Happy New Year—And A Reflection On The Past Year

 

Happy New Year!

What was 2025 like for you?

For me, it was strange. Perhaps it has to do with the twinges of guilt I feel when things are going well for me, but not for others or when the world (or at least my native country) is going to hell in a handbasket.

Of course, the main highlight of the year, for me, was my trip to Japan.  I didn’t do a day-by -day posting of it because I wanted to get out early and make the most of every day and, at the end of every day, I was tired, from seeing so much—and the heat.  Although the places I visited were roughly at the same latitude as Virginia, it seemed that Tokyo, Osaka and Kyoto were even hotter than Cambodia and Laos, two countries well within the tropical zone, when I visited them in 2018.

Going to Japan may also be a reason why I’ve been posting less often. (Another is that I am working on another writing project.) Posting every day became a kind of addiction for me.  Of course, addictions aren’t always bad, as I believe that one wasn’t.  But for some reason, going to the Land of the Rising Sun taught me,  more than any other trip I’ve taken, that what’s comforting, as daily posting had become, can be a trap.

Also, cycling there changed the way I see bicycles and myself as a cyclist. I didn’t do any high-mileage rides, but the bikes I rented became my vehicles to temples and other sites—and to shop and simply get around.  Of course, many Europeans ride the same way, but I felt that bikes were more integral, and people seemed less self-conscious about them, than anywhere else I’ve been.  Now, for all I know, there might be forums on Japanese Reddit (or whatever they have) where people who, I suspect, post more than they ride verbally bludgeon each other over whether a 1971 Campagnolo Nuovo Record rear derailleur can handle rear cogs larger than 26 teeth or triple chainrings in front. But as I rode to Nijo Castle and parked the bike without locking it—and realized that I’d been leaving bikes unsecured in front of other sites, stores and the hotels where I’d stayed, much as people leave their shoes at the door when entering a home—those arguments seemed silly.  Just ride it.  If it doesn’t work, fix it.

Finally, since returning from my trip, I’ve felt the focus of this blog shifting more toward the “Midlife” part of its title. As I am becoming less obsessed with equipment, I also feel less of a need to report on bicycle stories that have been covered in other fora.  While I probably will continue to write about bicycle transportation and safety issues (and express outrage at drivers, especially those who are intoxicated—whether with substances or misplaced rage—killing or maiming cyclists who are following the rules) and how bicycles and cycling relate to history, art and culture, I want to focus more on what it’s like to be a cyclist and human being of, shall we say, a certain age in a society (and cycling world) obsessed with youth,

So what might 2026 hold for me?  Well, I hope lots of cycling and writing , time with friends and a trip somewhere.  Whatever I do might be influenced by a decision I made towards the end of 2025:  I will be semi-retired. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have left the teaching job I’ve had since 2021.  But it looks like I’ll be teaching part-time (as an adjunct) in another institution, where the commute will be shorter. Income is just one reason:  I also figure that being engaged with other people, even if for less time, is probably better for me and my writing than having nothing but free time.  Whenever I visited my parents in Florida, I saw too many people dying slow deaths—whether physically or mentally—in their retirements.

And what else do I hope for 2026? Health and happiness, for me and you. And that the Fake Tan Führer and his cohorts don’t do more damage. Isn’t hope what a New Year is about, after all?

How Did They Miss Him?

 BuzzFeed is practically the definition of “click bait.”  How do I know? I go straight to it.  

Does admitting a vice make someone better than a person who hides theirs?  Jean-Paul Sartre once confided he preferred detective fiction to “serious” novels. Frank O’Hara confessed there were only three American poets he preferred reading to going to the movies. (Do people still do that?) And nearly every TV critic says Jerry Springer’s show was the worst ever to disgrace the small screen.  But it ran for, what?,  twenty years.  A lot of people must have been watching, whether or not they would admit it.

Anyway, a day or two ago BF had a piece about athletes who died on the field, court, rink or other competitive arena. (Sorry I didn’t save the link!) Ray Chapman succumbed after a Carl Mays pitch hit him in the head. (Most people believed Mays’ claim that it was unintentional.) Bill Masterton, for whom an NHL trophy for perseverance and dedication is named, collided with another player, fell backward and hit his head on the ice.  

