Send In The Clowns. No, Bring 'Em On!

Just days after Chelsea bombing, John Miller is telling us "be not afear'd".

All right, he isn't given to talking like Caliban, or any other Shakespeare character.  But he did tell us not to be afraid.



And I'm listening.  You see, he's the New York Police Department's Deputy Counterterrorism Commissioner. Hmm.. A  title like that and a $150 deposit will get him a ride on a Citibike.

Seriously, though...He knows what he's talking about.  Especially when he's telling us what we shouldn't fear, now, in this Time of Trouble.

"Don't believe the hype and don't be afraid of the clowns," he reassured us.

The clowns?  Hey, I ain't afraid of no stinkin' clowns.  Even if they're scary clowns.  I mean, if they have to tell us they're scary, how bad can they be? Right?

Honestly,  do you believe he's any scarier, or any more of a clown, than certain people (whose names I won't mention!;-)  who are running for office?

Tell me:  Which one has worse hair?

And, as long as I'm on my bike, I can ride away from them.  So, I'll have even less reason to worry about Scary Clowns--unless they start riding bikes, too!

Him, I worry about.  But not this one:

They Were Going Their Way. So Were We.

They were crossing and walking in the bike lane.  In families, all of them:  very young girls and boys with curls cascading from their heads, their mothers' hair pulled back or covered, the men crowned with fur hats.  Sometimes they had to stop to take their kids' hands and guide them across the path; others stopped to talk, to behold the evening descending upon them, upon us.

Right in the middle of the bike lane.  All up and down the bike lane.  

And I didn't get upset with them.  None of the other cyclists seemed to, either.  We couldn't, really.  There were hundreds of those families, walking to or from the river or their houses.  There just wasn't any place else for them to walk.

We--for a moment, we became a community, even though none of us knew each others' names, and we may never meet again--all turned right on Ross Street and three blocks later, took a left on Hipster Fifth Avenue, a.k.a. Bedford Avenue, which parallels Kent Avenue and its bike lane.

We, all of whom were riding north on the lane, knew that whatever we thought of riding on Bedford Avenue, it was better than weaving through men and women and dodging children.  It was also, frankly, the most civilized thing any of us could have done.  

Alexsander Gierymski, Hasidic Jews Performing Tashlikh on Rosh Hashanah, 1884

We all knew enough to do that.  I wonder whether we all knew better than to ride through the Hasidic enclave of South Williamsburg at sundown on Rosh Hashanah.  I knew that the holiday began at sundown yesterday and will continue until sundown tomorrow.  But I just instinctively followed the streets to the Kent Avenue bike lane, which I normally take when I'm riding home from Coney Island, as I was today, or anyplace else in southern or western Brooklyn.

And those Hasidic families were, no doubt, walking their normal routes between schul, the river--where they cast pieces of bread into the metallic water for their tashlikh-- and their homes.  We couldn't begrudge them that, even if they were in "our" bike lane!

If The Milk Is Free...

Just over a week ago, I wrote about Pop Tarts and other seemingly-improbable energy sources for cyclists.

I also confessed that I fueled myself through France on jambon beurre sandwiches. Turns out, I was closer to eating a diet of champions than some might expect:  In 1972, when Eddy Mercx set a new hour record (which would stand for 12 years) in Mexico, he started his day with a breakfast of toast, ham and cheese he brought from Belgium.

Today, many hard-core cyclists--racers in particular--would disdain such a diet.  Many are vegans or vegetarians; others eschew certain categories of foods they believe are harmful.  Dairy products gather particular scorn from such riders.

But, as Mercx's "breakfast of champions" shows us, dairy products were considered a perfectly acceptable part of a training regimen.  In fact, not so long ago, most athletes and trainers believed that milk was beneficial for, even vital to, cycling.

Cyclists weren't the only ones who shared the faith, if you will.  When I was growing up, our science textbooks told us that milk was the "perfect food".  Athletes were even recruited to promote milk:

Joyce Barry, in an ad for the Australian Milk Board, September 1939

In the 1930s and 1940s, Joyce Barry did a number of record-setting rides in her native Australia.  Now, while the image of Ms. Barry might have made milk seem like a good training beverage , her story is an even better testimony to the health benefits of cycling.

