "should" or "am supposed to" do, I'm actually just forestalling, even if only for a second, doing what I actually want to do.

And so it is that on days like today, I can tell you there were things I "should have" done--which, of course, I didn't do.  At least I managed, pretty early, to admit to myself that I wasn't going to do them.

It just took one look out my window--which was wide open (save for the screen, of course).  The morning was delightfully cool in a way it hasn't been in a long time.  Breezes were light and skies blue, full of sunshine.  

Well, it wasn't just any old mild, sunny day--with low humidity, to boot.  The qualities of that day seemed all the more vivid because it followed a long heat wave.  Something else made it truly unusual, though.

You see, the morning felt like early autumn and the early afternoon felt like one of those late-summer days we experience a week or so after Labor Day.  That made for delightful cycling weather.  The relatively cool air, however, was accompanied by the sort of refulgent summer light one sees in Impressionist paintings of picnics or other outings in the country.  Even the concrete canyons and brick-lined boulevards seemed to be bathed in the deep greens of the rippling leaves and the deep yellow sunlight.

I took a ride to--where else--Connecticut--where even the War Memorial in Greenwich seemed to camouflage itself in that light.

And the bike I rode--Arielle, my Mercian Audax. (Sorry about the poor quality of my cell-phone photos!) 

A Season In The Boogie Down?

My academic year begins on Thursday.  Today I rode to the college for a meeting and workshops.  

Through the Spring semester (which began a couple of days after a blizzard struck this city), I saw gradually-increasing numbers of cyclists on the RFK Memorial Bridge lane and on Randall's Island on my way to the college.  I saw a similar slow but steady increase in the number of bikes parked in the racks on the college campus, and along the streets surrounding it.  Those increases, of course, could be attributed to the warming weather.  

So, perhaps, it was no surprise to see more cyclists crossing the bridge than I've ever seen on a weekday.  Some looked like they were riding for fun or fitness, but others seemed to be on their way to work or some other obligation.  More than a few, I'm sure, were motivated by the the clear skies and mild temperature, and not deterred by the brisk wind.  Then again, that wind some of them across the island and bridge as I pedaled into it.  

It also wasn't a surprise to see only two other bikes in the racks.  No doubt there will be more once classes begin.  I wonder how many students, faculty and staff will continue to ride as the season grows colder, and possibly wetter.   Three subway lines stop right in front of the entrances of the campus's two main buildings, and four bus lines stop within a block.  So, I'm guessing that some of the bike commuters are "seasonal", if you will:  They use mass transit when the weather becomes less favorable for cycling. 



Perhaps the most interesting development I noticed is that on the South Bronx streets between the bridge (and Randall's Island Connector) and the college, I've seen more cyclists than I've ever seen before.   Some were riding the old ten- and three-speeds (Nobody calls them "vintage" in such a neighborhood!) in various states of disrepair--or with seats, handlebars and other parts that clearly are not original equipment.  You see people riding bikes like those all the time in low-income communities:  They have become basic transportation vehicles and, in some cases, beasts of burden that tow shopping carts or baby strollers piled with that day's shopping, or cans, bottles and other items that are being hauled to the recycling center.

I did notice, however, more than a few bikes that were clearly not being used for such purposes--and riders who almost certainly have never ridden their bikes in the ways I've described.  As we say in the old country, "They sure don't look like they're from around here."  I even noticed two people riding Citibikes, even though the nearest docking station is about 5 kilometers--and a world--away.

Will I see those non-utility cyclists in the South Bronx come November or December?  For that matter, I wonder how many of the riders I saw on the bridge or the island today will still be on their bikes as the season turns in "the Boogie Down". 

For The First Time, Again

It seems that every year I take at least one ride like the one I took today.

I didn't ride to or through anyplace I'd never seen before today.  Conditions were not at all challenging:  rather humid, but not oppressively so.  Probably the worst (or best, depending on which way I was riding) was the wind, but even that wasn't so bad.

Certainly, I didn't cover a lot of ground, at least compared to some other rides I've done.  I stayed within the confines of three New York City boroughs:  Queens (where I live), Manhattan and Brooklyn.  Then again, I hadn't really planned on doing a century--metric, imperial or otherwise--or a brevet, or any sort of ride with a name.  In fact, I didn't have any sort of plan at all.

