For Their Final Ride...

Es el segundo dia de los muertos. (It's the second Day of the Dead.) With that in mind, I bring you this:

A few years ago, my father insisted that I write a will.  Of course, I didn't want to, but I'm glad I did.  What interested me more, however, than what would happen to my, shall we say modest, wealth is what will happen to me.  To wit:  I've specified that I don't want a funeral and that I want to donate my body for medical research.

But whatever happens, my body will have to be transported.  I didn't mention that, but now I know how I want it to be brought from wherever to whichever research facility.  For that, I have Isabelle Plumereau to thank.

She runs "The Sky and the Earth," a small funeral home in Paris.  Her brainchild is the "corbicyclette."  The name says it all:  It's a portmanteau of "corbillard" and "bicyclette," the French words for "hearse" and "bicycle."  Essentially, it's a cargo bicycle designed to carry full-size coffins.  

Plumereau says she is trying to bring environmentally sustainable practices to the funeral industry.  She also had, however, other motivations when she created her vehicle for the "final journey."  For one thing, it "allows for a slow, silent, quiet procession, to the rhythm of the steps of the people who walk behind and who make the procession."

That comment reminded me of a conversation with a neighbor who's studying to be a funeral director.  As he described some aspects of the job, I realized why they're called "directors:"  a funeral is as much a performance and a production as anything staged in the Globe or on Broadway--or done in the classroom.  Plumereau seems to understand that; if anything, from the comment I quoted, I'd liken her to a choreographer.

Another motivation for her was the aesthetics of the vehicle itself.  "I am as attached to the form as I am to the content," she explained.  "For me, it is very important to accompany the families by proposing to put meaning in the ceremony, but also by proposing to put beauty.  Because beauty is also what will bring comfort."

I wonder whether she feels the way I do about typical funeral hearses:  They disturb me, not only because they carry dead people, but because they're just so ostentatiously intimidating in their appearance.

  

While Isabelle Plumereau's "corbicyclette" is the first of its kind in France; it's not the first in the world:  A few similar bicycle-hearses exist in Denmark and the United States.  But a funeral home, however small, using such a vehicle in a city as prominent as Paris--and in a country like France which, like other European countries, has an aging population--may well influence others, in her own city and country and others.

Oh, by the way, the corbicyclette has an electric assist to help its operator up hills.  Still, I have to give Ms. Plumereau and anyone else using such a vehicle "props." (I was going to say that I'd be "eternally grateful" but that's, well, somewhere I felt I couldn't go if I'm going to continue calling this blog "Midlife Cycling!")

 

If We Ride, We're Not Dead

 Today is Dia de los Muertos--the Day of the Dead.  Actually, it's the first of two Dias de los Muertos. Like most Americans, I assumed it was simply today, the day after Halloween, which I knew as "All Saints' Day" when I was growing up.  But, as it turns out, today's commemoration is for deceased children; tomorrow is for departed adults.

As a kid, I always thought it was weird to have a solemn "All Saints' Day"--when we were supposed to attend Mass (I served, as an altar boy, in two ASD masses)--the day after Trick or Treating. Perhaps that was a way of inculcating us with Catholic Guilt (TM): You pay for pleasure with pain, or at least drudgery.

Interestingly, Dia de los Muertos, at least as it's celebrated in Mexico and Mexican immigrant communities, bears more resemblance to our Halloween than to a somber church holiday.  Notice that I used the word "celebrated."  That's exactly the point of the costumes and festivities: to celebrate the lives of the departed.

I know that there are organized bike rides with cyclists in costume. I can't go to one of those, but I will ride later today with some old riding buddies.

  

Yes, they're old bike riders. Me, I'm Midlife Cycling! I go wherever the journey takes me.

(Photos taken at Fort Totten, 30 October 20222)

When A Costume Is A Mirror

 Today is Halloween.  I am going trick-or-treating...in drag.

Seriously, I am going in costume...

I mean, what else am I going to do with an old helmet and high-viz ankle straps (Does anybody still make those?) or utility workers' vest?  Really!

PEDs For The Mind?

Sports leagues and governing bodies are cracking down on the use of performance enhancing drugs (PEDs).  At least, they want you to think they are.

Of course, if the overlords and oligarchs that reign over teams and tournaments are going to assure the public that their favorite performers aren't examples of "better living through chemistry," they have to clearly define what constitutes a PED.

