Cranking Up A Classic Marque

A little over a year ago, I recounted discovering--along with other novice American cyclists in the 1970s--bicycle and component marques known to generations of riders in other parts of the world.  

What I didn't realize was that some actually were, or would soon be, on the brink of extinction or being changed beyond recognition.  I am thinking of bikes like Falcon, Gitane and  Legnano, who made all sorts of machines from Tour de France winners to urban delivery conveyances--and companies like Nervar, Weinmann, Huret, Stronglight Simplex, Mafac and SunTour, who made the components for those bikes, and others.

Those manufacturers are gone now. (Weinmann-branded rims are made in China and the SunTour name lives on in SR-SunTour forks, which bear no relation, other than the name, to the revered maker of derailleurs and freewheels.)  So was Chater-Lea, a British company that made bicycles and even, for a couple of decades, cars and motorcycles.  But C-L is best known for what the English call "fittings":  parts like pedals, headsets and bottom brackets. They even made frame tubing and lugs.

Chater-Lea's quality was, in its heyday, second to none.  Custom frame builders specified C-L's parts; so did larger manufacturers for their best models.  I never owned or used any of their stuff, but I encountered some when I first worked in a bike shop.  A couple of my early riding companions--who pedaled through the "Dark Ages" when few American adults cycled--rode bikes equipped with C-L.

Those bikes were older than I was.  They sported those pencil-thin steel cottered cranksets (which may have been made by Chater-Lea) you see on old-time racing bikes and that fell out of favor once good-quality mid-priced cotterless cranks became available.  To my knowledge, C-L made bottom brackets only for cottered cranksets, and their pedals were of the traditional "rat trap" variety.  

So, while the stuff was of high quality, its designs were dated or even obsolete. (Clipless pedals all but killed the market for high-quality traditional pedals.)  That is why I was, if unknowingly, witnessing the "last gasp" of a once-revered name in the cycling world:  In 1987, they would cease after nearly a century of making bike parts.

Last year, Andy Richman, a British cycling enthusiast who lives in the US, decided to revive the brand with a ne plus ultra pedal that echoes the company's old designs but employs the highest-grade materials and finished flawlessly.  He said, at the time, that "if jobs are going to come back to the UK, it's got to be for making this kind of stuff."  In other words, "high end, beautiful, artisanal" items.

Now he is introducing a second Chater-Lea item.  Appropriately enough, it's a crankset.  But it's as much a departure from C-L's cottered sets as the pedals are a refinement of a traditional design:  The Grand Tour is a "sub-compact" crankset with 46/30 chainrings (a classic Randonneur/Gran Fondo configuration) designed to fit on JIS square taper axles and work with up to 11 speeds.

If you want to equip your bike with these items, save up your pounds:  You'll need 595 of them (about $775 at current exchange rates) to buy the cranks, and 250 ($325) for the pedals.  

Does Richman plan a complete Chater-Lea bike?

On Your Mount, In The Saddle

Sometimes we are redundant. We repeat ourselves.  We say something we've said before.  And sometimes it's OK.  Someone, I forget whom, told me that when you use different words to say the same thing, it shows only that you're trying really, really hard not to repeat yourself.  Or that you have access to a thesaurus.

I am guilty of this literary tic.  How many times have I referred to my bicycle as my "mount" or "steed"?

Of course, I am not the only person to use equine-related terminology for bicycles and bicycling. (Why do we call bicycle seats "saddles?")  Moreover, more than a few have folks have used horse-related metaphors and imagery to portray human-powered two-wheeled ambulation.  Hey, the owners of North Division Bicycle, a well-regarded shop in Spokane, Washington.

I've never been to The Evergreen State's "Second City."  The first syllable of its name is pronounced "Spoke."  If that doesn't suggest cycling, I don't know what does.

(Who would be the Four Cyclists of the Apocalypse?)

What Kind Of Protection Do You Want?

I've seen bike helmets that don't have vents.  I simply can't imagine riding one:  Even with my latticework casque, I sweat when the temperature or humidity rises.

