The Calico Chronicles

If you've been reading this blog for the past few years, you know I love Marlee.  Sometimes, though, she exasperates me:  There are some things I simply can't get her to do.  I mean, I know she doesn't have opposable thumbs and, well, she's a cat. But still...

I just hope that if she reads this, she doesn't think that I wish she were Marilyn.  She's writing a memoir, "Calico Cycles," about her trip around the US.  So far she's traveled over 10,000 miles in 32 states since last May and has seen a lot--from the basket of a bicycle.

Now, in case Marlee thinks I'm judging her for not writing, I'll remind her of what I've said before:  Writing skills are not a sign of intelligence or any kind of worth.  (Why do you think Socrates never wrote?) But, you know, Marlee babe, I tried taking you on rides and almost lost you.  

You do have an excuse:  I didn't start training you early enough.  Marilyn's human, Caleb Werntz, started when she was two months old.  You, Marlee, were six months old when you came into my life, and you were born on the street, so perhaps it was too late, or you had (and possibly still have) PTSD from your previous life.

Anyway, Werntz, who hails from Portland (where else?) "got her a harness and leash and put her in the front basket" and took her for her first "training ride" nine years ago.  He says that she's slept through most of the journey (Is something a journey if you sleep through it?) but she was nonetheless able to "write" her diary, which he's "translating."  

(That might be the hardest part of all:  Translating is never easy.  I know: I've done it, mostly badly.)

It sounds a bit like a role-reversed "Travels With Charley," although I don't know whether Marilyn is "in search of America, as Steinbeck was--or, for that matter, whether she's read Steinbeck.

Caleb has begun a Kickstarter campaign to raise funds so he can raise money to "promote and distribute" copies of the travel diary.  I can forgive Marlee for not knowing how to do that:  I've never taught her to use the Internet!

 

On Wheels or Paws

Happy Halloween!

I have had six cats, including Marlee, in my life.   I love Marlee and miss the other five.  Each was beautiful and sweet in his/her own way.  

I must admit, however, that I've never had a black cat.  It's not a matter of fear or superstition:  All of my feline friends, except for the first Charlie, were rescues.  And he was part of a litter of kittens born to the cat of someone with whom I was taking a class.  So, in a sense, he, like the others, found his way into my life.

One of my few regrets is that I've never figured out how to ride with a cat.  Oh, when the first Charlie and Marlee were kittens, I could have carried them in a knapsack or something, but I'm not sure they would have liked it.  In a way, that might have been a good thing:  Having Caterina, Charlie I, Candice, Charlie II, Max or Marlee home while I was out--whether for a spin around the neighborhood, a day trip or a longer trek--gave me something to look forward to at the end of a ride.

Still, I wonder, what would it have been like to have one of them--or a black cat--on a ride with me?

 

Exploiting Animals And Bicycles

I don't have a lot of money.  And my apartment, while clean, well-maintained and safe, is hardly what starry-eyed young people in the steppes imagine when they dream of living in New York.

Still, I know I'm privileged.  For one thing, I've been able to travel overseas in each of the past five years.  (I don't think I will this year because of the COVID-19 epidemic.)  I can do that mainly because I don't have to support anyone besides myself and Marlee, and I really don't have expensive hobbies. (For all of the bikes and bike-related equipment and schwag I have, I really haven't spent a lot on them, compared to some with a two-wheeled obsession.)  Also, besides working, there really isn't much I have to do.  So, I can spend my time riding, writing, reading or doing other things I like, simply because I want to do them.

Who, me?

Another reason I know I'm privileged is that Marlee doesn't have to do a damned thing to "earn her keep" or justify her existence.  In most of the world, the animals people keep serve some purpose or another.  In fact, some beasts work all day for the privelege of becoming dinner that night.  Marlee doesn't have to worry about anything like that.  She sleeps 15-17 hours a day, and I wouldn't be upset if she slept a few more.  Of course, I benefit because sometimes she dozes off in my lap, or by my side, and I drift off into dreamland, if only for a brief spell.

