Survivors

Yesterday and the day before, I continued my recent pattern of riding early to beat the heat.  There wasn't quite as much heat yesterday, though, so I rode a bit longer than I'd been riding during the past week.

Once again, I zigged and zagged through Queens and Brooklyn, albeit through different neighborhoods, along different streets.  If you grew up in the same Brooklyn neighborhoods where I spent my childhood, you think of the borough as a working-class enclave full of brick rowhouses and tenements inhabited by families of your ethnic group.  If you lived in some of the neighborhoods in which I rode yesterday, it was a much tougher place.  But if your acquaintance with the "Borough of Churches" or "Borough of Homes" is more recent--or if you are simply younger, whiter or more affluent--your image of Brooklyn could include brownstones or self-consciously trendy cafes where the tatooed, the bearded, the pink-haired and the Doc Maartens-wearing spend $40 to wash down a slice of advocado toast with a craft cocktail.

But another, older Brooklyn sometimes makes a surprise appearance. I hadn't ridden or walked by the intersection of Bushwick Avenue and Kossuth Place in a while and I'd all but forgotten about the church that graces it:

In a borough of brick and brownstone--and, increasingly, glass and steel-- only a few wooden buildings of any kind remain.  They were more common before Brooklyn became part of New York City and much of the borough beyond the waterfront was still rural.  At that time, the Dutch influence was still strong--hence the Reformed church.

It will be interesting to see what the building looks like when it's restored.  I love "survivor" buildings:  the ones that remain after everything else around it has been destroyed and replaced.  They look different, but not out-of-place because survivors are never out of place. At least that's what I tell myself:  I might be slower than I was, but I am still cycling and have no plans to stop.

The Tour de France Femmes

The Tour de France Femmes started the other day. Some news reports claimed the race was the first of its kind.  Others said the "only" previous women's Tour de France was the one held from 1984 through 1989.  While it is the best-known version of the women's tour, it's hardly the only one:  In 1955, French journalist and race director staged the original Tour de France Feminin.  In spite of his efforts, the five-day race, which 41 female cyclists finished, would be a one-off event:  Other members of the press treated it as a joke and some photographers stalked the women to their dormitories.  And, in spite of the fact that the race was organized and staged by a journalist, there was little press coverage and, thus, financial support. 

For a time, it seemed that the 1980s event--and the excitement surrounding the 1984 and 1988 Olympic races--would show that women's cycling had become a sport with its own identity and audience, somewhat like women's tennis.  During that time, however, men's cycling, like other sports, shifted from local network coverage sponsored by mom-and-pop businesses to the more lucrative cable and satellite networks with corporate mega-sponsors like Nike and Coca-Cola.  Decision-makers at those companies and networks--and Tour organizers--seemed to think that women's racing wasn't worth those resources.  

After the Tour severed its connection to the Tour Feminin, the latter continued, under different names, into the 1990s.  But without that Tour imprimatur, the media and corporate sponsors hardly noticed it at all. Thus, coverage was practically non-existent and almost no one who wasn't a dedicated fan knew that the races were running.

But all of those versions of the Tour Feminin had yet another fatal flaw:  They were "curtain-raisers" (or, as some would say, "appetizers") for the men's ride.  During the 1980s editions, the women rode the same routes, mostly, as the men, but finished before the men started.  So, while the women's race originally benefited from its Tour association, it didn't develop its own identity as, say, the Women's football World Cup or women's tennis has.  

This year's Tour Feminin began after the men's race ended.  Could it be the arrangement that allows the women's race to, not only survive, but to become a major sporting event in its own right?

A Ride In The Basin

Yesterday, as predicted, was the hottest day of the year--so far.  Therefore, as I've been doing, I took a morning ride fueled by coffee and a bagel with a piece of Saint Nectaire cheese.

My ride skirted the waterfront, from my neighborhood down to Erie Basin, the old cluster of ship docks in Red Hook that's now a park.  

I still can't get over an irony I've pointed out in other posts:  People, including relatives of mine, did hard physical work on this waterfront where I ride for fun and fitness.  Such laborers rarely, if ever, did anything that involves physical exertion during their off-hours:  They were too tired for such things.

 What would they make of my pedaling my fixed-gear bike up and down the docks--or that there are now cycling and pedestrian paths along the waterfront?

