Fred And Ginger In The Swamp

During yesterday's ride, I stopped at the site of the Mala Compra plantation.  The name means "bad bargain" in Spanish.  

As you can imagine, the place was so named because it turned out not to be as suitable for agriculture as was hoped.  However, there are some strange and interesting sights, including this:

At first, I thought it might be one of those "only in Florida" species.  But a second look reveals otherwise:

They are actually two different trees, one dancing around the other:

It seems that the curvy, languorous one wants to be closer to the upright citizen:

What is it like to be locked in a dance for centuries?

Three-Wheeled Thrills

After bumping along some trails and a "nature walk" that seemed to be a boardwalk above a swamp, I rolled along the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway and up the bridge to Flagler Beach.  While parking a bike that I call "mine" only while riding it, a man on an adult tricycle struck up a conversation with me.  "Keep on riding," he exhorted.  "If you'll do, you'll always be a fine-looking young lady."

If he weren't so sweet, I'd've suggested he schedule an appointment with his ophthalmologist, if not a psychotherapist. Instead, I thanked him and, I think, blushed a bit.  I also realized that he was the fourth adult tricyclist I'd seen this morning. 

Of course, that last fact did not surprise me:  Florida must be the adult trike capital of North America, if not the world.  While I hope that I can continue riding on two wheels until the end, whenever that comes for me, I know there's one thing to look forward to if I ever find myself on three wheels, whether by choice or not:  The folks I've seen on three wheels have been, invariably, friendly.

Also, I might take up something that, had someone told me of its existence just a few years ago, I might have asked that person to share whatever was intoxicating him or her with me:  tricycle racing.

Yes, such a sport actually exists.  I learned of it only recently.  As far as I can tell, there isn't much, if any, of it here in the US.  However, there was a very active three-wheeled racing scene in the UK about thirty years ago and, according to the author of the Roadworks Reparto Corse blog, the sport remains popular there.

Englishman John Read in a tricycles-only (!) time trial, 1984.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised.  After all, a few of the classic British builders created trikes with the same attention to design, detail and construction as their more famous bicycles and tandems.  And a few manufacturers offered tricycles that were more performance-oriented than the clunky ones often found in these parts.

The RRC author says that a shop that employed him as a mechanic stocked a conversion kit consisting of a long strutted axle, cogs and two wheels that could replace the rear wheel of your road bike.  I also recall seeing such a kit in one of the shops in which I worked, and I remember several mail-order firms advertising it in Bicycling! magazine when I first started reading it about four decades ago.  I wonder whether that kit, or anything like it, is still being made. A lot of them could be sold here, in Florida.

 

By The Dunes

Took another early morning ride today.  This time, I pedaled up to Marineland.  It sits just south of the St. John's County line.  When you cross into the county from Marineland, Old Route A1A branches off, to the right, from the current A1A.

I suspect that Old A1A was an unpaved road.  It becomes one within a kilometer or so of the county line.  For once, I was actually glad to be riding a beach cruiser made from gaspipe tubing (on which I've replaced the original rotted-out tires with some decent mountain bike rubber) instead of one of my lightweights.

This was my reward for all of my skidding and sliding:

Call me selfish or greedy, but I was happy to have it all to myself!

Dawn In The Sunshine State

You haven't heard from me in a couple of days. No, I haven't dropped off the face of the Earth.  I'm visiting my parents, in Florida.

So why did I pick the sultriest time of year to visit the Sunshine State?  Well, for one thing, it's the first time in months I've had enough free days in a row to make the trip one in which I don't get back on the plane after having lunch with Mom.  For another, the fares are cheap now.  And, finally, speaking of Mom:  It's her birthday today!

I've been down here enough times that I know a thing or two about "going native".  Since arriving the other day, I've gone on two rides, both of them in the morning.  In fact, yesterday I started before dawn and so was treated to this:

and this:

and a painterly scene from Painter's Hill:

Fall--to the extent they have it here--doesn't begin for another three months or so.  But the dawn in Palm Coast tinges the trees and mosses with an odd foreshadowing of it:

As the sun rose higher, those leaves and mosses turned green, like everything else hanging from those branches.

