Feel The Burn--In The Right Place!

If you've been following this blog for a while, you've endured, shall we say, a few bad puns.  So I am guessing you can endure one more.

Here goes:  Sunscreen is a sensitive issue for me.

Actually, it's not as much of a pun as it might seem because, well, my skin is sensitive.  I have always known as much, and a few doctors (including my primary care physician and the orthopedic surgeon who treated me after I was "doored" in October) have confirmed it.  Some of that sensitivity has to do with my melanin deficiency:  I burn easily. 

From Bikeradar

So I pay attention to the labels on my suncreen.  In addition to being alert for chemicals that don't sound as if they should be applied to any part of my body (and that, in microscopic amounts, can damage coral reefs as well as other marine life), I also look at the number almost everyone else checks:  SPF.  A higher-number SPF gives you more protection; I've been advised to use a 50.  When I went to Cambodia and Laos three years ago--my second trip in the tropical zone--I packed a 100 SPF sunscreen.

While a higher number does indeed offer more protection, one-third of all sunscreens Consumer Reports recently tested actually had less than half of their claimed SPF.  Moreover, some experts cite the law of diminishing returns:  Any increase in SPF over 50 offers less of an improvement in protection than any increase up to 50.  That argument is based on the fact that a 50 SPF sunscreen offers protection from about 98 percent of Ultraviolet B (UVB) rays:  the ones that burn the surface of our skins. (Ouch!) 

But SPF ratings don't tell us anything about a sunscreen's ability to protect us from Ultraviolet A (UVA) rays.  Those are the ones that penetrate the skin and lead to premature aging.  In the European Union, all sunscreens have to offer at least a third as much UVA as UVB protection.  

Thoug both kinds of ultraviolet rays contribute to skin cancer, B plays a greater role, espcially in malignant melanoma, the deadliest form of the disease.  The good news is, of course, that a sunscreen with 50 USB or more will protect from most of the harmful rays--that is, when it's used properly.  The American Academy of Dermatology recommends using enough lotion to fill a shot glass (two tablespoons), more if you're a larger person.  

The AAD also prefers traditonal lotions over spray-on because the latter disperses the sunscreen into the air.  When you apply a lotion with your hand, more of it ends up on your skin.  And, sprays are generally a bad idea for sunscreens as well as any number of other products because the chemicals used as propellants are bad for the environment as well as your lungs.  (Even if you can't smell it, you're likely to inhale droplets of those chemicals, as well as the rest of the sunscreen, when you spray it.)  And, finally, the AAD "sunscreen pills" are basically snake oil.

Whether you're like me, or darker, you should be using sunscreen when you're out for half an hour or more--even if you're covered up. (UVA and UVB can penetrate fabrics.) At the end of your ride, the burn you feel should be in your muscles, not on your skin.  

A Journey In Memory

Here in the USA, it's Memorial Day.  The temperature hasn't exceeded 10C (50F) since Friday and rain has fallen nearly continuously--sometimes in torrents, other times in a drizzle.  The rain could stop and clouds could break by this afternoon, so some of the festivities associated with this holiday--nearly all of which were cancelled last year, when we were in the thick of the pandemic--might be staged.  So might the some of the barbeques and family gatherings postponed last year.

Photo by Rachel Smook.  From Massbike.

What I hope is that the people who weren't mourned, wheether they died in uniform or on a ventilator, will get the remembrances they deserve.  While this day is intended as a remembrance of those who died while serving in the military, I think it's fitting to recall those (including seven people I knew) who perished as a result of a pandemic that has killed more people in this country than all of the armed conflicts in which we've been involved since World War I.

The Tour of Somerville was one of many Memorial Day events cancelled last year.  This year, it's been moved to Labor Day (6 September).  I think the race organizers chose that date because here in the US, Labor Day is seen as the unofficial end of summer, just as Memorial Day is seen as its beginning.  The only other race cancellations came during World War II, which claimed the lives of its first two winners.

It just so happens that this Memorial Day is the 100th anniversary of the Tulsa Massacre, which I mentioned last week.  On 31 May 2021, white mobs descended on Greenwood, the Tulsa community dubbed "The Black Wall Street."  The city's police chief deputized hundreds of white citizens to join those mobs and commandeered gun shops to arm them.  The following day, the Greenwood district was wiped off the face of the earth.  It's estimated that 300 people died, but the true number may never be known.

However we choose to spend this day--I plan to take a bike ride later--it is intended as a memorial.   I try to remember that.

 

What’s In The Wind?

So what is the purpose of the fan?

Does it help him go faster?

Or is he a nice guy who wants to cool off the sweaty cyclists behind him?

If anyone is riding behind him, I hope he remembers Rule #5 of Cycling.

I’ll Keep It Charged For The Ghost

 Riding in New York City can, at times, feel like an archaeological expedition. Urban treks reveal artifacts of a city past, and one that is passing.  Sometimes I see “ghost” signs of long-gone businesses, political campaigns and products.  (One of my favorite non-cycling blogs, Ephemeral New York, has devoted several posts to them.)