To them, wheels were for hoisting and moving objects larger than themselves--or for transporting themselves to and from places where they used those wheels, and other tools.  Those wheels were not attached to vehicles propelled by people in late middle age who were on the waterfront for exercise and the views.

The views?  I suppose that some of those workers--including one of my uncles--had some sort of artistic talent and inclination.  Still, I doubt that he, or they, were looking at the docks, boats, machinery and water for their lines and colors.

I am certainly not rich. And I have experienced bigotry.  But I am privileged--to ride where people once worked very hard, or anyplace.

I'll Be Back, Really!

It's a human thing. You'll never understand.

Marlee may not know that today's weather is predicted to be even hotter than the past five, with a high temperature around 38C (100F). But, surely, she doesn't understand why I would go out--for a ride, or any other reason--when she cuddles up and falls asleep on me.  She knows that I'll be gone--for how long, she may not know.  I promised her that today's ride, like those I've taken on each of the past few days, won't be more than a couple of hours.  Still, she's doing everything she can to keep me from going.

I think that, deep down, she knows that her efforts might delay me for a few moments but won't stop me.  I belive that she also knows I'll be back.  Still, she insists on using her superpowers--her cuddliness and that she's ridiculously cute--to persuade me.

Cats may not have a sense of guilt. But I think they know that humans have it--especially if we come from certain religious or ethnic traditions, including the ones in which I was raised.

Don't go!

I'll be back! (No, I didn't say it in my Arnold Schwarznegger* accent!) 

*--Just as there isn't one "French" or "Italian" accent, there isn't just one "German" inflection on English.  The Governator, however, has an accent all his own!

Fate And Mirth In The Morning

Yesterday:  Another early-morning ride.  Today:  Yet another, after I publish this post!

About yesterday's ride:  It turned into a pleasant ramble between Queens and Brooklyn, including a couple of what I've come to think of as New York Unicorns:  working-class neighborhoods where people live in houses, some of which were passed on through a couple of generations--or that still have those generations living in them.

I am talking about the corners of Ridgewood, Queens and the parts of Greenpoint near the Kosciuszko Bridge that haven't been colonized by hipsters and trust-fund kids.  One nice thing about them is that you don't encounter a lot of traffic on the streets.  In fact, I saw fewer motor vehicles throughout my ride than I'd anticipated.  There were a few spots where I had to navigate around traffic bottlenecks.  In all of them, crews of workers from the city's Department of Transportation or Con Ed were tearing off layers of pavement and excavating the layers of rock that underlie them.  I said "hi" to someone who appeared to be the foreman of one of those crews.

"Hot day for a bike ride?"

"Hot day for the work you guys do."

He demurred, "We're used to it.  I tell the guys to drink lots of water and Gatorade."

For a moment, I wondered where they went when they had to pee. Then I realized that on a day like yesterday, they probably didn't have to go, just as I haven't had to take "potty stops" during my recent rides: Whatever I've drunk, whether on my longer rides or short morning jaunts, was sucked up by the sun and wind against my skin.

'Take care,' the foreman advised.

'Tell your guys to be careful."  I pointed to the pit they were digging.  "My exes are down there!"

He guffawed. "Have a great day."  

"You too!"

Perhaps that somewhat-morbid joke was inspired by what I saw as I crossed the Kosciuszko Bridge.  (I probably won't ever learn to speak Polish, but I can write that name without using spell-check!):

From morbid joke to morbid thought:  The fate of all of us is, of course, can be seen in the foreground of that image.  The journey, for some, includes what's in the background.

OK, now that I've given you my deeeep thought for today (to the extent that I'm capable of such a thing), it's time for me to ride.   I want to get home before the temperature gets anywhere near the forecast high  of 36C (96F).

Taste In Destinations

Yesterday morning I kept with my riding plan for this heat wave, which is expected to continue at least until Sunday.  Once again, I set out after quick breakfast--coffee and two English muffins pan-toasted with olive oil, fresh-ground black pepper and rosemary--early.  

(I like butter as much as anyone does.  But I feel that olive oil is more elegant.  Maybe it has to do with my Italian heritage.)