I rode down A1A--the road that wends along the Atlantic Coast--through Flagler Beach and Gamble Rogers State Park to Ormond by the Sea, where I espied an interesting bit of landscape design:

Where else but in Florida can someone get away with a color like that on the exterior of a house?  Even in the Easter Egg Victorian areas of San Francisco, I don't think I ever saw a color like that.

Then, after lounging on the sand of Ormond Beach, I started back.  I noticed that A1A Beachside Bicycles had just opened for the day, so I stopped in to say hello to owners Ron and Diane.

There's absolutely nothing made from carbon-fiber in their shop. In fact, there are only a few new bikes.  Mostly, they do repairs, restorations and re-purposing.  As an example of the latter, a '70's Schwinn LeTour was being turned into a kind of Florida cruiser.

One of the repair jobs in the shop was this tandem sold by Sears and Roebuck during the 1960's, I think:

It's like other American bikes of the period from makers like Rollfast, Murray and Columbia that were constructed of spot-welded gaspipe tubing.  But this particular tandem is interesting because it has the twin lateral tubes normally associated with French (and, sometimes, British and Japanese) "mixte" frames:

Also noteworthy are the tires, which I believe are originals:

Those of you who are a decade or more younger than I am might find it difficult to believe that bicycle tires were made in the USA by companies like Firestone and Goodyear. Of course, none of them were lightweights.  But they made those whitewalls--like the one in this photo--you see on baloon-tired bikes of the period.

I stop at Ron's and Diane's shop because they were very friendly to me when I stopped in with a flat a few years ago.  They, like many people here, are a couple of honest folks trying to make a living in a difficult economy.  They--and their dog--remember me whenever I walk in.

Today I woke up a little later and managed not to ride quite as much. But I still enjoyed the calm of the streets and the air, so I plan to take a (possibly pre-) dawn ride tomorrow.  Some would argue it's the only way to ride here at this time of year!

Do They Ride Brooks Saddles?

I guess being "down under" explains why an Australian would use bottoms-up to advertise the top bike:

Fighting The Great War On Two Wheels

As you no doubt learned in your history classes, the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the presumptive heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, triggered the events that led to World War I.

He was killed on 28 June 1914.  Other countries made promises and issued ultimatums to each other, based on the sorts of relationships they had with the Austro-Hungarian Empire and its allies--or enemies.  

Everything came to a head in the first days of August in that year.  On the first, Germany declared war on Russia.  And, on this date 100 years ago, Germany declared war on France and invaded Belgium.  Then, on the following day, Great Britain declared war on Germany.

 

The Great War, as it came to be called, was the first international armed conflict in which aircraft--and one of the first in which motorized vehicles--were deployed. Bicycle battalions were also deployed in an attempt to mobilize fighting forces that could move more swiftly than regular infantry units.  Aircraft were invented barely a decade earlier, and motorized vehicles weren't around for much longer.  So they didn't have the range or maneuverability later versions of those vehicles would have.  Also, a single plane, motorcar or tank would need several soldiers to operate and maintain it, and at least one more to scout out and shoot (or bomb or gas) enemy combatants.

 

On the other hand, on a bicycle, a single soldier or other individual person could travel as a self-contained one-man fighting unit, as Hilary Searle of CycleSeven points out.  For example, members of the British Army Cyclist Corps were issued bicycles that held kit bags in the rear, under the seat.  Rations and personal items were stowed in those bags; from the frame's top crossbar hung an emergency toolkit.  Groundsheets were rolled up and suspended from the handlebars; even rifles could be carried on soldiers' bikes.

Members of the Army Cyclist Corps were specially trained as mechanics.  Hmm...I wonder what my life would be like if I'd learned how to fix in the Army rather than from the first edition of Anybody's Bike Book. 

As Ms. Searle points out, His Majesty's Army had to draw up regulations for using the bicycle, not only in the battlefield, but in drilling and ceremonial occasions.  The rulebook, first drawn up in 1907 and revised in 1911, contains such pearls as this:


'A cyclist standing with his cycle, with rifle attached to it, will salute with the right hand, as laid down in Section 19, returning the hand to the point of the saddle on the completion of the salute. When at ease, a cyclist, whether mounted or leading his bicycle, will salute by coming to attention, and turning his head to the officer he salutes. A party of cyclists on the march will salute on the command Eyes Right, which will be followed by Eyes Front, from the officer or NCO in charge.'