In her early teens, an attack of pneumonia left her with weak lungs.  To build them, and the rest of her body, up her doctor recommended cycling.  


Three years after taking up cycling, she found a mentor. Hubert Opperman--"Oppie"--was himself a record-setting cyclist who found fame in England and France.  

In case you were wondering what he ate:

Hubert Opperman enjoying, er, his training food, 1936

"The health food of a nation" indeed.  I wonder what he (and Ms. Barry) were paid. 

Autumn, Perhaps. But Not Fall, Not Yet.

Do you call it "autumn" or "fall"?

I like the sound of "autumn", especially in French (automne), Italian (autonno) and Spanish (otono, with a squiggle over the "n").  However, "fall" is more picturesque and evocative.

Whatever you call it, we're officially a little more than a week into the season here in the Northern Hemisphere.  Some places are more autumnal; others are more fall-like.

To me, the season becomes "fall" when, well, the leaves change color and fall.  Normally, that wouldn't begin to happen in this part of the world for another week or so.  Weather forecasters, however, are saying the blaze of color will come later than normal this year because we have had a hot, dry summer and have had--so far--a warm, dry autumn.  

While riding today, I saw some signs of autumn, though not in foliage.  Rather, I felt the telltale nip in the air and noticed the light becoming more muted. Sooner or later we will be fall, complete with leaves that reflect the flaring and setting of the sun, something I look forward to as much as I await the blooming of cherry blossoms and lilacs at the beginning of spring.

For now, I will have to content myself with images like this, from a 2011 posting of Kansas Cyclist:

A Honeycomb Or A Spider? From Huret?

When I first became passionate about cycling, the best frames--usually made from Reynolds 531 or Columbus SL tubing--featured intricately-cut lugs, like the ones made by Nervex:

Nervex lugs with extra-long tangs on a 1950 Mercian Vincitore

A good production frame like the Peugeot PX-10 would use Nervex lugs "as is"; custom frame builders might file them to even finer points, or make a cutout "window".  

A few builders even cut plain lugs into their own distinctive patterns. The British builders in particular were noted for their distinctive scrolls, trellises and other shapes and patterns.

During the mid to late 1970s, however, bicycle makers--even the small-production custom builders--shifted to plainer "spearpoint" lugs.  Sometimes those artisans filed them to elongate the "spear" or, as they did with Nervex lugs, cut a "window" in a particular shape, such as a heart, diamond or cloverleaf, into the body of the lug.

For all of the fancy lugwork, though, dropouts looked more or less the same.  Again, some custom or low-production builders filed them or did other finishing work to make their bikes all the more distinctive.  Still, because most high-quality dropouts looked so similar, there wasn't as much a builder could do to make that part of the bike stand out.

One notable exception this:

Is it a honeycomb?  Or a spiderweb?  Did Huret make it?

In 1974 and 1975, Gitane "Interclub" and "Tour de France" were made with this dropout.  A few other bikes--all of them French--also featured this unique frame fitting.  

Often called the "honeycomb" or "spiderweb" dropout, its provenance is somewhat mysterious.  It's usually referred to as a "Huret" dropout because the bikes that came with it always seemed to have Huret derailleurs attached to them. (Yes, even on Gitanes, which were notorious for coming with parts that were very different from the ones listed on catalogue spec tables!)  I could not, however, find this dropout in any Huret catalogue or brochure from 1974 or 1975--or, in fact, from 1969 through 1981.

From what I've gathered, it seems to be of good quality.  One discussion board says that it was cast, rather than forged as Huret's (as well as Campagnolo's) road dropouts were.  However it was made, the "honeycomb" or "spiderweb" seems to be robust, as no one seems to know of any that broke or otherwise failed.

Apart from its appearance, the "'comb" or "'web" had one other interesting--and useful--feature: without modification, it could accept Campagnolo, SunTour, Shimano and Simplex as well as Huret derailleurs.  This is particularly serendipitious for anyone who wants to outfit an Interclub or Tour de France frame with modern components.

Huret dropout

Nearly all dropouts made since the 1980s are patterned after Campagnolo, which has a 10mm threaded mounting hole and a "stop" on the underside, at the 7 o'clock position.  (SunTour and Shimano dropouts from the 1970s and 1980s were also made this way.)  A Huret dropout also has a 10mm threaded hole, but its "stop" is at the four o'clock position. 

