Bicycle Bob At 100,000 Miles

Back in 1991, he set a goal.

Last month, after twenty-eight years, he reached it.

His goal?  Cycling 100,000 miles.

That feat is, in itself, impressive enough.  More awe-inspiring, though, is that he gave himself that milestone, if you will, to reach when he was 67 years old.

Oh, and Bob Mettauer hadn't been on a bike in about half a century.  As a teenager in Long Island in the 1930s, he ran deliveries for a local butcher.  On Saturdays, he said, he'd typically ride 50 miles.

Then, as they say, "life happened"--in his case, World War II.  After serving in the Navy, he moved to California, where he worked for the phone company until his retirement.  

His neighbors in Casa Grande, the Central Coast  community where he settled 34 years ago, know him as "Bicycle Bob" and have followed his exploits.  He used to ride 20 miles a day when he was younger, he says. "It just kept adding up, so I set 100,000 as my goal."  These days, he rarely leaves his neighborhood because of the "crazy drivers" but was recently "doing nine miles a day in the morning."

To reach his goal, he's ridden three different bikes. The first didn't last long, he said.  The second one took him through 40,000 miles.  His current bike "has plenty of life."  But, he says only half-jokingly, "There's not much life left in the guy who rides it."

If I were a betting woman, I think I'd put my money on the man before the bike. He's only 95 years old, after all!

Out Of Season

Late summer + Late afternoon =  Winter?

Perhaps that equation makes sense if you are the sort of person who grows sadder as the summer draws to a close.  In normal times (whatever that means anymore), the days grow shorter and cooler at this time of year.  So, if winter isn't incipient, fall is certainly on its way--with the barren season not far behind.

Although the air was warm when I mounted my bike, I felt as if I'd taken a ride in the middle of January or February, after the bright lights of Christmas and New Years' festivals are switched off.  Coney Island, like other seaside destinations, seems to retreat into hibernation from that time of year until Easter or Passover.  During those spring holidays, people congregate on the boardwalk, and sometimes even venture on the beach, even if the roller coasters and Ferris wheels and other attractions have not yet opened.

But such gatherings were absent yesterday.  Granted, it was a Thursday afternoon, but in normal (there's that word again!) times, I would have to weave around groups of strollers on any summer afternoon that didn't include a raging thunderstorm.

Most people would say that Coney Island is "dead," or at least closed, when the Cyclone--one of the most iconic amusement park rides in the world--and Wonder Wheel are still, their entry gates locked tight.    But, for me, what really shows that a stake has been driven into Coney Island's heart is this block:

I remember riding the "bumper cars" with my grandfather as a child, and trying to win prizes at the shooting range.  Tourists usually come to "the Island" for the "big" attractions, like the Cyclone and Luna Park.  But, for me, the real spirit of the place--in all of its grit and garishness, in the hustle of its carnival barkers and the pulsing of its shopowners'  hunger alongside the expanse of ocean--is in places like the shooting gallery, the sideshows and the old man--actually, he turned out to be exactly my age, save for a few days!--who sat in front of one of the padlocked doors.

He saw me riding and taking photos.  We talked.  He told me a bit about his life and how he ended up there, like a piece of driftwood on a more remote beach.  I assured him that what happened to him could happen to any one of us, myself included.  "I don't want to keep you," he said.

He wasn't keeping me.  I still have choices:  I would ride back to my neighborhood, where some would complain about restaurants and bars that aren't allowed to serve patrons indoors.  He would look for the bits of work--sweeping sidewalks, unloading trucks--the few still-open hot dog stands (Nathan's, and others) and other shops could offer him, and pay him a few dollars for. 

I rode to winter.  He was living in it. I rode home.

Bicycling While (Fill In The Blank)

It was a hot afternoon.  I was pedaling home after teaching a summer class.  A van pulled up alongside me. One of its tinted windows rolled down.  "Nice legs!" 

I was still early in my life as Justine, but I guess I was already jaded enough not to hear that voice--or, at least, act as if I hadn't heard.  I continued to ride.  The van inched closer to me.  "Nice bike!"

Again, I ignored the voice.  But the van jacknifed in front of me.  Two doors opened.  Two men in uniform bounded out.

"What's your problem?"

"I hear stuff like that all the time.  I ignore it."

"Well, you should listen to us. We're cops."

"Well, I've never heard a cop talk like you."

"Shut up.  Show me your ID."