My trip took me to Fort Totten and back, via the Malcolm X Promenade and some zigging and zagging through northeastern Queens residential streets.  All told, I did about 40 km (25 miles) round-trip before 10 am.  And, yes, I did get my fresh Greek yogurt from Kesso's:  Their hours coincided with mine.

At Fort Totten, I could see how hot an humid the day would be--and, in spite of the clear skies at that moment, I could tell, from the haze on Long Island Sound,  that the storm forecast for the afternoon would indeed drop lots of water very quickly and hard:  the thunder almost seemed to be an echo of the rain pounding against the sidewalks.

I felt confident, though, that I would get to my place before the storm.  Maybe it had something to do with riding Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear: I couldn't coast; I had no choice but to pedal.  It felt really good.

 

Somehow I think she knew that house was officer's quarters when Fort Totten was still an active military base. (A small section, fenced off, is still used for Army Reserve exercises, and the Fire Department trains in another part.)  My bikes have such good taste in their destinations!

A New-School Beat On An Old Ride

 You might be reading this post a bit earlier than you normally see my posts.  I'm headed out for an early ride.  I set out early yesterday, but today I wanted to get out even earlier.  

While our heat wave isn't quite as severe (yet!:  It just started) as the ones in Europe or the Western US, the weather is definitely hot.  The good news, for us, is that we are better prepared than the Europeans simply because, during most summers, we experience at least one multiday stretch of high temperatures around 33-37C (91-98.6F).  And we haven't been afflicted with the droughts that have parched the western regions.

So, yesterday I decided that as long as we're scorched, I will get out as soon as possible after waking up (which means:  after a cup of coffee and a "light bite") and get back by about 11 am.

Yesterday morning's ride was pretty random, except for one thing:  After zigging and zagging through various Queens neighborhoods, the Flushing Meadow-Corona Park paths and the Malcolm X Promenade (a.k.a. World's Fair Marina), I made my way to Kesso's to get enough of one of my favorite foods--the Greek yogurt they make on site--to take me through the next few days.

Alas, the man in charge wasn't in.  Sometimes I think he's one of those people for whom owning a business really means setting his own hours.  But, to be fair, I know he sells his yogurt and tzatziki to stores and restaurant and, since Gus retired, I think Spyros has become a one-man operation. 

Anyway, that was the only disappointment.  My ride, however, revealed a pleasant surprise.  I have pedaled around Flushing Meadow-Corona Park many times, but had never before seen this:

Turns out, the sculpture of LL Cool J has been there since January and will remain until November.  

I like the way his face is depicted. And, as one of the founders of "new school" hip-hop, it makes sense that his visage is perched on top of a  replica of a "boom box."  But that old-school (at least to us, in 2022) way of playing recorded music is not there merely as a token to represent his status as one of the genre's--and a generation's--definitive artists.  It actually works--by solar power.  It's programmed only to run from noon until 5 pm, however, and because of the heat, I hadn't planned to stay that long.  But I plan to return one day after the heat breaks, just so I can hear some of his work in a way I've never heard it before.

Maybe I'll discover something else new on another familiar ride. Whatever it is, I doubt it will have a beat like the ones LL Cool J--who grew up in Queens--makes! 

A Message From Exotic Poetry

Maybe it has to do with the Supreme Court being up to no good.  Lately, it seems, I am seeing political and social messages everywhere.

I've passed this place many times.  It's just off Woodhaven Boulevard:  Cyndi Lauper's old stomping grounds.  The neighborhood has long been mainly blue-collar.  Some relatives of mine lived in and around it, among other Italian-Americans and children and grandchildren of Irish and German immigrants.  Some of those families remain, but many Indian, Pakistani and Central Americans have moved into the neighborhood--as well as some young LGBTQ people, no doubt because it's still relatively affordable.

Knowing all of that, I didn't think "ROE" meant the place serves caviar. Even if it does, I don't think I'd order it.  When I do stop there--which I intend to do on some near-future ride--I'll probably order something like the chicken, rice and beans dish listed on their blackboard.  Or perhaps I'll just have something to drink.

I can't believe I've passed that place so many times, usually on rides to the Rockaways and Point Lookout, where I rode yesterday.  Usually, it's closed when I ride by:  I suspect that it doesn't open until suppertime, or close to it.  Perhaps I'll catch it on my way back, or take a different ride that takes me in that direction.

