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.  

 

Our Flag--Or Their Banner?

On Sunday, the day before "the 4th" (American Independence Day), I rode La-Vande, my Mercian King of Mercia, to Point Lookout.  I have taken that ride many times, on every one of my current bikes and several I've owned previously.  Although the weather was just a bit warmer than I like, the skies were clear and bright and the temperature dropped as I approached the water.  Best of all, I was pedaling into the wind, blowing from the ocean and bay, most of my way out. That meant, of course, that I rode with the wind at my back for most of the way back.

Still, I couldn't help but to notice something that distrubed me.  Perhaps the holiday, and its associations sensitized me to it.  A ride I took the other day--the day after the Fourth--confirmed my observation.

Holidays like the Fourth, Memorial and Veterans' Day and, of course, Flag Day, bring a lot of Stars and Stripes out of closets, attics, trunks and storage lockers.  People hang flags in their windows and on their doors and fly them from awnings and poles.  I couldn't help but to feel, however, that the way those flags were displayed was more ostentatious and aggressive than usual.  

My Point Lookout ride takes me through strongholds of Trump-mania:  Broad Channel, a Jamaica Bay island between Rockaways to the "mainland" of Queens, and the Long Island South Shore communities of Long Beach, Lido Beach and Point Lookout itself.  Just past the Long Beach boardwalk, one house flew a flag so wide that it unfurled over the sidewalk in front of it:  Anyone walking by could have been brushed by it which, to some, would have been offense--by the person brushed, mind you--against the flag and therefore the nation. I noticed many other flag displays that were disruptive or simply more in-your-face than ones I saw in years past.

But the incident that showed me that the flag has gone from being an expression of patriotism or simply gratitude to one of agression and hostility, or even a threat, came the other day, as I approached an intersection in Eastchester, a Westchester county town on Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic. Something that looked like a bloated pickup truck--it was nearly as wide as the two eastbound road lanes--pulled up behind me, veering into the shoulder where I was riding.  From poles driven like stakes into each corner of the rear flatbed, American flags fluttered.  Another banner, about the size of those four flags combined, visually blared, as loudly and ominously as the revved-up engine (which seemed to lack a muffler), its message:  Let's Go Brandon.  That, of course is a code for what the driver bellowed at me:  "Fuck Joe Biden."

I pretended to ignore him.  I guess I'm not a very good actor:  I noticed him, the truck, the flags--it was impossible not to.  Eyeing my bike, he growled, "If you hate this country, leave it." 

"I am here because you have the right to say that.  And I have the right to disagree with you.  Members of my family fought for both."

He eyed my bike some more.  "At least it's a 'Merican' bike.  To be fair, he's not the first person to read "Mercian" as "American" or "Murrikan."

"Have a good day, sir."

With a perpexled look, he motored away.  I hadn't felt such relief in a long time.

In 1983, people--including some friends and family members--begged, cajoled and even tried to strong-arm me into not moving back to New York.  In those days, the news, movies, television and other media depicted my city as a lawless hellhole where people were robbed, raped, stabbed or shot.  The implication, of course, was that the victims were like me--a mild-mannered white person (I was still living as male) and the perpetrators were drug-addled black and brown thugs.  

The irony is that some of the people who were sure I'd be dead within a year of moving to New York--and other people who think like them--voted for Donald Trump, a hero to the fellow who was using his truck--and the flag--to intimidate me.

Will It Make Helmet Wearing More Palatable?

In Colson Whitehead's The Nickel Boys, one of the title characters, Turner, is taken in by Mavis and Ishmael, an aunt and uncle after his father abandons the family and his mother's alcoholism renders her incapable of caring for him.  One day, he got between the Mavis and Ishmael when they fought.  Ishmael then took him to an ice cream parlour and told the attendant, "Bring this young man the biggest sundae you got."  To Turner, "every bite felt like a sock in the mouth." Later experiences--including time in "The Nickel Academy," a segregated juvenile "reform school" in Florida--reinforced his belief that "adults are always trying to buy off children to make them forget their bad actions" and leads him to a lifelong hatred of ice cream.