"Why?"  

The cop's partner demanded to know what I was doing "in the projects."  I politely pointed out that I wasn't "in the projects" and even if I were, it wouldn't have been an offense.

"Don't be a wise-ass! Show me your ID."

At that moment, I realized he was seized with "roid rage."  His partner most likely was, too.  My immediate goal, then, was to not end up in their van.

Then the guy who "complimented" my legs and bike lectured me about listening to cops and doing as I was told--and not making trouble.

To this day, I don't know what kind of "trouble" I was making.  It's probably a good thing I didn't find out:  If those guys could make up an "offense" (being in the projects) I didn't even commit, I could only imagine what sort of story they'd concoct if they hauled me off and I ended up...in a ditch?

I thought about that incident when I read about Dijon Kizzee.  He was riding his bicycle "illegally" in South Los Angeles on Monday. At least, that's what the cops claimed when they stopped him. 

Dijon Kizzee

He tried to flee.  Deputies shot and killed him.  Later, a gun was found on the scene.

Oh, but this story becomes, shall we say, even more interesting when the LA County Sheriff's  Department tells it.  "During the contact, a fight ensued between the suspect and deputies.  The suspect produced a handgun and a deputy-involved 'hit' shooting occurred."  

A "deputy-involved 'hit' shooting"?  Did that come from an episode of Miami Vice?  Or is it a re-creation of an event that never made it into the history books:  something that a constable in, say, Mississippi or Alabama did after a wardrobe change--from blue to white?

The LASD statement continues:  " The suspect's handgun was recovered.  The suspect was pronounced deceased at the scene."

What piques the curiosity of some, and the ire of others (including Dijon Kizzee's family) is what the reports don't say--or how they contradict each other.  What law, exactly, was he breaking on his bike? Did he flee or did he fight?  And, when he "produced" the gun, did he drop or aim it?

Do I have to mention Mr. Kizzee's race?  I don't know much about the laws in LA or CA.  Maybe there is some stature about Bicycling While Black (BWB) in La-la-land.  Likewise, I may have violated a regulation against Bicycling While Transgender (BWT)that came into existence the moment two cops pulled alongside me one hot afternoon. 

Black Lives Matter!

Cut To...The Chase?

I had a privileged childhood.  After all, I watched TV shows and cartoons that would later be considered "classics."  When I grew up (well, to the extent that I did), people were paying for subscriptions to cable channels that showed those shows and cartoons I saw for free.

One of those cartoons was "Tom and Jerry."  Every episode revolved around Tom's attempts to catch Jerry.  Sometimes he would succeed--almost.  Just when it looked like it was the end for Jerry, something would happen to Tom--a heavy object would fall on him, he would accidentally trip some Rube Goldberg device, or some other absurd accident would befall him--and free Jerry from his paws.

The reason to watch those cartoons, of course, was the chase and its twists and turns.  I wonder, though, what's going on in this cartoon:



Don't get me wrong: I think it's cute.  I'd show it to any young kid.  But is Tom chasing Jerry?  Oh, and they're on bicycles, but they never pedal.   Is there a hidden motor?  Hmm...Maybe they know the UCI isn't watching!

Now You Can Do What Trump Won't In The Badger State

Right now, Wisconsin is in the news for mainly for the violence in Kenosha, and the possibilty of the President inflaming tensions with his scheduled visit. 

I have never been to Wisconsin, so I know nothing about the state, or Kenosha, but what I've seen and heard in the meidia. (It's a Rust Belt city with widening gaps between rich and poor, black and white, etc.)  If I were to visit the Badger State, I imagine that I would want to go to Kenosha because the events there will be an important part of this country's history.  But, I'm sure there is more that I'd want to see.

One thing I'd want to do is cycle from Lake Michigan to the Mississippi River.  Now it's possible to do just that on a cross-state bicycle route just approved by the American Association of State Highway and Transportation Officials. 

Like other long bicycle routes (like the East Coast Greenway), the US Bicycle Route 30 was created by linking existing state and county bike trails, local roads and bike paths and state and county highways.  In the middle of the state, there is a spur--US Bicycle Route 230--for use when the Merrimac Ferry, which crosses the Wisconsin River, is not available.

Creating good bicycle routes is a laborious feat.  Is it any more difficult than getting the Cheeto In Chief to ride on them?  

