215 Steps--How Many Kilometers?

I have no idea of how many kilometers (Remember, I'm in France!) I pedaled today.  I'm guessing it's not less than twenty, but not more than forty.  

There is, however, one measure I can give you with certainty:  215 steps--from 8, rue Elzevir to 5, rue Thorigny. Both addresses are mansions in the Marais district of Paris, which straddles thte Third and Fourth Arrondissements and contains, among other noteworthy sites, the Place des Vosges.  

I had intended to go to the first address.  When I was about to lock my bike to a signpost in front of it, an African man in what looked like a butler's uniform informed me, politely, that there was bike parking at the end of the block.  "Pardon", I said almost simperingly, "je n'ai lai pas vu."  I guess I wasn't the first person not to notice it. "Pas problem", he said. "Merci," I responded.

8, rue Elzevir

So why was I going to a mansion at 8, rue Elzevir.  Well, I had a free pass.  Then again, so did anyone else who wanted one.  But since I'm so, like, "over" being part of the "in" crowd (I mixed generational references.  Is that as bad as mixing metaphors?), I didn't mind.  For one, the man who showed me where to park my bike was so nice.  And so was everyone else I met inside.  And there were some really interesting things to look at.

All right, I'll admit it:  I was there to look at the stuff, and the place itself.  You see, that mansion is la Musee Cognaq-Jay.  I had seen signs for it and was intrigued by the name: "Cognac" with a "q" at the end, and "Jay"--that doesn't look so French, does it?

The fully-articulated fish in the foreground is made from gold, enamel and jade.  The other cases are made from gold , enameling and precious stones. 

Well, it turns out that Theodore-Ernest Cognaq and his wife Marie-Louise Jay founded the Samaritaine department store, which grew from a small tie vendor at the foot of the Pont Neuf to an eleven-story Art Deco colossus that took up several square blocks.   If you can imagine a combination of Macy's and Bloomingdale's, a la francaise, you'll have an idea of what the store was like.

Messr. Cognacq and Mme. Jay were, not surprisingly, among the wealthiest people in France.  This allowed them to accumulate a vast collection of art and objects, which are displayed in the museum.  What is so unusual about this collection, though, is that almost everything in it is from the 18th Century.

Although few collectors and curators focus on this period today, it makes sense that Cognacq and Jay would have spent their time and money on it.  For one thing, the work of painters like Van Gogh and other Impressionists were not yet deemed collectable, let alone immortal.  And the work of other artists who are so revered today--including one I'll mention later on in this post--was either in the process of creation, or hadn't been conceived yet. 

So, it's not surprising that whoever advised Cognacq and Jay would have told them to buy works from the 1700s.  By that time, it was a century or more old, so it (or at least some of of it) would have passed the test of time.  In other words, paintings, sculptures and other objects from that period would have gained the stature the Impressionists would attain in the 1970s or thereabouts, when Japanese collectors started to pay large sums of money for Monet and Van Gogh paintings.

I must admit, though, that I never had any great interest in 18th Century art, with a few exceptions.  If I were to become a scholar, I probably wouldn't choose that period.  The most interesting work of that time came, I believe, from philosphes, political theorists, few novelists--and composers.  There isn't much poetry to capture my attention (apart from some of William Blake's early work near the end of the century) and even less drama. 

The painting and drama of that period, with a few exceptions from Fragonard and a handful of other artists, leaves me cold, for the most part.  But seeing them in a setting in a mansion of that period made them more interesting.  Also, seeing those paintings and sculptures along with objects made of porcelain, gold and stones--some of which were intended for daily use--made the paintings more interesting.

If you are in Paris, the Musee Cognaq Jay is worth checking out, even if you're not interested in works from the 18th Century, just to see how an extremely wealthy couple would have lived with the things they collected.

After spending the morning and the first hour of the afternoon at Cognaq-Jay, I walked 215 steps to see the work of an artist I mentioned, but didn't name, earlier.  Yes, his museum is at 5,rue Thorigny:  the Hotel Sale, a.k.a. la Musee Picasso.  