On the other hand, those vents let in the cold and rain.  The former isn't such a problem as long as you can fit a balaclava, beanie or some other form-fitting form of insulation under your helmet.

The rain is another story.  I've worn shower caps or even plastic bags under my helmets.  They're fine for keeping your head dry, but not very comfortable when it's warm and raining.

And, even if you keep your head dry, there's still the rest of you.  Do you wear a full rain suit?  A poncho?  Or do you need only to cover your shoulders and upper torso?

Hmm...Maybe this headgear could be made to ANSI specifications.

Could it also be made with a COVID mask--or even one of the face shields I've seen on a few people?

Shelby Cycle Museum

More than two years ago, I wrote about a municipality that was best known for its epomymous bicycle company.

From 1925 until 1953, Shelby Bicycles were manufactured in the Ohio city for which they were named.  While most of their wares were sold under other names, such as Goodyear, Firestone and AMF, others bore the company's name and are prized by collectors for their stylishness.  One was even ridden to a transcontinental record.

While some manufacturers, such as Schwinn, Raleigh and Peugeot, were major employers, it can be argued that none was as integral to its community as the Shelby Cycle Company was to its town.

Restored 1938 Shelby. Photo by Aaron W. Legand

At the time I wrote my earlier post, the Shelby Cycle Historical Society, a tax-exempt organization, was forming and seeking members.  On Tuesday (perhaps appropriately, the day after Labor Day), it received a grant to create the Shelby Bicycle Museum on the grounds of the original Shelby Cycle factory.

I can't help but to wonder how many other bicycle "company towns" existed late in the 19th, and early in the 20th, Centuries. In those days, bike manufacturers were smaller and their markets were mainly local: No giant (with a capital or small "g") manufacturer or conglomerate dominated the industry.

Dreams And A Memorial

Lately, I've had some very strange and vivid dreams.  Perhaps it has something to do with my crash. Or the pandemic might've brought them on:  I've heard other people say they've been having "weird dreams" and "nightmares" since COVID-19 ravaged cities and countries.

There are two other times when I can recall such deep, detailed night voyages, if you will:  During the weeks and months after my gender reassignment surgery and in the aftermath of the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon.

My post-surgery dreams--some of which were beautiful--may have had something to do with the anesthetics and other drugs.  On the other hand, what I experienced in late 2001 and through much of 2002 (and on a few later occasions)  may have been a reaction to the pain and grief I experienced around me.  Other people, I learned, also had odd and terrifying dreams during that time, so in that sense our psyches (and, in some cases, our bodies) were responding to the attacks in the same way many of us would process the current pandemic.

Some of my dreams involved bicycling to places that weren't physical locations as much as they were rapidly-changing series of images.  In others, I would retrieve a bicycle--which I may or may not have ridden or owned in my waking life--in places I'd never anticipate, like the house of someone I knew in the dream, or some place that looked like a bunker or butcher shop.  Or I was trying to retrieve something--or even a person--while riding my bike.

I rarely talk about my dreams with anyone, though a few have figured, one way or another, into my writing.  I am mentioning them now because 19 years ago, the last event (before the current pandemic) that "changed everything" took place.  I am talking, of course, about the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon.  Although I did not know anyone who died, or was even injured in them, it was impossible to escape the grief and sadness if you were here in New York.  Someone I'd never seen before, and haven't seen since, cried on my shoulder.  Someone else--an old riding buddy--rode to the site and stayed for three weeks afterward, helping in any way he could. (He was a welder and metalworker.)  One night, he called me, in tears.  I told him he'd done more than anyone had a right to expect of him, and he should go home and spend time with his girlfriend.

He did. Others didn't, though.  Some of them--messengers, food deliverers or others who would now be called "essential workers"--locked their bikes to a rack by the Towers.  A year later, only one of those bikes was retrieved. 

Bike rack at 9/11 Memorial

Perhaps I was trying to retrieve one of them in the dreams I've mentioned.  Or, perhaps, one of them was me.