Usually, those substances are seen as the ones that build muscle mass or sensitize nerves so that athletes can hit harder, jump higher, run or pedal faster or longer or exceed whatever they thought they (and their competitors') physical limits were.

Now, any athlete and anyone who coaches, trains or teaches one can tell you that the mind is as important as the body.  So, should drugs that calm or excite a person--or expand his or her consciousness--also be considered PEDs?

If so, someone who wanted to win the race, game or match, or set a new world record, but believed, shall we say, that the end justifies the means, might want to check out this:

Now, I'm sure that the pharmacy, located in Flushing (the "Chinatown" of Queens) is perfectly legit.  I couldn't help but to wonder, though, just what sorts of drugs Confucius would prescribe or dispense--and whether FIFA, the IOC, UCI or other governing bodies would approve of them.   

The Lance Armstrong--Or The Donald Trump-- Of Chess?

I rarely truck in conspiracy theories. (Really!) But, every once in a while, a seemingly-farfetched explanation for something turns out to be a precursor for the truth.

Case in point:  What Elon Musk said about the meteoric rise of Hans Niemann.  The 19-year-old Californian by way of the Netherlands and Hawaii beat the then-reigning world chess champion Magnus Carlsen last month.  

Musk claimed that Niemann had help.  OK, that's understandable:  After all, almost no-one, even in the world of competitive chess, had heard of Niemann just a few months ago, and prodigies are usually well-established by Niemann's age. But Musk claimed that Niemann's "boost" came not from friends or family, or from a performance-enhancing drug. (What kind of PED would help a chess player, I don't know.  But I'm sure there must be at least one.) Rather, the world's richest man-child came up with an explanation that even I, in either of the puberties I experienced or under the influence of anything I might or might not have tried, could have come up with. The new chess champion, Musk averred, was guided by vibrating anal beads that signaled the correct moves.

You can't make this stuff up.  At least I can't.  But Elon Musk can.  Maybe that's why he's rich and I'm not.

Anyway, it seems that Musk was right on at least one count:  Niemann cheated, not only against Carlsen, but in earlier matches.  Chess.com's investigative report says as much.  Niemann responded in true Trumpian fashion by starting a lawsuit against them, Carlsen and chess streamer Hikaru Nakamura.  

Now, to be fair, other chess masters and fans have characterized Carlsen's recent form as "fragile." In other words, it's not inconceivable that someone--even, perhaps, Niemann--could have beaten him.  And participants in the major grandmaster tournaments normally have to pass through several stages of screening before being assigned to a table and chair. 

A chess "champion" and "top" cyclist?

 

There is, however, another part of Niemann's history--or, more specifically, the way he's framed it--that could lead one to doubt his credibility.  

When he was a child, he lived in the Netherlands, where his parents--one Danish, the other Hawaiian--were working in the IT industry. He started to take chess classes at the age of eight, at the same time he was in the thrall of another kind of competition.  "He liked to get on his racing bike to participate in competitions."  An eight-year-old in a bike race is not unusual in bike-obsessed Netherlands.  So one part of his claim--that he raced--is not only plausible, but a matter of record.  

However, the way he or anyone else could categorize his juvenile cycling career depends on how he or anyone else defines a single word:  "top."  As in, "top cyclist."   As in, "one of the top cyclists in the nation for my age."

Again, to be fair, there is little doubt that he was indeed racing as a child.  Nor is it a "stretch" to believe him when he says that he was "advancing much more rapidly in cycling than in chess."  But the only results CyclingTips could unearth in its investigation were from the 2012 National Championships.  In that race--five laps on a short circuit totaling 7 kilometers, or about 4.5 miles, he finished a minute behind the leader in a 12-minute competition.  That made him 25th out of the 35 young entrants.

So...Does Hans Niemann's Trumpian relationship to the truth and fair play make him a Lance Armstrong of the competitive chess world?  Or does his Lance Armstrong-like willingness to win at all costs make him the competitive chess world's equivalent of Donald Trump?

Pierre Omidyar Led Me To This

Whether or not he realizes it, Pierre Omidyar created one of the world's major rabbit-holes.

At least it is for me. Whenever I look for something on eBay--usually some difficult-to-find small bike part or book--my search triggers other listings, some only loosely, if at all, related to what I was looking for.

