Old Whitewalls Turn New Wheels (Antifreeze) Green With Envy!

I still remember when a bike with "antifreeze green" Velocity rims or neon orange or pink parts could get my attention.  These days, I see so many bikes, components and accessories in such a riot of colors that I don't notice the loud and shocking colors--or, in some cases, cartoonish graphics--on them.  


From the images I've seen, and from what I've read, I imagine that a century ago, the color palette for what people pedaled wasn't quite as extensive as it is today.  I'm guessing it didn't include the loud, sometimes garish, hues that scream out in the tumult of tones we see today.



That leads me to wonder how these bikes might have looked to people in Peoria, Illinois in 1920:

The Voss Brothers' bicycle shop in Peoria, Illinois, 1920.  From the Peoria Historical Society Image Collection at Bradley University.

In that photo, the tires look like fluorescent rings around the wheels.  I couldn't help but to wonder whether someone got really creative in the darkroom--or whether whitewall tires of that time were really as white as they look in that image.  

I also wonder whether they captured people's attention at first--and whether those same people got used, even jaded, to them.

Can you imagine those tires on antifreeze green rims?

From Superb Bicycle Boston blog.

Bike Theft Really Stinks--Especially With This Lock!

That stinks!

I've uttered those words--and worse--when cycling buddies' and acquaintances' bikes were stolen.  And we've probably heard those same words from those who were sympathetic with our plight when we didn't find our bikes where we left them.

(Those who hate cyclists probably say, "Serves you right!")

Now, if losing your bike stinks, it's fair to say that bike thieves stink (or worse).  I almost wish that it were literally true:  Think of how many fewer bikes we'd lose if we could smell a bike thief in our vicinity. How might American history be different if Patrick Henry had proclaimed, "I smell a bike thief!"

Well, if engineer Yves Perrenoud and San Francisco-based entrepreneur Daniel Idzkowski have their way, we may be one step closer to tagging cycle crooks with an olfactory "scarlet letter".  Their invention will, at least, expose them in another way that is no less obvious.

Perrenoud and Idzkowski's "Skunk Lock" looks, apart from its graphics, just like any number of U-Locks available today.  Nearly all such locks are invulnerable for a year or two, until some thief figures out a way to foil it. 

These days, the preferred method seems to be cutting the lock with an angle grinder.  If a perp tries that on the Skunk Lock, it will emit a potent scent that will cause him or her to vomit--which, according to the inventors, would make it more difficult to flee unnoticed.

The nausea-inducing substance is based on the fatty acids found in foods like rancid butter and parmesan cheese.  While it smells "completely unpleasant", according to Perrenoud and Idzkowski, and can stain clothes and cause vision impairment and breathing difficulties--even if the would-be thief is wearing a gas mask--it will not cause permanent harm and is considered "food grade", they claim.

What really stinks about the Skunk Lock, though, is that its pressurized gas component, called The Shackle, can be used only once.  If there is an attempted break in the lock, a new Shackle can be purchased.

Idzkowski hasn't said how much it would cost to replace the Shackle.  However, a Crowdfunding campaign that has exceeded its target will allow the Skunk Lock to retail for about $40 when it's introduced--in June 2017, he hopes.

Vomiting?  Breathing difficulties?  Stained clothes?  Hmm...Maybe there will be, at last, a real stigma (which, by the way, means "stink") to being a bike thief!

Colors That Haven't Changed From My Youth

Yesterday's ride was all about color.  So was today's ride.  At least, my ride ended with them, though the hues I saw were very different from the ones I saw in Connecticut and Westchester County and the Bronx--or even in my neighborhood.

Of course, not every vista on today's trip looked like that.  But it's hard to have a better ending, wouldn't you say?

Certainly, it was a reward for pedaling through the industrial and post-industrial badlands of Essex, Union and Middlesex Counties--and, I guess, for something I did about an hour and a half before I saw the sunset.

A cool wind at my back glided me and Vera, my green Mercian mixte, down Route 36, a two-lane valley of asphalt running along the length of an isthmus about 150 meters wide, with the Atlantic Ocean to my left and the confluence of the Navesink and Shrewsbury Rivers on my right.  As I mentioned in other posts, I pedaled this road many times during my teen years, and during visits to my parents' house after I moved out, and before they moved to Florida. 

Tears rolled down my cheeks.  I couldn't blame them on the wind, or even the chill.  I was thinking a bit about some of those past rides, but I was also very, very happy to be riding a road--and through a community--Superstorm Sandy all but submerged four years ago.  

In spite of the beautiful weather, I saw little motor traffic. Of course, even on unseasonably warm days at this time of year, few people go to the beach.  I did see, however, more than a few cyclists--including a twelve-year-old boy crumpled on the side of the road, his bike lying on its side.

Fortunately for him, I wasn't the first person to see him:  A man and woman who were walking by, and a friend who was riding with him, were standing around, talking to and touching him on his shoulder, neck and arms.  

He'd  been riding on the sidewalk and, from what he said, grazed the side of the curb.  When I chanced upon him, he was clutching the right side of his head, which struck the curb when he fell and rendered him unconscious for a few seconds.

The couple had already called the police.  I told his friend to dial the boy's family, who live just over the bridge that crosses the river from Sea Bright, where we were, into Rumson.  Soon the officers, EMS workers and a fire captain arrived; a few minutes later, the boy's father showed up.

In response to the fire captain's questions, the boy gave his name, address, birthdate, parents' names, and telephone numbers--and correctly identified today's date, the town an state in which we found ourselves.  And he named the current President.  He reported no pain anywhere in his body but his head, from which a lump was starting to throb.

The fire captain, police and EMS workers admonished him to wear a helmet the next time he rides, and his father to buy it for him.  As they left, the father thanked me, even though I didn't do much more than stay with the boy and say some reassuring things to him.

It wasn't exactly heroism on my part, but somehow I felt rewarded for it at the end of the day.  If I indeed was, perhaps what I did, however small it was, could have been some sort of atonement for committing one of the worst sins a cyclist can commit.  At least, I would have regarded it as such back when I had pretensions to racing.

I mean, how could I resist the Polar Bear Ice Cream.  Even Bruce Springsteen couldn't have come up with something more old-school, blue-collar Jersey Shore than that place.

It's not one of those places that will dazzle you with exotic flavors or architectural presentations.  Instead,it offers some of the classic flavors and toppings of hard and soft ice cream, home made. They are offering smoothies and other things that none of us could have dreamed of in my youth.  Still, I went with something basic:  a waffle cone with the vanilla-chocolate swirl. (Think of it as the black-and-white cookie of ice cream.)  It was all that I remembered--except, of course, for the price, which was still modest.

I think the young woman who worked the counter wasn't even born the last time I stopped there before today.

Funny, though, I don't remember one of my early mentors (in cycling) telling me, or anyone else, not to eat ice cream while riding.  I don't remember how I got the fear that consuming anything like that cone, or a sundae, during a ride would shut down my digestive system and, possibly, everything else in my body.  But it certainly wasn't from "Ducky" Schiavo, or his son who now runs this shop:

The Peddler, in its first location a few blocks from its present one, was one of the first shops in the area to sell high-performance bikes.  I bought my Nishiki International and Peugeot PX-10 there.  Now Michael, his son--who bears a striking resemblance to him--carries a combination of the ultra-modern and retro stuff.  I learned a few things about cycling culture, to the degree it existed when the Peddler opened, as well as other bits of history.  Perhaps I'll write another post about that.

For now, I'll leave you with the colors that ended my ride, and day.