Campagnolo dropout. Note the 'stop' at the 7 o'clock position, as opposed to the 4 o'clock position on the Huret.

What all of that means is that a Campagnolo derailleur will fit into a Huret dropout, but it might mount at a strange angle, which could impede its shifting.  A SunTour derailleur doesn't share this problem, as its angle-adjusting screw has a lot of range.  In fact, Schwinn Superiors from 1976 through 1979 came with SunTour derailleurs mounted on Huret dropouts.  So did some Motobecanes from that period.

On the other hand, some Huret derailleurs won't work on Campy dropouts at all.  Two different versions of the Jubilee were made:  one for Huret's own dropouts, the other for Campagnolo.  Other Huret models, like early versions of the Success and Duopar, would work with adapters Huret offered; later versions of those derailleurs were made only to fit Campagnolo-style dropouts, which had become the de facto standard.

Simplex dropout

Simplex dropouts, as opposed to the others, had a 9 millimeter unthreaded hole and no "stop".  If you want to use any other derailleur, you have to tap out the hole and grind a "stop":  a rather delicate procedure, especially if the dropout was chromed, as it was on many bikes.  Because SImplex derailleurs attached to the dropout with a recessed allen bolt that threaded into the derailleur's top pivot (in contrast to other derailleurs with top pivot bolts that threaded directly into the dropout), it could be used in a Campy dropout--with a "Class B" fit.

So...If you have a bike with the "honeycomb" or "spiderweb" dropouts, you have no reason to fear, at least according to everything I've read.  But, honestly, you know you like it for its looks, or at least its uniqueness.  They don't make them like that anymore!

Drawing Bicycles From Memory

In Bob Dylan's "Highlands", the narrator (presumably Dylan himself) wanders into a restaurant in Boston.  He is the only customer; the only other person there is the waitress.  

She says, "I know you're an artist, draw a picture of me."  

He responds:  "I would if I could, but I don't do sketches from memory."

Then she chides him, "I'm right here in front of you," but he continues to hedge.

Some would argue that all drawing (and writing and other creative and re-creative work) is done from memory.  After all, any thought, feeling or other experience becomes past--i.e., memory--the moment it happens.

I, too, have been asked to draw from memory and "in the moment".  I, too, find ways to hem, haw, hedge and politely decline.  Long ago, I realized that I am not that sort of artist:  When I displayed my sketches and paintings, I got a ticket for littering.

OK, so I made up that last story.  But, even with the meager talent I have for such things, I might have continued to paint and draw--from memory--had I known what has been confirmed in many studies:  Most people don't do any better than I did.  In fact, most do worse.

That point was illustrated (pardon the pun) once again when, a few years ago, an Italian designer Gianluca Gemini asked people to draw men's (diamond-frame) bikes from memory.  Most of their renditions bore, at best, only a passing (pun alert!) resemblance to anything anybody rode down the strada or through the piazza.  Recently, he decided to render some of those drawings into lifelike 3D pictures.
  

The participants in Gemini's study ranged in age from three to 88 and lived in seven different countries.  Across those generational and cultural divides, Gemini found some patterns, especially among genders.  For example, men tended to overcomplicate the frame when they realize they are not drawing it properly.

I want to meet the dude who came up with that.  What I find ironic is that for all of its sharp geometric lines--as if it were designed by Mondrian on crack cocaine--it actually looks good with "moustache" bars.  Also, the brown leather seat and handlebar tape lend it a certain elegance.

Speaking of elegant, here is a bike that reflects a female pattern

Interestingly, most of the front wheel-drive bikes (the ones with the chains and gears attached the front wheel) were drawn by women.  Gemini can't (or doesn't) offer an explanation.  

I very much like that bike--at least, its looks.  Had I more space and money, I'd have it made and use it for a wall hanging.  Heck, I might even ride it.  Put a Brooks brown saddle on it, and very few bikes would be lovelier.

Here's another bike from Gemini's study that caught my eye:

I mean, how can you not love a bike with track gearing, two fork assemblies, a wheelbase longer than the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge--and that yellow flag!

All right, I'll admit:  I really like the color:  a sort of periwinkle/lavender blue.  If you've been reading this blog, surely, you're not surprised.