The Hole At The End Of The Day

Late today, I took Negrosa, my black Mercian Olympic, on a no-planned-destination ride.

After zigzagging through some industrial areas and blocks of brick rowhouses, I descended the long hill from Ridgewood, Queens to Cypress Hills, Brooklyn.  After some more zigging and zagging along and around the Brooklyn-Queens border, I found myself in a place I hadn't visited in a while.

"The Hole," which I've mentioned in earlier posts, is an alternative universe between Brooklyn and Queens, near the South Shore of both boroughs.  The land--and incongruously-named  streets (Ruby, Sapphire, Amber)--drop suddenly behind a shopping center and a row of doctors office-type buildings on Linden Boulevard.  Not much seems to have changed since the last time I visited:

My guess is that those who live and work--legitimately or not--in the area want to keep it that way. Why else would they stay in a place that practically forces them to live and work like Okies or folks in rural Appalachia before World War II?  I mean, it's still not hooked up to the city's sewer systems and some aren't even on the electrical grid.  Oh, and I can't think of any place else in this city where a yard can fill with junked cars or school buses without attracting the attention of the Health Department.

A couple of guys, who were working on a truck, noticed me and nodded.  As obvious an outsider as I am, I guess they didn't see me as a threat.

I am a cyclist, after all.

What's Slowing You Down?

Other languages have wonderful expressions that don't quite translate into English, but are vivid nonetheless.

One, from French, is pedaler dans la choucroute.  

Pedaling through sauerkraut?  Avec ou sans la moutarde?

Park At The Met

Yesterday I contrasted the anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have A Dream" with the speeches of the Republican National Convention, which ended the night before.

Speaking of dreams: One of mine has long been to have indoor, or at least protected, bicycle parking at museums.  Well, that dream has just come true--for a while, and at one institution, anyway.

Today the Metropolitan Museum of Art is, like the Statue of Liberty* and a few other New York City museums and landmarks, re-opening to the public.  Visitors must purchase tickets and schedule their visits in advance.  Upon arrival, their temperatures will be checked and anyone who is 38C (100.4 F) or higher will be asked to visit on another day.

Some visitors, however, will be treated like VIPs.  From today until 27 September, "the Met" is offering valet bicycle parking at its Fifth Avenue plaza, just north of the steps to its main entrance.  An initiative by Kenneth Weine, the museum's vice president of external affairs, resulted in a partnership with Transportation Alternatives that brought about the parking arrangement.

Weine, who describes himself as an "avid biker," routinely rides from his Brooklyn home to work.  The museum has tripled bike parking capacity for staff in an effort to encourage more cycling to work.  Weine lauds the city for developing more bike lanes and says that "if we can be one extra link in that chain" by "offering an additional way for people to come to the museum, we're happy to do it."

In other posts on this blog, I have said that cycling enhances my perceptions of art, and that some art should be seen only after riding a bicycle to reach it.  I wonder whether Weine, or other museum administrators or curators, feel the same way.

The Morning After: The Dream

Today is the anniversary of Martin Luther King's Jr.'s "I Have A Dream" speech.

It's a sad irony (How many times have I used this phrase in the past three years?) that it comes the day after what seemed like a bad drug trip that lasted four nights.  I'm talking about the Republican National Convention, which featured more gaslighting than Angela Lansbury's first film.* Dreaming--more precisely, exhorting your audience to envision and follow your dream--is an invitation to a journey toward a better place.  What happened at the convention is the exact opposite:  Speakers imputed sinister motives, words and actions to their enemies and hellish conditions to places that had been doing well (or, at least, improving) until the COVID-19 epidemic.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised at the tone of the convention, given that Trump has not only vowed not to ride a bike, but has jeered cyclists.  On the other hand, MLK was known to take a spin.  And, like Einstein, he looked so happy in the saddle!

*--Like many people, I thought Gaslight was a Hitchcock film until I saw it.  George Cukor, in fact, directed it.

Even If It's Not Allowed

If every nation in the world decided to ban nuclear weapons and abandon nuclear energy, would scientists continue their work on understanding and harnessing the power of the atom?

Of course they would.  They're scientists:  They want to know what's possible and knowable.

Likewise, if some ruler decided to model his or her country after Plato's Republic, poets would be banned.  But would they stop writing or chanting?

Of course not.  At least, no real poets would.