I spun up and down major avenues, sprinted from traffic light to traffic light on 57th Street, made furtive turns into alleys and weaved among riders of Citibikes, skaters toting yoga mats and the self-consciously a la mode pushing strollers with the names of designers or athletic-wear companies emblazoned on them.  All of this was pleasant enough, even exhilarating at times.

One thing that seemed strange, even for a Sunday at this time of year, was that some of the streets were all but clear of traffic, whether of the motorized, foot or pedal variety, even though said streets weren't closed.  In fact, I could ride longer and faster in a straight line along those thoroughfares than I could on the bike and pedestrian lanes.

It seemed that almost all of the people--whether on foot, bike or skate--were in the places where one expects to find tourists:  around the Intrepid Air and Space Museum, the South Street Seaport, at the terminals for the ferries to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, on the Brooklyn Bridge. (I like to think that one of the signs I'm a "real" New Yorker is that I don't ride across the BB:  when I cross the East River, I take the Queensborough/59th Street, Williamsburgh or Manhattan Bridges, depending on where I'm going.)  In contrast, the shopping areas along 14th Street and Sixth Avenue (No New Yorker calls it "Avenue of the Americas"!) were all but deserted even though most of the stores were open.

As I cycled up First Avenue near the United Nations, I realized that everything I'd seen was a sign that it's almost the end of summer.  I realized that I take a ride like this one around this time every year:  a week or two before Labor Day.  This is the "last chance" for a lot of New Yorkers to leave town and for many tourists to come here.  And, of course, New Yorkers with lots of money and vacation time have been out of town for weeks already.  It'll be a week or two before they, and other vacationers, start trickling back in--and before the tide of tourists becomes a trickle.

It's at this time of year that I feel most like a "fly on the wall" in my own city.  I am not a tourist, but at the same time, I feel as if I am looking at familiar streets and buildings from the other side of a two-way mirror.  Although I live here, I feel as if I am not entirely here.

I don't mean any of what I've said as a complaint.  If anything, I find it interesting.  In a way, I am privileged:  Although I am far from rich (by the standards of this city and country, anyway), I was able to take a vacation of my own choosing, to a place of my own choosing and do it on my own terms.  And I have had little to worry about since I came back.

In fact, I realize now that since coming back from Paris--three weeks ago, already--I've spent a fair amount of time outside the city, with the bike rides I've taken to Connecticut and the more bucolic parts of New Jersey and Long Island.  So, in a way, I haven't been living like a resident of this city.  But I haven't been a tourist, either, because at the end of the day, wherever I've ridden, I've come back to my own bed and cats--and, as often as not, prepared my own meals.   

Could it be that this time of year--the latter part of August and the first few days of September--is a season unto itself?   Is this the season of The Outsider--and was today's ride my annual Outsider Ride?  

Perhaps no matter how often we've ridden a street or trail, seen a building or field, swum in a sea or opened a particular door--whether for the first time or the last, for a moment or a lifetime-- we are visiting:  We are coming in from the outside.  But we are coming in, and we can stay as long as our time, resources and imaginations allow us.  And one day we can come back.

And we can do the same rides, again, for the first time, from the outside.  At least, that's what I feel I did today.

The Music Of The Spheres (Or The Wheel, Anyway)!

The Music Of The Spheres (Or The Wheel, Anyway!)

Now, I know most of you, my dear readers, are sensitive, socially-conscious people.  (Even if you aren't, nod in agreement!)  So, I'm going to share some "forbidden knowledge" with you that I know you never, never will use.  Right?  (Again, nod in agreement!) It's something I never, ever used myself and wouldn't, in a million years, ever use. Really!

OK, here goes:  If you really want to insult a musician (or, more precisely, someone who fancies him- or her-self as one) and be politically incorrect (Now why would you want to do that?), here is what you say:

"You're a real artist.  You have a Van Gogh's ear for music."

Now, I assure you, I love Van Gogh more than any Japanese banker who paid $100 million for one of his paintings.  (When you're poor, you console yourself by saying things like that!)  One of the high points of my second bike trip in Europe was stopping in Arles and sitting on the cafe terrace Vincent graced with his paintbrush.