Now, I can understand keeping animals as beasts of burden.  I might have a more difficult time caring for and feeding an animal--and developing a bond with him or her (as I inevitably will:  that's how I am)--only to find him or her on my lunch or dinner plate.  Still, having been in rural southeast Asia, the Middle East and even parts of this country, I can understand how people can raise animals they know they're going to eat--or that will be eaten by someone else.  I understand that I, as a city dweller, have the option--all right, let's call it what it is: privilege--of not having to look at or touch an animal before eating it.

(That said, I don't eat nearly as much animal flesh as I once did.  I don't think I'll ever be entirely vegan, though, because I like dairy products--though I don't consume as much of those, either, as I once did. )

On the other hand, there really is no reason for what some people train or force their animals to do.  I have long believed that dolphins are the most intelligent animals of all--or, at least, they are more intelligent than we are--because while naval forces around the world have used them to detect mines and protect ships, there are some things those beautiful creatures simply would not do.

As much as I love cycling, and I have sometimes wished Marlee, Max, Charlie and my other kitties could accompany me on rides, there aren't many reasons to make an animal ride a bicycle.  It's usually done for yuks, or other kinds of exploitation.

I'm thinking now of the zoo in Thailand that made one of its chimps ride a bike in human clothes, with a mask over its face.  Now, if I had to wear those clothes, I might want to wear a mask, too.  But it gets worse:  the poor primate had to ride with disinfectant tanks strapped to its back--and spray that disinfectant around the zoo.

Oh, as if that weren't humiliating enough, before beginning his "shift", the chimp is chained to a wooden block while pulling on a diaper, shorts and the tacky shirt.

This video is disturbing. But I must say that it achieves something:  How often have you seen something in which both an animal and a bicycle are abused?

Letting The Cat Out Of My Randonneur Bag

I just did something dangerous.

It was even more risky than riding my old Bontrager Race Lite with a Rock Shox Judy down the steps of Montmartre.  Or rappelling from a rock face over white waters to a rocky shore.  

Those stunts could have left me maimed.  But of course I didn't believe that was going to happen to me; otherwise, I never would have done them. Truth be told, I knew that neither of them would last any longer than "the pause that refreshes", if you know what I mean. 

But what I did could have taken away hours that I will never get back.  You see, in the middle of reading those stacks of papers that seem to multiply no matter how much time I spend reading, I needed a diversion.  I was going to go for a bike ride, but I might not have come back--or at least gotten back to the task at hand.  

So, instead of a bike trip, I took a side trip on Google.  

Hmm..So that's what Max does when I'm not home.

And he's famous.  How did I not know?

And he dismounts even more gracefully than I do!

Please, don't tell me that Max and Marlee crashed the tandem:

I don't have a tandem.  But I don't want them to crash anything?

When I fix stuff, Marlee feels the need to inspect:

She says she can't help because--get this--"I don't have opposable thumbs!"

Do all cats use that excuse?

Sometimes I think that if dogs try to please humans, cats try to be as much like humans as possible without actually being human.  I am especially conscious of that when I'm leaving for work on a cold, wet, raw day and see Max and Marlee curled up on the couch.

Now tell me:  Which is the more intelligent species?

And They Used To Say I Was An Animal On My Bike...

Every once in a while, I see someone "walking" his or her dog while riding a bicycle.  I have probably seen it most often on or around beaches, especially in Florida.  However, I've also seen it in parks and even on streets here in NYC.

"A Dog's Pace" by Carolee Clark.

Sometimes I wish I could do the same with Max and Marlee. I could carry them in the baskets on my LeTour, I guess.  The only problem is that I don't know how I would get Max into a basket, as he doesn't like to be picked up and is no longer the climber he was in his youth, and that Marlee would never sit in a basket long enough for me to start riding.

I once rode about two kilometers carrying a little Yorkie in my cocked left arm and my right hand on my handlebar.  I'd found her wandering through a busy intersection where she was in imminent danger of becoming roadkill. No one seemed to know where she came from and I rode, hoping to find a shelter or a vet's office.  Finding neither, I took her to a precinct house, where a burly sergeant fell in love with her.