Gemini's participants also came from a wide variety of occupations, including students and retirees.  Professional or employment status--or lack thereof--seemed to have little or no bearing on how realistic or whimisical participants' drawings came out.  The most "unintelligible" drawing, according to Gemini, was made by a doctor.  I wonder whether he or she is a surgeon!

Mommy Dearest Rides A Bike

Last year, I wrote about someone who was a BMX rider before there was BMX--or, at least, before anyone coined the term "bicycle motocross".

The moves of this rider could put those of even some of the most accomplished BMXers, never mind hipsters on fixies, to shame.  And said rider made those spins, twirls and climbs with a grace unmatched by just about anyone else--decades before David Mirra or Ryan Nyquist were even born.

This rider's unique style was partly a result of her training.  All right, I let it slip that the rider was a woman.  Moreover, she was at least twice the age of most BMX riders when she made those moves.

Lily Yokoi's best-known (at least to mainstream American audiences) performances were on episodes of The Ed Sullivan Show and another variety show called The Hollywood Palace.  The latter, which aired on 9 October 1965, was hosted by none other than Joan Crawford.

It's easy to assume that show was as close as Ms. Crawford came to a bicycle--unless you've seen this:

Of course, it's easy to dismiss that photo as staged or retouched.  For one thing, it doesn't have a very natural look. (Then again, "natural" wasn't considered a virtue when that image was made.)  For another, the image appeared among other photos of major Hollywood stars on or with bicycles. Those luminaries include Bing Crosby (and his sons in their letter sweaters), Bob Hope, Ronald Reagan and Jane Wyman (they were married then), Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. 

I am talking about the 1946 Schwinn catalogue.  Why was there such an emphasis on glamor ?  My guess is that in the first post-war year, people wanted to be dazzled after the austerity that resulted from the war and the Great Depression that preceded it.  The "lightweight" bikes of that year, such as the Continental, seemed to emphasis their "European-ness", which was equated with elegance and sophistication.  In contrast, the wide, swooping curves, wide tires, lush chrome and flashy paint of Schwinn's (and other American bike makers') 1950s cruisers seemed baroque.

But I digress.  Turns out, "Mommie Dearest" wasn't just posing for a one-off photo.  While there are no accounts of her doing audaxes or races, she apparently got around on her bike.  Whatever her riding style, hardly anybody looked better!

As I understand, she was not the only Hollywood actor or performer who was riding in those days.  Some rode just because they liked it; others pedaled off the stresses and frustrations of working, as Jimmy Stewart would after spending hours in a wheelchair, with a fake cast on his leg, for Alfred Hitchcock's thriller Rear Window.

 

Grass On Top, Bicycles At Base: From The Vision Of Oculus

Here in New York, we (those of us who aren't architecture critics, anyway) learned of him from this:

Oculus lifts its wings just north of Liberty Tower, where the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center once stood.  It rises, like a cross between a ghost and a phoenix, above the transportation center that brings seven New York City subway lines, as well as the PATH system, together.

It lifts and spreads our vision over and across a plaza surrounded by tall glass and steel towers.  In a way, it's almost an inverse image of I.M. Pei's Pyramid in the Louvre courtyard, which directs our vision from a focal point above the ground and, like Oculus, spreads it, though toward the ground, in a milieu of cream-gray Oise stone walls.

Although I like Oculus, I think it's fair to criticize it for housing what is essentially a high-end shopping mall on the site of one of the worst tragedies in this country's history.  (Ironically, it sits in the same concrete bathtub as the 9/11 Memorial Museum, which is as muted and somber as the Oculus is light and airy.)  But I also feel that beauty, in any form, is a fitting way to honor victims of a horrific event.

Oculus' designer created another iconic transit hub twenty-six years ago.  In fact, it is now one of the busiest rail terminals in Europe.  But, in an ironic twist, this terminal, designed to facilitate the movement of people to, from and through a major city, has been plagued with congestion.  Now the architect who created the train station is going to add something to it that might help to alleviate that overcrowding, at least somewhat.

Santiago Calatrava, who hails from Spain but is now based in New York, has unveiled plans a grass-topped office block on the plaza of his Stadelhofen Station in Zurich, Switzerland.  His glass "twenty first century office building" will feature bulging walls with slanted angles at the corners that--to my eye, anyway--are somewhat evocative of the ribs that comprise Oculus.  There will be a triangle of grass on the roof.

