Prone To Revival--And Deservedly So, I Think

Shakespeare never had an original idea--for a story, anyway--in his life.  George Orwell took almost everything that makes 1984 worthwhile--including the notions of "thought crimes," "Big Brother" and its mathematical theme--from We, a novel from a little-known Russian writer named Yevgeny Zamyatin.  (Orwell reviewed the book three years before 1984 came out.)  D'Artagnan was not the creation of Alexandre Dumas; rather, Dumas lifted him--and Athos, Porthos and Aramis--from the first volume of Gaeten Courtilz de Sandras' book called The Memoirs of D'Artagnan.

In the book of Ecclesiastes, we find this:  "There is nothing new under the sun."  So it is in the world of literature and the arts.  So it is in science and technology.  And so it is in the world of bicycling.  In the four decades I have been cycling, almost every "new" idea had been done before, sometimes in the very early history of cycling.  As I mentioned in two recent posts, suspension is one such idea.  Another idea is that of building frames of anything besides steel:  During my formative years, carbon, titanium and aluminum frames were not only created; they were available to the general public (for a price, of course).

Then there are those ideas that never really go away but are nonetheless "rediscovered" by a new generation of marketing types (or, sometimes, actual cyclists who haven't been in the sport for very long).  One such concept is that of the recumbent bicycle.

I am not about to dismiss recumbents, as I have never ridden one myself.  I don't doubt that, as their proponents claim, their aerodynamics can make them faster than standard bicycles.  My concerns about them are twofold:  How well and comfortably can a rider use his or her muscles in such a position?  (At my age, the answer to such questions is more meaningful than it was when I was younger!)  And, how visible is a recumbent rider in traffic?

(I'll admit that the second question is the one that has done more to keep me off a recumbent!)

That there were recumbents before Dan Henry and others were touting them doesn't surprise me.  It's also not surprising to note that in the years just after World War I, some cyclists experimented with riding nearly prone.  Marcel Berthet--for whom the Lyotard No. 23 platform pedal was named--was concerned with aerodynamics, as were other racers and designers who flew or worked with aircraft during the war. 

The Challand Recumbent

But it's truly interesting, if not shocking, to see that some two decades earlier, in 1896 a horizontal bicyclette normale was exhibited in Geneva.  The Challand recumbent, named for its inventor, was said to allow easier mounting, improved stability and greater thrust on the pedals. It had just one problem, though:  It weighed about three times as much as its rider!

Berthet and others who revived recumbents after the War used them in record attempts. Charles Mochet designed his own recumbent--dubbed the "Velocar"--and used it to set records for the kilometer, mile and hour.  In the case of the latter, he broke a 20-year-old record by half a kilometer.

His exploits ignited a debate as to whether the "Velocar" was actually a bicycle.  The Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI) answered that question in the negative, and banned recumbents, as well as aerodynamic devices, from racing in 1934.  The UCI then declared all of Mochet's records invalid.

Given all of the controversy about pharmaceutical and mechanical doping, the controversy over recumbents seems almost quaint now.  Recumbents are, I believe, here to stay, just as--unfortunately--doping is.

 

When This Day Was Bicycle Day

Here in the US, most holidays have long since lost whatever meaning they had and have become, instead, occasions for orgies of consumerism.

Perhaps the most prominent example is Thanksgiving.  For decades, the day after, dubbed "Black Friday", has been an occasion for sales that mark the beginning of the Christmas shopping season.  In recent years, however, large department stores have been opening--and holding their sales--on Thanksgiving Day itself.  

This day--Presidents' Day--is no different.  While other holidays feature other kinds of bargain bonanzas (e.g., spring clothing and bedding on Memorial Day), this holiday is seen as the beginning of the automobile-buying season, and dealerships offer deals to entice consumers into buying new cars outright or trading in the ones they already have.

How did presidents come to be associated with cars? (Well, Ford Motor Company does have a line called Lincoln!)  To answer that question, we have to look at the origins of this holiday.  During my childhood, schools were closed on the 12th and 22nd of February, in honor of Abraham Lincoln's and George Washington's birthdays, respectively.  In 1971, Congress passed the Uniform Holidays Act, which moved the dates of certain festivities to Mondays.  At that time, Lincoln's and Washington's days were combined into one holiday, which falls on the third Monday of February.

Before the merger, if you will, auto sales were held on Washington's Birthday, which was seen as the beginning of the auto-buying season.  That tradition dates to the early twentieth century, when automobiles first began to shape the landscape and culture of this nation.  It has, however, roots in yet another kind of sale held on the same date.

If you've been reading this blog, you know that the bicycle is, in essence, the predecessor of the automobile.  Some of the early auto manufacturers and designers had been in the bike business, much as the Wright Brothers were at the time they made their flight.  So, it should come as no surprise that bicycle-buying (and, in some locales, -riding and -racing) season began on the 22nd of February.  Bicycle dealers usually debuted or featured new models on that date and offered special deals.  Many also had parties and even held or sponsored races, even in such locales as Boston which were as likely as not to have snow on their streets at that time of year.

From Green Fleet Messengers

As an article on the Atlantic Monthly website relates, some people were not happy that "crass commercialism" sullied the occasion of the birth of our first President.  Some of them pointed out, rightly, that there really was no reason to associate two-wheelers with "The Father of Our Country" because it's unlikely that he rode anything resembling a bicycle.  My guess is that the date was chosen because it's near the end of February and Spring is so close that people can practically taste it, if you'll indulge me in a cliche.  And, to be fair, there are parts of the US where the weather is already spring-like by that time.  

By the turn of the century, bicycles were becoming less popular as the motorcycle and, later, automobiles, seized e public's consciousness.  As bicycles are again becoming more popular, wouldn't it be interesting if the old tradition of bicycle sales was revived for Presidents' Day?

How Does He Love Thee? As Much As He Loves His Bike?

Pity Elizabeth Barrett Browning. While her husband wrote poems that tackled the Big Questions (including those of the very nature of poetry) and are in every anthology in the English language, she's seen as a "chick lit" poet.  Even if she'd written The Inferno or The Waste Land, she'd've never lived this line down:

            How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.

It certainly wouldn't look out of place in a Hallmark card.  But some of the greatest works of literature contain passages that, frankly, are even more banal. The problem with that line is that it's what comes first in the sonnet. The rest of becomes more serious, even darker:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

"I love thee with a love I seemed to lose/ With my lost saints."  Hmm...I wasn't expecting that with my box of Godiva.  "[A]nd if God choose/I shall but love the better after death."  I know that love is patient--but is it that patient?

Say what you will, but I actually like the poem. No, forget that:  I love it.  Somehow I believe Robert did, too, in his heart of hearts.  Had they been cyclists, one might have sent the other something like this:

Being poets, they probably had a sense of humor.  (Believe it or not, verse and mirth are not mutually exclusive!)  So I could also see them exchanging something like this:

Couldn't you?  Happy Valentine's Day.