Krof

For the past few days, I've had a relapse of the respiratory illness I had during the winter.  So, I was off the bikes and generally out of commission.

I finally got out today, to go to the store.  Along the way, I saw a bike that normally wouldn't capture my attention:  one of the many department-store "mountain" bikes you see parked on the street.  However, something struck me as odd about this one:

Did you notice what was off?  Here's a shot that might give you a clue:

Did you notice that the brakes are mounted to the rear of the fork?  That was the first thing that tipped me off to something else that's wasn't quite right:  Look at the angle of the fork legs.

Yes, the fork is mounted backward.  Was it deliberately installed that way by some kid who wanted to make his bike "different"?  I don't know whether that's more or less disturbing than the other probable explanation:  Whoever assembled the bike simply didn't know any better.  

Look at how far the front wheel is from the rest of the bike:

It's not merely an aesthetic concern, however. I simply cannot imagine how the bike rides with the fork in such a position.  I would expect the shopping carts in the local supermarket to have quicker, more responsive and more accurate steering than the bike with a fork mounted that way.  In fact, with such handling, I'd be afraid to ride the bike, especially in traffic.

I wonder whether the bike's rider notices anything odd or unusual about the ride.  Perhaps he or she has never ridden anything else and so has no basis for comparison.  Perhaps  this person thinks that bikes normally handle like that one.

Now that's a scary thought--at least to me.

Bicycles: Food For Thought

Some years ago, Santa left a package of this in my Christmas stocking:

It was actually very good pasta.  If I recall correctly, it was made in Italy.  At any rate, it came in the trecolori of verte, blanco e rosso.  As much of a Francophile as I am, I'm not so sure that I would have wanted pasta en bleu.

I have seen cookies and other foods--usually sweets--shaped like bicycles.  I can easily imagine cutting vegetables and fruits and forming the pieces into two-wheeled crudites.  However, I have a harder time seeing meat, fish or fowl as velocipedic viandes.

All of this begs a question:  Has anyone ever eaten an actual bicycle?

One Michel Lotito--a Grenoble native who performed under the name "Monsieur Mangetout"-- would have answered, "Moi!"

The best part is that he ate not one, but eighteen, bicycles during his lifetime.  Apparently, it was his favorite non-food delicacy:  He also consumed fifteen shopping carts, seven televisions, six chandeliers and one Cessna 150 aircraft, among other objects you won't find on the menus of restaurants in his hometown. (I know: I've been there!)

Before partaking of his meals, he cut the objects into pieces and, when necessary, ground up the parts.  I don't know whether or not he said grace, but he did gulp some mineral oil before downing his repasts, and drank water throughout each "course".  If you ask me, his exploits give new meaning to the term "slider".

He claimed never to have suffered any ill effects from his galvanized gourmandizing, even though he consumed some substances that are considered poisonous.  He also said he never had trouble passing any of the estimated nine tons of metal he ingested between 1959 and 1997.  No Montezuma's  Revenge for him.  However, he also said that bananas and hard-boiled eggs made him sick.

On 25 June 2007, ten days after he turned 57, he died "of natural causes".

All of this, of course, begs another question:  Did he ever eat a carbon fiber bike?  If so, did its fiber content aid his digestion?

This Is Your Brain On Two Wheels

Back when Nancy Reagan was telling us to "Just Say No," this commercial was all over the airwaves:

About a decade later, we were subjected to "This Is Your Brain On Heroin":

Last week, President Obama announced a brain-research initiative.  According to scientists who could be involved, this project is far more ambitious than the human genome project because, frankly, we know less about our brains now than we did about our genes three decades ago.  Also, the genome project had a clearly-defined goal; by definition, such a thing is all but impossible in brain research.

Anyway, I'm waiting to find out what they might tell us about bicycling's effect on the brain.  I'd love to see the commercial for that!

The Future Of Cycling Fashion?

I dream of the day I can go to a job interview or board meeting dressed like this:

From the Osprey Packs bike blog

I'd settle for looking as good as she does in a skirt, heels and chainmark!  

Now, if someone made those shoes compatible with Look, SPD or other cleats and someone raced in them, that would be interesting, to say the least!

The Grass Is Greener...

Believe it or not, I've actually mowed lawns.  For those few years I lived in New Jersey, my brothers, parents and I took turns cutting the grass around the house. And, I would sometimes make some money by leaving neighbors' and strangers' lawns shorn.

Having been a city girl for most of the rest of my life, I haven't cut very many lawns since those days in the Garden State.  But, if I ever have to leave the Big Apple (or urban life altogether), I now know what I need to make the transition easier:

Miyata 912

Today I saw one of my bikes parked on the street.  Well, sort of.

As I was on my bike, and in a hurry, I didn’t get a chance to take a photo.  However, I did find an old photo of a bike just like it. 

I rode this Miyata 912 for a couple of years.  At the time, it was Miyata’s second- or third-line racing bike.  It came with Shimano 600 components, or as a frame—which is how I got mine.

As you can see from the photo, I set it up as a sort of daytripping/light touring bike, with wide-range gearing, a rack and wider tires than would normally be ridden on such a bike.

The lugged frame was constructed from chrome-moly steel tubing which Miyata claimed was “triple butted”.  I wasn’t quite sure of what that meant.  All I knew that the bike gave a pretty stiff and stable ride.   I took it on a few overnight and weekend trips, with a light load in the rear and a handlebar bag on the front.  The bike handled smoothly, but I’m not sure I would have wanted to load it for a long tour, or with camping equipment.

I knew a few racers and other cyclists who rode the Miyata “Team Pro,” which was the company’s top-of-the-line racing bike.  At least two claimed it was the stiffest and quickest road bike they ever mounted.  Mind you, they were riding Italian bikes before they got hold of their Team Pros.

While the 912 was not quite in the same class, more than a few were raced.  I had the feeling that the differences between it and the Team Pro had more to do with geometry than materials or workmanship: The Team Pro didn’t even pretend to versatility, while the 912 had slightly longer clearances that probably could have taken fenders (albeit narrow ones) if I’d wanted them. 

The 912, as you can see, was also very striking, visually—especially, if I do say so myself, with the yellow cable housings I installed on it.

For me, there was just one problem:  The top tube was a bit long for me.  As a result, I rode it with a stem that had a rather short extension, which blunted some of its handling qualities, at least somewhat.

I finally sold the 912 to someone whose torso was longer than mine.  He was grateful.

Six Years With Max

Six years ago today, I took Max into my home.

A few months earlier, my friend Millie rescued him from a street that divides a shop in which metal is cut, bent and welded from another in which auto bodies are painted, sometimes in bizarre schemes.  Just down the block from it is a commercial bakery that supplies restaurants in Manhattan as well as in Queens:  the place from which Marley was rescued.

Millie kept Max in her house for a time.  But she already had other cats, and a guy who briefly moved into the neighborhood took him in.  He disappeared, as he was wont to do, for two weeks.  A neighbor heard Max’s cries.  Fortunately, the guy returned a day later, and Millie took Max from him.

I offered to take Max home—when I was ready.  You see, during that time, Candice, who had been in my life for twelve years, died.

I jokingly referred to her as my “ballerina”:  She was pretty and thin even though I fed her what I fed Charlie.  And she always seemed to be walking en pointe.


In some ways, Marley reminds me of her. She liked to jump into my lap, cuddle and curl, as he does.  Also,  she was a bit skittish, though very gentle, as Marley is. While Max always seems ready to greet anyone I bring into my apartment, Marley is more cautious:  It takes him some time to work up the nerve (or whatever cats have) to meet my guests.  However, once he “comes out”, he rubs himself against my guest and licks his or her hand.  Candice was like that, too.

She died  a little more than a year after my first Charlie.  They were about the same age (15 years), though Candice spent a little less time in my life because I adopted her when she was three years old, while Charlie came home with me only a few weeks after he was born.   But both he and Candice shared some important times in my life, including the early and middle parts of my transition.  And I owned about a dozen bikes (though not all at the same time) and rode about a dozen more during that time!

Then Max came along.  I’ve gone through some more changes (and bikes) and he has just loved, and loved some more.  He doesn’t have to do anything else.

The End Of A Day At The Beginning Of A Season

During my ride home, I stopped at the Long Island City piers just in time for this:

And, in one sign that Spring is finally springing on us, I saw a willow just beginning to open itself to the sun that's finally warming it:

A Thread Or A Loaf Of Bread?

It seems that every time I take Arielle out for a ride, I see other pretty bikes.

Today's trek was no exception.  On my way to Point Lookout, I wasn't even a mile from my apartment when I saw this gem locked to a signpost:

At first glance, it might seem like just another bike-boom era French mixte bike.  But, as I passed it, the white pinstriping on the lovely blue fork caught my eye.  When I turned did an about-face to get a look at it, I noticed some nicer detailing than one usually finds on such a bike:

If those aren't Nervex lugs--which they probably aren't, given that the frame is built of regular carbon-steel tubing rather than, say, Reynolds 531 or Vitus 888--they are a reasonable facsimile.  More to the point, some care seems to have been taken in joining and finishing them.

Also, you might be able to see the brazed-on pump peg and shift levers.  The components were typical of bikes from that era:  steel cottered crank, Huret Luxe derailleurs, Normandy hubs and RIgida steel rims.  Everything, it seemed, was original equipment except for the tires and the brakes.  The latter component had a label that read "centerpull," but no brand name.  Bikes like these usually came with Mafac or Weinmann centerpulls; I am guessing that this bike came with the former, as the bars sported Mafac levers.

The steel "rat trap" pedals are also, I suspect, original equipment.  They are a variation I've seen only on a few bikes:

It looks like a cross between a cage and a platform. I've never tried such a pedal, but I suspect it would be more comfortable with soft-soled shoes than the steel cages on pedals found on similar bikes.

Even with such lovely details, I couldn't help but to chuckle at the bike's brand name:

If you've ever been in a boulangerie, you know that a ficelle is a long, skinny loaf of bread. (Not all French breads are baguettes!)  Actually, "ficelle" means "thread" or "string"; it's the diminutive of "fiche", or strand.

I've seen only a few of these bikes, even in France:  They seem to have been a small regional manufacturer.  I can't find any recent information about them, so I don't know whether or not they're still in business.  Perhaps they were taken over by a batard like Peugeot.

Getting Badged

Now I'm going to repeat a shocking confession I made in one of my earliest posts on this blog:  I was a Scout.

Actually, they're called "Scouts" today.  But back when I was in uniform, they were "Boy Scouts".  So, you might ask, if I was dealing with a gender-identity conflict, why did I join the Boy Scouts--especially when neither of my parents, nor any other adult in my life, nudged me into it?

You might have guessed at least part of the answer:  I was trying to fit in.  But I also got to spend time away from home and school on camping trips and such.

I mention my Scouting because, believe it or not, the Boy Scouts had a merit badge for bicycling.  (They still have it.) I was the first in my troop to earn the badge; if that troop still exists, I'm guessing that others have earned it.

For most merit badges, the scoutmaster or some other adult approved by him was supposed to supervise whatever work you did for the badge.  At that time, there still weren't very many adult cyclists--at least not in the part of New Jersey to which my family had moved me.  So, my scoutmaster, Mr. Kroner (who was also a county judge) basically took my word that I did the rides of fifteen, twenty-five and fifty miles.  Being the good Scout that I was, I kept my Scout's honor and did those rides.

As I remember, I had to show that I could fix a flat tire and do a couple of other basic repairs.  I demonstrated those to Judge Kroner.  He quizzed me on the rules of the road and hand signals, and He signed off on the badge.

Actually,  Cycling wasn't the only merit badge I earned for doing things I would have done anyway. As I recall, there was a merit badge for Scholarship, which required, as I remember, a "B" average and to do some sort of research project or paper.   There was also one for Reading:  I think I had to read twelve books and write brief reports or summaries. Mrs. McKenna, my English teacher, signed off on both of those merit badges.

Perhaps the strangest merit badge I earned was for Fingerprinting.  At that time, a show called "The FBI", starring Efram Zimbalist Jr. as Agent Erskine, aired every Sunday night. My father never missed an episode. I often watched it and actually found myself fascinated with how fingerprinting and other techniques were used to solve crimes. I asked Judge Kroner about the badge; he arranged a visit to the forensics lab for me, where one of the officers showed me how fingerprints were made and what made each one different.  All I did was listen to the guy and I had another badge.

But I digress.  Today I take issue with the Scouts' ban policies on gays (and, to my knowledge, trans boys).  But I also do not forget that they were the first group  of people to reward me for cycling!

A Nice Graphic From Philly

I came across this infographic from Bike Philadlephia.  It compares bicyclists in the City of Brotherly Love to those of other cities.

Bike Philadelphia infographic by jasonkillinger.

Actually, I like it as much for its design as for the information in it!

A Shopper On Campus

Today, in one of the college's bike racks, I saw something interesting:

I apologize that I couldn't get take a better photo.  But, as you can see, it's a small-wheeled bike that doesn't have a folding or collapsible frame.  It seems like a variant on the "Shopper" bike, which Bobbin and a few other companies have re-introduced during the last couple of years.

The medium-wide semi-slick tires are what one might expect to see on a city bike.  And the bike's low profile makes for quick mounting and dismounting.  Those features were common on the "shopper" bikes Raleigh and a few other English companies made during the 1960's and 1970's.  Those bikes were very popular in Albion, but didn't seem to find much of an audience anywhere else.  I think one reason may be that, in the US at any rate, people equated the small wheels with folding or children's bikes.

The bike in the photo differs slightly from those bikes, and from the Bobbin "shopper" I saw at Adeline's and in last year's New Amsterdam bike show.  For one thing, the Bobbin, like the classic "shopper," comes with an internally-geared hub, while the bike in the photo has a rear derailleur with six speeds.  Also, the Bobbin and the older bikes had fenders, chainguards and lights:  They looked rather like  classic three-speeds with smaller wheels and a somewhat tighter geometry.  

Also, the bike in the photo has white(!) rims and chain.  Could the maker (I could find only a "C" logo) be trying to appeal to hipsters?  Even if that's the intent, I think it's an interesting bike.  I was surprised to see it parked at the college.  Then again, it might be just the right bike for a lot of student commuters or for students on residential campuses.  In other words, it just might become a "collegiate" bike.

 

A Serene Life On My Bike

One day, I was talking with someone I admired as an artist and took as a kind of spiritual adviser.  (I was young then.)  I asked her what she wanted most.  

I was expecting something deep and profound--or, at least, something that would have sounded deep and profound to me back then. (I think it was around the time I read Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf and Siddhartha.)  Here's what she said:

A simple life and innocent times.

Now, at the time I thought neither was possible--and, that, in fact, they were marketing tropes.  Yep, you can live the simple life if you can afford it, and you can have innocent times if your world is, well, a simple place.  The truth is, of course, that I never could have had innocent times because I wasn't so innocent and times were never simple because I was simpler than I was willing to acknowledge.

But I digress.  For the first time in decades, I thought of that encounter when I stumbled across this photo:

I can just imagine unrolling what's strapped to the saddle and unfurling myself on it, in a field where I might fill the basket on the front of the bike:

I guess there are actually people who live that way.  Goddess bless 'em.  (Hey, changing genders turned me into a feminist!)

Both photos come from the lovely blog A Serene Life For Me.

The Persistence Of Dropped Top Tubes

What if Salvador Dali were hired to design a bike frame--and he only did the top tube?

The result might look something like this:

I had never before seen such a frame sporting Bianchi logos.  But now that I think of it, I'm not surprised.  The Bianchi in the photo was made in Japan for Bianchi during the 1980's.  Back then, the most famous Italian bicycle manufacturer was rebranding bikes built by Panasonic, Bridgestone and, it was rumoried, Miyata, for the US market.

When you look at this Panasonic closely, you realize why Bianchi made such a move.  During the 1970's and early 1980's, Japanese makers like the ones I've mentioned, and Fuji and Nishiki, took over much of the entry- and mid-level market for road and touring bikes in the US. There were good reasons for that:  The Japanese companies were offering better bikes for the money than most of their  European and American rivals.  Their quality control was more consistent:  Highland Park Cyclery sold Miyata and Panasonic when I worked there, and I don't recall having to return one for a defect.  On the other hand, I saw braze-ons break off a Peugeot and Treks that had miscut threads and wheels that didn't hold up for very long.  

Perhaps the biggest "draw" of Japanese bikes was that their drivetrains usually shifted more accurately and (a major selling point with new cyclists) more easily than those on their European counterparts.  The Panasonic in the second photo was the lowest-level ten-speed bike the company offered at the time, but its Shimano derailleur outshifted all but the very top models made in Europe at the time.  The BIanchi is a few levels up from the Panasonic, and its Shimano gears were more accurate and less fussy, I would submit, than any others--except for the ones made by Sun Tour.  

Of course, BIanchi would not be the only company to re-brand Japanese bikes for sale in the US.  Some of the most famous examples of such bikes were the "Voyageur" and "LeTour" lines Schwinn sold; Raleigh, Peugeot and other companies would also offer bikes from the Land of the Rising Sun.  Other companies, like Motobecane, would continue to make bikes in their home countries but equip them with Japanese derailleurs, freewheels and cranksets--and, later, other components--for American cyclists.

But not all of those companies offered bikes with the frame design of the BIanchi and Panasonic you see in this post.  In fact, frames with top tubes so shaped were made for only a few years, or so it seemed.  A couple of years ago, Trek revived  a modified version of it on their "Belleville" city/porteur bike:

I have never ridden a bike with such a configuration, but I can see the benefit of it, particularly for cyclists with disproportionately short legs.  I would think that people who, for other reasons, want a frame that offers more clearance than the traditional diamond design but don't want something more rigid or stable than a traditional women's, or even a mixte, frame would also like such a design.


Here's what I always wondered:  If you buy one of those bikes, do you get a watch with it?  Or a bike computer:  Imagine if Salvador Dali designed those!

The New Me

Spring has (supposedly) sprung upon us.  Yesterday was Easter.  So this is supposed to be a time of renewal--or, at least, to shake off my midlife crisis.

So I decided to take on a new sport.  Actually, I made up my mind to, finally, take a go at one of the few areas of cycling I'd never before tried.

No, I'm not doing a biathlon or ice-fishing on my bike.  What I'm doing, instead, is something I always said I was "too old" to do, mainly because by the time I'd heard about it, I was already older than most of the cyclists involved in it.

I'm talking, of course, about BMX racing.  If this is how I resolve my midlife crisis, I figure it's better than being a "cougar" or buying a red sport convertible (which I couldn't afford, even if i wanted it).

So far, my decision is working out well.  I already have my first commercial endorsement:

Coming soon to a box of Kellogg's Corn Flakes near you.

An Old Riding Partner--Or Racing Rival?

"Mind if I ride your wheel?"

"No, not at all!"

He didn't realize it's the best--or, at least my favorite--question anyone has asked me in a while. It's  as good as "How old are you?  Forty?"

We'd been playing "tag" along Cross Bay Boulevard, the road that runs the length of an island in Jamaica Bay between Howard Beach and Rockaway Beach.  It's a long (about 4km) flat stretch, which makes almost anyone on a bike feel like a sprinter, at least for a few minutes.  The day was sunny, though chilly, and we were buffeted by the winds one expects at this time of year.  Still, I think both he and I felt  about ten years younger.

Actually, I felt even younger than that. A man--a trim one, who looked like he'd been riding more than I'd been--wanting to draft my wheel.  Hey, if he'd asked me, I probably would have pulled him with one hand!

Somehow he looked familiar.  He was maybe a centimeter, if that, taller than me and, as I mentioned, trimmer.  His dark beard was flecked with gray, and his fair black skin had a few small wrinkles.  I'd've guessed him to be close to my own age.  That guess would turn out to be correct.

As we talked, I couldn't help but to think we'd met--actually, ridden--together.  When I was living in Park Slope, he was living on the other side of Prospect Park, in Crown Heights.  Now he lives in Bedford-Stuyvesant.  So, naturally, we talked about riding in Prospect Park, and how we both had the "ten lap" rule:  Once we could ride that much in the park without much effort--something that would happen around this time of year, maybe a bit earlier--we'd "graduate" to longer rides outside the park,and even outside of Brooklyn or New York City.  I had a feeling I'd ridden with him on at least one of those longer rides; he had the same feeling. 

He also mentioned that he'd road-raced, around the same time I did.  Like me, he quit racing (and I also stopped riding off-road) after turning 40:  Although, ironically, I had more strength and endurance than I did 15 years earlier, my wounds weren't healing as quickly as they once did.  He also gave that as a reason for not chasing trophies, and other riders.

I rode with him for a couple of hours and, actually, off the route I'd planned to ride.  But I didn't mind:  Just as I was wondering whether I'd ever get myself into any kind of shape, ever again, he wanted to ride my wheel.  And he thought I'd been riding more than he'd been.  To be fair, I have to give at least some of the credit to Arielle:

To answer a question you might be asking:  He gave me his name (which was familiar) and told me where he works.

Hunting For Spring

No, I didn't go hunting today.  Two of my uncles and my maternal grandfather hunted for sport (and food).  I cannot imagine myself doing such a thing--unless, perhaps, I were really desperate.

But I digress.  You may have noticed a staff propping up the "dog".  There are four such decoys or statues or whatever they are in a playground in Fort Totten Park, where I rode today.

The day was a bit colder than normal for this time of year. The wind was to be expected.  However, I think it was the sky that made this afternoon feel more autumnal than spring-like.

However, Tosca looks good in any season, if I do say so myself.

A Mystery: It's About The Shoes

The weather this "spring" is nothing like it was at this time last year. Yesterday was the first day since the equinox that the temperature rose above 50F (10C).  Plus, we've had various combinations of precipitation, on and off, ever since the official beginning of the season.

Today I got out for a brief ride after an errand.  Along Greenwich Street, near the meat-packing district, I spotted this:

These days, it's hardly remarkable to see a bike parked on just about any street in New York.  But I wondered about the desert boots (That's what we used to call them back in the day)  someone left beside it.

Sometimes I see pairs of shoes left outside the doors of buildings in parts of Brooklyn and Queens.  That usually means that the building is a mosque.  However, I didn't think that the building behind the shoes--and bike--was used for Islamic prayer services.  

Although the "tongue" of the left shoe stuck out, I didn't get the impression that the shoes were abandoned.  Still, I had to wonder why they were left next to that bicycle.  

Why I Didn't Give Up Cycling

I have been cycling, in one way or another, for more than four decades.  Now I do not pedal nearly as many miles (or kilometres) as I did "back in the day."  But I feel that, in some way, cycling is as much a part of my life now as it was then.

Through all of those years, there was one period when I seriously considered giving up cycling altogether.  I was going to keep one bike "for old time's sake" and, perhaps, for errands and transportation.  But I thought that my days as a regular rider were going to come to an end.

That time came early in my life as Justine.  I really didn't know how, or even whether, I could combine cycling--or, more precisely, my identity as a cyclist (There were years in which I pedaled 360 days and 25,000 or more kilometers!) with the life on which I was about to embark.  One reason for that was, frankly, I had practically no idea of what the life on which I was embarking would be like.  Oh, I had visions of who and what Justine would be.  But, as happens with nearly everyone who undergoes a gender transition, my expectations--and the sort of woman I would become--differed, at least somewhat. Although my therapist, social worker, doctor and other transgender people who were further along in their transitions--or who'd had surgery and were living fully in their "new" genders--told me such a thing would probably happen, I had no idea of what I would become as a woman.

Also, I was trying so hard to be the sort of woman I envisioned at the beginning of my transition that it took me time to realize that it could encompass much more than I imagined at the time--and that, of course, the sort of woman I could, and would, become could be different.  I'd entered my transition with ideas of what women in the '40's and '50's were like, which were the ideas to which early transsexuals like Christine Jorgensen conformed, and what the public expected of transsexuals (to the extent that they paid attention to us).

But, perhaps the most important reason why I thought I might not ride anymore was that so much of my cycling had been a means of escape, however temporary.  Whether I was pedaling 180 rpm on the Prospect Park loop or hugging the edge of a virage in the Alps--or dodging taxis and giving the one-fingered peace sign to drivers who got in my way--bicycling had always been a means of escape for me.  I think now of a friendly acquaintance who was one of the first women to attend her undergraduate college on a track and field scholarship.  She has told me that whether she was training on local streets or pumping away during the state championships, she was "running for my life by running from my life".  She never would have been able to attend her college without that scholarship, she said.  But, perhaps even more important, she says she doesn't know  how she would have "survived, in one piece" a childhood that included incest and other forms of dysfunction and disease in her family.

My childhood wasn't nearly as Dickensian as hers.  Perhaps I shouldn't say that, for such a comparison may not make any sense:  After all, she suffered at the hands of other people, while most of my torment came from within me.  Still, I could relate to what she said as much as anything anyone else has said to me.  Her running and my cycling had been means of escape, however momentary.  

She hasn't run, even for fitness, in more than two decades.  She has taken up other sports (including cycling, which is how I know her) and forms of training, but she has not run since the day she was doing laps in the park and "asking myself why," she said.

But I didn't give up cycling because, frankly, I probably have always enjoyed it more than she liked running, and I now have more reasons to continue on two wheels than she does on the training loop.  Also, during my second year of living as Justine, I was running errands and shopping after work one Friday.  It was a pleasantly cool day in May,and I was still in the blouse, skirt and low heels I'd worn to work that day. I had just come out of a store and was unlocking my bike from a parking meter when a tall black man chatted me up.  "Are you European?", he wondered.

"Well, I've lived and traveled there," I explained.  "But I'm from here, and I've lived most of my life here."

"You look more like a European woman, getting around on your bike," he said.  He confirmed what I suspected, from his accent and mannerisms, that he was born in Africa but had lived much of his life in Europe--specifically, France.

By Harmonyhalo

That day I realized that, one way or another, I would probably continue to ride my bicycle in my new life.  I would never be the same kind of cyclist I was when I was living as Nick--and, honestly, at that time, I didn't want to be.  But I knew that as Justine, a newly-born woman in her 40's, I would be able to ride her bike in my new life--and my job and those stores wouldn't be my only destinations, any more than commuting and store-hopping would be my only rides.  

In The Cards

How many poker players are cyclists? 

For that matter, how many magicians ride bikes?

Those questions crossed my mind today when I was in a store, shopping for something entirely unrelated, and I came across decks of Bicycle playing cards.

I've seen them before, even though I can't remember the last time I played a card game and don't know the first thing about poker.  

Turns out, Bicycle cards are some of the best-known. They have been in continuous production since 1885.  Although I have found no information to confirm it, I suspect that the name has to do with the start date:  That is around the time bicycling was becoming fashionable.  A high-wheeler from that time cost, in today's dollars, more than even the most expensive custom machines made for record attempts and the riders on the wealthy nations' national teams.

In other words, bicycles had the same connotations as a private jet might have today.  People rode them to the opera and to art openings.  As arduous as they were to ride, nobody would mount a "penny farthing" unless he or she were wearing "proper" attire.  And I ain't talkin' about "billboard" jerseys and shorts in lycra!

Apparently, BIcycle cards are available in a variety of configurations, including versions for various card games and large-print cards for people with low vision.  However, nearly all Bicycle decks have an "air cushion" finish, which is said to improve their handling and is one of the reasons why they are so favored by magicians and performers who incorporate card tricks into their routines.

The first card in a typical deck is Bicycle's uniquely-styled Ace of Spades.  That card played a role its designers probably didn't envision.  During the Vietnam War, two American lieutenants wrote to the United States Playing Card Company (the manufacturer of Bicycle cards) and requested decks containing nothing but Aces of Spades.  Those officers, and their underlings, scattered those cards around the countryside.  Some Vietcong fled at the mere sight of them:  They conflated the Ace of Spades with a similar-looking French fortune-telling card that foretold death and suffering.  (Vietnam, a.k.a. Indochina, had been a French colony for nearly a century.)   Some of the Vietcong also regarded Lady LIberty, which was inscribed on some decks of cards, as a goddess of death.

I'm sure some of them fled on bicycles.

Bicycles Are Beautiful. Bill Cosby Says So.

If you see a picture of people riding one of these and smiling, don't believe it.  They're probably gritting their teeth.

"One of these" refers to the "boneshaker".  Who made that trenchant observation about navigating one of those wood wheeled wonders?

Why, it was none other than everybody's favorite dad--in the 1980's, anyway.  I'm talking, of course, about Bill Cosby.

He uttered those immortal lines in "Bicycles Are Beautiful", a safety program he made during the 1970's "bike boom".  It's charming, even quaint, for a number of reasons.  One, of course, is seeing a younger Cosby.  But it's also interesting to see bikes, cars and the California landscape of that time.  Also, only one cyclist is wearing a helmet. Ironically, that cyclist got "doored" in the program.  And his helmet looked more like something a motocross or dirt-bike racer might wear. Given that the only alternative to that kind of helmet was the "leather hairnet" (which offered about as much protection against head injuries as the rhythm method offers against unplanned pregnancy), it's understandable that no one else was wearing helmets.

However, to his credit, Cosby dispelled some widely- (and wrongly-) held notions, such as the one that cyclists should ride against traffic.  Also, in watching the program, Cosby was not only admonishing cyclists to be vigilant and obey rules; he was also--as he has so often--promoting respect and civility.  I don't know whether or not he was an active cyclist, but the title of the program seems to reflect his attitude about bicycles and cyclists.

Still, I can't get over the fact that he pronounces "bicycle" as "buy-sigh-kle".

Riding In The Parks

For someone who's lived as long as I've lived in New York, I really haven't done much cycling in Central Park.  Even during the eight years I lived in Manhattan, I seldom ventured into Frederick Law Olmstead's masterpiece of urban landscaping.

I guess part of the reason why I didn't do many laps around Strawberry Fields and the lake is that, well, riding or running in the park seemed like such a New York cliche.  Being a reel Noo Yawkuh (and being young and full of testosterone and alcohol, among other things), I thought I was just too cool for that.

Actually, I came up with some pretty good reasons not to ride in the park:  Most of the times when I could ride there, the lanes were choked with other cyclists, runners, joggers, women (and, occasionally, men) pushing strollers and, ahem,  the bane of every New Yorker's existence:  those dreaded, dratted tourists!  Later, inline skaters would be added to the mix.  And, it seemed, nobody watched where he or she was going, especially the skaters. 

The funny thing was that everything I just said could also be said about Prospect Park in Brooklyn.  But I rode there far more often than I rode in Central Park. Part of the reason for that was that I lived very close to Prospect during my eleven years in Park Slope.  Also, when I was living there, I had begun to do a lot of fixed-gear riding, and Prospect was nearly perfect for that.  Plus, being a bit older, I think I'd  become a bit more tolerant of tourists and such.

Anyway, what got me to thinking about Central Park was a photo I came across:

Photo by Faungg on Flickr

Hello Kitty, Allen Keys And Yogurt

Today I think I took the sort of ride only I could have taken.

Actually, there was nothing terribly unusual about the ride itself (which is not to say that I didn't enjoy it). I rode into, and was blown by, wind gusts of up to 50 KPH as I pedaled along the World's Fair Marina Promenade and along under the Whitestone and Throgs Neck Bridges.  At least I had the wind at my back for part of the return ride.

Just as I was leaving the WFM Promenade, near LaGuardia Airport, I spotted this on the battered concrete ramp:

I'm guessing that this Park Tool Allen key set fell out of someone's seat bag, backpack or messenger bag.  The keys were in surprisingly good condition.  The smaller ones showed some wear, but still look usable, while the larger ones are in really good shape.

After finding that little treasure, I rode about two more kilometers to Kesso's for a container of my favorite Greek yogurt, which is made fresh every day.

As the owner packed a container for me, I found this on the floor:

What girl doesn't need a book of Hello Kitty! stickers?   None  had been removed; the booklet looked as if it just came off the shelf of a kiddie boutique in Park Slope.  

I picked it up and showed it to the owner of the shop.  He shrugged his shoulders.  "You like?  Take!"

Between those stickers, the tool, the yougurt and little Greek pastries, I was glad I rode with my Barley bag!