If you've been reading my earlier posts, you know that the Musee Picasso has long been one of my three favorite museums in Paris.   Although it, like the Cognacq Jay, is located in a former residence, the two could hardly have had more different atmospheres:  The Cognacq-Jay has the intimate atmosphere the creators of the Picasso tried to achieve and, I believe, would if it hadn't become a tourist destination.   To be fair, the Picasso has become one of the most famous museums in the world because even people who know nothing else about art have heard his name. 

215 steps later:  5, rue Thorigny

Still, I love the Picasso, in part because of the artist himself,  but also because of the way it creates a milieu for him and his work.   But after 215 steps, I think I have found a new favorite to add to my list.  

And I got to take a late-day ride after taking in both, on a Tuesday in which clouds swirled and rippled in the breeze, diffusing but not muting the sun's rays.

The Promenades

Here's what I had for breakfast today:

Now, you might have a difficult time finding this product in your local store.  However, it might be worth finding, as it promises really good things:

The nutritional value goes like this:  Joie de vivre, 19 9 grams  Soleil (sunshine), 33 grams.  Synergie, 12 grams.  Energy, 13 grams.  Poesie (poetry), 21 grams. Addictif, 2 grams.  The "sacoche de banane" is what the French call a "fanny pack", "waist bag" or "bum bag."  Sometimes they're simply called "banane".

"Menil Monkey" is the name of a collaboration between the office of the 20th Arrondissement--which includes the neighborhood of Menilmontant, or "Menil" for short--and DJ Joachim Touitou, or Joachim.T.

Menilmontant is a neighbor of Belleville, the neighborhood that gave the world none other than Edith Piaf.  Both neighborhoods are in the hilly northernmost area of Paris that includes Montmartre and the cemetery of Pere Lachaise, where none other than Chopin, Oscar Wilde and, yes, Jim Morrison are buried.

On Menil Monkey's "cereal box", there's a warning that consumption of the contents can cause addiction to the 20th Arrondissement, among other things.

Well, I was there the other day...and the last time I was in Paris...and the one before that.  The 20th is indeed interesting because it's Parisian and cosmopolitan at the same time.  It's an area where you can eat and drink at old-school Parisian cafes or in West African, Middle Eastern, Asian or  Kosher (mainly Sephardic Jewish) establishments.

And I saw a lot of bike riders--of all kinds.  Some were on Velib (the Paris bike share program) machines; others rode bikes older than themselves; still others pedaled classic touring and racing bikes.  It was, in short, an interesting procession of un-self-conscious utility cyclists, cognoscenti  and folks on trendy bikes.

That procession seemed to spill down the Avenue de la Republique toward the bike lanes of the Canal St. Martin. There were some hipsters and wannabes on fixed-gear bikes.  (These days, most fixed-gear bikes in New York are being ridden with single-speed freewheels.) And there were a few riders on the kinds of bikes that seem to be sold, under different labels, but with the same cartoonish graphics, everywhere in the world.  But I got a kick out of seeing young people on bikes that would be considered "vintage" but to their riders are simply bikes that are getting them from wherever to wherever--and, possibly, did the same for an older sibling, parent, aunt, uncle or someone else before them.

The canal, like most others that are no longer used for shipping, offers a calming time for those who ride along its paths or sit on its banks.  I've been told that some of those romantic or painterly photos that look like they were shot on the Seine were actually taken along the canal.

Its calm surface, though, belies a tragedy that took place just steps away last November:

The Bataclan bar and concert hall, a site of the November 2015 terrorist attacks

But that didn't stop people from enjoying their afternoon there, whether they were dangling their feet into the water or spinning pedals.  

One equally-pleasant place where you're not allowed to ride, though, is the Promenade des Plantes.  You can bring your bike up there, but you're not allowed to ride it.  Still, it's worth climbing the stairs from the Avenue Daumesnil, near the Bastille and the Gare de Lyon  (where the Orient Express originated), to see what became of a former railway.

