Roy Wallack R.I.P.

One more day!  

That's what remains, after today, of 2020.  For many of us, this year can't end quickly enough.  In addition to the pandemic, natural disasters and all of the other awful events of the world, it seems that so many people (at least of the ones I know) have suffered some tragedies, disasters or setbacks of one kind or another. Or we had plain and simple bad luck:  After nearly half of century of cycling with no serious accidents (a wrecked bike and a few minor injuries), I was--in little more than three months' time--face-planted  and doored.

The face-plant left me with head trauma that, fortunately, didn't result in permanent damage.  I wish I could say the same for Arielle, the bike that started my Mercian obsession.  The dooring didn't do much harm to Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, but left me with a whole bunch of stitches, a strained muscle and sprained knee.  I'm just starting to get my energy back.

Roy Wallack (right) with Gordon Wright during the 2008 TransRockies Run.

Things could have been worse, though.  On Saturday the 19th, Roy Wallack rode his mountain bike down a steep trail near Malibu, California. He took a fall--no one is sure of how or why, but friends who were riding with him say that it might have been caused by a medical issue.  Whatever the circumstance, the fall resulted in Roy's head hitting a large rock.  

His friends, an EMT and cardiologists who happened upon the scene performed CPR on him until a helicopter arrived.  The rescuers' attempts to save him were for naught.

A terrible irony of that crash is that Wallack hired a personal trainer for his father who "has no disabilities and comes from a long line of centenarians" but whose "problem" was "obvious":  the Easy Boy chair he "hadn't left.. in 30 years (except for Costco and cleaning up in the yard after the dogs)."  The trainer called Wallach's 90-year-old father to urge him onto the treadmill as he's been housebound by COVID-19.

Roy, who intended to ride, run, swim and participate in other outdoor adventures on his way to becoming the latest in his family's line of centenarians, only made it to 64 years old.  But his time was certainly a journey:  While he didn't have the archetypal body of a cyclist or runner, he pedaled Paris-Brest-Paris and many other rides, ran marathons and participated in all manner of outdoor sports, sometimes competitively but more often for the adventure. 

That is what made his writing--for publications such as Bicycling, Runners' World, Bicycle Guide and Outside; and in his books and the Los Angeles Times' Outdoor section--so engaging.  He wrote the way he approached cycling, running and other outdoor activities:  as an adventurer and enthusiast rather than as a "jock." He rarely wore lycra; in the baggy shorts he usually wore, wannabe racers might have seen him as a "Fred."  To me, though, he embodied and expressed the essence of what makes cycling, running, hiking and other outdoor sports lifetime activities rather than games that can be experienced only as a spectator after one reaches a certain age.

Where They Bike More

 Would you bike more in Baltimore?

I would, if I ever get to "Charm City" again--especially after seeing this:

The folks at Bikemore are offering it.  What could possibly be a better name for a bicycle advocacy organization?

I wonder, though, whether they pronounce it as Bike-a-more?

Which Side Of The Gate?

 We are passing out of this year.  I don’t know many people who are sad to be leaving it, even with all of the uncertainty that lies ahead.

I know there are three more days left in this year after today.  Somehow, though, yesterday—the last Sunday of the year—felt more like the denouement.  In a normal year, not much happens during the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day.  Then again, what has been “normal” this year?

I thought about all of this while riding along the North Shore yesterday.  The funny thing is that I didn’t stop until near the end of my ride.  But I think you can see why I paused in Astoria Park, only a kilometer and a half from my apartment.

As I’ve mentioned in other posts, this bridge is called the Hell Gate Bridge, after the stretch of the (misnamed) East River it spans.

If that is indeed the Gate of Hell, which side of it are we on?

What Should They Be Trained To Do?

 Thirteen is a difficult age for almost anyone.  The body is going through all sorts of changes, so everyone and everything in the world seems capricious, unjust and even cruel.  Sometimes the anger you may have  felt at that age was justified, especially when you're mocked, bullied or punished for, well, being thirteen years old.

My family had recently moved. (I forgave my parents for that when I turned 40. ;-)) As if everything else I was experiencing weren't enough, that Christmas a recording that's still a hazard to my mental health polluted and smothered the airwaves.  Like many other people, I got a kick out of the novelty of dogs barking "Jingle Bells"  for about the first 15 seconds it played.

A few days ago, when I was running some errands, a store was blaring the barking monstrosity in the street.  I might get it out of my ear by Groundhog Day. Aargh!

These days, I own two Christmas CDs: Celine Dion's "These Are Special Times", which my mother gave me the year it came out, and an album of the late, great Jessye Norman's concert with the Orchestre de Lyon in the Notre Dame cathedral.  Other CDs of mine include a Christmas song or two, like John Lennon's "War Is Over."  But if anyone gave me a disc of the Singing Dogs, I'd use it for a coaster or frisbee.  Whoever made and promoted that recording should be indicted for animal abuse!

On the other hand, I want to applaud whoever created this image:

You can buy a print of this on Etsy 

Un-Boxing Day

Today is Boxing Day.  The United States is probably the only English-speaking country that doesn't celebrate it.

According to which accounts you believe, this day originated as a day to give gifts to the poor--or when upper class families boxed up gifts and food for their cooks, servants and other employees, who were sent home (with boxes) to spend time with their families after working on the holiday.

Either story leads me to this question:  How many bicycles are boxed on Boxing Day?

 

From The Washing Machine Post

One blogger documented his un-Boxing Day.  I don't know what day the blogger's Cielo bicycle arrived, but  I'm sure that un-boxing it was at least as eventful for that person as boxing cookies, cakes, leftovers or gifts was for the people who gave them to their help, or to the anonymous poor.