I would've loved for the cadet commanders to teach us that in our ROTC program!  Better yet, this:

'The position of the cyclist at attention is the same as that of the dismounted soldier, except that he will grasp the left steering handle with his left hand, and place the right hand at the point of the saddle, elbow to the rear.'

All right.  I'll stop being snide and cynical long enough to show that, every once in a while, the term "military intelligence" is not an oxymoron:

'Bicycle tyres should be wiped with a damp cloth after a march, so that all grit, which if left might cause a puncture, may be removed.'

'The rate of marching, excluding halts, will generally vary from 8 to 10 miles per hour, according to the weather, the nature of the country, and the state of the roads. A column of battalion size should not be expected to cover more than 50 miles in a day under favourable conditions.'

"Favourable conditions"?  In World War I?  Did such things exist? Some terrain on the Western Front proved too much even for cyclists (as tough a bunch as we are), as the heavy iron bikes got bogged down in mud or simply were unrideable on rough terrain.  (They were fine on tarmac.) For that reason, the military brass decided that cyclists had little tactical value and disbanded the Corps after the War.

 

When The Rain Held Out For Time

I am not a shadow; I am not cycling among shadows. There are no shadows:  A couple crosses from a dark canyon of shutters and silence into a delta spreading from the streaming white current of the streetlight and sprayed by a flashing traffic signal.  

The couple crosses the intersection, their bodies making slight bobs with each step.  They look younger, much younger, than I am, but carry with them ages of stone, ages of fire, far older than the bricks and shingles and window panes that line these streets.  

Perhaps they will live the rest of their lives, and their children theirs, on these streets in which the flow of time stops for their history, their eternity, every Friday night.  Or, perhaps, when the streams of sodium vapor light and steel will swell, or the glow of neon will turn the brick houses into the walls of an inferno, and they will leave as, perhaps, their grandparents did from some other place where a cyclist who wasn’t one of them rode through a deserted intersection—or stopped—as they crossed.

They have, probably, another block or two to walk before they reach they reach their parents’ or grandparents’ or friends’ homes—or shul.  I have about another hour of riding ahead of me before I come to my apartment, and Max and Marley.  I hope the rain will hold out until then; it has for most of the afternoon and evening, and this night, for which it was promised.  Even if it doesn’t, I wouldn’t care; in fact, I might even wend my way through more of these streets.

********************************************************************** 

 

 

As it happened, I did ride up one of those one-way street, turned at an avenue, descended another one=way street, and continued along that self-imposed maze for a couple more kilometers than I would’ve ridden otherwise.  Although the night was humid, the air felt more like the kind of pleasant spray you feel on your skin when you stand by the ocean: It was somewhat cool for this time of year.  

I arrived at my apartment dry.  The rain held out, not only for my ride home, but for the ballgame—the Brooklyn Cyclones vs. the Auburn Doubledays—to which I rode, in Coney Island.  Thirty-some-odd kilometers there, a few more than that back.  The Cyclones, in spite of making four errors, won the game in the last at-bat.  As the saying goes, a good time was had by all.

Going Bananas

Back in the day, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and we raced on bare rims, shoeless, in three feet of snow, we didn't have energy bars.  Therefore, most of us carried things now relegated to the shelves of your local Whole Foods (a.k.a. the store with the most unhealthy-looking healthy customers).  I'm talking about things like granola--and bananas.

Bananas are still one of the best foods for cycling.  But on warm days, they ripen.  So, when you pull one out of your bag--or, worse, your jersey pocket--you're liable to have a mushy mess squooshing through your fingers and, possibly, oozing through the seams of your bag or jersey.  

It seems that a San Francisco company called Biken has come up with a solution to the problem:

Will the Banana Holder become this year's must-have accessory?

You Say Orgao, I Say Urago

Today I will tell you one of my dim, dark secrets.

No, I don't have any warrants against me in other states or spouses or children in other countries.  Not that I know of, anyway. ;-)

OK, here it is:  I worked in market research.  It was a long time ago, and not for very long.  The money was really good, especially for someone who had no relevant experience or discernible skills or talents. (Some would argue that I still don't have any.  If I don't, I probably never will.)  And, in one weird way it was an excellent fit for me:  I learned all sorts of weird facts that had no bearing on anything else in my life.  And, truth be told, I enjoyed it.  Perhaps it's the--or, at least, one--reason why I've worked in the academic world.

One of those strange and, to me, useless facts is this:  Of all of the world's registered trade-mark names, the one that is least often misspelled is also the only one that sounds exactly the same in every language. At least, those things were true at the time I was working in market research.

It's the name of a company that makes things most of you have used at one time or another, and many of you use today.  Any guesses as to what it might be?

All right, I'll tell you:  Kodak.

George Eastman, the company's founder, said he made the name out of thin air.  He liked the letter "K" and wanted a trade name beginning and ending with that letter.   That's how "Kodak" came to his mind.

I don't think there's any equivalent in the bicycle industry.  Since bikes are made in so many different countries, with so many different languages, many names are pronounced--and, perhaps more important, spelled--in ways that would render them unrecognizable in their home countries.  Or they are confused with other names.

As an example, when I mention to some sweet young thing on an urban fixie that my beloved single-gear steed is a Mercian (as three of my other bikes are), they think I'm talking about Mercier.  Back in the day, the latter company made some perfectly respectable bikes in France (Lance Armstrong won his first race on one); now they are cranked out of a factory in China and sold on the Internet.  In contrast, Mercians are made in Derbyshire, England, in pretty much the same way--and from similar materials--as the very first bikes bearing that name were made nearly seven decades ago.

Others have seen my fixie--or my other Mercians--and saw "American" instead of the name on the bikes.  I guess that's understandable.  After all, the other day I similarly misread the name of a bike listed on eBay.

Like Mercier, Urago was once a well-respected French bicycle maker.  Actually, Uragos were built by hand, though in greater quantities than bikes from custom builders, so they had nicer workmanship than Merciers.  Also,  Merciers were built is Saint-Etienne (near Lyon), the traditional center of the French cycle industry.  Uragos were made in Nice, which at various times in its history was ruled by Italians.  Not surprisingly, there are still many people of Italian heritage in that part of France--among them, les freres Urago.

So, perhaps, I can be forgiven for first misreading the name of the bike I saw on eBay--and for, after realizing I hadn't, thinking that the person who wrote the listing misspelled "Urago" as "Orago".

Turns out, the bike actually bears the latter name.  The person who listed it couldn't find any information about the company that made it.  All he/she knows is that there's a town called "Orago" in Italy, near Milan.

However, the  bike looks a lot like something Urago might've made--at least, if they made a ladies' city bike--just after World War II.  

 

I think it's quite lovely, whatever its name or wherever it comes from.

Stories Behind These Bikes

Because I've spent a lot of time teaching, I often think of how something I see might work as a prompt to students' thinking and writing.  

Because I write, I often caption or narrate, in my mind, things i see.

I could see the possibilities of both in this photo, which I took--where else?--at Point Lookout:

Even though I saw the kids who left the bikes, I still think that one could construct all sorts of captions, or even stories, for this one.

If you have any, I'd love to post it.

The Ezzard Charles of the Cycling World

Although I watched it only in bits and pieces, and on television screens more than 5000 km from the action, something about this year's Tour de France made me woozy with deja vu, as Kurt Vonnegut wrote in Breakfast of Champions.

In watching a few clips, again, I realized that it was the weather:  Almost every stage seemed overcast or rainy.  And they looked cold for summer.  From what I'm hearing, they were.


Such were the conditions of the 1980 Tour.  In fact, much of Europe seemed not to have a summer that year.  I know:  I was there.  That was when I did my first bike tour outside the US.  And it was the first time I saw the final stage of the Tour, along the Champs-Elysees.

That allowed me to witness the greatest performance of the cycling world's Ezzard Charles. 

Ezzard Charles is probably the greatest boxer you've never heard of.  I heard of him from a great-uncle of mine who was a prizefighter; I would later learn that no less than Muhammad Ali and Rocky Marciano considered him among the greatest boxers of all-time, and that The Ring magazine rated him among the top fifteen.

His counterpart in cycling, whose victory I witnessed in 1980, was none other than Joop Zoetemelk. 

 

If you've never heard of, or forgotten, him, I wouldn't be surprised.  Any time I've mentioned him, even to those who know a thing or two about the history of cycling and are, shall we say, of a certain age, I was met with furrowed brows.