At the Grand Train exhibit I saw the other day, sections of old railroad tracks in a disused rail yard were turned into patches.  The Viaduc des Arts is, in contrast, a botanical garden about two kilometers long in the former track beds.  At street level, cafes, restaurants, shops and art galleries are in the vaults that hold up the railroad by way.  

This project is said to be the inspiration for New York's High Line, which was also a disused railway.  The difference, though, is that while the High Line does indeed have gardens, it's lined with all of the kinds of touristy shops and restaurants you can find at the South Street Seaport.  With the Viaduc des Arts, you can choose to go to the galleries and shops on the street level, or go up to the Promenade des Plantes for the flora and fauna--which, interestingly, do more than anything on the High Line to evoke (at least in my imagination) the tracks that once lined, and the trains that ran along, them.

After descending from the Promenade des Plantes, I rode by the Gare de Lyon--faster than any of the trains ;-)--to the Seine and the bridge back to my hotel.

Ah, yes, another fine day!

What I Could Have Done, And What I Did

After you read what you're about to read, you might decide that you won't ever read this blog again.  I understand.

Here goes:  I was in Paris on the last day of the Tour de France.  And I wasn't among the throngs that lined the Champs Elysees for the finish.

Why?, you ask. Well, for one thing I have a general aversion to being in crowds these days.  I have stood along the world's second-most famous thoroughfare (after Broadway in NYC) on two other occasions for the finish of the race.  I have also been on the side of the road, in other parts of France, where other stages of the Tour passed. I just don't get the same thrill about such things that I once did.

For another thing:  I hardly ever attend sporting events anymore.  It's not that I don't like sports:  I once wrote about them for a newspaper.  Rather, I am not crazy about the way many different sports, from baseball to basketball to bicycle racing, have devolved.  Too much is decided, I feel, by drugs and other kinds of technology, compared to events past.

Which brings me to my final point:  This Tour, like the past few, didn't have the storylines  of Tours past.  Even when everyone expected Eddy Mercx, Bernard Hinault or Miguel Indurain to win (as they usually did), they could generate more drama than any of the current riders.

Finally,  I just cannot bear to watch Chris Froome.  I don't have anything against him winning:  He's worked hard and, as far as anybody knows, hasn't used drugs.  But he is the most awkward-looking rider I've ever seen at the front of a major race.  As long as no one can prove he's cheated, I have no problem with his winning the Tour.  But that doesn't mean I have to watch him.

So, after filling myself up at the hotel's breakfast buffet, instead of going to the Tour, I got a (relatively) early start on a gorgeous morning and found myself pedaling streets that were all but deserted--even in places as popular with tourists (or heavily used by delivery drivers) as the Boulevard St. Michel, St. Germain des Pres and Trocadero.  I really felt--to borrow a cliche--that Paris belonged to me.

But, most important of all, I spent the afternoon and early evening with one of my friends, the man she married last year and a friend of theirs who was very friendly toward me.

As I mentioned in earlier posts, Michele and I had not seen each other in a number of years before I saw her last August, in this city.  She was just a few weeks away from marrying the man who is now her husband.  I saw her again in New York in May, with her husband Alec, near the end of their belated honeymoon trip.

An old Italian proverb says that a good meal can keep a person content for a week.  I tend to agree with that.  I'd say the same for a good bike ride or a few other things (some of which can't be mentioned on a PG-13 blog ;-) ).  And, as much as I love good food and writing, as well as cycling, i can't help but to think that nothing can keep me happy longer than a good time with an old friend.

A Paris Bike Tour To The Grand Train

Sometimes I am a creature of habit.  Yesterday I went to Paris Bike Tour, from whom I rented a bike when I was here last year.  I did the same this time, except that I  got one of their "official" bikes (with the PBT logo and colors) this time.  Last year's bike was a silver Arcade, which was similar, if not the same, except for one thing:  the bike I got this year has a Shimano Dynohub powering the front and rear light, which I used last night.  Last year's bike had battery lights.