Case in point:  I was looking for some brake springs.  I know I could go to Recycle-a-Bicycle or one of the older shops and raid their old-parts piles. But that might mean taking an entire brake mechanism (for which, admittedly, I probably wouldn't pay much, if anything at all) and end up with a bunch of other parts I am not likely to use.  Besides, I wanted to find a "fresh" spring if I could, not one that is rusted and has lost its springiness.

My search took me down a dark, narrow path (OK, I'm being more-than-metaphorical here!) that included this:

Now, I would buy a set of such brakes only if:  1.) the asking price was a small fraction of what the seller wants for them, 2.) I had a bike that needed such brakes or 3.) I were collecting such things.

As for the "if I were a collector" scenario:  Those brakes would definitely be interesting.  They embody almost everything that no bike builder or brake manufacturer does today. 

For one thing, they clamp onto the fork blade.  I know that Dia-Compe (a "legacy" manufacturer that's still making very nice brakes and other parts) makes a dual-pivot brake that similarly clamps onto the fork blades.  But its reach is much shorter than that of the brakes in the photo because it's mainly intended for use on track bikes. Almost every caliper brake made today mounts through a hole in the fork crown or rear seat stay bridge, or is bolted into braze-on fittings on the forks or stays. The latter includes the so-called "direct mount" brakes.

But probably the biggest difference between this brake and anything made today is in the way it's actuated. It's usually classified as a "center pull" (or "central pull," as the manufacturer called it)  because it has two pivot points at each end and its pads are pulled in toward each other when a straddle or traverse spanning the tops of the two arms is pulled away from from the tire.

Actually, "pulled" is not the right word.  That describes how the center pull and cantilever brakes we're familiar with work:  A yoke attached to the brake lever cable pulls the straddle or transverse wire upward.  The arms of one of the brakes in the photos, however, is pushed upward with some sort of cam-like device attached to the cable. Note the position of the cable hole below the spring.

Those "central pull" brakes--some bearing the name "Philco" (I still think of radios!)--were manufactured  by Phillips.  At one time, they were the second-largest bicycle manufacturer in the world, trailing only Raleigh.  In the 1960s, I believe, Raleigh bought them out, as it did to most of their competitors, though bikes--and parts--were still marketed under the "Phillips" name. Those parts include the steel sidepulls found on most British three-speeds until Weinmanns displaced them and the rod brakes on bikes like the Raleigh DL-1 that came with Westwood rims which, unlike rims made for caliper brakes, don't have flat sides.

I've never tried the Philco, "central pull" or whatever you want to call those brakes.  But, from what I've read and heard, the share at least one quality with rod brakes and the company's sidepulls:  they're better than no brakes at all, but not by much--especially in the rain.  Then again, most bikes equipped with such brakes were seldom ridden fast.

One thing I have to say for those Phillips brakes, though:  They were lushly chromed in the way only British parts from about 1970 or earlier were.  (For an example of what I mean, try to find a Cyclo Benelux Super 60 rear derailleur.)  And, well, they did make for an interesting find in the "rabbit hole" Pierre Omidyar sucked me into when I was looking for some center pull brake springs!

A Smog Chaser On A BIcycle?

No sooner had I left behind the oppressive atmosphere of the city and that reek of smoking cookers which pour out, along with clouds of ashes, all of the poisonous fumes they have accumulated in their interiors whenever they have started up, than I noticed the change in my condition.

The "city" in the above passage is Rome.  The person who made wrote that observation about it, and the change in his health upon leaving it, was the philosopher and statesman Seneca, nearly two millenia ago.

His was hardly the first observation about air pollution and its effects.  Nor would such observations cease to be made until the twentieth century.  About five centuries after Seneca, Gregory of Tours, in his Historia Francorum (History of the Franks), makes passing mention of robes smudged by smoke that lingered in the air.

But from the beginning of the Industrial Revolution until the middle of the 20th Century, air--and other types of--pollution were seen as "the price of progress" and, for some, simply making a living. (Interestingly, the Democratic Party, with was largely opposed or indifferent to environmental concerns until the mid-20th Century, while most conservationists--who weren't necessarily thinking about the overall environment--were Republicans.)  Then, a series of deadly smogs--first in mill towns like Donora, Pennsylvania and later in bigger cities like London and New York--made people aware of the dangers of air pollution.

Those toxic clouds also made lay people as well as scientists aware of the need to document specific kinds of air pollution.  Devices became more sophisticated and portable, and data analysis more granular.  But one thing those devices and pieces of information failed to convey is how widely pollution can vary in a relatively small area.  So, a city that is considered relatively "clean" can have pockets--or even larger areas--of concentrated CO2 and other contaminants.