After all, how can I resist a place called "Exotic Poetry?" Maybe I'll read some of my stuff, or attempt to launch a stand-up career.  (You think a transgender cyclist in, ahem, late middle age can't make people laugh--without even trying?)  One thing, I promise, though:  I won't do karaoke, even if it includes the letters "R," "O" and "E!"

Is Fuji Going Bananas?

 When I first became a dedicated cyclist—when bands like Led Zeppelin ruled the airwaves—Fuji bicycles were garnering praise in the cycling world and even among people who still thought of Schwinn as “the Cadillac of bicycles.” (Yes, I knew people who used that phrase.)  Fuji bikes didn’t have a lot of bells and whistles, but they were very well thought-out -finished.  They offered a balanced ride and their SunTour derailleurs shifted better than any others available at the time.

(Oh, and I always loved that green finish offered on the S10-S!)

For about a quarter-century, Fuji kept its reputation for sensible, highly rideable bikes with impeccable quality control.  But, in the mid-to-late ‘90’s, they s lost their way.  They seemed to make half-hearted attempts to keep up with other trends in the industry and didn’t keep up with another:  They were one of the last Japanese companies to move their manufacturing to Taiwan.  While that seemed to be a good thing at first—most people, myself included, saw Japanese products as superior—it meant that their lower-end bikes were considerably more expensive than others. When Fuji finally made its move to Taiwan, it didn’t have the relationships with that country’s manufacturers that other companies enjoyed.  Thus, both quality and availability suffered for nearly a decade.  Both recovered about 15 years ago, and Fuji regained its old reputation for bikes that were, if not groundbreaking, then at least well-made and sensible and offered a pleasing ride.

About the latter:  I have to wonder whether Fuji is giving up on that with one of its latest Eurobike exhibit.  In recent years, the Jari model became more or less what a 1970s S10-S would be if it were a 2020s gravel bike:  sensible and well-put together for a pleasing ride. But it also features something that, to my knowledge, no other bike maker has thought of:

I guess there are riders who wish they could reach into their frame’s top tube and pull out a Power Bar.

I wonder whether anybody will try to carry granola or GORP in it.  Or a banana.

The Glass Ceiling

 The other day, French President Emanuel Macron talked about something that happened in a velodrome.  The thing is, that velodrome hasn't stood in about 60 years, and the event wasn't a bike race.

 

Six-day race at the Velodrome d;Hiver,  Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson

Eighty years earlier--on 16 and 17 July 1942--French police rounded up thousands of Parisian Jews (at that time, Paris was said to have the fourth-largest Jewish community in the world) in "Veldeev"--slang for le Velodrome d'hiver.  

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The track racing venue, which also hosted other sporting events, was so named because it was covered with a glass ceiling, which allowed races and other events to be held during the winter (hiver) and made the velodrome the first with that capability.  That glass ceiling (as a feminist, those words trouble me, even when they aren't a metaphor!) was painted dark blue to make it less visible to bomber navigators.  

"The glass ceiling" has become a metaphor for the ways in which women are not allowed to reach their potential in various professions and careers.  For Parisian Jews, however, it became a literal trap:  It kept the heat of one of Paris' hottest summers in a space where there wasn't enough room for them to lie down, let alone move around.  Not surprisingly, many suffered from heat exhaustion and other illnesses; it is not known how many perished there.  What is known is that 13,152--some really more dead than alive---were herded into buses that took them to the trains that delivered them to death camps, mainly Auschwitz.  Only 400 captives survived.

I first learned of "Veldeev," like so much else, by accident:  I heard someone mention it during my first European bike tour.  I went in search of it only to find out that such a search was like a quest to see the prison that stood on la Place de la Bastille.  

After the war, the Velodrome's was used less. Its condition deteriorated to the point that when the last six-day race was held there, in November 1958, the glass ceiling leaked and electrical cables hung from loops. (Jacques Anquetil, the first five-time winner of the Tour de France, participated in that race along with other top riders of that time.)  Those conditions may have contributed to a fire that destroyed part of the building, which led to it being razed the following year.

