When Does "Parked" Turn Into "Abandoned"?

Whenever I see a bike locked in the same place for a long time, I wonder:  Did its owner suddenly have to attend to some urgent matter in some far-off place? (One commonly finds bikes locked up in and around military bases for months, even years, under such circumstances.)  Did he or she fall ill or get hurt?  Or did he or she simply abandon—or forget—the bike?

I’m not thinking, now, about those bikes that are parked in the same spot every day while their owners are at work, in school or performing some other daily ritual.  Even if the bike is locked to the same signpost, parking meter, fence or rack every day, you can see signs, however slight, of its having been moved.  Also, you can tell that the bike has been ridden, whether because of dirt, scrapes, fading or just the normal wear one sees on tires and other bike parts.

Rather, I am thinking about those bikes that have moved no more than the Pyramids have since they were parked (all right, built) in Egypt.  You can tell that they haven’t been unlocked, ridden and returned:  Everything on them looks the same, day after day, until—if the bike is left long enough—parts start to rust and paint starts to fade.  I’m thinking now of bikes that were parked outside the Cooper Square post office so long that locals joked the decaying skeletons of steel and carcasses of rotting rubber were part of the building’s design.

The Cannondale in the photo has been parked around the corner from my place for a couple of weeks, at least.  It looks just as you see it:  It stands in the same position, and it’s had its seat and seatpost missing all of that time.  I assume—or, at least, hope—the bike’s owner took them off after locking up the bike.  I hope someone else didn’t take them off:  It’s not fun to come out and find your seat missing even if that’s not quite as bad as finding your bike missing.

Since it’s a modern bike==a fairly-late-model (I say this because it was made in the USA.) Cannondale—I can safely assume that the bottom bracket is a sealed cartridge.  Even if it weren’t, there would probably be an “accordion” sleeve between the bottom bracket cups to shield the axle and bearings.

But protection doesn’t last forever.  Neither does lubrication.  But the results of either failing do.  (Remember:  I’m talking about bicycles here, oh you of dirty mind!)  Of course, the bike would have to be parked for a long time for the seals or shields, and the grease, to break down.  We had heavy, flooding rains on Sunday and Monday, and on-and-off rain ever since.  So, even if the bottom bracket isn’t affected, you have to wonder whether the rest of the frame would be affected.  

The Cannondale is made of aluminum, so it won’t rust. But that metal oxidizes and corrodes.  Perhaps those of you who are more knowledgeable than I am about metallurgy can tell whether or not there is a point at which aluminum will start to deteriorate from corrosion the way iron or steel does from rust.

Anyway, I’m sure that sooner or later the bike’s owner will come for it.  Something interesting has happened, though, in the last few days:  another bike in exactly the same color has been locked next to it.   Was that Trek recognize the Cannondale’s dark blue color the way leopards supposedly recognize each other by their spots?

Do You Ride To Fish Or Fish For Riders?

In the space of a week, the calendar has changed from late May to early June.  On the other hand, the weather seems to have changed from mid-August to early April.  Last week it was hot and humid.  This week,  it’s been chilly, windy and wet:  In fact, we had the sort of flooding rains one normally associates with the beginning of Spring in many parts of this country.

Today, though, was sunny and dry—and windy and cool.  It was all fine with me as I took an afternoon ride down to the Canarsie Pier and along the coast to Coney Island, under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and up “Hipster Hook” back to my place.

I saw a pretty fair number of cyclists, especially for a weekday.  I guess they all felt as I did about the weather.  Even more interestingly, I saw a lot of fishermen.  It seemed that everywhere along the shore—in Canarsie and Marine Park, on the Coney Island Pier and the Verrazano Narrows promenade—poles were propped against railings and lines cast into the water. 

I have seen similar days on which no one was fishing, and other more inclement days when, it seemed, every male over the age of ten who didn’t have to be somewhere else (and a few who did, I’m sure) was casting, trolling or reeling. 

Now, I’ve fished only a few times in my life.  Every time, I’ve gone with others—relatives, usually—who were far more dedicated to it than I have ever been.  They decided when and where we fished.  I’m guessing it had to do with their work schedules and other things in their lives.  But now I also wonder whether they knew about some condition or another that made for good fishing.  Were they watching the weather or current patterns?  Or did they know, somehow, that bluefish or whatever kind of fish were out and about?

You may have noticed that I used male pronouns to talk about those who fish.  Fact is, nearly everyone I’ve seen with a rod and reel—and every one of the relatives I mentioned-- has been a man or boy.  I think I’ve seen two or three women fishing during my entire life, and no girl who wasn’t old enough to vote.

And all of my (admittedly limited) angling experience came when I was still living as male.  Now, I don’t think it had anything to do with my maleness or femaleness.  Rather, I think it was a matter of circumstance:  When I was younger, my uncles used to fish—sometimes on-shore, other times on party boats.  They invited me and my brothers, and I went along.

None of my uncles were cyclists.  Two of my brothers ride occasionally—and they fish, usually with male friends and in-laws.

El Cinco De Bloggo

All right...Those of you who speak Spanish might hate the title of this post.  But what else was I going to call it?  A Fifth of Bloghoven?

Anyway, I am not going to deal with any weighty, serious issues (as if I ever did on this blog!).  Instead, I'm going to celebrate, and hope you join me.

You see, it was five years ago today that I wrote my very first post on this blog.  At that time, I had been writing my other blog, Transowman Time, for nearly two years.  I had just started riding again after a layoff of several months following my surgery. 

A reader of TT suggested that I start a cycling blog.  Midlife Cycling labored in the shadows of Transwoman Times before taking on a life of its own.  Actually, I very quickly found that I enjoyed writing a blog about my Journey and journeys as a cyclist and found myself putting more and more of my energy into it. 

Anyway, here I am, and here you are, dear reader, 1456 posts later.  I hope that you are enjoying this ride with me, and that we continue it for a long time.

Somehow this image--which represents the freedom cycling offers us--seems apt for my celebration of cycling and what it's given me:

Image by Julia Van Vuuren on Behance