So it will be interesting to see what comes of what a fire department in upstate New York is doing.

Let's face it:  Most people don't like wearing helmets.  I, like other cyclists, wear one because I know the benefits firsthand:  When I crashed two years ago, the doctor told me that it would have been much worse if I hadn't been wearing mine.  In another incident years earlier, I flipped over and landed in a way that broke the helmet in half but left me just barely scratched.

And when a kid wears a helmet, it's almost always because a parent or some other adult made them wear it. 

In Brownville, the firefighters have teamed up with Lickety Split, a local ice cream shop, to promote safety.   As LS owner Eric Symonds explained, when a kids is"caught" by a firefighter or Symonds wearing a helmet, they'll get a certificate for a free kiddie ice cream.

When I read about it, I couldn't help but to think about Turner. After all, the ice cream--which most kids who aren't Turner love--is being offered as a reward for something they wouldn't normally do on their own.  Also, I wondered how they might feel about the promotion, knowing what prompted it:  the death of  a local boy whose bike hit truck towing a trailer.  

That said, I applaud Symond's and the fire department's effort, which will begin today and give out 100 certificates.

COVID Whiplash And Saris

Depending on whom you believe, the COVID pandemic bike boom is a.) still in full swing, b.) at a plateau or c.) on its way down.

On a purely anecdotal basis, I'd choose b.  I think I'm seeing about the same number of cyclists as I saw a year ago, which is more than what I saw in pre-pandemic times.  But there's even more car traffic, with bigger cars.  My guess is that people didn't ride as an alternative to driving.  Rather, they pedaled to work because bus or train service was reduced or curtailed, or they just didn't want to ride buses or trains as the virus overwhelmed the city.  Or they rode recreationally--and some will continue to do so--because it was a way to get outside and engage in a fun and healthy activity that still allowed them to keep the mandated social distance.

On the other hand, there is a part of the bike industry that's been in decline from its pandemic peak: excercise bikes and trainers.  For a time, they were all but impossible to find--and expensive--when gyms were shut down or, in some places, people were locked down.  

Some suppliers suffered the fate of some, mostly smaller, bike shops:  They experienced a surge in business that depleted their inventories.  But, at the same time they ran out of parts and bikes, supply chains were disrupted because of everything from factory shutdowns in China to truck drivers and dock workers who quit their jobs or got too sick to work.

Then there is the case of Saris.  You probably know about them for their indoor trainers and bike racks.  But they also make "bicycle infrastructure products" like parking racks and lane barriers.  The latter part of their business would seem to be holding steady as more cities and towns build lanes and parking systems.  On the other hand, sales of indoor trainers have fallen off a cliff as gyms have reopened and people who were under "hard" lockdowns could ride outdoors again.  

One of Saris' problems, though, is the opposite of the bike shops I mentioned: They had plenty of inventory.  In fact, they had just as many trainers to sell this year as they had last year and the year before.  

They have experienced what company founder Chris Fortune (great name for someone in business) calls "COVID whiplash."  It's affected other companies like Peloton, Wahoo and Zwift, who also make trainers.  They, too, suddenly had excess inventory as people returned to their gyms or to outdoor riding.  

As a result, Saris is reorganizing its debts through the circuit court system in Wisconsin, where the company is based.  It’s been reported that Fortune wants to sell the company but hopes to do it in a way that won’t affect his employees’ jobs.

Wheels--And Shoes--For The Parade

Today, the 4th of July, is Independence Day in the USA.

I've been following the hearings of the committee investigating the Capitol riot of 6 January 2021.  While I admire the courage of some who have testified--like Cassidy Hutchinson and the Georgia poll workers--I still wonder how long this country--or to be more accurate, its people--will be free from those who tried to take it from us.  The really scary thing is that they weren't foreign invaders. 