Although there is a plaque commemorating the Velodrome and "Rafle"(roundup), few people seem to remember much, if anything, about them.  The few who still can recall that terrible time were very young when they were detained--or witnessed the arrest of their friends and neighbors.  One of them is Jeannine Bouhana (nee Sebanne), who received letters from her friend, Rachel Polakiewicz. How those letters reached Mademoiselle Sebanne is not exactly known:  Anyone's best guess is that Rachel tossed those letters out the Velodrome and someone picked them up.

Hearing Jeannine talk about that time, and reading Rachel's letters, it's hard not to be struck by a couple of terrible ironies.  One is, of course, that in a velodrome--a place where motion is celebrated,--people were confined.  Another, related, is that in a place where athletes made or heightened their reputations, thousands of everyday people, in essence, had their lives taken away from them. Finally,  events the "Vel" hosted its  most celebrated events during the winter, while its most infamous episode unfolded during a heat wave.

Motion and confinement, celebration and defamation, life and death:  all of them, under a glass ceiling.

 

Like A Champion

 (Snark alert)

Why is road bike racing not more popular?

I don't blame Lance Armstrong being stripped of his titles or the sport's other doping scandals. I blame Miguel Indurain.

As much as I respect him as a cyclist, he had to be one of the least charismatic athletic champions of my lifetime.  When he won a stage or a race, it was just another good day at the office, and he went home to rest up--so he could win again.  He didn't celebrate, boast or even "talk up" his achievements.  In other words, he was the antithesis of, say, Muhammad Ali or Reggie Jackson or Brandi Chastain.

When he was on the podium, Miguel Indurain--who turned 58 yesterday-- should have been more like this guy:

If You Live In Chicago And Need A Bike...

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that I like to give "shout-outs" to individuals and organizations who provide bikes, helmets and related items to people in need.

Now a city--Chicago--is undertaking such an initiative.

A new program called Bike Chicago will distribute 500 new bikes and provide "maintainece and safety equipment" this summer.  The program, under the auspices of the Chicago Department of Transportation, plans to provide 5000 bicycles, along with maintainence and safety equipment, by 2026.

The program is part of Mayor Lori Lightfoot's "Chicago Recovery Program" which aims "to increase affordable and climate-friendly mobility options."  In a statement, Mayor Lightfoot said, "Every resident of our city deserves equitable access to safe, reliable and affordable clean transportation options."

To apply for a bicycle and related accessories and service, a peron must:

• be a Chicago resident and at least 14 years old
• have a household income 100% or less of the Median Area Income for Chicago (e.g., $104,000 for a family of four)
• not already own a bicycle, and
• live in an area that faces high mobility hardship.

Those under 18 must have a parent or guardian present when picking up a bike and equipment.

My Tour Continues

 Yesterday I wrote about the penultimate multiday tour I've taken.  It was the ride that, more than any other, changed my life. 

Near the end of that tour, I climbed le Col du Galibier (a couple of days after pedaling up l'Alpe d'Huez) and descended into the valley, where I checked into a small hotel in St. Jean de Maurienne.  The town is next to the Italian border and, though you may not have heard of it, you surely have seen the thing for which the town is best known:  Opinel knives.  (Yes, they are still made there and in nearby Chambery, a small city that just oozes with Savoyard charm.) After checking into the hotel, I walked into the town square in search of something to eat.  That is when I saw a woman, who was not distinctive in any way, crossing a street.  She was probably on her way home from work.  For whatever reasons, I saw in the way she occupied space and time, the way I was meant to live. 

After writing the post, I couldn't stop thinking about that day, and more to the point, what has changed since then, for me and the world.

For one thing, when I returned, my then-partner surprised me by meeting me at JFK Airport.  As tears trickled down my cheeks, she embraced me.  I held her--actually, I held on:  To this day, I see that hug as the single most desperate act of my life.  I knew that my life would not continue, at least not for very long, as it had.

Even if I hadn't seen that woman in St. Jean de Maurienne, I would have, eventually, undergone the process of affirming my gender identity.  But, I believe, some things--including the September 11 attacks a few weeks later--accelerated the timeline.  I was home that but my partner was in her office near Rockefeller Center.  Subway and bus service was suspended, so she and thousands of other people had to leave Manhattan on foot.  I met her on the Brooklyn side of the Manhattan Bridge.  All I could think about was how easily she--and any one of the people crossing that bridge--and I--could have been incinerated or crushed in those towers.

