How High?

 One of my favorite non-cycling blogs is Ephemeral New York.  Its author, Esther Crain, conducts walking tours that really give you a sense of how New York City’s history shapes its current landscape.

Last Sunday, I participated in one of those tours in which she pointed out some still-standing mansions on Riverside Drive and the sites of other grand houses that no longer exist.  Those buildings—and the river views—are among the reasons why I used to enjoy cycling the Drive before the Hudson River Greenway opened.

One thing that makes Riverside unique among New York City streets is the series of serpentine service roads that wind alongside stretches of the Drive. That made it possible for the families who lived in those houses to enter and leave discreetly, in contrast to the Astors and other old-money families who walked through their doors directly into the bustle of Fifth Avenue.

What I also found interesting is that the Drive opened in 1880, just as America’s first bike boom was about to explode. Those service roads made it easier for people to enter and leave their homes on their bicycles.  Also, as Esther pointed out, “something called the safety bicycle “ made cycling more accessible, especially for women.

Esther is as smart and engaging in person as she is in her writing.  But she admits she is “not a cyclist.” So she asked me what a “safety bicycle” is.  I explained that it’s what most of us ride today:  a bike with two wheels of equal, or nearly equal, size. 

That innovation was made possible by the now-familiar drivetrain of front and rear sprockets connected by a chain.  That made variable gearing possible. In contrast, high-wheeled bicycles had cranks and pedals connected to the front wheel axle. So, whether your bike was easy to pedal or made for speed depended on the size of your front wheel. As you can imagine, it’s not easy to mount a wheel that’s as tall as you are—especially if you’re wearing a corset and hoop skirts!

Anyway, as the safety bicycle democratized cycling—and, one can argue, Riverside Drive helped to make cycling more popular—the high-wheeler became a cultural artifact trotted out for parades, fairs and the kinds of rides we might liken to today’s Eroica events.

Even with its seeming impracticality, there are still people who try to make the tallest rideable bicycle possible. They don’t, however, build on six-or seven-foot front wheels.  Rather, they are more likely to stack bicycle frames or build a steel-girded structure—sort of like a mini-Eiffel Tower—and line it with a series of gears and pulleys to conduct the chains that connect the chainwheel on the crank the rider (way up above the ground) is pedaling with the cog on the rear wheel.

I used the Eiffel Tower analogy because the newest Guinness Book of Records entry for “tallest rideable bicycle “ is the result of a collaboration between two young French men, Nicolas Barrioz and David Peyrou. It took five years—including two years of actual construction—to complete their 25’5” (7.75 meter) tall contraption. They beat the previous record by one foot and two inches (35.6 centimeters)—which, perhaps, is comparable in scope to Eddy Merckx breaking the hour record by 3/4 of a kilometer.

Barrioz and Peyrou said the idea came to them the way all of the crazy and world-changing ideas come: over drinks in a pub. 

They Prefer To Ride With Their Own

 I tried, really tried, to get Caterina, Charlie I, Candice, Charlie II, Max and Marlee to ride with me.  I even promised to get a recumbent bike so they could curl up in my lap as I pedaled. Alas!

Now I understand the problem:  It’s not that they didn’t want to ride with me.  They wanted (and Marlee wants) to ride with, shall we say, their own!

You Can’t Do That Here!

 Europeans sometimes forget that things they’re at are considered normal in their home countries can get them into trouble here in the good ol’ USA.

I was reminded of this about twenty years ago, when I was starting my gender affirmation process. Michéle (whom I’ve mentioned in my posts about my Paris visits) came to town with Jeanine, who has since passed away and Marie Jeanne.

It wasn’t the first trip to New York for any of them. They therefore weren’t interested in the usual tourist spots.  Instead, they liked to see unique and unusual sites.

So, that day, we took the D train to Brighton Beach. a.k.a. Little Odessa by the Sea. We, of course, did some shopping and bought, among other things, bread, sausages, cheese and pickled vegetables for a picnic on the beach.  

It was a warm summer day, so they all decided they wanted to go swimming. I would have liked to, I explained, but I didn’t have a bathing suit with me.  If I recall correctly, I was wearing a ruffled top and flowy skirt.

“Aucun problème,” intoned Jeanine.  She, it turned out, packed a swimsuit.  At first I didn’t think it would fit: She was about eight inches shorter than I am, though a bit wider in the hips than most French women. (Her grandparents were Russian and Azerbaijani.) 

She motioned for me to change. “Je pourrais être arretée pour ça!” I cautioned.

They shook their heads. “Ici n’est pas France,” I protruded.  They all gave me that, “come on, there’s nothing to worry about,” expression that I believe the French have patented.  Marie-Jeanne, the only one of the three anywhere my height, held up a beach towel to my right. Michéle, who is only slightly taller than Jeanine, held up a blanket to my left. Thinking, “I’ve done riskier and stupider things,” and seeing no cops, I changed.  Much to my surprise, I fit—though barely—into the swimsuit: It was made of Lycra or some other stretchy material.

(Turns out, Michéle, Jeanine and Marie Jeanne were wearing swimsuits under their clothing. Jeanine explained that they heard “Beach” and so prepared themselves—and that she always packed an extra swimsuit.)

Michéle and I laugh about that now.  But Laurens ten Dam and Thomas Dekker weren’t so lucky. The Dutch former professional road cyclists went to Kansas for this year’s edition of Unbound Gravel. After a training ride, they drove to a supermarket and department store in Marietta where, after previous rides, they’d gone to change out of their cycling clothes and freshen up before a meal.

Laurens ten Adam

But a tornado destroyed both the supermarket and department store. There were other options for meals, including the Mexican restaurant they chose. But where to change out of their sweaty cycling kit and wash up?

They came up with an idea that reminded me of my day with Michéle, Jeanine and Marie Jeanne at the beach. They opened the doors on one side of their car. Between them, the cyclists took off their bike gear and poured water over themselves for a makeshift “shower.”

Well, if they weren’t cognizant of a cultural difference between the US and a European country that is, arguably, even more liberal than France, it’s understandable that they wouldn’t know that there is almost as much difference between different parts of the US—like, say, Marietta, Kansas and my hometown of New York. 

As they “showered,” ten Dem recalled, “I heard a man screaming.” The next thing they knew, he and Dekker were in handcuffs and clad in a way they’d never anticipated: all in orange, but not that of the Dutch national football team. Oh, and they were fingerprinted.

They spent the night as Inmates ten Dam and Inmate Dekker in a Kansas jail cell under “inappropriate behavior in public spaces” legislation.

After spending the night in un-anticipated accommodations and paying a $185 bail fee, they continued their preparations for the Unbound Gravel race, where ten Dam finished 42nd and Dekker 50th.