Those signs also marked things that were once ubiquitous but have all but disappeared, at least in much of the developed world:

I spotted that sign on Van Dam Street, in an industrial area of Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  The phone was nowhere to be seen.  A truck driver who was munching on a sandwich waved to me.  I asked him whether there was a public phone anywhere in the vicinity.  He laughed. “Haven’t looked for one of those in years,” he said.

We wished each other a good afternoon.  “Be safe,” he avised me. “And keep your phone charged!”

All-Wheel Drive “Fat” Bike

Some of you ride cranksets, chainrings or other components or accessories made by Specialites TA in France.  “TA” stands for “Traction Avant,” or forward drive.  

Before he started making the parts for which the company would be renowned, founder Georges Navet tried to make, and market, a front-wheel drive bicycle.  High-wheel or “penny farthing” bikes had pedals attached to cranks fitted directly to the axle on the front wheel, which was much larger than the rear.

Navet, however, wanted to make a modern bicycle (two wheels of more or less the same size, propelled by a chain-and-sprocket drive) with front-wheel drive after seeing cars with the then-new innovation.  I would not be surprised, then, if some cyclist, especially one who rides off-road, looked at, say, a Subaru Outback (or, perhaps drives one) and wondered, “Why can’t my bike have this?”

“This” would be all-wheel drive. Someone called “The Q” may have been that cyclist.  Check out his attempt to make an all-wheel (OK, two-wheel) drive fat-tire bike:

To Continue His Work—And Passions

At schools and universities, celebrated alumni are memorialized with libraries, collections, laboratories, galleries and other facilities named for them.

Not many, though, have bicycle repair shops or programs that bear their names.

I must say, however, that few people would want to take the route to fame, if you will, of Sam Ozer.

Last year, days after his graduation from the AIM Academy in Philadelphia—where he was the co-captain of the mountain biking team—was riding along Henry Street when he was struck by a vehicle.

The fatal crash was accompanied by some terrible ironies:  It was Fathers’ Day and he was going to spend time with his Dad, Sidney—who, along with Sam’s grandfather Morris, were founding members of the Bicycle Club of Philadelphia.

Even if he hadn’t been working at the Trek Manayunk Bicycle Shop on Main Street, Anne Rock, his cycling coach, would not have been exaggerating when she said bicycling was “in his blood.” His passion for cycling was accompanied by his love of the outdoors, which may have been inculcated by his mother, Mindy Maslin, the founder and program manager of Tree Tenders for the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society.

Thanks to her, her husband’s, Ms. Rock’s and other people’s efforts, Sam’s school will have a bicycle repair shop and program.  Aside from commemorating the “grit” Ms. Maslin recalled in her only son, the shop and program are appropriate in another way:  The AIM Academy is a school for intelligent and gifted kids with dyslexia, and bicycling and bike repair helped to put Sam Ozer on a road to becoming a confident adult.  Before he graduated, he took two college courses and had been accepted in all six colleges to which he’d applied.

I Didn’t Miss The Train

 Yesterday afternoon, I unwound myself with a no-destination ride.  I have no idea of how many miles or kilometers I pedaled.  All I know is: a.) I was hungry when I got home (I fed Marlee first!) and b.) I wandered through Brooklyn neighborhoods seen by almost no one who doesn’t live in them—streets where women in long dresses and thick hosiery pushed baby carriages while young men in colorful shirts chatted and swaggered to the beat of Bob Marley songs and other sounds from Jamaica, other parts of the Caribbean and Africa.

I also wended down streets in a neck of Queens between Jamaica Bay and the Hawtree Inlet.  The narrow streets, some barely or not at all paved, could just as well be part of a New England or Gulf fishing village.  It would be easy to believe they weren’t part of the New York City borough of Queens were it not for this:

Part of the neighborhood—Hamilton Beach* —lies within the Gateway National Recreation Area, which includes parts of the New York and New Jersey coastlines.  The West Hamilton Beach part might well be the only part of the US National Park system that has a municipal railway running through it.

That subway line is the A train—yes, the one in Duke Ellington’s song.  The Hamilton Beach section of Gateway is about 30 miles as the crow (or seagull or egret or whatever bird you like) flies from Harlem.  As Ellington reminds us, if you miss the A train, you’ve missed the fastest way to Harlem—especially from one of New York’s most remote locales.

Fortunately, I was riding Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, so I didn’t have to worry about missing the train.

*—Although the neighborhood shares its name with a brand of kitchen appliances, there is no relation between them.  Supposedly, the community is named for two of its early developers.

Fun Fact:  Hamilton Beach is one of the few NYC communities with a volunteer fire department!

Why George Floyd And Tulsa Matter For Cyclists

There's just something about this date, 25 May.

Around this time, I believe, Spring starts to tilt toward Summer, at least in the temperate parts of the Northern Hemisphere.  Every few years, Memorial Day falls on this date, as it did last year.  It's the birthday of Lucy, of the eponymous novel by Jamaica Kincaid.  In 1787, the US Constitutional Convention convened in Philadelphia; Argentina's revolt against Spanish rule began in 1810.  And, interestingly, on this date in 1961, President John F. Kennedy challenged his country to land a man on the  moon before the end of the decade; exactly 16 years later, one of the most popular movie franchises in history--Star Wars--premiered.