His palmares includes, in addition to the 1980 Tour win, six second-place finishes in the great race.  He also won the Vuelta a Espana in 1979 and numerous one-day races.   

His almost preternaturally fair skin led to the joke that he never tanned because he was always riding in the shadow  of Eddy Mercx and, later, Bernard Hinault.  In fact, his detractors claimed that he won the 1980 Tour only because Hinault had to withdraw--while wearing the yellow jersey---midway through the race because the chilly, damp weather aggravated a knee injury.  

As much as I have always loved Hinault, I must say that such a criticism of Zoetemelk is unfair.  At least, I cannot concur with his detractors after seeing what I saw of him:  He rode with as much determination as power and technique.  And those who saw far more of him--his contemporaries in the peloton--always spoke of him in respectful, and even reverential, tones

Aside from being an "eternal second" (the label the European media also gave to Raymond Poulidor), I think there is another reason why Zoetemelk is not as well-remembered as Mercx or Hinault:  He was not a flashy or even a particularly stylish rider.  Marco Pantani, who had exactly as many Tour wins as Zoetemelk, is revered because "Il Parata" rode with a panache that bordered on hubris. (Also, he died only a few years after his Tour victory.) Zoetemelk, on the other hand,was often called "the perfect teammate", as much as a taunt as a compliment.

I think he would have done very well in, if not won, this year's Tour. And it wouldn't have been a result of Chris Froome and Alberto Contador withdrawing.

Does Something Like This Turn You Into A "Retrogrouch"?

In just about every human endeavor, there are those who have to be the first on their block to have the newest and latest, and others who--whether they quote it or not--seem to be guided by Ecclesiastes:  "There is nothing new under the sun."

I guess I fall mostly, but not wholly, into the latter camp.  I ride steel frames, but I use threadless headsets and sealed-bearing hubs and bottom brackets.  And, while I ride dual pivot brakes and modern cassette hubs, I perch myself on Brooks saddles and slide, not snap, into my pedals.

I used to live with the hope that some completely ridiculous ideas that used to surface every decade or two would finally die off.  Alas, I have given up such hope that I will never see an electronic shifting system again.

I have even less reason for such hope after reading about a "smart bike" prototype Samsung has developed:



Now, a curved frame that would absorb the impact of potholes and such, I can understand, even if I wouldn't ride it myself.  But a rearview camera and a smartphone on the front?  And what do they mean by "laser beams that create an individual bike lane"?  That's a bad translation, I hope.

I have to admit, though, that I wouldn't mind seeing one of those bikes in person.  Still, I wonder what would happen if everyone rode one and had his or her individual bike lane.

The bike looks like it has a Brooks B-66 or -67 saddle.  I guess it can't be all bad.

An Outsider Wears The Yellow Jersey

The Tour de France ended a few hours ago.  Vincenzo Nabali won.

That result doesn't seem so surprising now.  But, before the race began. I don't think very many people were picking him as anything more than a dark horse to ascend the podium at the end of the Champs-Elysees

He is a talented rider, but he had a bit of luck:  Chris Froome and Alberto Contador, two of the favorites, both pulled out of the race after crashing.    Also, this year's route played to his strenghts:  three of his four stage victories were in the mountains.  In fact, he won a stage in each of the ranges the Tour visited:  the Vosges, Alps and Pyrenees.  

Moreover, his other stage victory came on the Tour's second day, at the end of the 201km from York to Sheffield.  That made Nibali the first Tour winner since Eddy Mercx to win four non-time trial stages.  For the record, there was only one such stage in this year's race, which was a good thing for Nibali, as that is not one of his strenghts.

Although, as I mentioned in an earlier post, I was not rooting for anyone in particular, I am glad to see Nibali win.  He hails from Sicily, as some of my family does.  One of the reasons, I believe, that there haven't been--until recently--many Italian-American competitive cyclists is that most Italians who emigrated to the US came from Sicily or the southern part of the mainland (from places such as Naples).  Most of Italy's racing cmmunity and infrastructure (as well as most of its bicycle industry) is found in the northern part of the country.  There isn't even as much recreational cycling in, say, Palermo or Bari as there is in the Tuscan and Ligurian regions, or in some northern European countries.  

Nibali on the Champs-Elysees

So, congratulations to Vincenzo Nabali.

Jean-Christophe Peraud and Thibaut Pinod took the other two positions on the podium.  This is the best showing for French cyclists in three decades.  Next year will mark 30 years since Bernard Hinault took the most recent overall Tour victory for a French rider.  Could it be the time the French take back their own Tour?  Or will Nibali repeat--or will Froome or Contador return to form?   

No Bicycles Were Harmed (At Least, Not Physically) To Make This Movie

I am going to make a confession:  I simply could not get through Fifty Shades of Grey.

I tried. I really tried.  You see, I am not at all averse to erotic fiction.  And, every once in a while, I need a mindless diversion.


It's not as if I was expecting FSG to be the next Lady Chatterley's Lover or even Histoire d'O.  But--call me a snob--I have some standards when it comes to writing.  FSG started off well below them and sank with every page I managed to read.  

How bad is it?  How can anyone, with a straight face, write or publish a novel that has both of these sentences:  "Her curiosity oozes through the phone" and "My mom is oozing contrition"?  Worse, those aren't the only passages containing some form of the verb "to ooze".  The only time someone should use any form of that word more than once is when he or she is writing about the aftermath of a volcanic eruption.

That's not even the worst offense I saw in what I managed to read.

I don't think I have to tell you I won't be seeing the movie.  

Apparently, a trailer for the flick, which is scheduled to be screened--when else?--next Valentine's Day, is on the web.  Someone named "Christine B." who has a stronger stomach than mine or is getting paid for her troubles, posted the one and only scene that might even be mildly interesting.  That's because it features the only credible character, if you will:  a bicycle.

A Bicycle, In A Ceremony For Two

It's been a while since I've been to a wedding.  I guess I'm just at an age in which most of my friends, acquaintances and colleagues are already hitched (whether through marriage or other means) or have simply resigned themselves to not, or have written off the idea of, being so.

I've never been to a bicycle-themed ceremony.  However, I did once go to a reception for two of my old riding buddies from the Central Jersey Bicycle Club.  They got married in a very small ceremony that included only their immediate families.  They held their reception outdoors, in a public park, on a gorgeous day around this time of year.  I, like many of the other guests, arrived on a bicycle.

Although they invited me, my appearance surprised them.  It wasn't the fact that I showed up:  I had promised I would, and unless other circumstances intervene (Is that phrase open to interpretation, or what?), I keep my word about such things.  And, even though I was young and did a lot of crazy things one associates with youth (and, I admit, excessive consumption of alcohol and an overflow of testosterone: now I can blame almost all of the jejune excesses on them!), I didn't do anything stupid or gross.  

What shocked them was my wheeling into the park on, if I recall correctly, my Trek 510.   All of the other club members who arrived on two wheels lived nearby--or, at least, within a half-hour ride or so.  On the other hand, I had moved to New York.  So, by the time I started eating the barbecued chicken and hot dogs and drinking, I think, Beck's (Microbreweries were in their infancy, so all good beer in those days was imported.), I had pedaled about 40 miles.

Granted, that wasn't a long ride for me or anyone else who rode to the reception that day--or for Ed and Elaine, the honorees. But they were nonetheless impressed.

I don't recall any bike-themed decor at the party. (Let's call it what it was!)  But, apparently, there is something of a vogue for it at weddings today.  If I were to attend (or--egad!--have) nupitals, here's something I'd like to see:

Hey, I could even get away with putting those wheels on my bikes!  At least, the colors are right.  And in a wedding, colors are everything.  Right? 

Would these folks have approved?

 

The Light I Followed At The End Of The Day

Yesterday I gave you three images and a lot of words on a subject (and a couple of topics) of interest mainly to cyclists.  

Today I'm going to give you three images and fewer words.  I don't know what the subject or topic is.  All I know is that I captured them with my cell phone while riding home from work

Here's one from the Pulaski Bridge"

The light is interesting and unusual (Can one be without the other?)for the end of a late-July day.  Perhaps it is a foreshadowing...of what, I don't know.

My LeTour commuter-beater seems to blend right in:

A little later, camouflage would have been a bit more difficult:

That street is in--where else?--Williamsburg.