The Only Girl On A Bike?

The past two days, the temperature rose to 100 degrees F and beyond. Today's 90-degree high seemed autumnal by comparison.

About the only ones I've seen riding are the Mexican delivery guys and  a few older men who were filling the racks and bags attached to their bikes (or, in some cases, held in one hand) with bottles, cans and whatever else they could recycle.  There were also a few young adult males on road or mountain bikes--the latter almost invariably in black, their rear wheels spinning  huge brake discs  like ferris wheels on crystal meth.   

So, as you can imagine, I got an unfair share of attention when I rode to work today in a skirt and blouse.  I didn't wear my heels on the bike; I brought them with me and changed into them from my Keen sandals when I got to work.  I think I got as much attention as  I did, in spite of my un-glamorousness (Is that a word?) because I may well have been the only woman anybody has seen on a bike for the last couple of days.

Back when I was in boy-drag, some people would tell me I was crazy for riding in the hot weather.  But while riding, I was almost never noticed.  The exceptions came when I was in my best physical condition:  Some people, including fellow cyclists, noticed my riding skills; other people--mainly a few women and gay men--noticed my shape.  I can recall times when female and gay male drivers pulled up alongside me and rolled their windows down, ostensibly to ask for directions.  Let's just say that their eyes weren't on the road ahead of them.

Today a man in an Acura Coupe did the same thing when   I pulled up alongside him at a traffic light.  He rolled down his window.  "Babe, could you tell me what time it is?"    Now, he might be from one of those cultures in which it's considered rude to make eye contact.  Still, I thought it a bit strange that his line of vision seemed to begin at one of the curls in the print of my skirt--and that curl rested on my left thigh.

Now, that wasn't the first time a man looked at me that way when I was riding my bike.  Still, it surprised me, or at least caught me off-guard.  As it was such a warm, humid day, plenty of women--many of whom were better-looking, or at least younger and in better shape, than I am--were showing more than I was.  But now I realize I may have been the only one that driver, and some of the other men who were looking at me, had seen riding a bike.  And they certainly weren't expecting to see a woman on a bike on such a hot day.

Waking To A Heat Wave

Today the temperature reached 103 degrees F (about 40 C).  It seemed that even the places that normally seem like iceboxes--like the central building of the college, where, it seems, the air conditioning is turned on in June and kept on full-blast until September--felt soggy today.


I woke up later than I'd planned, and by the time I got outside, the air already felt as if a knife would stand up in it.  I was going to ride to work, but decided against it as soon as I stepped outside to go to the dry cleaner's.


Even people who don't normally complain about the heat were wishing that they were taking an Antarctic cruise.  


I've cycled in weather that's as hot as today's was, but couldn't see the point of riding today.  For one thing, there's an ozone alert, and while I suppose I could  wear a filter mask, I don't think that, given the sinus problems I've had, that doing any outdoor exercise in that heat and air would do me much good.


Plus, I no longer have the need I once had to prove myself to...whom?  People who didn't care?  Myself?  What, exactly, would have I proved to myself by taking a ride on a day like today.  Now, if I had to ride, that would be another story.


There were a few times when I had to ride in heat such as what I experienced today.  It was even more difficult when I wasn't expecting it, as when I was cycling through a mountainous area and found myself in a pass or valley.  The day after I had my life-changing encounter in St.Jean de Maurienne, an Alpine town a few kilometers from the Italian border, I rode down a mountain and into a valley where the thermometer on a bank in town read 40C.  I felt my skin burning, but I wasn't sweating.  That, I understand, is common at very high elevations, which tend to be drier than lower-lying areas.


But at least I knew it would be hot--if not this hot--today.  I just wish I'd awakened earlier.

Adjustments and Sea-Changes

Today my ride consisted of a spin to the park next to the Queensboro Bridge and over the bridge itself to...Bicycle Habitat.  I had to bring in a rear wheel they built for me so it could be tuned up.  Most shops that build custom wheels will tell you to bring them back after two hundred miles or so for a check-up.  