At first, I thought this year's bike was slower--or that I've aged more than a year or gained more weight than I thought I did since last year. (Don't ask!  Never ask a woman questions about her weight! ;-)) Then I thought that the seat was slowing me down--after all, it's the cushy sort found on bikes like this, and I'm used to my Brooks saddles.  But, finally, after steering out of the rond (or roundabout, as the Brits call them) of the Place de la Bastille, I realized why everything felt so sluggish:  The tires had about half as much air in them as they needed.  

I could have topped off the tires at any number of places, namely bike shops and gas stations.  As it happened, PBT is closer to Bastille to any other such place (that I know about, anyway), so I went to them.  Just for good measure, they did a quick check of the rest of the bike, and found nothing amiss.

All was well with the world, and off I went on the bike.  Mostly, I've rambled:  I've had no particular destinations in mind.  Actually, I headed for the hills, such as they exist.  Of course, I rode up the longest and steepest hill in Paris:  the one leading to the Sacre Coeur de Montmartre--and, of course, down to the teeming streets and open-air markets of Goutte d'Or, often called the "petite Afrique" (little Africa) of Paris.

When I pedaled in that neighborhood--and neighboring Barbes-Rochechouart-- this year and last, I noticed that however well-intentioned the bike lanes are, it is all but impossible to stay on them unless you want to stop-and-start, or do a lot of dodging and weaving.  It seems that, even by Paris standards, the streets and sidewalks of that neighborhood are narrow, and people are always out shopping or otherwise out and about, always in large groups. So, they almost can't help but to spill into the bike lanes.  They almost invariably get out of your way, at least to the degree they can, and say "pardon".  I saw only one cyclist argue with the pedestrians.  That cyclist himself is African, from Senegal.  "Vous n'etes pas francaise"--"You are not French" he said with a knowing grin.  I nodded, sheepishly.  "Pas problem.  Vous etes sympathique."  I almost expected him to say I am "tel" or "trop" sympathique--so or too nice--buy he just left it at "nice".  

Anyway, from there, I rode to Saint Denis--home of the Stade de France, site of the Euro soccer championship and one of the terror attacks in November--only to find the Basilica closed.  Still, it's impressive from the outside:

If it looks unbalanced, that's because the North Tower (the one that would have been on the left) was removed in 1840 after it was damaged by lightning three years earlier and subsequent storms.  Work on reassembling and installing is now in progress.  

But the ride to St. Denis was not for naught, as I found a path along the canal to La Villette, a few kilometers away in the northern part of Paris, where it connects with Canal de l'Ourcq, which in turn connects  with the Canal St. Martin-- an extremely popular spot for cycling, walking and picnics.

Then, after some more wandering I decided to hop a train:

No, I didn't go back to New York.  Rather, I chanced upon something I'd heard about before coming to Paris.

The Grand Train is held, as you might expect, in an old rail terminal and storage yard.  It was nice to look at tains that had, not only power, but also style.

You really had the sense that people rode those trains.

  

In those days, all Frenchmen wore moustaches.  At least, in the movies--and on trains--they did:

The engine in the photo below was designed for use in rugged Pyrenees terrain no other vehicles could reach.  It was used as a "relay" to and from ambulances and other cars and trucks, as well as to get pilgrims to Lourdes. 

It made its first run more than two decades after the first Tour de France cyclists climbed those peaks in the Pyrennes, and its last about two decades before I pedaled up them.

The organizers of Grand Train seem to have "discovered" some interesting uses for old track beds--like a "beach"

a "garden" 

and even a chicken coop.

(It looks like someone thought formal wear was required for this event!)

Hey, they even figured out that a gravelled track bed makes great petanque  court.

I was not surprised:  My Italian grandfather used to play bocce on a disused rail bed underneath an almost-equally disused viaduct of the New York transit system.

What would he think of that young lady?