Following this thread of logic, doesn't it make sense that just because the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI) won't allow road bicycles lighter than 6.8 kilograms (14.9 pounds) in sanctioned races, someone won't restrain him- or her- self from creating an even lighter bike?

Of course it does.  And that is exactly what Canyon, the largest direct-to[consumer bicycle company, has done.  Two weeks ago, it released the Canyon Factory Racing (CFR) version of its "Ultimate" road bike.  

It weighs a wispy 6.2 kilos, or 13 pounds, 11 ounces.  

Now, it may not appear in the Tour or Giro or Vuelta, whenever they resume--unless, of course, the UCI changes its rules.  But I am sure that someone out there simply must have it.  Hal Ruzal, the recently-retired maven of Bicycle Habitat, once told me that whenever the lightest bikes from Specialized (S-Works) or Cannondale or whomever came to his shop, people with  fat enough wallets (or high enough credit cards limit) bought them.  "They think those bikes are going to get them over the hill in Central Park," he quipped.

Still, though, I don't mind that someone is trying to make ever-lighter bikes, even if they're not allowed in races--or if I don't intend to buy one myself, even if I get rich.

What If She Gave Hints To John?

Donald Trump has pledged to never, ever ride a bike again.

I don't think he'll break that promise, especially now that we've seen how Joe Biden could "smoke" a lot of young whippersnappers.  

To tell you the truth, I don't think I'd be too unhappy if El Cheeto Grande never mounted two wheels.  I don't feel that way about very many people.

On the other hand, I might actually like seeing Heloise on a bike.  I have absolutely no idea of what she's like as a person (or if she's even real). But at least she is trying to help people become something Trumplethinskin never is: civil.

In one of her recent "Hints" columns, she answered a letter from someone who complained about scofflaw cyclists and wondered whether we should follow the same rules of the road as drivers and other vehicle operators.

"Heloise"

Most of Heloise's answer comes from the League of American Bicyclists' guide.  It's stuff we've all seen and heard before, and makes sense, as far as it goes.  But I don't get the sense she's on a bike since she was a kid, if she ever rode.

If she were to take to the streets, it would be interesting if she could encounter the recently-departed John Forester.   

"I Won't Ride. I Promise!"

OK, I'll confess:  I'm listening to the Republican convention.

My rationale could be something like the one I offered for practically memorizing Das Kapital when I fancied myself an acolyte of Ayn Rand and St. Paul:  I was learning how and what "the other side" thinks.  Oh, I offered a similar explanation, if only to myself, when I used to go shopping with girlfriends and female friends when I was in my boy-drag.

Everyone from Kimberly Guilfoyle to Nikki Haley, when they're not accusing Trump's predecessor of leading us into an abyss to which his opponent will return us, are touting all of the wonderful things the The Orange One has supposedly done.  

I want to hear what he'll  promise next.  One of his most recent pledges, made last week, is to never, ever ride a bicycle again.  Actually, he promised not to get hurt on a bike:  a jab at John Kerry, who crashed in the French Alps, where he was negotiating with Iran's foreign minister.

He plans to avoid Kerry's mishap in the easiest way possible:  He won't ride a bike.  Ever.

Kerry took his tumble five years ago.  Trump picked on him because he couldn't throw shade on Joe Biden who, on a ride near Valley Forge, zipped past a Fox News reporter.



Trump's anti-cycling rant is ironic considering that, for two years, he sponsored what was arguably the most important bicycle race in the United States. It's fitting, I think, that one of the participating teams, Sauna Diana, was sponsored by a Dutch brothel.

Somehow I get the feeling Joe Biden, even at his age, might be too fast for them.

What's He Carrying?

I try not to ride with a backpack.  When I must use one, I try not to carry more than, say, a few things from the market, a camera or smartphone and a notebook.

Of course, if I carry a backpack, I can blame it for slowing me down!

Riding The Divide For The Stories

Some of my best memories from my bicycle tours are the conversations and other interactions I had with local people.  

I'm thinking now of the old couple living by the point where the Garonne bends and begins its opening to the sea.  They took great pride in knowing the exact moments, twice a day, when the tide rolled in.  I'm also recalling my ride with You Sert, a PURE guide, that took us to Cambodian farms where one woman practiced traditional healing and her kids and their cat played with me, and another where a woman guided me through weaving grass for a roof.  

These encounters might be different from the ones that await Nate Hegyi. I feel confident, however, that whomever he meets and whatever he shares with them will be interesting.

