Brooklyn Heights: Another Reason I Am Not A Racer

Yesterday, I wrote about the things that caused me to realize that I am not, at heart, a racer, even though I pretended to be one for a few years.  In brief, I care more about the feelings and memories I have, or associate with, my rides than I do with how fast or how far I rode.

Well, today, I had another insight as to why, even after a third-place finish in a race, I couldn't have pushed myself to "the next level"--whatever that might have been--even if I'd had the talent, trained harder and simply wanted to win more.

This afternoon I spun Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, through some Brooklyn and Queens streets.  Part of my ride took me through Brooklyn Heights, which today is--at least in the eyes of many--the very epitome of an urban "brownstone" neighborhood.

In 1965, the City's newly-formed Landmarks Commission--created in the wake of the outrage generated by the destruction of the original Penn Station--designated much of the Heights as the city's first Historic District.  Good thing, too:  During the two decades following World War II, Americans set their sights on modern houses in the suburbs, not historic buildings in the inner city.  As a result, those beautiful old houses began to decay, and Robert Moses thought they--and similar houses in nearby Park Slope--were simply obstacles to building the expressway he wanted to carve through Brooklyn.

I stopped to read the plaque on one of the houses that would have been razed--a Federal-style building on Middagh Street. No racer, I think, would have interrupted his or her ride in that way--or to look at other houses.  The fact that I had just a crappy cell phone with me--and, therefore, couldn't take good pictures--would have been enough of an excuse for a racer (or the racer wannabe that I was) not to stop and look at buildings.

And if I were training for the next Tour or Giro or whatever, I probably wouldn't have noticed that in a neighborhood full of Federal and Greek and Italianite Revival-style buildings--which brought the neighborhood its landmark designation--there was something that stood out:

The Cranlyn Building is beautiful, but it's not what people normally associate with the Heights.  If anything, it's practically a textbook example of Art Deco.  It would fit seamlessly on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx (though the Cranlyn is in be tter condition than most Bronx buildings) or even in Miami's South Beach.   But it's not just the visual contrast between it and the houses (and the Church of the Assumption) on Cranberry Street that's so interesting. 

To me, the Cranlyn has a different kind of energy to it. Yes, it is an apartment (condo) building with a chrome-zinc-and-glass Italian cafe on the ground floor on a street mainly of single-family homes.  More important, though, the building feels like jazz--just look at the pattern of those lines!--in a neighborhood that is, perhaps, more Mozartian.

The way those lines unite Art Deco with jazz reminds me of the relationship betwen graffiti, break-dancing and hip-hop. Just watch "Beat Street" (corny, I admit, but with great music from early hip-hip artists!).  Pay attention to the dancers and to the graffiti-covered subway trains as they rumble along Bronx viaducts:  Look at the way those lines of graffiti move, look at the dancers' movements and pay attention to the beat.  That relationship is, I think, something the movie captured brilliantly.

The funny thing is that, even though I was riding at a slow speed (for me, anyway!), I was still going about five times as fast as anyone walking the street.  Yet no one seems to notice the building, or its contrast with the rest of the neighborhood.  Even more ironically, as a pedestrian, I never noticed what I'm describing:  I first noticed it from the saddle of my bicycle.  

And, in the strangest twist of all, during my racing days, I had experienced the Heights only as a pedestrian:  I never rode through the neighborhood!

I'll Be Fine: I Went For A Ride

I once held a racing license.  And I actually rode in a few races.  Ergo (and you thought it was only the name of Campagnolo's "brifter"!), I was a racer.  Right?

Well, maybe not so much.  I fancied myself as one.  I even managed to convince a few people (and a couple of actual racers) that I was one.  I rode racing bikes, wore racing jerseys, shorts and shoes and ate and drank what I thought racers put into their bodies.  

And I actually placed well in a couple of races.  A third place, even!  For a time, I thought that if I rode just a little longer and a little harder....

(These days, it's difficult for me to think about doing things longer and harder.  But that's another story:  perhaps one for my other blog!)

Realistically, I knew I wasn't going to challenge Bernard Hinault.  But I thought that if I moved up a category every year I could become...a champion (of what?)...a pro?

So what, exactly, caused me to realize that I wasn't going to realize such lofty goals?  No, I didn't crash and break my leg and wreck my Colnago during my next race.  Nor did I admit that, even at the relatively young age I was, I didn't have much (if any) of a "window":  There were riders my age who, even if they hadn't won a major race, had at least been riding for years in the European peloton.  The pack in Prospect Park, as invigorating as it could be, simply didn't compare. But even such an admission would not have been enough to make me realize that I wasn't a racer.