On a lighter note, lots of things will be festooned with flags, or at least decorated with its colors.  They include, of course, bicycles, some of which will roll amidst parades.

When I saw this, 

                      Image from San Francisco Bike Party

I wondered:  Were the shoes decorated to go with the bike, or vice versa?

Oh, and are those shoes compatible with cleats?

P.S. Today is my birthday. I won't tell you my age. Let's just say that I'm younger than this country.

How Not To Hydrate

I've been following the Select Committee Hearings on the riot of 6 January 2021.  Some who testified--like Cassidy Hutchinson-- gave me hope that some people will do the right thing.  Other testimony--like that of the Georgia election workers who still live in fear because they wouldn't help to overturn the election results-- was as heartbreaking as it was infuriating.  

But no matter how much I hear or read, there are still some things I will never understand.  To wit:  Some people still insist the election was "stolen," despite any lack of corroborating evidence.  And they still take everything the Former President says as gospel, even though he publicly told more than 30,000 documentable lies (about 21 a day) during his time in office. 

I can come up with only one explanation:

The past few days have brought a heat wave to this part of the world.  Somehow, though, I don't think I'd hydrate with the stuff in the image--even if my political persuasions were more in line with the folks who imbibe it.

Gravel Racing Star's Killer Caught In Costa Rica

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the murder of up-and-coming gravel racing star Anna Mariah "Mo" Wilson.  On Wednesday, her suspected killer, Kaitlin Marie Armstrong, was arrested in Costa Rica.

Armstrong had been dating road-turned-gravel racer Colin Strickland for some time.  The  35-year-old Strickland and 34-year-old Armstrong reportedly took a "hiatus" from their relationship for a couple of months.  During that time, Strickland started dating Wilson, a decade his junior.

Anna Moriah "Mo" Wilson

On the 11th of May, Strickland and Wilson went to the Deep Eddy pool and then had dinner at a nearby restaurant.  That night, he dropped off Wilson at a friend's house in Austin, Texas but didn't accompany her inside.  Later that night, she was found unconscious and bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds. 

An anonymous tipster told police that Armstrong, who'd purchsed two 9 millimeter handguns, had talked about killing Wilson.  And, a vehicle that looked like her Jeep Cherokee was seen at the house around the time of the shooting.  Two days later, Armstrong sold her Cherokee at a Car Max location before taking a flight to Houston, then to New York.  She was spotted at Newark-Liberty Airport,  but no outbound flights were booked in her name.  So, her whereabouts remained a mystery until she was tracked in Costa Rica.

I don't mean to make light of a senseless killing.  But I couldn't help but to notice that what might be the first major scandal or tragedy, depending on how you see it, involves an Armstrong--from Texas, no less. 

All He--Or, Rather, The Kids--Need Are The Bikes

June has just ended.  So, for most students, has the school year.

I recall how, in the old days,  some kids tossed notebooks, pencils and rulers into the air as they dashed away from their school building.  Do kids still do that?  Somehow I have a hard time imagine them tossing laptops or tablets--or their phones--into the air.  

One thing that probably hasn't changed is this:  Kids leave school with visions of long days with friends, at the playground or the beach--or riding bikes.  Maybe they'll ride their bikes to those places.

That is, if they have bikes.

David Yandell has long known that many kids don't have bikes because their families can't afford them.  Over the past twenty years, he's distributed about 2000 bikes in Portland.  In the beginning, he did his own fundraising, but some years back a local developer-turned- philanthropist named Homer Williams got wind of what Yandell was doing and became a partner in the program.

But, this year, Yandell and Williams discovered that, as the saying goes, there are some things money can't buy.  In this case, it was the bikes themselves.  Wal-Mart, normally one of their major sources, said it didn't have any bikes available for them.  The reason is one we've heard since the early days of the pandemic: supply chain disruptions.

More than likely, there are now hundreds of similar bike-distribution programs across the US.  While some may have been suspended, but most folks who undertake such work are dedicated.  And, in Yandell's and William's case, savvy:  Few, if any, such programs have operated for longer than theirs.  