But one of the most intriguing aspects of this planned building (and the reason why I'm writing about it on this blog!) is that the plan includes public parking for 1000 bicycles on the ground level.

With his plan, Calatrava becomes the latest in a growing number of architects to integrate cycling infrastructure into an otherwise commercial project.  If successful, it will have the benefit of making both cycling (particularly for transportation) and mass transit more convenient--or, to some, simply more palatable. Whatever you think of his designs, he ought to be commended for that.

A Beautiful Ride, Indeed!

Perhaps I am more fortunate than most people.  After all, on two consecutive days, I took rides that--as familiar as they were--nourished my mind and spirit, if in completely different ways, as they exercised my body.

And I rode to work with the sun blazing over Hell Gate as a cool breeze floated over me.  "You look happy!" one of my students observed.

Happy, indeed.  After riding to work, I got to talk about poetry.  Between classes, I checked my e-mail.  Someone sent me this:

A beautiful ride, indeed!

The Beginnings Of Change

Today I took a ride down to the Rockaways, and along the South Shore of Queens and Brooklyn.  

The skies were even clearer than they were at the end of my ride yesterday, and the Atlantic tides seemed benign and powerful at the same time, much like today's sunlight.

Still, I found myself overtaken--at moments, overwhelmed--with melancholy.  The cool breezes and low tides evoked sense-memories of rides I took, alone, along the Jersey Shore between Sandy Hook and Point Pleasant Beach during my teen years, especially during the fall of my senior year in high school.  

By that time, my mother knew I wasn't going to Mass anymore, even though I didn't tell anyone else--including, ironically, my father, who had even less religious belief (though, as it turned out, more belief in a Supreme Being or Higher Power or some such thing) than I have ever had.  Mother knew I was going on bike rides when I told everyone else--or led them to believe--I was going to church.  She wasn't happy about that, but, really, she couldn't say much about it, as she hadn't been to church herself in decades.

I took those rides because I loved riding--but also because I simply couldn't be with anyone else on Sundays, at least before dinner time.  That's when I had to be home; the hour was not stipulated, but I always knew it was some time around three in the afternoon.    

During the fall of my senior year in high school, it seemed that nothing else mattered.  At least, all I cared about on Sundays were riding and my mother's lasagna and salads.  I had no idea of where I'd be a year later:  I'd applied to a few colleges and to West Point and Annapolis--I would receive nominations to each of them--but, honestly, I didn't care which of them would take me, or whether none would.  About all I knew was that everyone I saw every day that year, I would never see again.   And, save for my mother, father, siblings and grandmother, I would probably never hear from anyone again.

Pedaling along the sea, along the curved rainbows the tides left, even if only for an instant, in the sand, was my only solace.  I had two friends during my high school years:  one died, of lukemia, during the early days of my senior year, a couple of weeks before the autumnal equinox. I still miss her.   And the other, as much as I liked him, I knew we wouldn't remain in contact for long afterward:  What we had in common was being the geeks, the outcasts, in that school.

Riding along the sea was my escape--no, it was my life itself--that year.  I don't know how I would have survived without it.  I imagined pedaling across the ocean, to Portugal, to Spain, to Morocco, to France--France!--and Italy and England.  I had never been to any of those places; they were somewhere on the other side of the tides I saw on the horizon.  

If I could have ridden to those places, I would have.  If I could have done nothing but ride that year--and for many years afterward--I would have.  The cycling buddies I would later meet would have understood why I wanted to ride; but, interestingly, my mother--who has not ridden since her childhood--might have been the only person in my life at that time who understood--though, perhaps, she might not have been able to articulate it--why I not only wanted it, but needed--and still need--it.

Somehow, I think she also understands that, in some way, that need is, and was, related to the necessity--the inevitability--of my gender transition.  Riding kept me sane, to whatever degree I was sane--or, at least, intact--and for a time, racing as well as long rides up and down mountains helped to channel the anger and aggression I felt.  So, when I called her today and, during our conversation, I told her about my ride, I could almost hear her recognition of the deja vu.  

After all, I took a ride along the shore on the first Sunday of Fall.