Max would never stand--or, more precisely, sit or curl up--for such a ride.  Marlee might, for a couple of minutes.  Then her nervousness would get the best of her and she'd wriggle her way into a fall onto the pavement.

I find it ironic that in other parts of the world, people on bikes carry all kinds of other animals.  I saw a man ride with a monkey on his shoulder in Marseille, France and another man with a lizard standing guard on his sternum as he navigated the alleyways of Rome.

But they had nothing on this guy, with a goat along for the ride, in Uganda.  I just hope the passenger gave him a hefty tip:

From Art Propelled

  

I Couldn't Put The Cat In My Bag

Yesterday, I managed to get out for a late-day ride:  a couple of hours spinning and making random turns on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.

Although I had clip-on lights in my rear bag, I didn't want to ride after dark. So, when the sun--which, early in the afternoon had emerged from a days-long absence--tinged the sky orange, I took a shortcut back to my place through the deserted (as they are on weekends) industrial areas of Maspeth and Long Island City.

As I pedaled up a street nestled between rows of warehouses, I saw what looked like a furry shadow slinking by a construction site.  It leaped onto the crumbling brick stoop of a house that seemed to be constructed of peeling shingles.  And I heard...

Meow.  Yes, that furry shadow was feline--but not, I would soon find out, feral.  I stopped and, after I looked into its eyes for a split-second, he (by that time, I had decided  he was male) made a tiptoed sprint toward me.

I rubbed my fingers on his head.  He rubbed against my ankle.  I stroked his back.  He closed his eyes and rolled, a little, on his side.

I really knew he wasn't feral when I picked up my leg and dismounted my bike.  That motion frightens off most cats (and many other animals).  But my new friendly feline acquaintance took a step closer to me.  Finally, I squatted and picked him up.  He didn't resist.  In fact, he curled himself on my shoulder and chest.


He stayed there as I lifted my right leg over Tosca and re-mounted.  I pedaled down the deserted street, crossed another and increased my cadence just a little when he started to squirm.  


Hmm...I know that even when I was at my best, my pedal stroke was never as smooth Jacques Anquetil's or Stephen Roche's.  Still, I tried to make my motions more fluid, if slower.  The cat squirmed more, and jumped off.

But he didn't run away from me.  In fact, he almost seemed to be waiting for me to dismount and pick him up again.  Which I did.  And I remounted the bike.  And pedaled--slowly--again.  He squirmed, but never clawed me.  Not only was he not feral; he had obviously never been on a bike before!

So I picked him up again and walked, with him on my left shoulder and my right hand clutching Tosca's stem, back to the construction site. He looked, rather forlornly, as I said goodbye. (If only I could have photographed him!)

As I left, I noticed a bowl and plate by the construction site: Somebody has been feeding him.  Still, I am somewhat tempted to go back--even if my landlady really means what she said about a two-cat limit (which I had to beg for when I moved in; she only wanted to allow one).  Plus, I have to wonder how my cats would take a new addition to the "family".  Max is friendly and curious; he seemed to be thinking "Great!  A new playmate!" the day I brought Marlee home. But Marlee is still fearful and skittish; she seems to come out of hiding only for me. 

From Boyz on the Hoods

I could go back with the LeTour, which has baskets on it, and a blanket or pillow.  And maybe the landlady, if and when she comes in, won't see him:  He is a smoky gray color, which means he could hide fairly easily.  Plus, Max would like him:  He likes everybody, or so it seems.  As for Marlee...

Friday The 13th.

Today is Friday the 13th.  

I am not superstitious about that, or much else. The only reason why I am thinking about the fact that it's Friday the 13th is something that happened the last time Friday the 13th came in January.

The year was 2012:  five years ago.  I was pedaling home from work when, all of a sudden, I burst into tears.  I was crying so hard that I could barely see in front of me or control my bike.  I stopped in an ATM vestibule and let it all out.  Or so I thought.  I got back on my bike, but only for a couple of blocks before I saw a cat in a store window.   Then the tears streamed out even more and I could barely stand, let alone pedal.