So far, they've acquired half of the 200 bikes they'd promised to kids.  They worked their contacts, not only to find other sources, but to put pressure on Wal-Mart to come up with some bikes.

Turns out, their powers of persuasion are working.  A Wal-Mart representative, citing the value of good community relations, said the company wants to help Yandell get what he needs and believes the bikes are available somewhere in the company's network.

Say what you will (and I would say a lot) about the Wal-Mart's policies and practices.  I think they, or, at least, the representative, know that you don't let down folks like David Yandell because he knows  there are some things money can't buy--like the feeling of being a kid (or a grown-up) riding a bike on a summer day.

In Place

Yesterday I was torn between taking a familiar or a new ride.  So I did a bit of both:  I pedaled through areas of Westchester County I hadn’t seen in a while, on roads I’d never ridden.

While riding, I couldn’t help but to think about how two affluent towns, so close, could feel so different. Scarsdale, New York, like Greenwich, Connecticut, is one of the most affluent towns in the United States.  Both have quaint downtowns full of shops that offer goods and services you don’t find in big-box stores.  But while some Greenwich establishments have the intimacy of places where generations of people have congregated, others are like the ones in Scarsdale and other wealthy parts of Westchester County:  more self-conscious—you can see it in the names, some of which show merely that whoever came up with the name took French or Italian—and more trendy while trying not to seem trendy.  

Also, the mansions of Greenwich are set further from the roadway than those in Scarsdale.  I suspect that has to do with the differences between the towns’ zoning codes—which has to do with the philosophies of the people who made them.  Also, part of Greenwich includes farms where horses are bred and herbs are grown.

In other words, they reflect the difference between New England and suburban New York wealth (though Greenwich is certainly part of the New York Metro area). 

While both towns have public art and sculpture, I don’t think I’ve seen anything like this in Greenwich:

Simone Kestelman, the creator of “Pearls of Wisdom,” says she was inspired by what pearls mean: something to wear for special occasions, purity, spiritual transformation, dignity, charity honesty, integrity—and, of course, wisdom acquired over time.

One might expect to see something like this in Greenwich:

Indeed, the town has public horlogues like that one,  But I encountered it in the Bronx, across the street from Montefiore Hospital!

Simple Arithmetic?

 Only a mathematician could ever come up with that!

I've forgotten what the "that" was.  But I remember that an engineer said it.  Now, my knowledge of mathematics can be summed up, generously, by the divisor of an equation that yields a quotient of infinity. But I understood, I think, that engineer's exclamation:  Almost nothing is as abstract--and, therefore, divorced from reality, at least in the minds of many--as mathematics.

If there are things only a mathematician can come up with, then I imagine there are things an engineer would never try or, probably, even think about.  To wit:

To be fair, Sergii Gordieiev's project was inspired by a real-life situation:  He crushed his front wheel on a curb.  That left him, in essence, with half of a wheel.  So that got him to wondering how to ride with half of a wheel.  The solution came from a mathematical equation so simple even I could understand it:  half plus half equals one.  Thus, he realized, he could make a bike run on two half-wheels--on the rear, anyway.

Your local bike mechanic probably can perform all sorts of miracles.  I know:  I've resurrected a bike or two in my time.  (If you're inculcated with the language of Catholicism, it never leaves you!)  But, my old engineer acquaintance said, there are some things only a mathematician could come up with. 

Next On The Journey--Or: Where Is This Going?

After writing yesterday's post, I noticed something interesting, at least to me.  

I began this blog twelve years ago.  You might say that I spun it off from an earlier blog, Transwoman Times.  I started that blog a year before my gender-affirmation surgery and continued it for several years after.  About a year after my surgery, I--and at least one reader--noticed that I was also writing about my rides and bikes, and cycling in general.  I didn't think bikes or cycling were out of place in TT:  After all, they--and the fact that I couldn't ride for a few months after my surgery--were an important part of my gender affirmation process, as they have been in my life. 

