Swiss In Pink

What countries are known for high-quality products?

Japan, Germany, France, Italy, England and the Scandinavian lands usually come to mind.  So, sometimes, does the United States.

Also:  Switzerland.  It doesn't produce the range of items that come out of the other nations I've mentioned.  But one rarely, if ever, hears complaints about Swiss products--including bicycles and bicycle parts.

Now tell me, what countries come to mind when I say "Switzerland"?  

Chances are, pink isn't one of them--unless, perhaps, you're talking about some Alpine wildflowers.  Certainly, it's hard to think of a Swiss-made piece of precision machining finished in pink.

So imagine my surprise when I saw this crankset from Edco, possibly the most renowned of Swiss bike component makers:

At first, I thought it was a joke, that someone photoshopped it.  Turns out, such a thing was made--with a bottom bracket to match.

If Michael Sweatman, the creator of the Disrealigears website, were to include his scope beyond derailleurs, he surely would include this in his "A Riot of Colour" section--with the Ofmega derailleur in rosa!

A Ride Through Change

Whenever I look, wherever I tune in, someone is writing or talking about how the COVID-19 epidemic is changing, or will or could change, some aspect of the world.  

As an example, many people who still have jobs are working online.  It's hard not to imagine that some of those jobs will permanently shift online, or become hybrids, if you will.  On the other hand, many people who have lost their jobs have to wonder whether their jobs--or their employers--will return.


One benefit of this crisis, if you will, is that some people are starting to see the real inequities in the health care system. I am talking, of course, about the people who lost their insurance or never had it in the first place. I also mean that the epidemic is highlighting how people are treated differently by the health care insurers and providers based on their gender, race or other factors.  

(Also, actual and would-be authoritarians are using the crisis for their own ends.  Donald Trump is trying to do this; he's had little success--thankfully--because of the limited powers of the US presidency and his own ineptitude.  But other leaders have found ways to use the crisis to disenfranchise or oppress groups of people, as Viktor Orban of Hungary did the other day when he used the epidemic as a pretext for ending legal recognition of transgender people.)

The virus is indeed changing the world.  I find myself thinking about that as I ride, and see change all around me.

As I rode through East Harlem, I see the embers of a culture that once burned bright but has flickered away:

The area of East Harlem east of Third Avenue once held one of this city's--and nation's--largest Italian-American communities.  I must say it's odd, to say the least, to see an engraved sign for an Italian commercial bank over a 7-11.  Then again, it's still odd for me to see a 7-11 in a dense urban neighborhood.

I saw another sign of change a bit earlier, after I crossed the High Bridge from the Bronx into Manhattan and followed a path to a bluff.

That building in the distance, on the right--or what it housed--inspired one of the most famous films of the past 40 years.  It also helped to saddle the Bronx with a reputation its leaders are trying to shed.

Inside those walls was the Four-Four:  the 44th Precinct of the New York Police Department.  Its nickname became the title of the movie I've mentioned:  Fort Apache.  

While it's hardly an elite part of town, the neighborhood of the Four-Four isn't exactly the one in Fort Apache, The South Bronx.  Likewise, East Harlem isn't Little Italy, Uptown, and won't be what it is today for very long--whether or not COVID-19 has anything to do with it.

What will I see on a future ride?

Riding Solo Through A Dream

It’s windy and a bit chilly for this time of year.  Still, it’s odd to have Fort Totten Park almost entirely to myself.

Don’t get me wrong:  It was nice to contend with almost no traffic, even on the streets around LaGuardia Airport, on my way here.  But it’s hard not to wonder, if only for a moment, whether I am cycling through a necropolis.

I don’t often remember my dreams.  The few that I recall for longer than the morning-after might be closer to nightmares.  Like this one:  I was walking along a street like the one in the working-class Brooklyn neighborhood of my childhood.  One difference:  My neighborhood was flat, but on the street in my dream, a row of houses, all splintered shingles and bubbled bricks, skirted the edge of a bluff.  There seemed to be nothing beyond it but flickerings of dusk.

Inside those houses, people—shadows, really—drifted by the windows—all of them opened, a little.  I knew, somehow, that soon, none of those people would be in those houses.  But I could not tell them.  I could not tell anybody.

I had that dream many years ago—in effect, in another life. This is not the first time I’ve recalled it, though it makes sense that it would come back to me now—even if I can’t remember what I ate yesterday!