That is where the bicycle comes in.  We all know that turning two pedals to spin two wheels instead of stepping on one pedal to propel four wheels is one of the more effective measures a person can take in helping to reduce carbon emissions.  But now bicycles themselves are being used to identify, not just large areas of pollutions, but those areas--sometimes unexpected--that have concentrations of emissions.

One of those smog-chasers on bicycles is Jordi Mazon in Barcelona, Spain.  He uses an electronic device attached to his bike's handlebars to record variations in emissions all over his city.  His work has revealed, not only variations in the levels and types of pollution, but how quickly it can spread from one area to another.  Among other things, they show us how inadequate a number for a whole city or town, especially (though he doesn't specifically mention it) when pollution disproportionately affects particular communities and people, mainly the poor and those who are considered "minorities."  

Mazon even suggests that governments deploy cyclists with the devices--which are no larger than a typical bike computer and cost around 200 Euros--to take readings in specific areas at specific times.  In addition to the relative low cost, another advantage is that people on bicycles can be sent fairly quickly into small areas without adding to the very phenomenon they are sent to measure.

Hmm...Could that be another career for me--a smog-chaser on a bike?

Is A Cyclist's Life Worth $1166 And 12 Hours?

In some recent posts, I have taken heart in the fact that some drivers are being held to account in meaningful ways for injuring or killing cyclists.

Still, there have been many more incidents in which drivers got off with the proverbial "slap on the wrist."

Troy Manz was doing a 72-hour "sea to sea" race from Florida's Gulf to Atlantic coasts in February of last year.  The former Marine turned emergency flight doctor and National Guardsman.  He and his fiancee, Trish Wilkinson were just 20 miles from their destination--St. Augustine Beach (where I've pedaled during every trip to my parents' house) when they and a friend, Barbara Gilmore, were struck from behind by a car going about 70 miles per hour.  

Wilkinson and Gilmore were taken to the hospital and treated for their injuries.  Manz, however, died at the scene.

Last week they testified in a traffic case against the driver, Jonathan Quick.  While his blood alcohol level was determined to be below the legal limit, conditions were clear and, as Wilkinson recalled, "we took every precaution, we did everything safely."  They all wore helmets and had lights on the front and rear of their bikes.  Moreover, they complied with all relevant traffic laws, according to the Florida Highway Patrol report of the incident.

Quick was initially charged with careless driving and failure to yield the right of way. The judge in last week's hearing upheld the latter charge but dropped the one for careless driving.  As a result, Quick was sentenced to 12 hours of driver improvement school and an $1166 fine.

So..was that judge saying that Troy Manz's life was worth only $1166 and 12 hours?

Perhaps not surprisingly, Quick had a history of driving infractions before he ran into Manz, Wilkinson and Gilmore.  "I'm very concerned that this is going to happen to someone else and nothing that happened in the court system will keep the keys out of his hand or  will be any sort of repercussion," Wilkinson lamented.

She astutely identified the problem:  Such lenient sentences do nothing to prevent future incidents and, really, give no incentive for scofflaw drivers to change their behavior.

Enjoying The View When You Can't See

Jose Saramago's Blindness, first published nearly a quarter-century ago, might be seen as a kind of "pandemic" novel in a similar way to Colin Whitehead's Zone One and Albert Camus' La Peste (The Plague).  In the Portuguese writer's work, an epidemic of blindness affects nearly everyone in an unnamed city.  Perhaps not surprisingly, the social order breaks down, along with the infrastructure and conditions in the asylum where the first of the afflicted end up.  

I was thinking of it this morning, during a ride in which I did a couple of errands before going to work, because the way Saramago describes the sudden loss of sight is almost the opposite of the way most people picture blindness.  Like most people, I have imagined the complete loss of sight in the way I imagine death:  everything going black.  But in Saramago's novel, for those stricken, everything suddenly goes white.

Now, I hope not to go blind, whether that means everything in the world going black, white or some other color or form I can't conceive.  But, if I had to not see, for a moment, probably the best (or least-bad) way I can think of is this:

That was my view, if you will, from the Williamsburg Bridge.  Now, if I were a tourist, I'm not sure of whether I'd feel that it added to the allure of the city or be disappointed that I didn't get that view of the skyline so many envision before coming here.  

