So good to be riding just for fun again.
Yesterday I took one of my seashore rambles that have been so much a part of my cycling life. You know something's a part of you when you've been away from it for a while and, when you go back, it's like reconnecting with an old friend: It's familiar and new at the same time.
The beaches and boardwalks are all imprinted in my mind. And the bracing wind that pushed at me, whipped me sideways and, finally, took me home felt as if it had always traveled with me, in my skin and on it, yet was as bracing and chilly as the air itself feels to someone who's coming out from layers of stilled dreams, of time itself.
And there is the light I have always seen again for the first time.
I wish all of my fatigue were that of the kind I experienced while riding yesterday: of waking again for the first time.
Many, many years ago, I took Chemistry. It was so long ago that whatever I learned could just as well have been alchemy.
Anyway, I had a really strange prof. Since then, I've been told that all chemists are strange because of the fumes they breathe in the laboratory. Even if that is the case, I still think my prof was strange for all sorts of reasons.
Maybe it's because, on the first day of class, he said, "You may have heard this course will take all of your time. That's not true, but it does require conscientious attention on your part--say, four or five hours a night."
After a couple dozen people walked out, he continued: "Now look at the person on your left. Now look at the person on your right. One of them will fail, if not you."
Then, after a few dozen more people walked out, he said, "We're going to start this course by learning the alphabet." I thought, "OK, maybe this won't be so bad after all." If that didn't show what I clueless freshman I was, I don't know what did.
By "alphabet", he meant the periodic table. There would be a test on it, he said.
I thought about that when I saw this "alphabet"--or is it a periodic table?:
Officially, Spring began at 18:45 EDT yesterday. And--you guessed it--snow fell.
This morning, I went to the store. I'd left the LeTour parked outside. She complained that I wouldn't treat a dog that way. I reminded her that I don't have a dog. Well, then, your cats she retorted.
OK, so I didn't really talk to the LeTour--or, at least, it didn't talk back. But it certainly captured the spirit of the beginning of this season:
It's interesting to see where snow collects, and doesn't:
I could just imagine some little bug finding shelter under the arch of that cable.
Cycling is sweet. If that's the case, are our bikes confections
with or without the powdered sugar?
I know what I'm having for breakfast: waffles, of course.
In yesterday's post, I decried the sexism and lack of artistry displayed by Allan Abbott in building a bicycle that's supposed to look like a nude woman.
So...how am I going to follow it up? With a post about one of the most andro-centric topics imaginable. Why? Well, for one thing, as one of the few (if not the only) male-to-female transsexual bike bloggers, I am one of the few people in this world who can get away with such a thing.
But, dear readers, please indulge me. I'm not writing this post to be politically incorrect or contrarian, although I rarely shy away from being either. Rather, I saw a cartoon and photo on the topic that was purely and simply humorous.
The subject? Beards. Yes, facial hair in which some men take pride. According to the photo, the longer a male cyclist's beard, the greater his bike knowledge.
There might actually be some truth to the bike knowledge-to-beard ratio. The photo at the end of it confirms what you know about Sheldon Brown if you ever looked at his webpages: The man was a Library of Congress, a Biblitheque Nationale of cycling knowledge. And Frank Chrinko III, the proprietor of Highland Park (NJ) Cyclery--where I worked--knew more about bikes than anyone in his twenties or thirties should. During the time I worked for him, his beard grew from "Rides and has built a bike from old parts" to "Wizard" length.
Me? I grew a beard in those days, too. Mine, though, never got longer than "Rides" length. I didn't let it.
When I was writing for a newspaper, a police precinct commander sold me something I haven't forgotten: "Lucky for us that most criminals are stupid."
For many perps, their folly begins in thinking that they'll actually get away with what their misdeeds. But for others, their foolishness shows in the ways they execute--or don't execute their offenses.
I got to thinking about all of that because I think there's a parallel principle in making works of "art". We are lucky, I believe, that most of the truly offensive stuff--you know, things that are racist, sexist, homophobic or otherwise show contempt for some group of people that did nothing to deserve it--is purely and simply bad. And that is the reason why it is usually forgotten.
So why am I pontificating about virtue and virtu on a bike blog?, you ask. Great question.
Yesterday "The Retrogrouch" wrote about a bicycle displayed at the North American Handmade Bicycle Show (NAHBS). Its builder, Allan Abbott, dubbed it "The Signorina."
With a name like that, you might expect a nicely-made women's city or commuter bike with some Italian pizzazz. Instead, it's a not particularly well-made (for a handbuilt bike, anyway) machine that's supposedly built in the likeness of a naked woman.
So far it sounds like a silly novelty item, right? But it doesn't seem like anything to get worked up about. Or does it?
Now, I'm sure there are places where such a bike could not be ridden because it would offend the sensibilites of some people. I'm not one of them: I have no aversion to nudity, although I have to wonder whether anyone in his or her right mind would want to see me naked.
But I digress. If you're going to use a human form, au naturel, in one of your creations, at least show it in all of its imperfect glory--the way, say, any number of painters, sculptors, photographers and writers have done. Whatever its gender, size, colors, shape, age or state of alertness or weariness, make it a reflection of what we are, and aspire to. Above all, make it living, human and organic.
The supposedly female form in Abbot's frame is none of those things. If anything, it's plain creepy: The "signorina" is on her "hands" and "knees"--and headless. I'm sure there are people--a few of whom are cyclists or collectors--who are turned on by such degradation. I guess I'm philistine and reactionary: I'm not one of them.
But, to be fair, if "Retrogrouch" hadn't described it, I might have needed time and an extra look or two to discern the nude female form straddling the wheels. Call me slow or un-hip if you must. Even after reading about it on Adventure Journal as well as Retrogrouch's blog, I'm still not convinced that the bike in any way--realist or abstract, linear or Cubist, Classical or Impressionist--evokes a female, or any other human, form.
In other words, it doesn't work as art. Perhaps we should be thankful for that.
Somehow I get the impression it's not such a great bike, either.