The Good News, And More (I Hope)

In a literal way, this sign can tell you where I'm not right now:

Add caption

During one trip to California, I got about as close as one is allowed to the sign.  I'm not anywhere near it now.  However, this sign inspired a sign I saw where I am now:

In a way, I can understand why that "Bonne Nouvelle" sign is done in a similar style to the "Hollywood" sign.  The latter reflects, I think, the exuberant optimism in which the film industry was created. And the neighborhood in which the "Bonne Nouvelle" signs are posted also has a long association with the performing arts.

However, the area around the "Bonne Nouvelle" sign bore  its namesake centuries before the station bearing the sign was built.  

The Bonne Nouvelle district--and the station--are named for the Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle.  That good news is,  I am very sure, different from that for a Hollywood producer.

Of course, you surmised that I am in a French-speaking locale.  I am indeed in Paris, again, visiting a couple of friends.  The station is one at which I transferred--on my way to pick up a bike, though not either of the ones I mentioned in yesterday's post!

Something Else That Isn't New, And Something That's Even Better

So...You think Shimano introduced the low-profile cantilever brake as part of its then-new XTR mountain bike group of components in 1992.

Well, when I first saw those XTR low-profile brakes, I had my suspicions.  Like most Shimano "innovations", some other company had tried it before.  Some, like the dual-pivot brakes by GB, Altenberger and Weinmann, didn't work very well, and Shimano was the first component manufacturer to make it work.  Others, like indexed derailleur shifting and hubs with integrated cassette bodies, were successful in earlier iterations (in both cases, from SunTour), but the cycling public wasn't--for various reasons--ready for them.

So...It probably wouldn't surprise you to learn that Shimano didn't invent the low-profile cantilever brake after all:

I don't know when this brake was made.  I'm guessing that they came as original equipment on the bike and, from what else I saw on the bike--a Motobecane city or utility bike--it was made in the 1960s, or even earlier.  Perhaps the brakes were made by one of the familiar but now-extinct manufacturers like Mafac, CLB or Weinmann.  Or they might have been made by some other company that went out of business even earlier than those firms.  

A sign announcing the bike was for sale hung from its top tubes.  The price was pretty low.  I thought about buying it, except that I don't have the time or resources to restore it.  Its owner might have ridden it for years without lubing (let alone replacing) the chain or cables, or cleaning and greasing the bearings.  But, as you know from reading this, that's something I would never do if I could help it.

Also, the logistics of getting the bike to my place would have been difficult, to say the least, for reasons I will reveal in a future post (possibly tomorrow).

In the meantime, I'll leave you with another interesting bike I saw today.  Given the way it was parked, I couldn't take better photos.  

You know that at some point, this bike was owned by someone who rode a lot--and not just from the French Cycle Touring Society sticker on the fender.

I'm guessing that the bike originally had dropped handlebars and, possibly, a Brooks or Ideale leather saddle.  Should we be upset that the bike now has flat bars and a thicker saddle?  Although I would have liked to see the bike in its "original" state, if the bars and seat are the thing that makes the bike a rider rather than a wall hanging, I won't complain.

The frame is made of Vitus 888--in its time, the chief European rival to Reynolds 531 and Columbus SL or SP. Also, the components are among the best of their time:

Now, you know the Specialities TA crankset, Huret Duopar derailleurs and Maxicar hubs spell "top of the line touring bike."  But this bike's owner (or builder) knew a thing or two:  the front sported a Mafac Racer brake, but the rear featured a Mafac Raid.  (Can't you just see and hear the bated breath and Velo Orange and Compass Cycles?)  And those pedals, from Specialites TA:  possibly the finest quill pedals ever made.  

My favorite feature, though, is this:

No, it's not a funky shifter for a front derailleur.  Instead, the lever operates this:

Some cyclists believed that when Sanyo chainstay-mounted dynamos were made (in the 1980s), they were the best available. I never used one myself, but I knew a few cyclists who did.  All claimed the generator was more efficient than any other available at the time--as long as the tire wasn't knobby or slicked by snow, ice, mud or oily rainwater.

Whatever you want to say, Meral bicycles reflected a lot of attention to detail.  It's too bad we didn't see more of them in the US.

(Yes, that last sentence is a clue as to why I decided not to buy the Motobecane with the low-profile cantilever brakes!)