For those of us who've live in this city, a foggy morning might look more like this:

That is a view down 22nd Street in Long Island City, about half a mile from my apartment. 

Of course, I made sure to use my "blinkies," front and rear.  That might be a reason why I had no problem with the traffic--and enjoyed the views of what I couldn't see.  

A Detour Into Surprise

The other morning, I set out for Connecticut.  Dee-Lilah was certainly up for it:  the sky was clear and bright, and a light wind rippled yellow leaves that line my street.

Across the RFK (Triborough) Bridge and the Randalls Island connector.  Up the deserted industrial streets of Port Morris and Southern Boulevard to "the Hub," where the Boulevard meets White Plains Road and several subway lines.  Traffic was almost as light as the wind (though not me, at my age!) all the way up to the Pelham Bay Bridge, where my visions of the perfect Fall ride to the Nutmeg State met with this:

"Oh, it must be Ian's fault," I thought. Though the Hurricane brushed by us two weeks earlier, the damage, if there had been any, was still there, I mused.  But, peering ahead, I couldn't see it:

Then I glanced to my right and got the really bad news:

Spring 2023.  If I could believe that, I wouldn't be so upset:  I wouldn't be able to ride the Pelham Bay Trail to Westchester County during the rest of this Fall and Spring, but most of that wait would span the winter.  But, if you know anything about New York City Department of Transportation projects, you know that Spring 2023 is most likely when the work will start.  Then it will be further delayed by some dispute or another, and costs.  Call me a cynic, but I've seen such scenarios play out too many times.

Oh, and when I looked on the city's website, I learned that the plan is to replace the bridge altogether.  To be fair, it may well need replacement:  The bridge wasn't designed for all of the traffic it handles (and, I might add, the bike/pedestrian lane isn't the greatest, but it at least takes you to the trail) and probably is falling apart.  

I could have taken one of the routes I rode before I discovered the bridge and trail.  But, instead, I wandered in and out of the Bronx and Westchester County.  Guess where I took this photo:

It's a view from the Bronx, but not from where even people who know the Bronx might guess.  At the far eastern end of the borough, there is a neighborhood with the seemingly-incongruous name of Country Club.  The neighborhood was indeed the location of the Westchester Country Club before the Bronx became part of New York City.  But, in a way, the area still has a "country club" feel:  It's effectively an island, cut off from the rest of the Bronx (and New York City) by water, I-95 and Pelham Bay Park.  The houses come in all ranges of styles, but they have this in common:  they're big, more like the ones you find in the far reaches of Long Island or New Jersey.  The few buildings that aren't single-family houses or small stores or restaurants (mostly Italian and, I suspect, good) are condos, some with their own marinas!

Just on the other side of the highway is another neighborhood that seems to have been untouched by the "burning Bronx" of the 1970s. Like Country Club, it has many Italian-American families and remarkably clean public spaces.   And it has a store that seems to have been kept in a 1950s time capsule:

Frank Bee.  Transpose the "ee" on Frank, and you could have a nickname for someone in the neighborhood--or a DJ.  Frankie B.   Now that sounds like a name people would associate with the Bronx.

Just by those signs, you can tell that, like Country Club, Schuylerville has a lot of Italian-American families whose kids Trick-or-Treat freely in the neighborhood.  While very little in the store falls into the price range advertised on the store's banner, the prices are actually very good, especially compared to those in other parts of the city.

Whatever happens, I hope the store--and those signs and mannequins--stay where they are.  In an ideal world, such friendliness would be an antidote against the odious bellowings of would-be oracles:

Now, I'm not a political scientist and I'm an historian only if you define that term loosely.  That said, in my understanding, the notion that "Democracy killed Jesus" is wrong on two counts.

First of all, Pontius Pilate wasn't an elected official; he was an occupying Roman.  Second, and more important, an angry mob agreeing on something and acting on it isn't democracy, especially if it doesn't reflect the wishes of most people--or, as in the case of Jesus (if he indeed lived and died as he did in the stories passed on to us), if most people didn't even know about the accused or his alleged deeds.

Did that bit of graffiti reflect what most people in Country Club or the Bronx believe about the death of Christ or democracy?  I suspect not.  Whatever they think, I have to say this for them:  They, whether they were walking, raking their leaves or even driving, were very nice and a couple even cheered me on.  What I didn't tell them, of course, is that Dee-Lilah, my custom Mercian Vincitore Special, makes me look like a better rider than I am!😉