Although the wheel was still rideable, some spokes had come loose.  But, as it's a custom-made lightweight wheel, I want to keep it in optimal condition.  Arielle, my Mercian road bike (which I rode today and the other day), deserves no less.

Hal Ruzal re-tensioned the wheel for me.  

More years ago than either of us will admit (well, OK, more than I'll admit), Hal built me a pair of wheels that I rode along the Mediterranean from Italy into France.  I carried a pair of panniers on my rear which progressively filled with all sorts of chotchkes from flea markets and such, as the exchange rates were very favorable to the dollar.

It's really a wonder I made it through that trip.  I drank way too much wine, and other things.  A glass-half-full person would say that I must have had good bike handling skills.  That's probably true.  But I still don't know how even my pedaling prowess got me through one particular day's ride.

I was about thirty kilometers south of Genoa, somewhere on the road that zigged and zagged along that rocky coastline--or, to be more accurate, along the edges of cliffs from which loose rocks--and pieces of that road--tumbled into the sea.  

The day was overcast when it began; by the time I got to that stretch of road, a storm that surprised me with its violence blew in from the sea.  I didn't know the Mediterranean could have such rough weather!  

I also didn't know--until I got to that stretch of road--that the Romans may have been the greatest road builders in the western world, at least until the nineteenth century.  But they didn't seem to think much about safety, at least not in the ways we think about it.

So that road along the edge of cliffs that drop into the sea was about the width of one and a half vintage Alfa Romeos.  The guard rail on the edge stood up to about my knees.  The wind that was waling at my side could have easily sent me over that guard rail into a wild blue yonder that was darkening in gray.

 

I may not know how I survived that ride.  But I can tell you how my wheels made it:  Hal built them.   

Hal is an excellent wheel builder and mechanic.   He and Charlie, the store's owner, treated me and my fellow employees very well when we worked for American Youth Hostels.  Back then, AYH's New York headquarters were on Spring Street, around the corner from Habitat.  We sent a lot of business there:  People would book their places on AYH-sponsored tours, or simply get their Youth Hostel passes and other necessities from us, and then would go to Habitat for wheels, tires, bags or other things they needed for their tour.  A few of those people even bought new bikes.

Back then, there were still real, live artists living and working in the lofts that abounded in the neighborhood.  The Soho stretch of Broadway hadn't yet become a fashion-designers' strip mall.  So, as you can imagine, the clientèle of the shop was a bit different.  

Then, as now, many messengers went to the shop, as it's along one of the routes they would take from the Wall Street area to Midtown.  Some of Habitat's customers lived nearby.   Most of the neighborhood's residents at that time didn't have a lot of money. One might say that Soho at that time (early 1980's) represented the last stand of genteel poverty in New York.  A few of the artists and others who lived in the neighborhood bought bikes at Habitat; many more had their mounts repaired or resurrected there.

Interestingly, the people who worked in the shop--including Hal and Charlie--reflected what some might have called the spirit of the neighborhood.  Hal is a musician; other current and former shop employees are and were artists of one kind or another, or involved with theater or dance.  And Charlie is a civil engineer by training who, like the so many of the personnel and clientèle of that shop, are or were trying to live in this city without becoming part of the "rat race."

Whether or not cycling was ever the most important thing in my life, it has been one of the few constants for me during the times I've described and the ones in which I'm living.

And now that I think of it, Habitat--like most enthusiasts' bike shops--was, back in the day, overwhelmingly male.  During the busy season, they might have a woman selling the bikes, but all of the permanent employees I recall--and nearly all of the customers that I can remember seeing--were male.  

I'll give you an example of how things have changed:

I couldn't get over how well Melanie's dress and shoes coordinated with her bike, particularly with the gold parts and the blue chainguard.  Can you just see her in the peloton now?

 

I didn't ask whether she chose her bike to go with her ensemble.  Even if she did, I won't complain:  I don't think anyone else in the shop minded.  

Who said that we have to become the change we want to see?