So... what would it be like to have a Van Gogh's ear for music--at least, before he did that little bit of DIY surgery on himself?  Somehow I think he would have heard things most of us can't.  After all, isn't his painting about seeing what most of us don't?  (Perhaps the same could be said for any great artist.) Sometimes I think that in "Starry Night", he was hearing--and feeling, and perhaps even smelling and tasting, as well as seeing-- all of those lines and colors as he painted them.  

Likewise, I wonder what other artists heard in the music they listened to.  Many a writer has expressed his or her perceptions about Mozart, Marley and Monk, as well as musicians in every other part of the spectrum--and alphabet!   But we don't often hear what painters, sculptors and others who work in visual media feel when they listen to musical maestros.  If they were to turn to pianos instead of palettes, or using their voices instead of violet and vermillon (or cellos instead of celeste green)--or if they composed instead of chisled--what kind of music would they make?

(Let's hope that if they write, they won't over-use alliteration!)

I believe I may have stumbled onto what sounds Marcel Duchamp might have made had he turned at least one of his objets into a musical instrument:



Now tell me:  Whatever you think of him, who else but Frank Zappa could have done it?  

And who else but Steve Allen could have gotten away with bringing a then-unknown musician onto his show, and letting said musician do, basically, what ten-year-old boys (and, sometimes, girls) had been doing for decades with their bicycles?  Who else could have, in front of a national audience, treated such a musician as if he were, well, a musician?  

At the time of that broadcast--1963--most American audiences weren't ready for the Beatles or Bob Dylan, let alone Frank Zappa.  I'm not sure Steve Allen was, either.  At least he deserves credit for his willingness to expand his own horizons--which, of course, was the first step in helping to expand the horizons of his audience.

What would Marcel Duchamp have played on that bicycle wheel in his studio?  

How Did They Stay On Track?

I have ridden on two velodromes in my life:  Kissena and "T-town".  The first time I rode Kissena, which is just a few kilometers from where I live, it more closely resembled some trails I rode in Vermont than any other track.  Another rider, who was a bit of a tinkerer, quipped that it was inspiring him to design the world's first dual-suspension track bike.  The Lehigh Valley Velodrome--commonly called "Trexlertown" or "T-town", today known as the Valley Preferred Cycling Center--was like a mirror by comparison.

Riding on both tracks gave me butterflies in my stomach, along with an adrenaline rush.  I don't know how fast I rode (Somehow, I don't think Chris Boardman or Francois Pervis had anything to fear!) but I know I was riding faster than I ever did on a road or trail--without even trying!  and at angles I couldn't even imagine myself reclining or sitting!  It was probably as close as I ever came to defying gravity.

One thing you have to remember when you're on a velodrome--or any time you ride a fixed-gear bike:  Keep pedaling!   If you stop, you'll fall off--and, if others are riding on the 'drome, into their path. 

I have never ridden a high-wheeler ("penny farthing").  But I imagine that the same principle holds true:  After all, if the wheel is moving, so are the pedals.  I also imagine that if you suddenly stop pedaling, the resulting fall could be even nastier than the tumble from a modern track bike.

Perhaps one day I will ride a high-wheeler.  But I simply cannot imagine riding it on the track.  I wonder how these guys did it:

Edward Adkins: A Victim of Phantom Law Syndrome

During one of my many rides to Point Lookout, I was riding between a traffic jam and the shoulder of Lido Boulevard, just west of the Meadowbrook Parkway entrance.  As I recall, it was a weekday, so I wondered why there so many cars along the Boulevard headed away from Point Lookout. 

I soon had my answer.  Just past the high school, a truck crashed--apparently, from swerving.  The light turned red; I stopped.

"Ma'am.  Get over here!"  I didn't think the burly man in a suit was yelling to me--until he scuttled in front of me.

"I'm talking to you!  When I say come, come!"

"Why?  You're not my father!"

"Don't get cute with me!"

"As if I could..."

"Listen, I don't wanna arrest you..."

"For what..."

"Never mind.  See that truck over there."

I nodded.

"Well, there's a guy on a bike under it, with his skull crushed.  Doesn't look like he's gonna make it."