Isn't Losing Your Bike Bad Enough?

 Having a bike stolen is a bummer.  Stealing a bike makes someone a bum, or worse.

Sometimes I think the authorities don't take bike theft seriously because of a perception that we're all recreational rider; that for an adult, being on a bike doesn't serve a real purpose.

Of course, you know better:  You may be a bicycle commuter.  Your bike might be your primary, or only, vehicle, whether by circumstance or choice.  

Sometimes, it seems, we're not "redeemed", and the thefts of our mounts are not taken seriously, if we're not using our bikes for some "higher" purpose.  That is why I had mixed feelings when I read about Jim Plummer Jr. of West Warwick, Rhode Island. 

Of course I empathised with him in losing his bike, and rejoiced on reading that a Facebook campaign enabled him to buy another.  I had to wonder, though, whether the incident would have been noted at all had he not been riding as part of a benefit for the Children's Cancer Research Fund.

Jim Plummer, Jr.

I don't mean to disparage charity rides or campaigns:  I've done a few, and intend to do more.  But I don't believe we should have to do them in order to justify our riding, or for the thefts of our bikes to be as worthy of attention as other thefts.

What's It Worth?

This is a $12,000 bike!

He'd just "wiped out" on a sand-dusted L-shaped turn.  I saw him, picking himself up.  Blood streamed down his legs and from his elbows.

Can you move your shoulder?  Your knee?

He bent his joints and back and nodded.  At least you're OK, I assured him.  Go home, take a rest.  You're probably not hurt, but you're in shock.

He pointed to his $200 saddle, torn in the rear.  Then he jerked his bike to the right and looked for damage.  At least I didn't scratch the bike.  Honestly, I'm worried about that than my body.  I paid $12,000 for it.

Other riders passed.  I alerted them to the sand "trap."  One rider asked if the guy on the $12,000 S-Works carbon-fiber wonder was OK.  He nodded.  I picked up a piece of something.  That's from my front shifter, he said.  It's a little plastic thing, but Shimano'll probably charge me $100 for it.  

Then he tried to route the chain back on to the larger chainring by starting at the bottom and spinning the pedal backward. But it wouldn't go.  I noticed that it was stopping at something that looked like some sort of chain guide on the seat tube.  He affirmed that, indeed, the comma-shaped plastic pi6ece served that purpose.  Electronic shifting is great, except at times like this, he exclaimed.

I've never worked on such a system before, but I suggested that he try threading the chain through the guide and rotating the crank as if he were pedaling.  It worked. Well, it meant that he could use only his large chainring, but it was OK to get me home, he said.  I'm going to bring it to my mechanic.

More riders passed us. I don't want to keep you from your ride, he said.  Are you feeling OK?  Can you see clearly?  He nodded twice.

I guess I'm lucky.  I wasn't wearing my helmet.  He glanced at it. But look--it was cracked on the rear.  I know I'm stupid:  It's a $300 helmet.

Note:  I actually encountered this rider the other day as I descended the ramp from the Veterans' Memorial Bridge to the Rockaways.  All of the dialogue is real, at least as best as I recall it.

This Labor Day Ride?

Today is Labor Day in the US.

This year, the holiday is different:  Most large gatherings, including parades, have been cancelled due to the COVID-19 pandemic.  So have many organized bicycle rides.

I have to wonder whether these riders would have been sanctioned for not keeping their "social distance":

Perhaps they're all related?  After all, your family can't make you sick, right?

How "Kool" Is This Lemon?

Back in my youth (yes, I had one of those!), I bought a Schwinn Continental.  It was available in several colors.  One, as I recall, was called "Kool Lemon."

In fact, several Schwinn models were available in that hue.  One, a "muscle" bike with a "banana" seat and stick shifter (that may account for at least some of the decrease in birth rates), was called the "Lemon Peeler."

Somehow I'm surprised that Schwinn never offered a bike like this:

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!