Undergoing my affirmation process, which began, gradually, with visits to counselors and therapists a few months later, changed my cycling.  Aging would have done it, but taking hormones probably sped up the process.  I still like to ride aggressively and show off, sometimes, but I now realize that I now ride more for my mental health than to show off any kind of physical prowess.

Oh, and I no longer have the bike or clothes I rode during my 2001 tour.  The Voodoo Wazoo, built for cyclocross, was actually a good bike for the ride I took.  But eventually I found myself wanting to change everything in my life, and I sold it--ironically, to pay the air fare for my next trip to France.  And those clothes--do they scream '' 90s mountain biker," or what?  I was indeed still doing some offroad riding, and still owned a proper mountain bike (a Bontrager Race Lite with Rock Shox Judy forks) but I eventually sold that bike and stuck mainly to road riding because I was starting to notice that I didn't heal as quickly from wounds and injuries as I did when I was younger and--OK, this will show how much gender stereotypes still shaped my thinking--I felt that I could be more dignified, ladylike if you will, on a road or city bike.

Now, I don't expect to return to mountain biking because, really, I prefer to stick to a couple of kind of riding.  Also, mountain bikes seem to "age" more quickly than other kinds of bikes. On the other hand, I can ride one of my Mercians just as easily today as I did (or could have, in the case of my newer ones) five or ten years ago, and barring crashes or inability on my part, I should be able to ride them--while replacing only the parts that normally wear out, like chains and tires-- for years to come.

In other words, I expect my tour to continue--precisely because it changed the day I rode up the Col du Galibier. 

L'Alpe, Le Col—And A Secret

Today is Bastille Day.

So, why have I posted a photo of a tide rolling in?

No, I am not making a hackneyed metaphor for the mobs that stormed the prison that became a symbol of monarchial tyranny and class stratification.  Nor am I making an equally tired cliche about the cycles of history.

I took that photo on Bastille Day, almost.  Actually, it's from a couple of days after, just ahead of a Tour de France stage--in the French Alps.

That scene is of something to which I've alluded in other posts.  I took the photo as I pedaled above clouds. To this day, I can't say whether I felt more elation over rising above the clouds or reaching the top of the mountain, which I did a bit later.

Now I am going to reveal one of my dim, dark secrets:

Yes, that's what I looked like on 17 July 2001, a bit more than a year before I started my gender affirmation process. (I am squinting because, at high altitudes, the sun is more intense.) Not only was my world different; so was the world.  For one thing, I asked some random stranger to take that photo:  In the days before i-phones, it was more difficult to take "selfies" without special equipment.  Also, 2001 was the last year of the franc and lira:  On my next trip to France, three years later,  I'd be paying in euros.  And less than two months after I rode to the top of l'Alpe d'Huez, ahead of the Tour peloton, the terrible events of 11 September would change so much else.

A couple of days after that climb, I would ascend to another iconic Tour climb:  the col du Galibier.  I described that climb, and how it--or, more precisely, descending from it and crossing the valley--led me to, among other things, becoming the midlife cyclist who authors this blog. (See this and this.)

So, on this Bastille Day--as the Tour de France climbs and descends through its second day in the Alps--I am writing in part to celebrate the country which I feel almost as much kinship as my own and ascending some of its most difficult climbs.  But I now realize that I am paying homage to the person--known as Nicholas, Nick or Nicky-- who brought me to the part of the journey I've recounted in this blog.  I hope I am honoring him in the way he deserves.

Oh, and today is the anniversary of the day I gave up his name and assumed mine, two years after I ascended those mountains.  I remember feeling, on that day--Bastille Day--that I felt more free, that I had climbed another mountain.

Whether they finish first, last or somewhere in between, the riders in today's Tour stage will always have that.  Just ask Phillipa York, nee Robert Millar.

Note:  I apologize for the poor quality of the images.  I'm still learning how to use my iPhone to take pictures of old pictures!

  

Cyclist Robbed Of Bike At Gunpoint

In other posts, I've mentioned that when I'm riding to or from downtown or midtown Manhattan, my preferred East River crossing is the Williamsburg Bridge.  

For one thing, it has a relatively roomy bike lane.  So, even when it's crowded, I don't feel as if I'm competing for space with pedestrians, scooters or delivery workers on motor bikes.  

