Cycling On The Water?

Whenever I ride to the Rockaways and Point Lookout, as I did the other day, I notice new signs of recovery and rebuilding after Superstorm Sandy.

At the foot of the bridge from Broad Channel (on the Queens "mainland"), there used to be bayside restaurant and club on the Rockaway Beach side.  It was totaled during the storm; the McDonald's next door was flushed out during the surge and looted of whatever was left afterward. The other day, I noticed that some sort of waterside cafe or restaurant had opened.  Attached to it is a dock where one can rent Jet Skis.  I wasn't surprised to see a couple skittering across the choppy bay waves; after all, the day was nearly perfect.  

I've never ridden a jet ski, and it's been a while since I've been in any kind of boat that runs on human power.  However, I couldn't help but to wonder whether such aquatic vehicles could be combined with bicycles.   When I was a kid, it seemed that every amusement park had some sort of artificial pond with little pedal boats shaped like ducks or some other creature.  Why not make something like that for grown-ups?, I wondered.

Might the result look like this?

Or this?

Copenhagen Cruisin'

Before the 2008 Olympics, I didn't realize that beach volleyball was a competitive sport.


That's not to say it isn't interesting or fun to watch--or play.  I played a pretty fair amount of volleyball in my youth, and I can tell you that playing it well requires quite a bit of conditioning and practice.  I'm sure that much of what I did on courts is more difficult on sand.  Or, at least, the timing and coordination are different.


Once I started to watch the tournaments, I wasn't surprised to see that Brazil and the United States had two of the best teams.  I was, however, surprised when the Belgian team gave the American women a scare in one match. 


I have to admit, the day  before I saw that match, I never would have associated Belgium with beach volleyball.  I know there are beaches in that country.  Some have a rather austere kind of beauty, but in terms of weather, they're nothing  like their counterparts in California, Hawaii or Ipanema.  People don't travel from other countries to take in the sun and surf in Belgium as they might, say, in Spain or some parts of the US.


I don't think Denmark fielded a team in that tournament. Like Belgium, it has beaches. Also like its Flemish neighbor (well, almost), they're not the first things people associate with the country. 


But people do indeed go to those seaside havens for pretty much the same reasons people flock to sea, sand and sun (well, sometimes not so much of that:  look at Blackpool!) everywhere.  And, there is beach riding in Copenhagen. 


It seems, though, that the Danish idea of a cruiser--or beach cycling attire--is a bit different from that in Daytona or Malibu:

From San Jose Bike Party

How Routine Was This Repair?

Have you ever felt yourself just slogging and grinding your way on your bike for no discernible reason?  Then you realize your rear tire was slowly losing air.  Or your chain needed oil even more than the salad everyone thought was dry and lifeless.  Or that some part or another was out of alignment or adjustment.

I had such an experience on Thursday.  I wasn’t feeling very well, but I thought I could shake my lethargy by going on a ride, however short.  I started in a direction that could take me to Coney Island or the Canarsie Pier; either would have been a manageable distance and, if I needed to do so, I could take the subway home.

As I approached the Pulaski Bridge, I found myself making a left turn Jackson Avenue, then Thomson Avenue, which meant Canarsie was in the cards.  It was the sort of not-quite-conscious decision I often make on rides.  That was fine; I hadn’t gone that way in a while.  Tosca seemed to be rolling along fine through the industrial area of Long Island City and Maspeth, the now-Polish and Albanian enclaves of Ridgewood and some almost-suburban stretches of Glendale.  

Then, after descending the hill from a cemetery in Queens to another in Brooklyn, I started to feel like a paraplegic grasshopper pedaling in syrup.  I glanced down at the bike. Nothing seemed wrong.  Must be the engine, not the chassis, I thought.  In other words, I thought perhaps I was less well or in worse shape than I suspected.

Just after crossing Atlantic Avenue, I realized that the human machinery, however out-of-tune, was not to blame.  I saw the telltale sag in my rear tire. So, I did what I often do when I don’t hear a pop or a hiss:  I pumped the tire, figuring I could pedal the rest of the way to the pier and, if necessary, fix the problem there.

The plan almost worked.  I got to a flea market about three-quarters of the way to the pier.   I wended through aisles of polyester sundresses in screaming hues that make “billboard” jerseys seem as if they were designed by Brooks Brothers  (I’ve never seen a man who actually looks good in one!), electronic equipment that was discarded before the guys trying to sell it were born, CDs of bands you’ve never heard of or don’t want to hear again, and all matter of the most cheaply-made watches, appliances and accessories imaginable.  Of course, I didn’t buy anything.  But I had to pump my tire again:  It had lost about half of its pressure.

The air was just barely enough to get me to the Pier.  Then I pumped the tire to hear a hiss growing more insistent.  Turns out, a small hole in the tire’s sidewall was opening. 

I knew there was no point to fixing it:  No patch would be strong enough to keep the tube from blowing out like a bubble from a piece of gum.  So, I took the L train back.  Oh well.

After replacing the tire and tube, I took Tosca out on the same route yesterday.  Now I was riding the bike I’d always loved.  And I felt better.

And yesterday’s ride—Point Lookout, again—on Arielle felt even better.  In fact, it was nearly perfect: About the only time I noticed Arielle (I hope she doesn’t feel rejected) was when I shifted or braked.  The rest of the time, I felt as if I were sailing the air under the cloudless sky on a day that could hardly have felt more like the first of summer. 

I did nothing to maintain or adjust Arielle before the ride.  But somehow I felt I was still riding a wave, if you will, from replacing the tire on Tosca. 

What sorts of routine maintenance and repair make the most difference in the way your bikes ride?