Trust me: I have absolutely no intention of encroaching on the wonderful work the author of Cycling Art Blog does.
However, I'll admit that this post is just an excuse to post another lovely bicycle (another great blog I'm not trying to usurp) photo I found on the internet.
I couldn't find any credits for it. If it's yours, let me know and you'll be duly acknowledged.
Today was mild for this time of year. Although it didn't rain, or even drizzle, the air felt damp, as it has since the rain we got the other afternoon and night.
It actually wasn't a bad day to ride, in my book. It's nice to ride on overcast days sometimes: I have fair skin, so a lot of time in the sun tires me out as well as leaves me at risk for sunburn and other things. Still, I was feeling sad.
While riding, I saw one of those billboard signs that shows the time, temperature and date. I then realized why my mood was darker than the sky: Today is the 13th.
Last year, this date fell on a Friday. Now, I'm not normally superstitious, so Friday the 13th doesn't mean much to me. But I recall the one that came in January of last year for one reason: Charlie died.
Although Marley is adorable and sweet, he can't replace Charlie. I didn't expect that he would; he just happened to come into my life a little less than two months after I lost Charlie. Max took to him very quickly; he was always a very affectionate cat. But Max, like Charlie, was with me during a very special time in my life: my transition and surgery. One simply can't replace the kind of relationship one had with an animal during a time like that.
At least Max is still here and will be for years to come. And, I believe, Marley is special in his own way, and I am developing a relationship with him that's different from the one I have with Max, or the ones I had with Charlie or the other cats who came before him. Needless to say, it's also different from the relationships I have, and have had, with people in my life. I guess that was the point, at least for me, of taking Marley into my life. That, and the fact that he's ridiculously cute.
In an earlier post, I wrote about the Dahon Vitesse D5 on which I commuted for about a year and a half. I think I gave the impression that it was the only folding or collapsible bike I've ever owned. That's more or less true, if you don't count another one I owned for a few days.
I was reminded of it when I came across this photo:
It's a Chiorda folding bicycle, just like the one I owned for a few days. It's even the same color, although--cosmetically, anyway--in slightly better condition than mine was.
I had an excuse for its rattiness: I found mine by the curb, next to some bags of trash. For some reason I don't recall, I didn't ride my bike that day to visit a then-friend who was living in Jackson Heights. I spotted the bike as I walked to the subway station.
But I didn't take the train home. I walked the bike to a nearby gas station where I inflated the tires. They held air long enough for me to ride the bike back to Brooklyn, where I lived at the time.
At that time, I'd ridden a few folding bikes, never for very long. The Chiorda was about what I expected from such a bike. Actually, I should qualify that statement: It was about what I expected from a folding bike, but slightly better than what I expected from a Chiorda.
You see, I developed an early prejudice against the brand. My first--and, for a long time, only--experiences with them came in the first bike shop in which I worked. A nearby R&S Auto (Think of it as a low-rent version of Western Auto or Pep Boys.) sold Chiorda ten-speeds for $69. The quality of the ones I saw ranged from ghastly to just plain scary. I don't recall seeing one that didn't have a misaligned frame; some had bottom bracket threads that stripped when you removed the cups, rear brake bridges that broke off the stays and various other problems.
At that time, bikes from Taiwan and Eastern Europe (except for the Czech-made Favorits) were considered the worst on the market; I think the Chiordas I saw were just as bad. To be fair, though, any of those bikes was better than the Indian three-speeds I fixed. And, I would learn that Felice Gimondi actually won the Tour de France on a Chiorda--though not, of course, the one I found or the ones I'd worked on.
But my ingrained prejudice prevailed. Even though the treasure I found in the trash was better than I thought it would be, I didn't expect to keep it. One day, a few days after I found it, I took it out for a spin. I stopped at a greengrocer, where I encountered a sometime riding buddy and local mechanic. He actually wanted the bike--for his girlfriend.
I guess I can understand why he wanted it for her: Even if it wasn't the greatest bike, it was kinda cute. So, for that matter, was she. He was, too. I haven't heard from him in years. Now I wonder whether she still has that bike--or him.
