Being Avant-Garde, After A Fashion

As some of you might recall, a couple of weeks ago I sold a few things after doing some very late "spring cleaning."  Thanks to a posting on this blog (which I've since removed) and an announcement on a discussion group, I was able to sell my stuff without going to the dreaded Craig's List or,egad, eBay.


However, I did scroll through listings on both of those sites.  On eBay, I saw a couple of things that appeal mainly to people with more money than miles on their bikes.

You simply have to get a pair of wheels to match your Louis Vuitton purse--or, better yet, your LV custom saddlebag and handlebar wrap:

I can almost see some Japanese tourist in Paris, circa 1985, with these wheels.  


The person selling them claimed that they came with a bike he bought and they  weren't his style.  Apart from the graphics on the rims, I thought the spoke patterns and colors were also wild:  black radials on the front, alternating red and white, laced two cross, on the rear.    I'd like to see the bike that came with these wheels.


The cyclist in me wonders why the rear hub is a Phil Wood but the front is a Formula. I ride three pairs of wheels with Phils and one pair with Formula.  While I can't think of a better hub than Phil's, I think that Formula is a great hub for the money.  But--perhaps this isn't apparent in the photos--the style of each of them is very different and I wonder why someone who was apparently trying to coordinate everything visually would so mix the hubs.  As a practical matter, the mix actually makes some sense:  The quality of the rear is more critical than that of the front, and whoever built those wheels saved a bit of money on the front.


As you may have guessed, the rims were made by Velocity.  I wonder whether it's some sort of special edition, and for how long they will be made.  After all, I have to get a pair and build them when I have some money! ;-)


To be fair, Velocity is the only brand of rim besides Mavic I would use on a pair of wheels I were building, or having built--unless, of course, I were building in a size not made by either of those two companies.  Sun rims, I've found, are strong and are usually good values for the money. But they are considerably more difficult to build and true than Mavic or Velocity rims.


They should paint this next item to coordinate with the wheels:

After all, if you're going to get aerodynamic rims, you need an aerodynamic bell to go with it, n'est-ce pas?  And not any old aerodynamic bell:  It absolutely must be titanium, like this one.  A couple of years ago, I would've said that titanium is, like, soooo 1996. But, as I understand, this year stuff from the fin de siecle is going to be all hip and retro.  But just in case you're a year too early, remember to get the bell painted white and stenciled with Monsieur Louis' "V's."

Girls, Bikes And The City

On my way home from my "Hasidim and Hipster Fixies" ride, I met and chatted with another woman on a bike.   She's been living in Brooklyn for a while and wants to find some new rides.  And Bruce has told me that I make a good tourguide. So, we exchanged e-mail addresses and today we went for a ride along the Brooklyn and Queens waterfronts, across the RFK Bridge into Randall's Island and alongside the East River in Manhattan. 


Helene was definitely "up" for this one.  She's wanted to have a girl's night, or day, out in the city!

One of the wonderful things about introducing someone to places you know well is that you discover new things in and about them.  We ventured into a part of Greenpoint I hadn't visited in a while, where we found a workshop of some kind:

Look at her, and look at the second statue from the left.  Of course, I had to get into the act:

I guess I'm not quite the performer she is.  Then again, I may not have had the right role.  Last week, in the midst of the sleep deprivation nearly all instructors experience at during the last days of a semester, one of my colleagues said I was looking a bit like Pierre de Wissant as he appeared in Rodin's Les Bourgeois de Calais.  

Anyway, I enjoyed the ride and the company of my new riding companion.  After we parted, Helene insisted that we stop here:

I mean, she has a point:  I have three Mercians (including her) with paint finish number 57:  a purple that turns green when you look at it from certain angles.  So now I need a house to go with them.  Hmm...If my book sells....

Reflections Cycling

All of my kidding aside, I really am a rather reflective and contemplative woman.  I've had to be.  Maybe that's why I sometimes, while riding, I see images of cyclists I might have been, or appeared to be:

Was this man riding to exhale?  Or would he be inspired?  Or some of both?  Actually, those questions apply to just about every cyclist one might encounter as a Saturday afternoon turns to dusk behind a curtain of high clouds.  For that matter, those questions could apply to pretty much anyone who cycled, walked, skated, skateboarded, fished from, or sat on the benches lining, the promenade that passes under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.


But what of two people on a tandem on the Coney Island boardwalk?

One doesn't see tandems very often in New York.  I'm guessing that the riders are a father and son or, perhaps, an uncle and nephew. 


When I was growing up, there still weren't very many adults who cycled.  None in my family did.  Even the owners and operators of most bike shops weren't riders:  They, like most adults, saw bicycles as the means of transportation people used only until they got their driver's licenses.  


The few adult cyclists one saw were almost invariably male.   And now I realize that, even today, the vast majority of adults I see riding are male.  Perhaps that is the reason why I see those images of who I was, or might have been.

Now I remember cycling along the ocean in New Jersey as a teenager.  From Sandy Hook south to Sea Bright, the wind and tides exhaled through shells and bones on the other side of the sea wall that separated the ocean from Route 36; south of Sea Bright, they sluiced through mounds and valleys of sand that stretched even farther than I could have cycled on any day I cycled, or the one after it, or the one after it.  How far, exactly, would it go?  To Key West?  At least I knew that if I were to cross the ocean--which, of course, I couldn't do on my bike--I'd end up in Portugal, in Spain, in France.   


Nobody I knew then had been to any of those places.  And they hadn't been to the places where they wanted me to go:  the colleges, Annapolis, West Point or any of the other Armed Forces academies.  Or, for that matter, the offices  they hoped I would occupy, or even the schools in which I would study and teach.


None of those schools existed, at least for me, when I was riding along the ocean so many years ago.  And nobody followed me:  nobody, that is, except for a middle-aged woman who told me to inhale deeply and exhale completely, and that everything would be all right because she was going to be there for me, no matter where I rode. 


And I was present today, as I always was, for that teenaged boy who spent sunny days and overcast afternoons cycling the Jersey Shore.  Perhaps I saw the person he might have been, too.