"Oh, dear..."

"Listen, that coulda been you!"

"Well, I'm careful."

"Well, you were riding carelessly."

"How so?"

"You were riding between cars..."

I wasn't, but I didn't argue.  Then he lectured me about bicycle safety, pointing out that he was a "bicycle safety officer" for the local police department.  I had the impression that everything he knew about bicycle safety, he learned from one of those movies they used to show kids back in the days of "air raid drills".

"That's against the lore (translation:  law), ya' no'."

Then he ordered me to take off my sunglasses.  "Doesn't look like yer under the influence."  Squinting, I slid them back onto my face.

"Where do ya live?" he demanded.

"Astoria."

"You rode all the way from Queens?"  Again, I nodded.

"Well, at least you're wearing a helmet.   The guy under the truck wasn't."

Silence.  Then, "Listen, be careful. I really don't want you getting hurt.  And remember...don't ride between cars.  If I see you doin' that again, I'll hafta write you up."

Later, I looked up the traffic and bicycle codes for the town where I encountered that officer.  I couldn't find any prohibition against riding between cars.  Nor could I find any such regulation in county codes or New York State law. An attorney I contacted called that officer's assertion "nonsense".

Now, the officer I encountered that day may have been upset after dealing with a cyclist who got his head crushed under a truck. Or he may have been having a bad day for some other reason, or had some sort of unspecified rage--or a more specific animus against cyclists, or me as an "uppity" (at least, in the eyes of someone like him) female.  

Or he may have just been suffering from what I call "Phantom Law Syndrome".  

To be fair, police officers aren't the only ones prone to PLS. Lots of people think there are, or aren't, laws against one thing or another in their jurisdiction.  So, they might break a law without realizing it, or keep themselves from doing something because they believe, incorrectly, that there's a law against it. Or they might accuse someone of breaking a law that doesn't exist.

Also--again, to be fair--laws change.  Sometimes they're struck down, aren't renewed or replaced with other laws. Or  they're passed with little or no fanfare.  So, it's not inconceivable that some officer or detective wouldn't be aware of such changes.

I was reminded of those things, and the encounter I've described, when I came across the sad saga of Edward Adkins.

Edward Adkins

Nearly two years ago, a police officer saw the Dallas native riding his bicycle, sans helmet, in his hometown. Apparently, the constable didn't realized that the city's ordinance mandating helmets had been struck down, at least for adults, a few months earlier.  Adkins, 46 years old, lives off odd jobs and didn't have $10 to pay the fine.  

Now there is a warrant for his arrest, which he can pay off--for $259.30.  

Now, I am not a lawyer, and I certainly am not familiar with the police or courts in Dallas.  Still, I can't help but to think that there must be a way to lift the warrant--and to void the ticket because it shouldn't have been issued in the first place.

Even if he has such recourse, though, I imagine it would be very difficult for Adkins to pursue.  After all, doing so would take time and money that he, apparently, doesn't have. 

It also doesn't help Adkins that, in addition to being poor, he is black and lives in a neighborhood comprised mainly of people like him.  Living under such circumstances leaves you even more vulnerable to police officers and other authorities with PLS.  For that matter, laws that actually do exist for such things as wearing helmets and against such things as riding on the sidewalk are more often, and more strictly, enforced in poor minority neighborhoods than in other areas.   I have witnessed it myself:  Not long ago, while riding through the East New York section of Brooklyn, I saw three officers grab one young black man who rode his bike on the sidewalk while a young white couple pedaled through a red light.

Now that I think back to that encounter with the "bicycle safety officer" on Lido Boulevard, I can't help but to wonder how it might've turned out if I'd been darker and poorer (or, at least, riding a bike that wasn't as nice as the one I was riding)--or if I hadn't been wearing a helmet, whether or not one was mandated.

Why I Need To Make Wrong Turns

Sometimes I wonder whether my subconscious is steering me into wrong turns.

Freud, of course, would argue that it doesn't.  If you'd planned on going one way but finding yourself going another, deep down, you really wanted it.

Maybe he was right, although I still don't understand why I woke up next to at least a couple of the people I've woken up next to.

OK, this is a bike blog.  And my rambling ultimately has to do with the ride I took today--and one I took last week.