Going Up, By Whatever Means

I never, ever walked my bike up a hill.  At least, I didn't for more than twenty years.

I swear, it's true!  To me, dismounting and pushing my bike up where I wanted to pedal was the ultimate humiliation--at least, as a cyclist.  Second was probably standing up to pedal, but even that didn't come close to hoofing it when I could have let the bike do the climbing.

Someone I saw today reminded me of that.  He was pushing his bike up a moderate hill.  I caught his glance, he gave me a defensive "You didn't see that!" scowl.  When I turned away from his face, I noticed that his pedals were moving along with his wheels:  He was riding a fixed gear bike.  I was tempted to assure him, "It's OK", but that probably would've made him angrier, or at least more defensive.

These days, I've become less judgmental, at least about things like pushing bikes up hills, however small.  I don't even feel a twinge of superiority when the hill isn't long or steep, or the person isn't riding a fixed gear--or is riding a bike with a "granny gear".  I guess it's something that comes with age:  I really am less judgmental about things besides willful stupidity, arrogance and malice.  Maybe understanding my own frailties and vulnerabilities--which means, of course, understanding that at my age, I'm not going to blow past some riders I might have "left in the dust" in my youth--has made me happy that people like the guy I saw today are on (or with) their bikes.

From AhPekBiker

All right:  I have a confession. (You knew that was coming, right?)  On my way back from Point Lookout on Saturday, I walked up a hill.  Actually, it's worse:  I pushed my bike up the inclined ramp to the walkway of the Cross Bay Bridge.

Now, if you've lost all respect for me, I understand: I would have reacted in the same way, in my youth, to such a rider.  In fact, I would have thought live burial was preferable to becoming such a cyclist.  But I have an excuse  a reason.  Really, I do.

Getting to that ramp, at least from the Rockaways Boardwalk or Rockaway Beach Boulevard, requires a series of sharp turns.  The worst part is that along the way to such turns, or in them, you might have to stop for traffic because the Boulevard and other main thoroughfares of the Rockaways too often become drag strips in the manner of Gerritsen Avenue, which I mentioned the other day.  And I'm not just talking about young guys in love with speed and power but no place to exercise either.  The families in SUVs are just as bad, if not worse.  I guess if I were driving a vehicle full of screaming kids and spouses, I'd probably direct my energies in a way similar to those drivers.

Sometimes they don't stop for traffic lights or "stop" signs, or even slow down for intersections and merges.  And, worst of all, when they park, they'll park anywhere, including in bike lanes--or, worse yet, on the dip in the curb where cyclists--as well as people in wheelchairs--access the ramp for the bridge.

The curb around the dip is simply too high to hop, especially if you're riding a lightweight or fixed gear bike.  I would have had trouble with it even when I had a mountain bike with suspension and was riding it frequently on, as well as off, the trails.  I saw a sliver of space between the SUV parked at the ramp entrance and the spot where the dip curves upward into the curb. I rode through it--but not after losing momentum from having to make the turns I described and stopping at a light just before the entrance.  Then, after making a disjointed snake-curve turn around the rear of that SUV, I had practically no momentum left.  In other words, I had to start at the bottom of an incline.  And, being an old ramp, it is fairly steep.

So, yes, I did walk up it.  Please, please, don't tell anybody.  And, if you push your bike up a ramp, your secret will be safe with me! ;-)

Full Moon Ride

This illustration alone would be enough to entice me to go on the ride it's advertising.  The only thing is, it's in Omaha, and I'm not going to be anywhere near there. But we have a full moon here in NYC!

From Omaha Bicycle Company

A Moment Of Tragedy: Cyclists Run Down In Brooklyn And Indiana

One of my favorite films is Night On Earth.  I won't argue that it's a great film or that Jim Jarmusch is America's answer to Fellini or Truffaut.  It's not the sort of film that will teach you any great lessons or makes any grand artistic statements.  Rather, it reveals people without judging them, which is--to me--one of the best things an artist can do. 