I think I finally understood, today, for the first time, why I never  was, or could be, truly a racer.  It has to do with an observation someone I was trying to woo years ago made about me.  According to this person, I don't care about things or experiences so much as the emotions and memories I have about, or associate with, them.

To this day, it remains one of the most perceptive things anyone has said about me.  Of course, back then, I didn't want to hear it, because she was one of the many attractive women I tried to make my "arm candy", I mean companion, in order to convince the world (in reality, myself) that I was indeed a macho heterosexual guy--if one with a sensitive soul.

Anyway, today I took a ride that really was bits and pieces of other rides I've done, spliced together.  I packed a bag of tortilla chips and some salsa I made into the Ruth Works Randonneur bag on Vera, my green Mercian mixte.  I intended to enjoy a roadside picnic somewhere along the way.  But that is not the only reason I chose Vera:  Yesterday, we had heavy rains; puddles and even mini-ponds lined the streets and roads, not to mention the paths.  Vera has fenders, with a flap on the front.

A gray glacier of clouds crept across the sky; after riding along the World's Fair Marina and Flushing Bay to Fort Totten, drops of rain stuttered across my skin as I ascended Bell Boulevard to Northern Boulevard, where I turned left and rode across a roadway that slices through a tidal marsh to Nassau County, where I followed no planned route.

So I found myself pedaling through shopping centers, suburban subdivision, country clubs and a couple of parks that had something resembling nature in them.  Finally, I found myself on a road that twisted through a wooded area--not exactly a virgin forest, but green nonetheless:  actually, quite soothing under the cloud cover that seemed to follow me, even if it didn't spill any more rain.

From Cyclopology

I knew, generally--though not specifically--where I was.  That is to say, I knew I was somewhere in the middle of Long Island, probably heading south or east, but to where I didn't know.  If I was lost, it wasn't such a big deal: I could get only so lost.  If I rode south for a few miles, I'd reach the ocean; if I pedaled east, it would take me a good bit longer to reach the Atlantic. (That's why it's called Long Island!)  And if I went west, I'd be in the general direction of home; going north would take me back to, well, the North Shore, where I could turn left and head in the direction of my apartment.

The real reason I was riding, though, wasn't to explore or get lost--or to challenge myself. (The wind would do that for me when I pedaled into it on my way home!)  Instead, I was riding with the echo, if you will, of a conversation I had last night with someone I hadn't talked to in a few years.  There was no "falling out" or other rupture in our friendship; life had just taken us in different directions for a while.  

We actually worked together for a time; neither of us is at that job anymore.  She decided to return to school and is almost done with the coursework for her PhD and, luckily, found work that allowed her to support herself.  But, along the way, she broke up with the fiance she had the last time we talked.

I, too, ended a relationship I was in at the time.  But mine didn't end as amicably as hers; it couldn't have.  She knew that and asked, several times, how I'm doing.  Better than I was in that relationship, I said.  

"Good.  Don't look back."

"I don't."

The funny thing is, the tears that rolled down my cheeks as I descended from the ridges in the center of the island to the South Shore weren't for him, or for what knowing him cost me (two jobs and an apartment)--or about what it took to get him out of my life.  I am happier in my current job than I was in the ones I lost.  

And, to answer another question my friend asked, I am finally working, again, on a book I started writing years ago--even before I knew her.  "Great!  You're going to be all right!", she intoned.

I hope she's right.  No, I take that back.  I know she's right.  I have no idea of how that book will turn out, but I know I have no choice but to write it.  When I started it, I was a different person, living a different life--literally.   But I know I was carrying much of what's in that book--at least in its current state--long before I started to write it.  

She understands:  She is a writer, too.

"Just keep writing it.  You'll be fine."


That is how I felt while riding today.  I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I'd be fine.  Whether or not by design or choice, where I'd been had gotten me to where I was.  All of it:  All of my rides, all of my work, all of those days and years I lived a life not quite my own and, finally, in a relationship with someone who, just as I was claiming my own self and life, almost kept me from living it.

The road that had gotten me to today's ride: My old friend reminded me of it, and why I continue--even if I don't know where the ride, the journey, continues or ends.

Has any racer ever thought of his or her ride that way?

Would You Buy A Used Bike From These Guys?

Would you take investing and financial advice from Bernie Madoff?

You probably think that question is rhetorical, or a smart-ass answer to a stupid question.  Or a joke.

Then again, Will Rogers once said, "The problem with practical jokes is that they very often get elected".  Or that they're like fiction:  Reality is even stranger and funnier.