A Public Radio-affiliated reporter in Boise, Idaho, Hegyi is embarking on a 900-mile bicycle trip along the Continental Divide.  He plans to visit eastern Idaho's ranching towns; Missoula, Montana; Wyoming's oil and gas areas and  the mountainous country of northern Colorado before ending his trip in Greeley.

Along the way he plans to file radio stories, post to an online blog and, in late October, release a podcast he will produce.  

"It's been a tumultuous year," Hegyi said.  "A pandemic grips the region and the economy is in freefall. But the voices of folks in the Mountain West's small towns and rural communities are often unheard in regional and national media outlets."  One purpose of the trip, he explained, is to "learn more about the area's residents and hear their stories."  

I am sure that whatever stories he hears aren't the ones one can hear from a car, tour bus or resort hotel!

Timing

Yesterday, Connecticut.  Today, Point Lookout. Sensing a pattern?

I'll bet they did

though it's not the same as mine.  How else could they time their feeding to the receding tide?

These folks, on the other hand, know only that it's a summer day:

Social Distancing In The Sky

Lately, on bike rides, I've been noticing unusual cloud patterns.

Perhaps the endorphins cycling releases is causing me to see more.  Or is something unusual going in the environment?

I mean, for a moment, I thought those clouds were practicing  social distancing.

The rest of my ride was fabulous.  And, yes, I practiced social distancing. You never know who's watching.

On Two Wheels To The 19th

The United States became an independent nation in 1776.  I would argue, however, that it took nearly two centuries for it to become anything like democracy, and that this evolution came in stages.

The last of those stages came with the Voting Rights Act in 1965.  Before that, the most important event in this evolution came one hundred years ago yesterday, when the 19th Amendment became part of the US Constitution.  It was written to guarantee women the right to vote.

(Interestingly, a few states, mainly in the western part of the nation, gave women the franchise while they were still territories.)

I mention the 19th because, well, it matters to me and because bicycles figure into it.  Although Susan B. Anthony didn't live to exercise the right she fought for, she did see changes, however gradual, in what was considered proper and sometimes even legal for women.  

As I've mentioned on other posts, she acknowledged the role of two wheels and two pedals in emancipating us:  

Let me tell you what I think of bicycling.  I think it has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world.  It gives women a feeling of freedom and self-reliance.  I stand and rejoice every time I see a woman ride by on a wheel...the picture of free, untrammeled womanhood.

She beautifully described what kept me cycling during and since my gender transition.  I feel free and happy on my bicycle. Perhaps most important of all, I feel complete autonomy over my body and person.  If that is not a definition of becoming a woman, a full human being--or of feminism--I don't know what is.

A Field Without Dreamers

This afternoon I rode, again, to and around Flushing Meadows-Corona Park. On my way back, I passed CitiField, where the New York Mets play their home games.

Though I’m seeing more vehicular traffic on the streets, I encountered an empty parking lot that, at this time of year, would normally be full.

The reason is that live fans aren’t allowed to attend games.  The players are. Instead, playing before cardboard cutout figures.

It’s hard to imagine such figures lining the route of the Tour de France or Giro d’Italia!

Trigger Warning

Today's "Sunday funnies" post has nothing to do with cycling.  And I am including a "trigger warning."

More than a few times in my youth, I took chances I wouldn't take today.  Sometimes I was seeking thrills; other times, I thought I was trying to prove something to someone when I was really trying to prove it to--or run from it in--myself.

If I do say so myself, though, I don't think I did anything quite as dangerous as what, apparently, has become a fad: gun enthusiasts pointing their loaded pistols between their legs and posting the photos on Facebook.  

Well, the law of averages says that, eventually, one of them would discharge his weapon--and not the one he intended.

He posted a picture of himself in the hospital.  He was wearing a mask.  

Perhaps he'll be nominated for a Darwin Award.

He Wants To Prevent "The Kiss Of Death"

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that I am not wholly enthusiastic about bike lanes.  In part, my attitude includes remnants of the late John Forrester's influence early in my cycling life.  I subscribed to his philosophy of "vehicular cycling" which, as the name implies, calls for cyclists to ride as if they were any other vehicle on the road.  This meant that, like him, I detested bike lanes.  He argued that bike lanes turn cyclists into second-class citizens and, worse, put them in more danger than they'd experience if they were to ride in the roadway.