After I started this blog, I wrote less about cycling-related stuff on TT.  So, perhaps not surprisingly, I found myself posting less on that site as I had less and less to say about my gender affirmation.  That is to say, rather than a process of affirmation, my gender identity became a fact of my life.

But now I find that I'm writing more about, if not gender-related topics, then political, social and cultural issues, on this blog.  Those subjects are, of course, related to cycling, especially if it's your primary or a major means of transportation.  You know that from my rants about bicycle "infrastructure" planned, designed and built by people who haven't been on a bicycle since the day they got their driver's licenses. 

I also, however, see that gender-related issues are "creeping" into this blog.  In one way it seems ironic, or at least odd:  Am I coming full-circle (or cycle)?, I wonder.  Then again, this shift in focus, if indeed this blog is moving in that direction, is a fulfillment of what I say in my masthead:  I am--as always--a woman on a bicycle--and something else I say in my profile--this is a blog by a transgender woman.

While I haven't posted on Transwoman Times in a while, I have no plans to let this blog lie fallow.  I just hope that the twists and turns of this blog, and my journey, continue to interest you, and others.  But I must warn you:  I won't stop being "political."  I can't.

The Monday After The Overturn

Last week, I wrote a post on the 50th anniversary of Title IX becoming enshrined in U.S. law.

The following day, the Supreme Court struck down Roe v Wade.

I am writing about that now because I fear that so much of what Title IX made possible can be reversed--or, at least, the law could be rendered all but meaningless.

One thing enslavers know is that keep people servile, all they have to do is restrict the movements of the people they want to keep in bondage and take their bodily sovereignty from them.  The Taliban understands that lesson quite well:  They didn't have to close schools or bar women from opening businesses or practicing professions.  All they had to do was make them wear clothing that inhibited their movements and make it all but impossible to leave their homes without a related male escort.  In a matter of months, they reversed all of the gains Afghan women and girls made during the previous two decades.  Until recently, a similar situation prevailed in Saudi Arabia (enforced by a royal family that, ahem, the United States props up) until women were allowed some elementary rights like riding bicycles and driving cars.

One result of the restrictions in Afghanistan and Saudi  Arabia is that women's health deteriorated.  Women's bodies were seen, as they are in all fundamentalist and orthodox religions, as incubators:  Their health care is seen as important only to the extent that it allows them to bear and rear children.  Because women could not go anywhere without a related male escort, they could be denied care because their husbands didn't want them to take off their clothes in the presence of a male doctor (never mind that a female doctor may not be available) or simply decided the women didn't really need care.

So how does this affect us, in a country where we don't have to wear burkas and can come and go as we please? (Well, OK, there are some areas where  we don't go alone.) As a transgender woman, I often think about bodily autonomy:  What if I'd been told I couldn't take hormones or have surgery?  Or what if there wasn't a therapist and social worker available who understood my situation and could guide me into my transition?  If abortion can be denied, what else can a government--whether national, state or local--tell us we need or don't need, or can or can't have?

For that matter, could politicians and judges tell us what we can and can't do in our free time--or as a profession?  Think about it.  In some states, women have been arrested for having miscarriages or stillbirths.  Why?  Those miscarriages and stillbirths were considered as manslaughter or even homicide on the grounds that some behavior--drug use, drinking, smoking or even diet or activities--induced them.  What if some accident or injury in cycling--or some other sport--were considered as "causes" or "contributing factors?"

You might say that I'm being hysterical or alarmist.  In the days before Roe v Wade, girls were discouraged from sports with this admonition: "It'll tip your uterus."  Or our other "tender parts" would be irrevocably damaged, or the effort of pedaling or running or jumping or whatever would contort our pretty little faces. (They obviously never saw mine!)

