Out Of Line In The Lane

After taking a late-day bike ride, eating a dinner and reading, I dozed off, with Marlee curled up on me.  A couple of hours later, she woke me for some food and water. Then I  stepped out of my apartment for a few-minute ride on the deserted streets and bike lanes.

Well, they weren’t totally  deserted:

The cops were looking at their smart phones.  I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and assume that the NYPD is using those devices to communicate with their officers.

I will write about that bike lane soon.

 

How Long Could He Hold It?

It boggles the mind to realize that on the last day of a three-week race, a lead of less than one minute in overall time (for the whole three weeks) is considered "insurmountable"--unless, of course, you're Greg Lemond or Tadej Podacar.

The one explanation I can come up with is from my own (admittedly) very limited experience with racing:  It's a lot harder to make up time than to lose it. Really, it doesn't take much to give up a minute or more to an opponent:  a flat tire or other malfunction, a slip or fall,  a miscalculation of an opponent's move--or simply a wrong turn.

At least, those are the things we hear about in race reports.  I wonder whether riders have lost races due to events that would be inconsequential in daily life.  

Specifically, I'm thinking of "nature calling."  If we're not racing, we stop when we find a place to "let go." But I suppose that's not possible in a race.

Or if you're being pursued by cops.  

On Saturday night, a 38-year-old man was riding light-less on a Yakima, Washington street.  A constable pulled up toward him, intending to talk to him about the dangers of what he was doing.  But when the officer turned on his bright lights, the man took off. 

After making a few turns, he ditched his bike and backpack and started running down a driveway.  He tripped on a low fence.  The officer threatened to use his Taser on him if he tried to continue his flight.

Then, according to the officer, the man put his hands up and exclaimed, "I just need to poop."

Later, when the police searched the bag the man tossed, the found three cell phones, brass knuckles, a pill cutter, $240 in counterfeit currency, more than 100 blue oxycodone pills laced with fentanyl, nine suboxone strips, two pipes, a scale, knives and some suspicious checks.

Oh, and the police discovered the guy had felony warrants for a Department of Corrections violation, possession of heroin and identity theft.

This leads me to wonder:  What if he'd just "held it" a little longer--and stayed on his bike? 

Time And A Time Trial

The other day, it looked as if the Tour de France would end with its first Slovenian winner.

It did.  Except that the winner wasn't the Slovenian most observers expected.

Going into the race's final stage, it seemed that Primoz Roglic would bring the race's maillot jaune home:  His 57-second lead seemed all but insurmountable, especially since the final stage was a time trial up a mountain:  the sort of event in which he usually does well.

Primoz Roglic (in polka dots) and Tadej Podacar

And he did.  Except that Tadej Podacar, all 21 years of him, did even better.  Two years after winning the Tour de l'Avenir, and one year removed from his third-place finish in the Vuelta a Espana, Podacar became the Tour's youngest winner.  

His final push has been compared to that of Greg Lemond in the 1989 Tour.  Entering the final day of the race, Lemond trailed Laurent Fignon, who won in 1983 and 1984, by 50 seconds.  And the race's final stage was a time trial:  an event in which Fignon tended to do well.

Well, Lemond rode the time trial of his life and earned his second Tour victory.  

The plot outline of Lemond-Fignon is thus a close parallel to that of Podacar-Roglic, except for one thing:  Fignon and Lemond were both well-established cyclists in the prime of their careers.  Roglic, at 30, is about the same age as Fignon and Lemond were during their epic duel, but it's hard to say where he is in his professional career, which he began at 24:  several years later than is normal.  On the other hand, it will be interesting to see whether Podacar's  victory signals the beginning of a long road, if you will, to canonization in the cycling world.

Only time will tell.  On Sunday, a time trial determined the winner of the world's most famous race.

R.B.G.: Hearing The Shofar As I Pedal

As you know by now, Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed away on Friday night.

I heard the "breaking news" on the radio that evening, as members of an observant Jewish family were returning from shul to their home just up the block from me.  Rosh Hoshannah had just begun.  In times past--and in some Orthodox communities--it's heralded by sounding a shofar:  a horn made from a hollowed-out ram's tusk.

The shofar was, and is, still used to call attention to significant events, and to warn of danger. RBG's passing seems like a shofar blast.

She didn't single-handedly keep women from living out the nightmare of The Handmaid's Tale. But very few people did more to bring the status of women and girls--and, by extension, others who have been disenfranchised--closer to equality with that of men and boys.

While I didn't know her personally, I have the sense that she did what she did because of something she understood, perhaps viscerally, and which I came to understand during my gender transition:  Anyone who doesn't have agency over his or her body and mind is a slave.  

When I understood that, I believe, I truly became a feminist.  Before that, I supported a woman's right to choose, in all areas of life (including reproduction), and equal opportunities.  But, until I started living as a woman, they were merely "issues."  Once I began my transition, I realized they were matters of my own life:  Even though I never have been, and never will be, pregnant--and, thankfully, do not have to worry about having a hysterectomy without my consent--  I realize now that I could choose to take medications and undergo medical procedures to align my body with my psyche without having to ask permission from any man--or worrying about being imprisoned for violating a law written and enforced by men.

I could also continue cycling for the same reasons.  Until recently, women weren't allowed to ride--or drive--in Saudi Arabia.  In other societies, women and girls are discouraged, or even intimidated, away from such things.

My life--which includes cycling--is possible, in part, because of Justice Bader Ginsberg's work.  Her passing is, among other things, a warning, or at least a signal, that I cannot take it for granted:  a shofar blast, if you will.

How I Don't Want It To End

In my will (yes, I have one of those), I have specified, among other things, that I want my body used for medical or scientific research. Beyond that, I don't care what happens to me or how anyone chooses to memorialize me.

Well, all right, I don't care much.  There are some things, though, I don't want:

I mean, I like sports as much as the next person.  But a funeral party in a sports bar?   People actually do such things?  

You learn all kinds of things while bike riding!