For another, the entry and exit points on either side of the bridge are connected to segregated bike lanes that  offer easy access to the Lower East Side, Chinatown, Williamsburg and other places.  You can reach the Staten Island and Governor's Island ferries, or the World Trade Center PATH train in minutes from the Manhattan side.

The Williamsburg wasn't always my crossing of choice, however. Even before it was refurbished, it had a better bike lane than the other bridges.  But about thirty years ago, when the overall crime rate was much higher, the neighborhoods on either side of the bridge were still considered, even by the standards of the time, high-crime areas.  I knew several cyclists who were robbed of high-end bikes at gun- or knife-point by individuals who jumped them or groups who blocked their way.

Unfortunately, it seems that such incidents are on the rise again. While I don't know any cyclists who've been so victimized recently--at least, not yet--I am reading and hearing about more incidents of cyclists losing their bikes while riding them.

One such incident happened on Saturday night.  What is particularly striking about this incident is that it took place on a designated bike path--in Madison, Wisconsin, a mecca of cycling in the middle of the country. (Some call it the Portland of the Midwest.  I wonder whether, when Portland was first becoming popular with the young, hip and "weird," someone called it the "Madison on the Pacific" or some such thing.) Apparently, a masked man stepped in the cyclist's path and pointed a gun at him.  The cyclist dismounted; the thief took it and took off.

Polka Dots For This Mum!

In the summers of 2000 and 2001, I became a "Tour chaser":  I rode along part of the race's route.  Specifically, I rode the mountain stages, not far from the race itself.  In 2000, I rode up and down some of the Pyrenees climbs en route to Spain and back.  The following year, I ascended some of the most difficult Alpine climb, including a ride up the Alpe d'Huez in the morning, ahead of the Tour caravan.

I thought I was quite the rider.  So did anyone who saw me or heard about what I did:  I made all of those climbs and descents with a full set of panniers and handlebar bag.  So, although my bike--a Voodoo Wazoo Cyclo-cross machine--was relatively light, especially considering that I rode with sturdy tires, I was hauling about ten kilograms more than any of the racers.

I don't know what it would be like to do those climbs now.  After all, I was twenty years younger than I am now.  Oh, and those two tours (the 2001 ride took me into a bit of Italy and another bit of Switzerland) were the last I did before my gender affirmation process.  So I had a full dose of testosterone, if you will, powering those muscles in my legs.

But I must say that someone who followed Sunday's ninth stage of the Tour de France puts me to shame.  

#TDF2022 It's hard to be a good mom #respect #sharingpassion pic.twitter.com/vKZwPRso6I

— ProCyclingStats.com (@ProCyclingStats) July 10, 2022

Dubbed "Supermum" and "Mum of the Year," she pedaled up--and down--the Col de Croix with her kid in tow.  Some have suggested that since she was riding a Cannondale, and did something similar in the wake of the 2019 Giro d'Italia, the bike-maker should sponsor her.

If I'd been awarded the polka-dot jersey for my rides, I would gladly have given it to her. 

Enjoying The Moment Of The Ride

The past weekend was, by almost anybody's definition, a perfect summer weekend for bike riding: clear skies, low-to-moderate humidity and high temperatures of 27-29C (81 to 85F).   So, of course, I took advantage of it.

How could it have been any better?  Well, on both days I managed to ride into the wind most of the way out and with the wind most of the way home. People were out and about, but the places where people congregate weren't terribly crowded.

On Saturday, I pedaled up to Greenwich, Connecticut and took a "pit stop" in the Common, in the center of town, where a family and their dog greeted me. I didn't take any photos, in part because there was nothing really new about the ride, but more interestingly, because I felt so much as if I were riding in, and enjoying the moment--some might call it a "zen" ride--that I didn't want to do anything else but pedal and take in what my senses, opened from pedaling and simply being immersed in the moment, offered me.

Yesterday was much the same, except that I took another familiar ride, to Point Lookout.  There were a few small differences from my normal trek, as Beech Street in Long Beach was closed off for some sort of fair or festival.  After I zigged and zagged for a few blocks, I found a one-way residential street--Walnut--where I saw no traffic all the way to the west entrance of Nickerson Beach--a couple of miles of riding bliss, by my reckoning.

At Point Lookout, I saw a "creature."  At least, that's what it looked like from the corner of my eye.

