Is Fuji Going Bananas?

 When I first became a dedicated cyclist—when bands like Led Zeppelin ruled the airwaves—Fuji bicycles were garnering praise in the cycling world and even among people who still thought of Schwinn as “the Cadillac of bicycles.” (Yes, I knew people who used that phrase.)  Fuji bikes didn’t have a lot of bells and whistles, but they were very well thought-out -finished.  They offered a balanced ride and their SunTour derailleurs shifted better than any others available at the time.

(Oh, and I always loved that green finish offered on the S10-S!)

For about a quarter-century, Fuji kept its reputation for sensible, highly rideable bikes with impeccable quality control.  But, in the mid-to-late ‘90’s, they s lost their way.  They seemed to make half-hearted attempts to keep up with other trends in the industry and didn’t keep up with another:  They were one of the last Japanese companies to move their manufacturing to Taiwan.  While that seemed to be a good thing at first—most people, myself included, saw Japanese products as superior—it meant that their lower-end bikes were considerably more expensive than others. When Fuji finally made its move to Taiwan, it didn’t have the relationships with that country’s manufacturers that other companies enjoyed.  Thus, both quality and availability suffered for nearly a decade.  Both recovered about 15 years ago, and Fuji regained its old reputation for bikes that were, if not groundbreaking, then at least well-made and sensible and offered a pleasing ride.

About the latter:  I have to wonder whether Fuji is giving up on that with one of its latest Eurobike exhibit.  In recent years, the Jari model became more or less what a 1970s S10-S would be if it were a 2020s gravel bike:  sensible and well-put together for a pleasing ride. But it also features something that, to my knowledge, no other bike maker has thought of:

I guess there are riders who wish they could reach into their frame’s top tube and pull out a Power Bar.

I wonder whether anybody will try to carry granola or GORP in it.  Or a banana.

The Glass Ceiling

 The other day, French President Emanuel Macron talked about something that happened in a velodrome.  The thing is, that velodrome hasn't stood in about 60 years, and the event wasn't a bike race.

 

Six-day race at the Velodrome d;Hiver,  Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson

Eighty years earlier--on 16 and 17 July 1942--French police rounded up thousands of Parisian Jews (at that time, Paris was said to have the fourth-largest Jewish community in the world) in "Veldeev"--slang for le Velodrome d'hiver.  

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The track racing venue, which also hosted other sporting events, was so named because it was covered with a glass ceiling, which allowed races and other events to be held during the winter (hiver) and made the velodrome the first with that capability.  That glass ceiling (as a feminist, those words trouble me, even when they aren't a metaphor!) was painted dark blue to make it less visible to bomber navigators.  

"The glass ceiling" has become a metaphor for the ways in which women are not allowed to reach their potential in various professions and careers.  For Parisian Jews, however, it became a literal trap:  It kept the heat of one of Paris' hottest summers in a space where there wasn't enough room for them to lie down, let alone move around.  Not surprisingly, many suffered from heat exhaustion and other illnesses; it is not known how many perished there.  What is known is that 13,152--some really more dead than alive---were herded into buses that took them to the trains that delivered them to death camps, mainly Auschwitz.  Only 400 captives survived.

I first learned of "Veldeev," like so much else, by accident:  I heard someone mention it during my first European bike tour.  I went in search of it only to find out that such a search was like a quest to see the prison that stood on la Place de la Bastille.  

After the war, the Velodrome's was used less. Its condition deteriorated to the point that when the last six-day race was held there, in November 1958, the glass ceiling leaked and electrical cables hung from loops. (Jacques Anquetil, the first five-time winner of the Tour de France, participated in that race along with other top riders of that time.)  Those conditions may have contributed to a fire that destroyed part of the building, which led to it being razed the following year.

Although there is a plaque commemorating the Velodrome and "Rafle"(roundup), few people seem to remember much, if anything, about them.  The few who still can recall that terrible time were very young when they were detained--or witnessed the arrest of their friends and neighbors.  One of them is Jeannine Bouhana (nee Sebanne), who received letters from her friend, Rachel Polakiewicz. How those letters reached Mademoiselle Sebanne is not exactly known:  Anyone's best guess is that Rachel tossed those letters out the Velodrome and someone picked them up.

Hearing Jeannine talk about that time, and reading Rachel's letters, it's hard not to be struck by a couple of terrible ironies.  One is, of course, that in a velodrome--a place where motion is celebrated,--people were confined.  Another, related, is that in a place where athletes made or heightened their reputations, thousands of everyday people, in essence, had their lives taken away from them. Finally,  events the "Vel" hosted its  most celebrated events during the winter, while its most infamous episode unfolded during a heat wave.

Motion and confinement, celebration and defamation, life and death:  all of them, under a glass ceiling.

 

Like A Champion

 (Snark alert)

Why is road bike racing not more popular?

I don't blame Lance Armstrong being stripped of his titles or the sport's other doping scandals. I blame Miguel Indurain.

As much as I respect him as a cyclist, he had to be one of the least charismatic athletic champions of my lifetime.  When he won a stage or a race, it was just another good day at the office, and he went home to rest up--so he could win again.  He didn't celebrate, boast or even "talk up" his achievements.  In other words, he was the antithesis of, say, Muhammad Ali or Reggie Jackson or Brandi Chastain.

When he was on the podium, Miguel Indurain--who turned 58 yesterday-- should have been more like this guy: