Ride On Ice

Lakythia and I had planned on going for a ride today.  But the temperature didn't rise much higher than my (American) shoe size and the wind gusted to speeds not much lower than my age.  So we opted for brunch--dim sum in Chinatown, to be exact--instead.


Now I am going to reveal one of the mysteries o the human race.  Or, perhaps, I'm simply going to tell you something you'd always suspected.  You've probably noticed that it's usually the men who think it's too warm and the women who think it's too cold.  Well, I've noticed that my sensitivity to cold, while still not as acute as that of other women I know, has certainly increased since I started taking estrogen, and intensified after my surgery.  Before I underwent my transformation, I was one of those guys who, it seemed. always felt too hot.


It's definitely hormonal.  I've read that estrogen increases sensitivity to cold and testosterone to heat.  I noticed that my sensitivity to cold increased after my estrogen dosage was increased about three months after I started taking it.  And, since my surgery, the level of estrogen in my body at any given time has increased, and most of the testosterone is gone.  


At least I know that neither training nor diets, nor anything else, will return me to being someone who cycled in shorts on all but the coldest days.  However, I'm hoping that increasing my mileage will bring back some of the strength I lost.  I've been told that I would have lost some of the hill-climbing ability I once had simply from age. but I don't want to use that--or the hormones--as an excuse.  


Then again, I enjoy my rides more than I did.  Perhaps that has to do with the changes, too.


Anyway, if the wind dies down, I think I'll go for a ride tomorrow:  It's a holiday.  Perhaps I can make it a memorial to Charlie.

Charlie R.I.P.

I really wish I didn't have to say this:  Charlie died last night.


No, I wasn't there when it happened.  However, I feel pretty certain that he died some time around 8 p.m.  


I was pedaling home from work when, all of a sudden, I burst into tears.  I was crying so deeply that I could barely see in front of me, much less control my front wheel. 


I spotted an ATM I sometimes use, opened the door and wheeled my bike in.  I sat in a corner of the vestibule, my tears rolling from my cheeks, down my neck and onto the collar of my jacket.  I don't know how long I was there and I don't think anyone came in to use the machines, in spite of its location in the middle of a commercial strip that remains busy well into the night.


When I thought I had my crying under control (a completely unrealistic assumption after my operation and years of taking hormones!), I wheeled out of the vestibule and stepped over the bike's top tube.  I rode about two blocks before I saw a tortoiseshell calico in a store window.  Even though she looked nothing like Charlie, the faucet was turned on once again.  And my legs developed the firmness of tapioca pudding.


Fortunately, there was a subway station only another block away.  When a middle-aged woman starts crying on New York City transport, some  passengers will look away or pretend not to notice (or, perhaps, will actually not notice), others will give you the widest berth they can, and one or two will give her looks of sympathy.  Now, if you're a middle-aged woman with a bike and a helmet dangling from the handlebar, some will react as if a giraffe got on the train, or like Agent Scully from the X-Files.  


A Latina who looked about ten years older than me gave me a tissue.


By the time I got home, Charlie was lying on his side, with his rear legs crossed as if he'd taken a tumble.  He may very well have done just that:  he was lying on a blanket and sheet I used to leave for him on my sofa, and they--and he--were on the floor.  I'm guessing that he might have tried to climb on the couch, and when he clawed the sheet or blanket, they slipped off the cushions.  I don't know whether that is what killed him, because he didn't look as if he had wounds caused by such a fall.  However, as weak as he was, he may have simply not gotten back up.


Anyway...What's the point of playing detective now?  He's gone, and I can't stop crying.  He's been in my life for six years.  Even though I had two other cats, whom I loved dearly, for much longer, I think I developed a bond with him that I have not developed with any other animal.  Part of it has to do with the time of my life in which he accompanied me:  He came into my home about two years after I started living as Justine, and was with me through all manner of change in my life.  And, he curled up by my side, in my lap, or even on my belly when I was lying down, during those days when I was recovering from my surgery.


That he never showed me anything but affection is all the more remarkable when I consider how he came into my life.  My friend Millie rescued him from the street.  How such a loving--and handsome--cat ended up on the street is one of those mysteries I'd rather not ponder:  If someone abandoned him, I don't want to think about the sort of person who would do such a thing.


When I think about that, I think that in my next life, I'd like to have a farm with a bunch of animals, especially cats.  When animals attack each other--something Charlie never did, by the way--they are only doing what they are made or hard-wired (or whatever you want to call it) to do.  They are not capriciously cruel, they don't maim or kill for fun or profit, and they don't invade other countries whose citizens never harmed them.


After being, possibly, abandoned on the streets, Charlie was always sweet-natured and never wanted anything more than to be fed, stroked, spoken to gently and cuddled.  People sometimes come from far more fortunate circumstances and are pointlessly mean and avaricious.  Or they simply think only about their own happiness, others be damned.


As I sit and write this, I have my shoulder bag in my lap.  It just doesn't feel right.

The Wind And Back

When you commute, you think a lot about timing.  You know that leaving a few minutes earlier or later might put you into, or keep you out of traffic, on some stretch of your ride.  You may also notice a temperature difference.  In my case, I had completely different weather than I'd've had had I left fifteen minutes earlier than I did.

When I'd originally planned to leave, rain was falling and the temperature was about to fall below 45F, where it had been (give or take a degree or two) through the morning and the previous night.  And the air was still calm.

However, I misplaced a couple of papers and searching for them put me about fifteen minutes behind schedule.  By then, the rain had stopped and temperatures below freezing were forecast for my commute home.  I can live with such conditions, so I decided to chance the weather.

I hadn't counted on one other condition mentioned in the forecast: the wind.  I must have had a steady 15MPH (25KPH) stream at my back for the stretch from Woodside all the way to my job.  Gusts of at least double that speed turned my back into a sail by the World's Fair Marina.  So, in spite of leaving late, I arrived at work early.

I'm still there now, dreading/anticipating riding into the wind that blew me here.

Classy Commuter

At this early stage of 2012, it probably wouldn't surprise you to know that most of the miles I've pedalled this year have been on my commutes.  That got me to thinking of some bikes I've ridden to and from jobs past.

Here's a bike I haven't thought about in a while:  a Miyata three-speed.  I'm guessing it was the 1981 model shown in the catalogue page above because it matches, in every detail, the bike I rode for about two years. 

It actually was a classy-looking bike:  Were I wearing suits to work, I would have had no difficulty riding it--or the ladies' (non-mixte) model were I wearing skirts and heels.  However, I was working jobs that had no dress codes, and even by those standards, I didn't dress particularly well.

Still, I recall enjoying the ride of the bike very much.  I think it had a somewhat tighter geometry than other three-speeds like the ones made by Raleigh, Peugeot and Schwinn.  Equally important, the frame was made out of lugged chromoly tubing, which was considerably lighter than the frames on those other bikes.  Plus, most of the components--including the rims, cranks, handlebars, stem, fenders and chainguard--were made from aluminum alloy rather than steel. 

Back then, 3-speeds (or any other commuter-specific bikes) weren't "hip:" thus, I was able to buy mine when it was about two years old for about 50 dollars.  (If I recall correctly, it sold for about 300 dollars new.)  Occasionally, someone would compliment it on its looks; more often, though, I found myself defending it when someone wondered aloud why I didn't get a racing bike (which I had, in fact, in addition to the Miyata three-speed).  And I enjoyed knowing that I was riding something not many other people--at least in America--were riding.

However, the bike shared one shortcoming with many other Japanese bikes of the time:  its wheels.  Japanese rims and spokes of that time were heavier but not as strong as their European counterparts, and the Japanese "stainless" spokes often corroded, even on bikes that weren't ridden in the rain and were stored indoors.   Within a few months, I had to re-spoke the rear wheel with a new rim.  In fact, it was one of the first wheels I laced myself. 

In lacing a new Weinmann concave rim to the hub, I discovered that the largest-gauge DT spokes available were too small for the spoke holes in the Shimano three-speed hub.  Fortunately, I hadn't tensioned the wheel, so it was relatively easy to unlace them and re-fit the hub and spokes with washers between the spoke heads and hub.  

Then I discovered that the Shimano three-speed hub simply wasn't as strong or reliable as the Sturmey-Archers on the old English three-speeds.  I don't know how many models Shimano made then, but the one I had seemed to be the only one exported to the US. This was in the days when Shimano was notorious for not making spare parts available.  So, unless you knew someone with a pipeline to the factory in Japan, you were SOL if something wore or broke down in the hub. And it happened to mine within a year after re-lacing the wheel.

I should also note that those were the days when Sturmey-Archer's quality declined precipitously, and I'm not sure whether SunTour was still making three-speed hubs.  Sachs, common on bikes in Germany and Benelux countries, was all but unavailable in the US.  So, if I wanted to keep the bike a three-speed, my best option would have been to find a Sturmey-Archer from the 1960's or earlier.   I never took on that project, for someone made an unsolicited offer of 400 dollars for the bike.  Being the Starving Artist I was then, I took him up on it.

But having that quick but classy commuter probably had more of an effect on me than I ever realized it would:  It's probably the reason I ride Vera to and from work now.  She's even quicker and classier than that Miyata could have been.

Ride To, Or To Ride

Do you ride to go places?  Or, do you go places to ride?

Those questions came to mind when, on my way to work, I saw the gull in the photo circling across an inlet from the World's Fair Marina. That bird had about as un-picturesque a view as any could have:  Between the Home Depot and the orange-and-white "silo" are auto-body shops, a cement factory, scrap-metal yards and some warehouses, punctuated by garbage dumps.  Yet that bird was flying because it needed to and because he/she probably found plenty to eat.

Of course, when we are riding to work, we have a very speicific destination in mind.  And some of our other rides are like that.  But much of the time, when I'm on my bike, I don't care that much about where I'm riding:  I am happy simply to be in the saddle.  Interestingly, today I felt that way for at least part of my commute.

I think Vera was rather enjoying it, too.

Chelsea Couple

People have told me that, given my history and proclivities, I really don't spend much time in Chelsea. Actually, coming from some people I know, that statement is an accusation rather than an observation!


The funny thing is, I used to spend more time there when it was still largely a working-class Irish neighborhood and, later, when art galleries that couldn't afford to stay in Soho moved to the western fringe of the neighborhood.  Those times were well before my transition.


Anyway, Chelsea is like a lot of places in that it's very different if you know people there and go into their homes.  Otherwise, it's mostly a shopping area with lots of restaurants and the Piers.  But, inside the apartment blocks, tenements and restored brownstones, there are all kinds of stories.  A few of them can be told by the bikes parked outside:

For those of you more interested in the bikes than in my scintillating social commentary or historical perspective (You know who you are! ;-) ), the bikes are of course both Dutch-style city commuters/commuters.  The one on the fence is a Raleigh, believe it or not.  The bike leaning against it was made in Belgium by Mechelen (?).


In black, they make for a rather distinguished if bourgeois couple who have their charm.  Isn't that what every couple wants to be, at the end of the day?

A Model Cyclist In Chelsea

Today felt more like the seventh of May than the seventh of January, at least in terms of weather.  So, there were plenty of people on their bikes, and some were wearing clothing that wasn't designed to shed rain or snow, or to fend off cold.


One of those riders, whom I met in Chelsea, strikes me as someone who would look absolutely fabulous on her bike in any season:

This sweet and engaging young woman is Andrea Diodati.  She's been featured on other bike blogs, she said.   I assured her that this one is not like any of the others.  After all, how many bike bloggers are like me?


More to the point, how many cyclists have her sense of style?  If you want to feature it, she's at electriclovelight.gmail.com.  Come on, admit it:  You want to write her just to type out that address!

Frosty On A Bike

Today the temperature reached 50F and I didn't ride.

Why? 

I just lost a riding partner...

On The Way: More Memories Of Bikes Past

I'm going to start making good on a sort-of-promise that I made (or was it a promise I sort-of-made) in the early days of this blog:  I'm going to write posts about the bikes I've owned and, perhaps, a few that I've ridden and  haven't owned.

My bikes probably won't appear chronologically, or according to any other kind of scheme. However, I do plan to make a list of posts of my bikes past, and make that list available on the sidebar of this blog.

I've been looking through my old photos for some images of my old rides.  Now I just need to buy a scanner, or find one that I can use somewhere.  I don't have photos of some of my bikes; for those, I'll use old catalogue illustrations or borrow photos from other websites. 

If any of you have a time machine, I'll go back and take photos of my old bikes.  So far, I figure that I've had about sixty bikes during my lifetime. 

In case you're interested, here are some links to posts I've already written about pedals past:

Royce-Union Three-Speed

Nishiki International 

Schwinn Continental

Romic Sport-Tourer

Bridgestone RB-2

I don't know how long it will be before I post all of my old bikes on this blog, but I intend to do so.  I hope that you'll continue coming here, not just for those posts, but for all of the scintillating wit and wisdom I plan to write in between them.

Not The Way To Commemorate Michael Jackson

For all of his foibles and questionable behavior, I always thought Michael Jackson was one of the greatest entertainers of his generation.  True, he made all of his worthwhile music before he turned thirty. (In fact, I think that was one of the things that caused or exacerbated many of his problems:  The only way he could "outdo" himself after those great albums and videos was through outrageous behavior.)  But you had to admit:  He could always put on a show.

Somehow, though, I doubt he did much cycling, ever.  I don't think much he ever did was conducive to pedaling two wheels.  And his fashion sense, as interesting as it could be, simply doesn't work when you're in the saddle.

One example of what I mean was his practice of wearing one white glove.  For one thing, about the only white articles of clothing I ever wore on a bike were the socks I raced in:  Back then, the USCF and the UCI didn't allow racers to wear anything else under their Detto Pietros.  Wearing white while cycling simply never made any sense to me; for that matter, I rarely wear much of anything in white because, when I do, I ruin it.  Also, when I haven't had much sun, I look sickly in white.

But back to Michael Jackson:  Wearing one glove isn't very practical on a bike.  Sometimes I ride gloveless, but not when the weather is anything like it's been the past couple of days. 

Sometime during my workday yesterday, I managed to lose one of my gloves.  By the time I was ready to leave, the temperature had dropped to 18F and a brisk wind blew out of the northwest.  The college in which I work is about half a mile from a strip of stores, all of which were closed. 

Another few blocks away, there's another strip.  By the time I passed it, only a Rite-Aid Drugstore and a Mandee's were open.  RA didn't have any gloves, though they had things like electric socks and blankets.  That left Mandee's, which had only those too-cute fingerless gloves that has a "hood" you can slip over the fingers--but not the thumb.  They weren't much, but I figured they were better than nothing.

So I bought a pair and, every few minutes, brought each hand to my lips and blew hot air (Some people tell me I'm full of it.) over each thumb.  Still, by the time I got home, my hands were tingling and my thumbs were numb.  I was only too happy that Charlie and Max wanted me to stroke them!

There are lots of good ways to commemorate MJ.  Emulating his sartorial style when you get on a bike isn't one of them!

The Second- Best Bike I Ever Lost

Vera is once again up and running.  She got me to work today.  I definitely count my blessings that I lost only a seat and post, not the whole bike. 

I am making a couple of other modifications to her and, when they're done, I'll show her in her new glory.

Speaking of theft:  Yes, I have had bicycles stolen.  Four, in fact.  Two were "beaters" and I actually got one of them back after the owner of one of the shops in which I worked spotted it when he was riding home. However, another bike that was stolen from me was a high-quality, nearly new,  road bike:  a 1994 Bridgestone RB-2.

I bought it as a "leftover" at a substantial discount the following year.  Most Bridgestones--at least the higher-end models--sold out in most years; I considered myself lucky to get one that was more or less the right size for me.  I didn't "need" another bike, as I had high-quality road and mountain bikes, but I got a deal that was simply too good to pass up. 

It came in a blue-green (I thought it was more blue) metallic finish that I liked, although I would have liked the plum metallic, the other color choice offered that year, even better.  However, for the price I paid, I wasn't about to be picky.

I put a pair of Michelin 700 X28C cyclo-cross tires and rack on it with the intention of making the bike my commuter and winter road ride.  That plan worked for about three months, if I remember correctly.  At the time, I was teaching at the New York City Technical College (now the New York City College of Technology).  The good news was that it was less than five minutes, by bike, from the Park Slope apartment in which I was living.  However, the bad news was that it was in what was still a high-crime area of downtown Brooklyn.

The college consisted of a couple of fairly grimy concrete and steel buildings that sucked up all of the soot from nearby factories and the cars and trucks entering the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges.  Bicycles weren't allowed inside any of the buildings.  But nearly every day, I bought coffee and something to eat from a truck that stood just outside the main entrance.  The owner told me to park my bike at the parking meter nearest his truck, plainly within his sight. I did that for a couple of months.

Well, one day, he was sick and someone else--a nephew, I think--manned the truck.  And, after teaching eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds where to put commas in their sentences, I walked over to the truck, only to find my bike gone.

The young man in the truck claimed to see nothing.

I'd been using the best lock Kryptonite made at the time.  They paid the full retail cost of the bike, minus the deductible.    After another paycheck or two, I could have bought another RB-2, even at the regular price.  The only problem was that they weren't available any more.  It was made in Japan and the dollar lost a lot of value against the yen, making the bike, and others built in Japan, much more expensive in the US than they had been. So Bridgestone and other Japanese bike makers (like Miyata and Panasonic) simply stopped exporting to the US.  (Other Japanese makers, like Fuji, outsourced their manufacturing to Taiwan and China.)

Because I already had a high-end road bike, a nice track bike and a pretty good mountain bike, I simply used the latter bike for commutes and saved up for a nicer mountain bike, as I was becoming a fairly serious off-road rider.  But I missed the RB-2:  It was a sweet ride and the time I had it marked the first time in my life I had more than one good road bike.

Getting On My High Wheel

Has anybody out there ridden a high-wheeler (or, as they were called in England, "penny-farthing")?  Every once in a while, I think I'd like to ride one.  


Of course, there's one logistical problem:  finding such a bike.  And then I'd have to get a pair of bloomers.  I suppose I could ride in a short skirt, but somehow that wouldn't be in the spirit of riding a bike like the one in the photo.

New Year's Day Rides

There are cyclists who ride on New Year's Day and don't mount their bikes again until the Spring.  I once rode with some of them.  We began at six in the morning and were done by noon or thereabouts.  


I guess I don't have to mention that I was unattached and didn't drink the previous night.  However, I did stay up to watch the ball drop on Times Square.  I don't know when I went to bed, but I know I didn't get more than a couple of hours of sleep.  Still, somehow I managed to do a century (in miles, not a metric century), which included a few short but fairly steep climbs, to Bear Mountain and back.  


The funny thing is that all of us who did that ride were in really good condition, and most of us were young and male, yet it didn't have quite the same competitive spirit one finds on rides like it. n fact, it had less egotism among the riders than almost any ride I did with male riders before my transition.  I guess we gave each other "props" simply for being there, even though we knew that some of us wouldn't see each other again for at least another two months.


My ride today was nothing like that. For one thing, I woke up later and ate something like a real breakfast.  And I made and received a few "Happy New Year" phone calls, which I avoided on the morning of my long-ago ride. And, well, I'm not in the kind of shape I was in back then.  However, it was a clear, mild day, and there was--unsurprisingly--little traffic anywhere.


Plus, I stopped to check out a few things along the way.

This house is about a mile from my apartment.  I saw two a man, a couple and a woman walk by with their kids.  None wanted to leave.  I didn't, either:  How often does one see a miniature village, Santa's workshop and a toy store all in one.  I can't hope to portray the attention the owners of this house paid to detail, but I will show you some of the more enchanting parts of their display:

This is the part right above where I propped Tosca.  She couldn't take her eyes off this place, for reasons visible in the next photo:

While there was no haze in this part of the display, another part had its own misty marvel:

Now, if your idea of a great view doesn't run to castles, you might like what I saw when I left and crossed the RFK Bridge:

The blue domes adorn a Greek Orthodox temple.  Seeing them in that landscape of residential houses reminds me, somewhat, of a particular view from the hill of le Sacre Coeur de Montmartre in Paris.  Looking down from that hill, you see block after block of fin de siecle and Beaux Arts townhouses and apartment houses, nearly all of which stand three to six stories high.  That vista is interrupted by the glass and steel planes and chutes of le Centre Pompidou. 


After crossing the bridge, I came face-to-face with a very inquisitive mind:  

I heard him meow as I rode by.  His eyes pleaded with me to stop.  As soon as I got off my bike, he darted to my ankles and rubbed himself around my legs.   I hope that he belongs to someone in one of the nearby houses; he simply does not belong on the street.  I actually picked him up and he curled around my shoulder for a moment before deciding he wanted to follow the laws of gravity.


Isn't it interesting that dogs sometimes chase cyclists, but cats can be fascinated with bicycles?  In a perfect world, they could accompany us on our rides--whether to begin the new year, or to continue a journey.

Old Salt, Or Diamond (Frames) With Rust

Steve of DFW Point-to-Point has a point:  Salt air really is rough on bicycle parts.  I should have taken a photo of the bike I rode when I was in Florida.  Every time I see it, the spokes and other parts are more corroded than they were the previous time I rode.  It seems the spokes get the worst corrosion.  At least, that seems to be the case for the non-plated, non-stainless spokes found on cheap bikes like the one I rode.

Whenever I'm in Florida, I see lots of bikes that have so much rust that it's a wonder they still run.  Even the more inland areas are affected by salt air, and there are many bikes that spend years or even decades in garages or on porches after their owners stop riding them. 

I must say that just about everyone who looked like he or she was riding long miles or doing any kind of training was astride an aluminum or carbon bike.  Those riders are young and tend to be more swayed by trends, but I suspect their choice of ride might be influnced by the salt air and humid conditions.  A mechanic with whom I worked spent a few years in Florida, where he worked in two bike shops.  He told me that he often saw parts rusted clear through, and hubs that rotted on the inside because of the humidity and salt air.

Well, this year is old, too, although it's not rusty.  So, as this will probably be my last post of 2011, I want to wish you a Happy New Year and lots of safe, enjoyable and fulfilling rides!

Going To The Beach And Riding To The Ocean

Many years ago (before many of you were born!), I dated an astrologer.  Apparently, I am a Cancerian--or, as some politically-correct types would say, a "Moon Child.  However, Astrologer was not politically correct, at least not in matters of pigeonholing, I mean pegging, people's personalities and destinies.  So, she told me that I was "such a Cancerian."  


Later on, she would remove the "ian" suffix and continue the sentence.  But that's another story.


According to her--and everything I've heard or read (admittedly, not much) about the subject since, Cancer is a "water" sign.  In fact, Astrologer claimed that Cancer is the "ultimate" water sign and, according to her charts, I was about as Cancerian as one could be.


If nothing else, it was a pretty good rationale, at least for her, for ending our relationship.  But that's yet another story.


Anyway, I will concede that there is at least some truth to what she said.  I am certainly drawn to water.  Not to beaches, necessarily, but to water--wide expanses and endless vistas of it.  I am so drawn, in fact, that sometimes everything along the way can seem like the desert.

Now, I've never actually ridden through a desert and, truth be told, never had any desire to do any such thing.  This is probably as close as I'll come to it.  I can hardly imagine anything that contrasts more with the ocean.

Sometimes, at the end of a bike ride, the ocean greets me:  "Where have you been?"

Sometimes I cannot explain; when I can, the answer never makes any sense to someone who's gone to the beach.  I know I am a different person when I go to the beach from what I am when I pedal to the ocean.

Another day, I will join them again.  After that, I will continue the ride I took today, on my bike, to the ocean.

Christmas, 4512 Miles From Casablanca

Do you see what I see? 

This is what, among other things, I saw for my Christmas Day ride.  It ain't Rockaway Beach; that's for sure.

I saw these sights while pedaling along the Atlantic Ocean on Route A-1A from Matanzas Bay to Ormond Beach in Florida.  When I got to Ormond, which is about ten miles from Daytona, I encountered something you'll never find in the Rockaways:

This guy thinks it's about time we've been slowed down.  And he means business:

Seriously, though, he wishes us all a good holiday!

My Lost Brooks Saddle: It's IKEA's Fault! '-)

I solved the problem of my lost saddle by taking a trip to IKEA:

This stool was actually created for the home-furnishings chain that, it's said, made and sold the beds on which one in every ten living Europeans was conceived.  Hmm...If some couple wanted to get it off on a stool like this, would they have to add the saddle's break-in time to the nine months of pregancy if they want to figure out when their little one would be born?

Thanks to all of you who expressed concern and outrage.  May the bike gods and goddesses whisper in Santa's ear on your behalf!  And to anyone else reading this:  Happy Holidays!

Losing A Seat

I can't believe it happened again.


I take that back...I can.  Things are becoming more difficult, which means that people are becoming more desperate, or simply opportunistic.


Whatever the explanation, I experienced something I thought I knew better than to allow to happen.  


I took Vera to take care of some business in Midtown Manhattan:  34th Street,  a block from the Empire State Building, to be exact.  I locked up the frame and wheels and took off anything that someone could abscond with...or so I thought.


When I came out, after about an hour and a half, my saddle and seatpost were gone.  Perhaps the thief wanted the bike and, upon realizing he (All right, I'm sexist.) wouldn't get it, took what he could.


So now I'm out a Brooks B-17 saddle in honey.  Yes, I'm glad the thief didn't get the whole bike or, say, the wheels.  Still...

Workin' It

Some bikes look right only when they've got half of their paint missing and look beat right down to their inner tubes.

Well, all right, I didn't see the inner tubes on this one.  But I imagine that they have, if nothing else, the feel and scent of a pair of flip-flops swished and slogged through curbside puddles during a summer rainstorm.

But, really, can you imagine this bike--from Worksman Cycles--new?  The paint job may have been rather attractive, if in a utilitarian sort of way.  Somehow, though, it wouldn't have looked right.

I must say that in my more than three decades of cycling, I've seen only one "virgin" Worksman.  One shop in which I worked was an official Worksman dealer.  Highland Park Cyclery did a brisk business inside a ramshackle building (which was torn down after HPC moved to fancier digs) at the foot of a commercial strip across the river from the college (Rutgers) I attended as an undergraduate.  Some of the stores and restaurants offered deliveries, some of which they made on bikes.  Those shops and restaurants already had their delivery bikes--Worksmans, mostly--before I started working at HPC.

So it was something of a surprise--to me, anyway--when I found myself assembling a brand-new Worksman.  I didn't mind that:  Although it wasn't a bike I'd've bought for myself, it was easy to work on.  Plus, one could not deny that it was suited about as well as any product could be to its purpose.

What surprised me, though, was that it wasn't a business that bought one.  Rather, he was--as I recall--a married middle-aged man who ran a "consulting business" from his home.  He never consulted me about what his business consulted on, but he seemed prosperous and his family harmonious.  

He said he'd wanted his Worksman to use as his "human powered station wagon."  Later, I saw him hauling groceries, building supplies, books, and even furniture on it.  Another thing I find interesting, in retrospect, was that he was looking to become less dependent on his car (which he sold not long after buying the Worksman) at a time when gasoline prices were falling, at least relative to what they were in the days around the Iran Hostage Crisis.

Although I saw that man on his Worksman nearly every day, it didn't seem to wear much.  Granted, Highland Park wasn't as harsh an environment as New York or other urban zones for a bike.  Plus, I'm sure he didn't subject it to the same kind of abuse as most delivery people did to theirs. 


Apparently, in spite of the fact that the bikes never seem to die, there's enough of a market for new ones that the company is thriving, and did even during the leanest of times in the American bike market, and before the current vogue for "cruisers".  I guess that disproves the notion that if a product is so well-made that it never needs replacement, the company making it will lose sales and stop making it, or even go out of business.  (Some old-timers claim that was the story of Weinmann concave rims and Sun Tour V-GT derailleurs.) In any event, the bikes are being made in the Ozone Park area of Queens, NY, about seven miles from my apartment and just off the route of a few of my regular rides. 

Afterword:  I was looking up Highland Park Cyclery.  Apparently, they've moved up the road into neighboring Edison and have renamed themselves Joyful Cycles, in a reference to 1 Thessolonians 5:16-18.  Ironically, Frank, who owned HPC while I worked there, and his wife Wendy were about as antithetical to religious fundamentalism as any two people could be!

The End Of A Ride As I Know It

Arielle was rather sad.  

We went on one of our favorite rides and we saw that it had changed.

The "lookout" point of Point Lookout has been fenced off since the last time we visited.  My fence-climbing days have passed; I figure that if I won't do it to help save the planet or some such thing, I won't do it to go and sit on some rocks (concrete slabs, actually) that jut into the water.  Plus, I learned in no uncertain terms that I'm not welcome.

As many times as I've ridden here, I don't make a very convincing resident.  For one thing, it seems that the locals--if they ride--ride beach cruisers.  Plus, my income falls short by a digit or two for living in the village of Point Lookout.

I assured Arielle that nothing is her fault; she wasn't upset with me for going on a ride I couldn't complete.  Yes, I rode home--64 miles in all--but I don't consider it a complete ride.  

I'd like to hope that the park will be open again in the spring.  If not, well, what can I say?  Over the past few years, I've begun a new chapter in my life, which includes having found new riding buddies.  I guess it's also time for me to find new places to ride locally.

A Cycling Holiday Like None You've Seen

Between all of the student conferences, papers and exams, and all of the people who have decided that they absolutely must have a meeting about their pet projects, I have to remind myself that this is the "holiday season."


Indeed it is.  Chanukkah celebrations have begun, and, of course, the Winter Equinox, Christmas, Boxing Day and Kwanzaa will soon be upon us.  I want so much to do a ride for fun...


My current situation got me to thinking about a "cycling holiday."  On the other side of the pond, that means taking a vacation on two wheels.  But I was thinking of the phrase in the American way:  a holiday (what the Brits and other Euros would call a "fete") that includes cycling.


Now here's a cycling holiday you won't see in America or Europe:

Actually, this photo was taken during Yom Kippur. Can you imagine anything like this along the West Side Highway or along I-95?  

The Ghost Of A Hipster Fixie (For Bronx Jon)

If you've cycled in New York, or any number of other cities, you've probably seen a "ghost bike."  It's painted white, and is usually an old, donated or discarded, bike.  This somber reminder of a cyclist who's been struck or killed by a motor vehicle is locked to a sign post or other structure by the site of the accident, and is accompanied by a small sign.


When I went to meet Lakythia for a ride yesterday, I saw one I'd seen many times before.  Not to make light of it, but I couldn't help but to think, "Where else but in Williamsburg?"

The neighborhood is, after all, the de facto home of the "hipster fixie."  As far as I know, this is the only bike of that genre to become a "ghost."  It commemorates "Bronx Jon":

To Jon, or your family or friends:  I mean no disrespect.  I'm glad that you've been so memorialized.  I think, though, that your memorial may well be one of a kind.

Christmas Bikes And Trees

For Christmas, a lot of kids dream of finding a bike under the tree.  Actually, most kids who got bikes for Christmas--myself included--didn't find their wheels "under" pine branches strung with lights.  More likely, their Schwinns or Columbias or Raleighs were beside the tree, or in another location altogether. You have to live in a fairly big place in order to have a big enough space for a tree under which a bike can stand.


Anyway...wherever Santa actually leaves the bike, we still have an image of Christmas that includes a bike under the tree.  But I wonder:  Has anyone imagined a holiday season in which the bike becomes the Christmas tree?

This is part of a massive display from the Assiniboine Valley Railway in Winnipeg. 


Bikes!  Trains!  Sleds!  Trees!  Sounds like a Christmas diorama come to life.  

Bike Noir

Really, I don't like to leave my bikes in the rain.  But sometimes it's inevitable.

Such was the case last night.  I managed to just beat the rain on my way to work.  As you may know, one of my favorite games is "playing chicken with the rain."  So, I always run the risk of getting caught, or parking, in the rain--or of going to work dry and coming out to find a wet bike.

I guess I shouldn't be so surprised that Vera would take to a rain-slicked night.  The raindrops and streetlights bring out her natural glow, I guess.

She likes to show a little leg now and again.  Given that she kept going, and got me to work before the rain, I can certainly indulge her!