While they and the other athletes mentioned in that article met tragic ends, one of the most egregious examples wasn’t mentioned.

Tom Simpson was, arguably, the best male British cyclist before the generation of English riders who dominated major races during the first half of the 2010s. How good was he? His team’s manager and sponsors wanted a young, talented Belgian teammate to sacrifice his own ambitions help Simpson win.  You might’ve heard of that fellow from Flanders:  a chap named Eddy Merckx.

Simpson had a plan entering the 1967 Tour de France:  He would try to hold the maillot jaune (the leader’s yellow jersey) for at least three key stages and place well, if not stand on the podium, on the race’s final day.  In his eighth year as a professional cyclist, and nearing 30, he knew that more of his career was behind than ahead of him and therefore wanted to make enough money to retire comfortably.

The plan seemed to work during the Tour’s first week, which ended with him in sixth place.  But as the race entered the Alps, he started not to feel well and moved down in the general classification. Other riders in the peloton noticed; a friend and teammate advised him to cut his losses and bail out.  His personal manager, however, insisted that he continue.

On 13 July 1967, Simpson embarked on the 13th (hmm…two 13’s) stage of the Tour, which includes Mont Ventoux.  This climb has a particular notoriety, not only because it’s so high and steep, but also because of its harsh weather conditions and, unlike Alpine and Pyrenean peaks, it is a singular monolith in the Provençe countryside.  So riders might’ve spent the day riding in blazing heat and fierce winds before reaching the “beast.”

So it’s easy to imagine that Simpson’s body was already spent from hours of pedaling when he should’ve been in an infirmary. (His drug use, which he freely admitted and wasn’t stigmatized as it is today, probably didn’t help.) Other riders and observers noticed that he was zig- zagging and feared, not for his ascent, but his descent.

About a kilometer from the summit, he fell off his bike.  His team manager and mechanic urged him to quit, but he was hearing none of it. They helped him back on. He pedaled 460 meters before he began to wobble.  Three spectators tried to hold him up, to no avail:  He collapsed again, his hands still clutched to the handlebars. Team mechanics and members of the Tour’s medical team took turns giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation before the Tour’s chief doctor, administered an oxygen mask.  After about an hour, a police helicopter arrived and took him to a hospital in Avignon, where he was pronounced dead.

Was the BuzzFeed writer simply not aware of the Tour’s biggest tragedy? That would be understandable, given that baseball, hockey and other professional sports get more attention in North America. Or did the editors want no mention of Simpson, given his drug use?

I know this much: Click-bait, like television shows or anything else that’s addictive, can lead to a letdown or “crash” when it doesn’t meet expectations or anticipations. Does that mean I’ll stop looking at BuzzFeed? Probably not.

Bowled Over

 My neighbors in my senior citizens’ complex think I’m a “kid.” Compared to some of them, I am:  After all, I am in midlife.

But some days I feel I’ve lived too long.  Like today: I learned that there is actually a “Pop Tart Bowl.”

What I think of what college sports has become could fill at least a few more posts.  As far as I know, the system in which colleges and universities in effect are minor leagues in service to the NFL and NBA (and, to a lesser extent, other professional sports leagues) is unique to the USA.  Even more singular is college football’s “Bowl” constellation. Years ago, there were only a few, such as the Rose, Orange and Sugar Bowls.  Now it seems anything advertised on TV has its own bowl game.

Now, I won’t judge you if you’re still eating those sugar bombs.  After all, as I related in an earlier post, they—especially the frosted brown sugar cinnamon flavor—were an “energy food” for me and my mountain bike buddies back in the day.

But a strawberry (as pink as you can get!) Pop Tart mascot accepting a marriage proposal—or grilling ‘tarts’ like they’re burgers, hot dogs or chicken wings?  Even on the most intense cinnamon sugar high, I couldn’t have imagined such things!