I was reminded of that last truism after reading a Business Insider article someone sent to me.

By now, you have heard the sordid saga of Lance Armstrong. The world needs no more commentary on it, so I will offer none.

What I will mention, however, is that pretty much everyone who ever rode with him on the US Postal Team has admitted to some level involvement or another in doping.  Some of them say that Lance, in essence, bullied them into it.  

Whether or not that was true--or whether "everyone else was doing it" (My last boyfriend used to say that whenever I caught him lying or showing his lack of integrity in any other way!), the image of those riders, the team--and, to some, the entire sport of bicycle racing--has been tarnished, to say the least.

"Le train bleu":  The US Postal Service Team in the 2000 Tour de France.  The "train" was running on...

Knowing that, if you were an aspiring racer--or simply someone who wanted to get into peak physical condition without joining the Marine Corps--would you hire Levi Leipheimer, Kevin Livingston, Tyler Hamilton or Tom Danielson?

Apparently, some people have answered that question, "Why not?"  Danielson haswritten a book on training for cycling and owns a company that runs training camps for cyclists.  Livingston runs such a company--located in the basement of Mellow Johnny's Bicycle Shop, owned by none other than Lance.  (Really, you can't make this stuff up!) Hamilton manages a like company--and sells real estate.  And Leipheimer is a cycling coach who also makes promotional videos.

Maybe you wouldn't take their advice if you want to win races--by the rules, anyway.  Perhaps you would prefer the advice of an admitted doper who's become an anti-doping advocate.  If that's the case, Jonathan Vaughters is your man.  He now manages Cannondale Pro Cycling, a team competing in the TDF.  And you thought it was all about the bikes?

 All right.  Perhaps you're not interested in becoming a racer--or willing to take the advice of the guys I've just mentioned.  But you might want to listen to what Frankie Andreu and Christian van de Velde have to say about the race you're watching.  Yep, that's what those guys are doing now:  They're commentators on broadcasts of races.

Now, if you're the sort of person that believes it's all about what you wear, you might want to look up George Hincapie.  Lance's most loyal teammate and trusted lieutenant now runs a cycling-apparel company.  Hmm...I wonder whether those jerseys have special compartments.  

Whatever the design of those jerseys, there's no point to them unless they're mated with a great pair of shorts.  Of course, even the best of shorts will get uncomfortable if you ride as long and hard as, and in the conditions, those guys rode. Dave Zabriskie has just what you need:  chamois cream. 

He just happens to run a company that makes it.  I would love to see the list of ingredients.  If one of them is, uh, shall we say,  a substance that's legal for medical purposes in a few states (including Colorado), Floyd's of Leadville should carry it.  Yes, you guessed it:  Zabriskie's and Lance's old teammate, Floyd Landis (who had his 2006 TDF title stripped over doping allegations) started the business, which sells cannabis products.

I wish the Presidential campaign could offer such mirth!

If He Hollers, Let Him Squall

I haven't spent a lot of time around antique dealers.  (I guess I hang with the wrong crowd.  Oh well.)  From my limited contact with them, my image conforms to the stereotype:  very discreet and low-key, always speaking in restrained, if not hushed, tones.

Those of you who spend a lot of time around antique dealers might say that I have indeed been hanging with the wrong crowd--of antique dealers.  For all I know, there might be loud, extroverted sellers of paintings and family heirlooms.  They might be the ones catering to the nouveau riche rather than the haut bourgeiosie.

I was just riding through a neighborhood where those two worlds meet--at Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, where Brooklyn Heights meets Boerum and Cobble Hills.  By the looks of things, the latter two neighborhoods are well on their way from becoming nouveau to haute.  (The Heights has been HB for a while.)  The antique shop on the corner where I stopped for a traffic light looked like it was catering more to the haut crowd, at least from what I saw through the window.  But then I saw this sign hanging above it:

Holler & Squall?  Two things I would never expect an antique dealer to do.  I'm not sure I'd want anyone to do either if I were handing over large sums of money for an irreplaceable object.

At least I could laugh openly when I saw that sign.  I had to suppress my laughter when I was writing for a newspaper and interviewed a police commander named Lawless.  (Really!)  Or a veterinarian named Barker--or a psychiatrist named Looney.

Maybe one of these days I'll take a ride back to the antique shop and see whether anyone hollers or squalls.  Of course, I won't go on a bike named Squeak.

Bike Shares-- And Social Class?