And, one year ago today, enough happened that, if Stephen Dedalus of The Portrait of An Artist As A Young Man had witnessed it, he'd have to repeat his assertion that history is a nightmare from which he was trying to awake.

Amy Cooper, a.k.a.  Central Park Karen, falsely accused a black man of threatening her and her dog.  Fortunately, the man--Christian Cooper, no relation--captured the event on his phone.  Still, in February, a judge dismissed the charges against her after she completed five therapy sessions "designed for introspection and progress," according to the Assistant District Attorney.

Not surprisingly, that incident was overshadowed by the murder of George Floyd.  That, at least, has brought issues of policing in "minority" communities (in which I include not only non-white people, but those of us who aren't cisgender or heterosexual, or don't otherwise fit into societal standards of gender and sexuality) to the forefront.  

Those incidents, I believe, are relevant to us as cyclists because in too many places, at least here in the US, incidents in which motorists run down cyclists aren't taken seriously. The driver, even if he or she is impaired, distracted or should not have been driving for some other reason, gets off with a "slap on the wrist" and the cyclist is blamed for his or her injury or death.

Oh, while I'm on the subject of relations between non-majority or non-mainstream communities and those who police or rule them, I want to call attention to another incident that occured on the traditional Memorial Day--31 May (next Monday).  Exactly a century ago, on that date, one of the worst incidents of racial violence and mass murder took place in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  A black shoeshine "boy" rode an elevator with a white woman.  I think you can guess what happened next:  the "black ram is tupping the white ewe" rumors began.  They led to confrontations in which  the city's police chief deputized white mobs and commandeering gun shops to arm them--and private planes to drop bombs on the Greenwood district, then known as "Black Wall Street."

Like most other people, I learned about the incident, in which the district was wiped off the face of the earth, by accident, when I was researching something else.  I was, to say, the least, astounded--but not surprised--that the Tulsa Massacre has been omitted from history books. (Victor Imperatus, anyone?)  My shock led me to write an article about it nearly five years ago.  

I mention that incident, and the George Floyd murder because, although one is being brought to light (because of its centenary) and the other resulted in the conviction of a police officer, we as cyclists still need to be wary of increasingly-militarized police forces who still, in too many cases, harass, ticket and even arrest cyclists on specious or simply phony charges  (as happened recently in Perth Amboy, New Jersey) -- and the power structures that give rogue officers more credibility than those they victimize.  

Where Is His Rival?

I'm now waiting for a rival.

That sounds like something Muhammad Ali could have said at the peak of his career.  Or, perhaps, Eddy Mercx, Bernard Hinault or Martina Navritilova.  I think we could also add Serena Williams, Michael Jordan and Wayne Gretzky to the list of athletes who were in a class by themselves when they were at the top of their game.

The man who uttered it, though, may have had even more of a right to make such a claim. In February 2012, he rode 24.250 kilometers (15.1 miles) in an hour, on a track.  That might not seem remarkable, much less like a record of any sort, until you realize that the ride was accomplished by a man who had turned 100 a few months earlier.

Robert Marchand thus set a record for track cyclists 100 years or older.  Two years later, he bested that mark with 26.927 kilometers (16.73 miles) in an hour.

If he was looking for a rival then, he would have an even more difficult time finding one on 4 January 2017. That day, an hour of pedaling the Velodrome National, just outside of Paris, added up to 22.547 kilometers (14.01 miles).  That would set one-hour track record for the 105-and-over age group, a category created specifically for him.

Now tell me, who is going to rival that?

What's really interesting about Robert Marchand's feats, though, is that he isn't a "career" cyclist.  He had racing aspirations in his youth, but a coach advised him to give them up because, he said, his size (1.52 meters, or 5 feet and 52 kilograms, or 115 pounds) would hold him back.

Robert Marchand was born in the northern French city of Amiens on 26 November 1911.  After decades of working in Venezuela and Canada, he returned to France in the 1960s.  At age 68, he dedicated himself to his youthful passion of cycling.

Before setting his track his track records, he took some long-distance rides, including a trek from Paris to Moscow in 1992.  

In addition to the track records I previously mentioned, he also holds the record for someone over the age of 100 riding 100 kilometers.  When he turned 106, his doctors advised him to stop training for records.  But he continued to ride, at least 20 minutes every day.  In February 2018, he completed a 4000 meter race in the same stadium where he set his over-105 record.  And he celebrated his 107th birthday with a 20 kilometer ride.  

He finally transitioned to indoor riding, due to hearing loss, after he turned 108.  He continued, however, to ride every day until a week before his death on Saturday, age 109.

Even if he hadn't set records for his age group, I think one would have to look very, very long and very, very far to find a rival for Robert Marchand.  

True Upward Mobilty

You've heard about the snail who was insecure about himself.

He bought a "Z" car and changed the "Z" to an "S."

Now, whenever he drives by, people gush, "Oh!  Look at the S-Car go!"

What would that snail have done with a bicycle?