Cycling In The Mist

Was I in London?

Or San Francisco?

Actually, I rode along the south shore of Queens and Brooklyn yesterday.  From Rockaway Beach to Fort Tilden, the fog was so thick that in some places I could see only three or four bicycle lengths ahead of me.

Still, more people strolled, cycled and scootered (Is that a verb?) along the boardwalks than I'd expected.  It was Sunday, after all, and fairly warm, with a brisk breeze from the southeast.

Perhaps even hardened cycnics were taken by the hazy romantic atmosphere.  You could be alone and feel it.  The odd thing is that I felt as if the dreaminess was making me pedal faster.  Perhaps there was less resistance--to feelings internal as well as things external.  Of course, I had to make myself slow down in a few places.  Nothing like running someone down, or being run down, to ruin the mood, right?

 

The fog started to clear, at least on land, after I started pedaling from Breezy Point to the bridge to Brooklyn.  But it lingered in the horizon, out to sea, which made for some oddly serene light.

There are some folks who will do whatever they do, whatever the weather.  I rather admire them.

The day will be lost to the mists of time.  But not what I, or anyone else, felt or remember.

 

All Dressed Up With Nowhere To Ride

Most schools and workplaces have dress codes.  So do some societies and countries.  Then there are the unwritten rules about what you should or shouldn't wear.  Bike clubs and sometimes even informal groups of riders have them.  Rarely, if ever, is someone barred from a ride that isn't a sanctioned race for not wearing the "proper" attire.  But sometimes the body language and facial expressions of other riders tell you all you need to know:

 

In Any Language: Blame The Bike!

You're riding in a race or event, or with your club or a friend or two.  The hill climb feels more arduous than usual, the wind stiffer than what the weather forecasters promised or that straightaway longer than you remember from the last time you rode it.  You take a bite of your energy bar, gulp down some water (or Gatorade).  They don't help.  Nothing does.  You feel that instead of the scenery, the weather or anything else about the ride itself, everyone is noticing that you're struggling to keep up.

Someone asks, "Are you OK?"  Or maybe they don't have to ask.  Their gaze, their facial expression tells you they know.  Do you deny that anything is wrong?  Or do you say, "I didn't sleep last night," "I'm  not feeling quite right" or offer some other excuse that implies you're normally a stronger, faster rider than the one they're seeing.

Perhaps you blame the bike.

That's what Colombian Fernando Gaviria did after finishing second in a high-RPM sprint in the fifth stage of the Giro d'Italia.  

He bounced his front wheel as he crossed the finish line. Then he got off the bike and pounded the saddle with his fist. He unleashed an exclamation they probably didn't teach you in Italian 101:  "Che bici di merda!"  Translation:  What a shitty bike!

Gaviria and Arnaud Demare at the end of the sprint. (Image from Sprint Cycling Agency)

He couldn't get into specifics about the problem, he said, because he'd "get told off." But a video suggested a shifting problem:  As he spun his pedals faster and faster, his chain seemed stuck on the 14-tooth cog.  For a sprint finish, he would have wanted to change to a higher gear.

Perhaps his complaint is legitimate.  But I must admit that it would be funny to see an overweight chain-smoking desk jockey blame his $12,000 rig when he couldn't get up a bridge ramp without seeing stars.