“We Should Charge More For It!”

 When I worked at Highland Park Cyclery, more than four decades ago, deep-V aerodynamic rims and Cinelli cork ribbon (Don’t call it “handlebar tape” to a purist!) were new. As we soon discovered, they had, shall we say, their idiosyncrasies. 

Because the “aero” rims didn’t have eyelets in the spoke holes, spoke nipples easily fell into the space between the rim “well” and the outer V shaped section. That meant shaking the rim or wheel and chasing errant spoke nipples on the floor. Also, because the distance between the “well” and the spots where the spoke entered was greater than on other rims, it was more difficult and time-consuming to thread the nipples and spokes together:  Spoke nipple tools weren’t long enough to reach, and when you couldn’t see the nipple as you inserted it.

Given what I have described, some shops (but not HPC, as I recall) charged more to build wheels with deep-section rims. They also levied an additional fee in addition to the usual cost of wrapping handlebar tape when the customer requested Cinelli cork ribbon because winding it around a handlebar took, let’s say, more finesse—and time—than wrapping with cloth or plastic tape.

Working with those items was a pain in the gluteus maximus, but at least there were good reasons for using them.  Cinelli cork ribbon was more comfortable than other handlebar wraps and grips available at the time and was stylish, if not very durable. But those V rims could stand up to all sorts of conditions, which is one reason why they became popular with messengers in New York City, where some potholes were rumored to have their own ZIP and area codes. (That said, whatever aerodynamic advantages they offered were meaningless for most cyclists.)

I thought about those rims and cork ribbon when I came across an article in road.cc. A clearly frustrated mechanic says shops should charge more for working on bikes with cables routed through the steerer tube. That “wrencher” wasn’t simply whingeing (I have to use the British spelling!) about the inconvenience. Rather, they pointed out—correctly—that the setup serves no discernible purpose but to follow the aesthetic of the peloton or the flashy downhill mountain bikers.

I’m definitely on that mechanic’s side.  In contrast to “aero” rims and Cinelli cork ribbon, there is no reason why anyone—even a top-level racer—“needs” to have their cables hidden in the headtube. Of course, most people don’t need cables internally routed through the top or down tube, either, but at least such arrangements require little, if any, more time or effort to set up.

Attacked, Left To Die On The Island

Right now, I am alternating between feeling guilt and rationalizing a choice I often make.

I have pedaled on and through Randall's Island many, many times.  It lies under the RFK Memorial (formerly Triborough) Bridge.  The misnamed Harlem and East Rivers separate it from Manhattan and Queens, respectively, and a deceptively inert ribbon of water--the Bronx Kill--runs between it and the borough for which the body of water is named.

Most days, it's either uneventful or relaxing:  Most of the island is parkland.  The firefighters' academy occupies part of it; another piece is taken up by a water treatment plant.  A small bridge connects the island to Ward's Island, the site of a mental hospital and homeless shelter. Bike lanes wind around Randall's from the Connector, a bike-pedestrian bridge spanning the Bronx Kill, down the main road and up the Harlem River side near Ward's.

That last stretch is one of the more remote parts of the island.  Diana Agudelo rode it to and from her job at the Museum of the City of New York, the northernmost museum of Manhattan's famed "Museum Mile." I would imagine that she took that route mainly for the same reasons I have:  It is both convenient and relaxing.

That last quality is also what leads some people let their guard down.  I am not saying that Ms. Agudelo was not mindful of her surroundings, but in that island of calm amidst the city's hustle and bustle, it's easy to let one's guard down.  

So she probably had no inkling of what was about to happen to her on Friday night:  About half an hour before midnight, someone attacked and brutally beat her, taking her eBike and cell phone and leaving her to die.  Someone out for a walk found her, unable to move or speak.  She still can't do either, which is making it difficult for police to identify her attacker.

The guilt I mentioned at the beginning of this post is over knowing that someone has suffered a tragedy in the course of doing something I have done many times.  I hope it doesn't become "survivor's guilt."  At the same time, I have been offering rationales to people who've heard Agudelo's story and are admonishing me to "be careful" or simply scare me out of riding on the Island.  I have long been aware of the risks of riding the particular stretch of bike lane where she met her fate, and I almost never ride on the Island after sunset.  

All I can do now is hope that she is a "miracle:"  The doctors have given her a very small chance of surviving.  Oh, and I hope that the thug(s) who attacked her is/are caught.

 

Rainy Day Voyage

 Rain, drizzle, mist, rain. That was today’s weather sequence. Rain when I woke up. Drizzle through my commute. A  curtain of mist when I entered my workplace. And rain cascaded me exit.  

I wimped out and took the train home.  But I got back in time to spend a couple of hours in the Botanical Garden.

A show about Van Gogh and nature will begin Friday. I plan to attend: Flowers? One of my favorite artists?  What’s not to like?

I figured, correctly, that if nothing else, the aftermath of the rain that had subsided by that time would enhance the flowers’ and trees’ scents. It also seemed to amplify birds’ songs. Perhaps I heard them so clearly because they had to share the park with so few visitors.

Even though most of the lilacs—my favorite flowers—are gone, the scents of those that remained found my nose even before I reached the lilac garden.

On my way back to my apartment, I detoured to visit a friend.

Maria. She and other New York bodega cats are a species of their own.

Marlee didn’t seem jealous. They rubbed against my ankles as I walked through the door.