I rode to Connecticut again today.  I took a route that, for much of the way, follows the East Coast Greenway--I've been finding more and more of it--and takes me up a few climbs and along a ridge I discovered by making other "wrong turns".  

On the way back, though, I managed to--among other things--ride in a circle of about 15km, unintentionally.  I didn't mind:  It took me by a couple of rocky streams of the kind you expect to see in New England postcards.  Near those streams were some real, live, old-time farm houses and barns.  I guess I should not have been surprised:  I was in horse country.  

I have ridden horses only a couple of times in my life.  Given the chance, I would ride one again.  In the meantime, I am happy to see them.  They give me hope for the human race.  Why?  Well, only a century ago--even less in some places--they were beasts of burden.  In addition to carrying humans on their backs, horses pulled various kinds of farm implements as well as carts on rough roads and barges that plied canals.  Today, they do almost none of those things. But some people--some of whom don't ride--have seen fit to keep them, whether or not they serve any useful purpose.  

They are beautiful, intelligent creatures who generally treat people well, whether or not people are doing the same for them. Humans can do well to learn from them. 

The bicycle, of course, was one of the first things to take away some of the work horses once did.  People could go faster and further on two wheels.  Plus, even in postage-stamp-sized New York apartments, it's easier to store a bike--and cheaper to feed one--than a horse.

Perhaps we should thank horses for doing their work as well, and for as long, as they did--and for continuing to do it on demand.

Anyway, that loop through the horse farms and other bucolic scenes consisted of a couple of winding roads, one of which is called Round Mountain Road.  That name should have told me something!

I guess I subconsciously took those "wrong turns" because I really, deep down, wanted to see something besides downtown Greenwich and Stamford, or even the coast of Long Island Sound.  

Of course, when I am on vacation, I am always taking wrong turns.  As an example, on a day in Paris, I might decide I want to visit a particular museum or to take a ride to some particular site.  But I almost invariably end up following some street or alley or canal or another I hadn't planned on seeing.  Likewise, when I was in the provinces of France or Italy, I might decide that the destination of my day's ride would be some town or site.  But of course, I almost never took the "straight-arrow" route.  

So why does my subconscious steer me along routes the GPS would never dream of?  Well, I guess I am, if nothing else, inquisitive.  I want to see more and know more.  If I am going to spend time in a place, I want to become as familiar with it as I can.  My wanderings make me feel as if I've had a more intimate experience of the place.  For example, I have been to the Picasso Museum several times and can get to it pretty easily.  However, my experience of it seems more complete when I ride through the surrounding area--Le Marais--and, perhaps, find a street or alley I'd never before seen, or hadn't seen in a long time.

Believe it or not, even in the cities and towns and rural areas I know relatively well, it's still not difficult to find and interesting, and even new experience--simply by making a "wrong" turn.

Note:  I didn't take any photos today.  Sorry!  I guess I just got so immersed in my ride that I didn't think of taking pictures.

What If The Fish Is--Or Was--A Bicycle?

A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

Gloria Steinem popularized that expression in the early days of the modern feminist movement.  Many people believe she coined it, though she has never taken credit for doing so.

Whatever its origins, sometimes it seems that every woman in the world has uttered it--whether out loud or to herself--at some time or another.  I am no exception.  In fact, I muttered it more than a few times--without irony or sarcasm--when I was living as a man.  

Of course, people have substituted all sorts of things for "A woman" and "a man".  After I read Nietzsche, I inserted "People" and "God".  Later, I would modify the latter to "religion".  

In this depressing election cycle, we could say "This country needs Hillary/Trump" (take your pick).   

All right, I'll stop preaching politics.  After all, you didn't come to this blog for that, did you?

Instead, I'll come back to the fish-and-bicycle dilemma.  Perhaps a fish doesn't need a bicycle.  But does that mean a fish can't be a bicycle?

Maybe not.  But a pike or pickerel  can be made from bike bits.  At least, French sculptor Edouard Martinet pulled off that feat:

He has also made birds and insects from bike parts and other objects he's found.  

Think about them the next time you toss out that worn chain:  A bird or a bug or a fish might actually need your bike--your bike parts, anyway!