And I fear that women's health care--which is still nowhere near the level it should be--will revert to its pre-Roe state.  Of course, I'm not talking about the technology.  Rather, I mean that an attitude Roe engendered--that women, as sentient beings, are worthy of health care in their own right--could revert.  If it's harder to obtain care, and care for ourselves, it will be more difficult to not only particiapate in sports, even recreationally, but also to determine our careers and other areas of life.

Our journeys take many unexpected turns.  I know mine has.  I just hope ours don't go off a cliff with the Supreme Court overturning Roe v Wade.

 

The Way To Go

Whether you are straight or gay, trans or cis, or any other gender or sexual orientation, 

here is my advice to you:

 

A Bike Lane Network: The Community Wants It. Can The City Get It Right?

Sometimes, when I don't have all day, or even morning or afternoon, to ride, I'll take a spin out to the eastern Queens, the New York City borough where I live (in its western end).  The routes between my Astoria apartment and Fort Totten or Alley Pond include some charming residential streets, cute shops and some lovely parks.  

But as the urban-but-not-claustrophobic character of my neighborhood also gives way to more spacious yards, the neighborhoods also become more suburban--and auto-centric.  While some residents of those areas ride for fitness or simply fun, they ride to and in parks and cycling isn't seen as a means of transportation.  Also, the city's mass transit lines don't reach into those neighborhoods.  So, for most people, going to work, school or shop means driving or being driven.

That is why on at least some of the area's streets, cycling can be just as hazardous as it is in more densely-populated neighborhoods.  Too often, drivers simply aren't accustomed to seeing cyclists on the streets.  Or, they have been inculcated with the notion that the drivers rule and cyclists, pedestrians and everyone else are supposed to get out of their way. Thus, so-called "shared" roadways--which consist of nothing more than lines and bike symbols painted on pavement--do nothing to promote safety.

Also, eastern Queens is laced and ringed with major highways.  The off-ramps from those by-ways merge into the neighborhood's main streets like Northern Boulevard.  One problem with the bike lane on the Boulevard is the difficulty in crossing one of those exit ramps, where there is no traffic light or even a "stop," "slow" or "yield" sign.

The problems I mentioned were cited by members of Community Board 11 when they sent back a proposal the City's Department of Transportation presented to them.  The proposal called for a series of bike lanes in a five square-mile area.  While the Board is in favor of establishing a network of lanes, the DoT's initial proposal called for fewer miles of them, none of which would have been protected.  Worst of all, at least in my view, this "network" would have the same problem I've encountered in too many bike lane "networks":  It's not a network.  Lanes weren't connected to each other; they are the "bike lanes to nowhere" I've complained about in other posts.  One board member pointed out that the lack of connection between segments actually puts cyclists in more danger than simply riding on the road.

As I often ride out that way, I am interested to see what the DoT does in response.  I am just happy that in an auto-centric area, community board members see the value in having a network of protected bike lanes. I hope the DoT gets it right. 

On A Cloud, Even If I'm Not Riding Through It

The other day, rain fell in starts and stops, stopping late in the day.  I took Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear, for a spin through neighborhood streets and a couple of times around Roosevelt Island.

Some parts of the island, especially the area around the lighthouse and "Girl Puzzle," feel rather bucolic, in and of themselves and in contrast to the skyline and bridge views less than a mile across the water.  

Those views also highlight certain weather conditions.  Low clouds seem even closer to the streets when they enshroud the spires and upper floors of skyscrapers.

I've pedaled up and downmountains similarly cocooned, through  clouds thick enough that I couldn't see more than a few feet in front of me.  It may have been the most Zen-like riding I've ever done:  When all of the normal cues, including color and sound, are gone, I could only ride, in that space, in that moment.  For a time, I couldn't even see my bike under me: I felt only my rear on the saddle, my hands gripping the handlebars so my arms could prop me up and my feet spinning the pedals.  I didn't even know which gear I was riding. 

Of course, no ride on Roosevelt Island, or anyplace in the city, will take me into the clouds.  But I can feel, if for a moment, that I am on a cloud!