Yesterday, I wrote about the bike-share program that begins today in Los Angeles.  I was happy to learn that such a program is commencing in one of the first cities people associate with the automobile.  And I found it interesting, to say the least, that city officials hope that the bike-share program will help to bolster ridership in the city's Metro system, which has been on the decline.

If that goal is realized, it will buck trends seen in other cities that have bike-share programs.  In some places, like Washington DC, those who commute on share bikes are using them in lieu of subways and buses, not automobiles.  

Although I have not seen such data for my hometown, New York, I would suspect something similar is happening.  After all, the commuter who is most likely to ride a Citibike--or to be a bike commuter--lives somewhere in Manhattan below 125th Street, or in Astoria (where I live), Long Island City, Greenpoint, Williamsburg or other Brooklyn or Queens neighborhoods just across the East River from the United Nations.

Before they started riding bikes to work, those commuters were probably taking the subways, which bisect their neighborhoods. If they work in downtown or Midtown Manhattan, they would have been riding the subway for only a few stops:  fifteen or twenty minutes, no more than half an hour.

In contrast, someone who drives to work--or takes one of the express buses or trains--probably lives further away, in southern and eastern Queens neighborhoods like Bayside or Cambria Heights or southern Brooklyn areas such as Mill Basin or Dyker Heights.  Or they live outside city limits altogether.  Typically, those who drive to work or are taking the Long Island Rail Road (Yes, it's spelled as two words!) or Metro North have commutes of an hour or more each way.  Needless to say, few of them are going to start riding bicycles to work, even if Citibike installs ports in front of their houses!

Now, some of those commuters--particularly those who live on the North Shore of Nassau County or in certain parts of Westchester and Bergen counties--are rich. But most are middle- or working- class people who live in those areas because they simply could never afford a house, or even an apartment, big enough for their families in Manhattan or the nearby Brooklyn and Queens neighborhoods.   More than a few of them are contractors or have other kinds of businesses that requir them to haul a lot of equipment into, and out of, Manhattan or the areas near it.   I am not a sociologist, but I feel confident in concluding, from my own observations, that most such commuters are not cyclists.

I mention all of these things because reading about the launch of the LA bike share program got me to thinking about things I've noticed during the three decades I've been cycling in New York.  As I've mentioned in other posts, back in the mid-'80s, the neighborhoods that now comprise what I call Hipster Hook were mostly blue-collar, white-ethnic enclaves (Greeks and Italians in Astoria, Poles and Irish in Greenpoint, for example).  In those neighborhoods, people simply didn't ride bikes once they were old enough to drive. (Many never rode bikes, period.)  Very often, I would ride along the East River and New York Bay from Astoria Park all the way to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge--or even to Coney Island--without encountering another cyclist.

People who rode for fun, or even to commute, lived mainly in places like Greenwich Village, the Upper East and West Sides and Park Slope.  Those were home mainly to single people or young couples with varying amounts of disposable income--and without children.  Most didn't live far from where they worked, or they were artists or independent business people of one kind or another.  

In those days, the blue-collar and middle-class people I've described rarely, if ever, encountered cyclists--or anyone--from the milieu I described in the previous paragraph. But, as places like Williamsburg started to fill up with trust-fund kids on fixed-gear bikes, older and poorer residents looked at them as "privileged children" who were "taking over" their streets and sidewalks--and other public spaces.

Thus, older residents started to equate bicycles with privilege.  I guess it's easy to resent someone who looks like he or she is having fun--and is younger and fitter than you--when you're fighting traffic (or the crowds on the buses and trains)  to get to and from a job you hate so that you can pay for things your kids don't appreciate.  

I can't help but to notice that any time people express their displeasure over new bike lanes that take away one of the lanes on which they were accustomed to driving, or when a Citibike port appears on their block, they say that the city is catering to "privileged children".  Yes, they--as often as not--use that phrase.

I guess that, even at my age, I am one of the "privileged children"!

Joking aside, I got to thinking about the experiences and observations I've described when I learned that LA city officials hope that the new bike share program will bring riders back to the Metro system.  What I found especially revealing is the finding that one cause of the decline in Metro ridership is gentrification:  working- and middle-class families are being priced out of the areas that offer mass transportation.  So, while I hope the new bike share program is successful, I can't help but to wonder how it will entice people who've had to move further away from their jobs--and, possibly, had to take second jobs--to ride bicycles to a Metro system--or jobs--that are further away from wherever they were living before they were dispalced.

In brief, I couldn't help but to wonder whether the LA Bike Share program--or, more important, the hope that it will bring people back to the Metro--might reveal, or magnify, social and economic class differences in the way people commute.