Could the young woman sitting on the edge of the surface have been unaware of that "monster" creeping toward her? Or was she in denial?   

Or, perhaps, she was just enjoying the moment, too.

 

All Of The Cycle--Except The End (I Hope!)

Some might say that, at my age, the title of my blog is a statement of denial or defiance.

As I have said, as long as I don't know when my life will end, I am in the middle of it--in midlife, if you will.

If I am indeed in the middle of my life, what is my "cycle" of life?

Whatever it is, I hope the end doesn't look like the last frame of Andy Singer's cartoon!

A Ride To The Truth?

The other day, on a pleasant summer afternoon, I was riding back from a trek to Westchester County.  I couldn't help but to notice more work crews than I normally see on the streets.  Some came from ConEd or Verizon, others from the city's transportation department.  They confirm one of my from-the-saddle observations:  streets and roads are in worse shape than I've seen in some time.  Whether it's a result of the weather (climate change?) or simply deferred maintenance, I don't know.

One detour led me down Prospect Avenue in the South Bronx.  I actually didn't mind:  The stretch south of the number 2 and 5 elevated train lines has some rather nice old row houses, and the people seemed to be in a rather relaxed mood.  

Occasionally, I'll stop if a building or detail looks interesting. But I never expected to see, anywhere, something that sums up so many of the truths I hold to be self-evident, to paraphrase the Declaration of Independence.  

Within the past two weeks, the Supreme Court has voted to curtail a woman's right to her own body and, possibly, a bunch of other rights-- but not the one to carry a gun with you.  Why can't they support the simple truths expressed in that sign?  

  

Their E-Bikes Or Their Apartments?

I haven't said much about electric bikes (e-bikes) on this blog.  I have nothing against them:   I simply have no experience with them.  

They are often touted as a "green" alternative to driving.  That's probably true, but I don't expect people to use them instead of their cars for long trips or if they have to carry a lot.  Strictly based on my own observations, I'd say that most people who are riding them to work or wherever are using them as an alternative to mass transportation, walking or a traditional human-powered bicycle, not an automobile.

I also see a fair number of people who seem to be riding them recreationally.  Here in New York City, however, the largest number of e-bike riders seem to be delivery workers of one kind or another.  E-bikes are faster than regular bicycles, at least for most people, so workers can make more deliveries in less time. That's no small consideration, as many workers are paid per delivery.  

Another thing I've noticed is that many of those delivery workers are older than ones I've seen before the advent of e-bikes.  My guess is that the majority are immigrants, many of whom don't speak English or have other marketable skills or credentials recognized in this city or country.  Some are breadwinners, not only for their spouses or partners and kids, but also for extended families, whether here or in their birth countries.  For them, e-bikes are a form of life support, if you will.

It also happens that a good number of those workers live in public housing, a.k.a. "the projects."  

Thus, the New York City Housing Authority's proposal is stirring up a hornet's nest of controversy.  The rationale for it is the Fire Department's report stating that, to date, 104 fires have been caused by lithium-ion batteries, the power source of electric bikes.

In NYCHA's proposal, "residents and their guests may not keep or charge e-bikes or e-batteries in apartments or in common areas of NYCHA buildings."  The agency defines "common areas" as "included but not limited to stairs, halls, laundries, community rooms, storage rooms, walks, drives, playgrounds and parking areas."  In effect, NYCHA wants to ban e-bikes on all of its property.  Workers wonder whether this will cause them to be targeted if they even enter the grounds of a NYCHA complex to make a delivery.

Nathaniel Hill won't be able to keep his e-bike under a NYCHA proposal. Photo by Noah Martz, for Streetsblog.

While it's true that there is a fire hazard, and a fire can cause a greater number of casualties in a densely-populated housing complex, residents and advocates see the proposal as discriminatory, as electric cars are allowed to park in NYCHA lots and Citibike e-bikes park in docks adjacent to NYCHA buildings.  Also, the proposal, if enacted would put delivery workers who live in NYCHA buildings in an impossible situation. "Nobody should be forced to choose between keeping their housing or keeping their job," said Transportation Alternatives' Senior Organizer Juan Restrepo. He suggests that Mayor Eric Adams come up with other solutions, such as public charging stations and secure parking areas.