What all of the characters share is the kinship of the night and the confines of taxicabs.  The film shows us what happens inside cabs on a particular night in five different cities:  Los Angeles, New York, Paris, Rome and Helsinki.  Some of the actions and interactions are very, very funny--especially in the New York sequence.  But all of them reveal hopes, vulnerabilities, resentments and so much more.

I've often thought that if I were a filmmaker, I'd want to do something similar with cyclists.  Perhaps I could show a messenger in New York or London or San Francisco, for example, and, say, someone riding to or from work (or to shop) in Paris or Amsterdam and other kinds of cyclists in other places.  Of course, the point of such a film--if indeed there was one--would be to show what it means to be a member of the family of two wheels, if you will.

But there would be a terrible flip-side to such a narrative:  Cyclists who are on the losing end of encounters with motorists, or who are involved in some other kind of mishap.  I was reminded of this when I learned of two tragedies that occurred at around the same time, in two different parts of the United States.

One unfolded in my own backyard, more or less.  Thomas Groarke--suspected of driving drunk--ran down 17-year-old cyclist Sean Ryan near Marine Park, at the far southern end of Brooklyn.  Ryan was pedaling along Gerritsen Avenue, where I have ridden many times.  As the street is long and flat, and the streets that feed into it see little traffic--and even less from people who don't live in the neighborhood--some drivers seem to see it as a local version of the Daytona Speedway.  And, because the area is relatively remote, on the edge of Jamaica Bay, it is not as well-patrolled as some more central areas of Brooklyn.

The impact of the crash severed the bicycle in half.  I shudder to think of what it did to Sean Ryan's body!

Police investigate the scene where Sean Ryan was run  down.

A few hours after that tragedy unfolded on the East Coast, in the middle of Indiana, 36-year-old Theresa Corey Burris was riding to work, on US 40, just east of Hancock County Road 250W.  An 18-wheeler driven carrying an oversize load--a huge concrete slab that protruded onto the shoulder of the road--struck her.  Its driver, 55-year-old Reed Thompson, apparently was unaware he'd run her over until police stopped him half a mile from the scene.  

At the scene where Theresa Corey Burris was run down

Sean Ryan and Theresa Corey Burris were both riding at around the same time.  That unites them; so, unfortunately, is the way they met their endings.  I would prefer that we, as cyclists, share different bonds and that our fates are not similarly bound in a tragic moment.

Suspension Across State Lines

Another clear, hot, humid day.  There wasn't much traffic, and everyone seemed in a good mood, or at least not-quite-awake.  Given all that's going on in the world--what with the tragedy of Nice, the attempted coup in Turkey and the police officers slain in Baton Rouge (of which I would learn when I got home), the streets of the South Bronx seemed almost idyllic--ironically enough, even more so than Greenwich, Connecticut.

I saw very little traffic all the way from my place, through the Bronx and Westchester County, not even at The Hub or in the downtown areas of New Rochelle or Port Chester.  However, I found myself pedaling in the three feet or so between a traffic jam and the curb literally the moment I crossed the state line.

When I rode to Greenwich on Tuesday (and bumped into George), I saw signs announcing the sidewalk sales that, as it turned out, were in progress today.  Of course, I didn't pay attention (or, at least, remember) those signs.  Had I remembered, would I have come prepared?  Perhaps:  I could have brought my backpack (and, maybe, my American Express Centurion Card ;-)).  A few things I saw under the tents tempted me, particularly some batik-printed tops, shorts and skirts  that were surprisingly affordable.  I suppose I could have bought a drawstring knapsack somewhere and bought a few things, but decided I didn't want to haul stuff home.

Anyway...there seemed no way to escape the traffic in Greenwich, not even on the way out. Were people driving in circles (squares)?  As soon as I crossed the line back into the Empire State, the streams of cars and minivans disappeared.  I thought some of them would pass me in Port Chester or Rye or Harrison, but they seemed to be swallowed by some black hole at the end of Putnam Avenue.

Maybe the laws of physics were suspended in Greenwich.  What else could explain this?