These days, my lack of enthusiasm for bike lanes is rooted in something to which Forester sometimes alluded, and which I have experienced all too often:  those lanes, particularly here in the States, are, as often as not, poorly- conceived, designed and constructed.  

Dave O'Neill learned that lesson the hard way.  He has cycled across the country and "thinks nothing of" cyclng 150 miles a day.  Two weeks ago, he was cycling from the Nubbe Lighthouse in York, Maine to his home in Greenland, New Hampshire.  While pedaling through Portsmouth, a city that borders Greenland to the east, he experienced one of our worst nightmares:  He was "doored."

He was riding down the city's Middle Street bike lane, his friend ahead of him and his wife behind him.  Like too many recently-constructed bike lanes, it rims a curb and is separated from street traffic by a line of parked cars.

I avoid using such lanes whenever possible for two reasons:

  1.) Drivers often pull into, or park, illegally.  Sometimes they do so out of carelessness or disdain for others. Other times, lanes and parking spaces are not clearly delineated and drivers mistakenly park in the lane.  

2.)  In such a lanes, cyclists are riding to the right of parked cars.  Specifically, they are pedaling by the passenger side of parked cars.  In my experience, passengers are more likely than drivers to embark or disembark from vehicles--especially taxis and Ubers--without paying attention to their surroundings.

Dave O'Neill at the Middle Street Bike Lane

Dave O'Neill experienced a "perfect storm" if you will:  A passenger-side door opened on a car that was illegally parked. Worse, a utility pole abutted the street right next to where the door opened. "I had zero time to react," he recalls.  

When the car door flung into his path, it stopped his bike in its tracks and sent him airborne.  He  landed face-first. "I had gravel in my mouth," he says. "It was the kiss of death."  Still, he says, his injuries would have been "much worse" had he hit the pole instead of the door.

As a recent face-plant victim, I empathize with him.  I also recall a similar situation I faced before I started this blog.  I was taking one of my first post-surgery rides in the 34th Avenue bike lane, not far from my apartment.  That lane was configured in the same way as the one on Middle Street in Portsmouth, with the curb on the cyclists' right and a lane of parked cars on the left.  A passenger opened his door into my path.  

Fortunately for me, the door struck only my left side.  I wasn't seriously injured, but I got a pretty nasty bruise on my side.  And, for a couple of weeks, I looked like I was pregnant on my left side.

By the way:  I haven't ridden the 34th Avenue lane since that incident.  If Dave O'Neill doesn't ride the Middle Street lane, I couldn't blame him.  He believes that lane should be deconstructed and parked cars returned to the curb before someone experiences what he calls "the kiss of death."

Purple Reign?

Today I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike, for a spin.

By some strange coincidence, she took me by this garden:

And I was wearing a purple top.  Is she more of a fashionista than I realized? Or am I more of a fashionista than I was willing to admit?

The Summer Of Pre-Love?

COVID-19 has claimed all manner of victims and casualties.

In the latter category are restaurants and stores that closed for good.  I hope that  Broadway Silk will not join them.  In addition to  beautiful fabrics and sewing needs--including rare and unusual buttons and zippers --they sell handcrafted scarves, pens, bracelets, purses and other items.  The sign announcing their "temporary" closure on March 18 is still attached to the door.

On the other hand, there are businesses that have become victims of their newfound prosperity.  One of the first such enterprises I heard about was a funeral home that had to turn people away. Ironically, they are in the same boat, if you will, as many bike shops.

These days, most bikes, components and accessories come from China or other Asian countries.  Those supply chains have been disrupted.  Even bikes and parts that are still made in Europe or Japan are difficult to find because international transportation has been interrupted.

As a result, many bike shops are accepting trade-ins and buying used bikes wherever they can be found.  James Moore, the owner of Moore's Bike Shop in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, says that "folks call, then text me photos."  If the bike "meets our strategy," he explains, he will "go and make an in-person photo and pay on the spot."

His shop has "a reputation for good refurbished bicycles," so he doesn't expect the new bike shortage to slow him down.  Still, he's not taking any chances:  He recently bought billboard space in town and taken out newspaper ads.

Even though there's no shame in buying a bike that isn't new, especially in times like these, it seems that nobody wants to use the word "used."  Sites like Craigslist and eBay refer to "pre-owned" bikes.  Moore likes to call them "pre-loved."

Could 2020 be The Summer Of Pre-Love?