Now, sometimes Arielle seems to defy gravity when I'm pedaling her on a day like today.  But this is something I've never seen her do, until now:  She's not propped against that tree, or anything else.  Nor--as you can see--is the pedal serving as a "kickstand".   I was going to lean her against the trunk when I accidentally let go for a split-second, and she stood on her own. The tires just happened to fit between the roots of that old tree in just the right way.

Hmm...I wonder if it had anything to do with the traffic or sidewalk sales.  Or maybe the laws of physics just work differently when you cross state lines.

Everything I Need

For today's ride, I brought some things I usually take with me:  spare inner tube, tire levers, Park Tool MT-1 and a patch kit. But I didn't need any of them, thankfully.

I did bring two things I definitely needed:  water and sunscreen.  During the course of  my ride, the temperature rose from 27C (81F) to 33C (92F) and I pedaled under bright sunshine, at least until the last half-hour or so of my ride.  Also, I spent much of my ride by the ocean or bay, which intensified the sun--and the wind.  Fortunately, for most of the ride out, I was pedaling into the wind, which meant that it blew at my back for most of the way home. That's especially nice when you're riding a fixed gear--Tosca, my Mercian fixie, of course-- as I did today.

OK, so everything sounds good, right?  In fact, my ride was very, very nice:  I felt good, the bike felt great and as hot as the day became, it didn't feel oppressively so.  And the rain waited until half an hour after I got home. (You didn't know I had the power to so influence precipitation, did you? ;-))  When I got home, I gulped down some seltzer as Marlee and Max curled up with me.  I cooked some pasta to use up the last of a batch of pesto I made a while ago. (I don't know how much longer it would have kept.  Besides, I think there's some nice fresh basil on the way!)  I dozed off, awakened about an hour later by a friend who called "just because."

You might say I lived a privileged life today.  I wouldn't dispute that.  Still, I'm going to complain about something.  (Aren't privileged people the first to do that?)  Here goes:  I had everything I needed, and almost everything I could have wanted.  Notice I said "almost":  I forgot to bring my camera, or even my cell phone, with me.  

Funny how, even at this late date, I can recall having spent the majority of my cycling life without a cell phone.  And I have done many other rides without a camera.  As it turned out, I didn't need the phone:  I had no emergencies and, when I got home, I saw that no one had tried to call me.  But there is something I would have liked to record with my camera, or even my cell phone.

Today I rode to Point Lookout.  I followed the same basic route I've taken for most of my PL rides over the years.  I didn't see anything out of the normal or meet anyone new, so, perhaps, there was nothing to record.  However, when I arrived at PL, I noticed that it was fenced off behind the ballfield and playground.  

Actually, it looked as if only the parking area was blocked.  So I did what the German Army did to the Maginot Line:  I marched (OK, walked my bike around) it.  Although I didn't see anyone else on the rocks or sand by the water, and I didn't see anyone walking their dogs or significant others on the sandbar (The tide was out.), I didn't think I was anywhere I wasn't supposed to be.

Tosca

Then I heard a whistle behind me.  No, someone wasn't admiring my physique.  It was that unmistakably shrill tweet--almost a shriek, really--of an "official" whistle, perhaps one of the police or the military.  Turns out, the guy who blew the whistle was connected with the latter:  the Army Corps of Engineers.

I must say, he was friendly and polite when I asked him why he was chasing me away from the beach.  The folks at ACE decided that there was a lot of damage--some from Superstorm Sandy, and some that preceded it--to the beaches, rocks and habitats.  To be fair, even before Sandy, I had noticed erosion and other kinds of damage to the environment over the years (more than 20) I've been riding there.  

Certainly, I was disappointed that I wouldn't get to spend some time propped up on the rocks, feasting on the reflection of the water and  and reveling in the sun and wind against my skin.  But, I reasoned, it would be nice for all of it to still be there when I ride to it again:  something I may do soon, even if I can't walk on the sandbar when the tide is out.  After all, the ride is still great.  And I have everything I need.