I am almost entirely sure that some time during my crying fits, Charlie died.  When I got home, I found him lying stiff on the floor, his hind legs crossed.  

Max and Marlee, the cats who currently reside with me, are sweet and loving.  In fact, I adopted Marlee just a few weeks after I lost Charlie.  But I will never forget Charlie:  He came into my life as I was undergoing fundamental and sometimes dramatic (and traumatic!) changes.  He was with me through some very happy and very intense times, including my gender reassignment.  And, of course, he was reading over my shoulder (!) as I typed the early entries of this blog.

When anyone, human or otherwise, shows you nothing but love of the kind that renders you incapable of feeling anything but love for him or her, you don't "get over" losing him or her.  And you shouldn't:  That love becomes a part of you, along with all sorts of memories.  It becomes, perhaps paradoxically, why you find new friends or companions after such a loss:  They are a testament to what you have shared with the one who has departed.

Max and Marlee greet me when I come back from a bike ride.  So did Charlie.  So does he.

P.S.  The "Charlie" to whom I am referring was the second cat I lived with who was named Charlie.  So in earlier posts, I referred to him as Charlie II and the first as Charlie I.

A Ride From Art To Marlee

 I've ridden to museums, galleries, plays, poetry readings, concerts and other cultural events.  It's one of my favorite ways to spend a day: I get to combine some of the things I love most.  

The problem, though is parking. I know, I sound like a motorist when I say that.  But only in a few venues can one bring in a bicycle. The Metropolitan Museum has bike racks in its parking garage and valet bicycle parking during certain hours.  But at most other events and venues, you take your chances with parking on the street.

A couple of days ago, during a late-day ride, I came across a solution to the problem:

The 5-50 Gallery is located, as the name indicates, at 5-50 51st Avenue in Long Island City.  More specifically, it occupies a garage--from what I can tell, a commercial one.  Converting industrial and retail spaces to use for art and performance is not new, but this gallery's space is uniquely accessible. 

No, that isn't a portait of Marlee on mushrooms.  It's one work by Kyle Gallagher, the artist featured when I stopped by. 

The paintings have a grab-you-by-the-collar quality, full of  colors that flash with, at once, the energy of street festivals and the urgency of flashing ambulance lights.  And the way cats and other living beings are rendered makes comics seem like a kind of mythology of the subconscious,  spun from threads of graffiti, street portraiture and abstraction.

All right, I know, you didn't come to this blog for two-bit art commentary. But there was something oddly appropriate, almost synchronistic, about encountering those paintings on a bike ride through an industrial-turned-trendy neighborhood.

When I got home, Marlee didn't care. She just wanted to know, "what's for dinner?"  

It Wasn't Age After All!

 The other day, I mentioned that I didn't post during the last few days of my latest Paris trip because my full days ended with my getting back to my hotel in the wee hours of morning and collapsing onto the bed.  I intimated that, perhaps, age was catching up with me because I felt tired, if in good ways, after the sorts of activities--visiting museums and friends and, of course, walking and cycling--that also comprised previous trips.  

Well, now I know (or, at least, think I know) the real cause of my fatigue.  You might think that I am in denial and want to continue calling this blog "Midlife Cycling."  I assure you that's not the case.  Also, I tend not to suffer from "jet lag" for very long, so that's not a reason why I have become an immobile object or, if I want to put a positive spin on it, Marlee's bed.

What seemed like a slight cold during my time with Alec and Michele on Thursday devolved into bouts of coughing and sneezing on the flight home and, now, my respiratory system turning into something the Department of Environmental Protection might condemn.

Oh well.  I've gone from lunches of confit de canard with Jay and Isabelle  and civet de cerf with Alec and Michele to slurping down gallons of water, juice, chicken broth, alone, wrapped in a blanket.  That means, of course, that I haven't ridden since I've come home to colder, blustier (Is that a word?) weather than I experienced in Paris.

So I am in my apartment with Marlee, my books and my bikes.  About the latter--here's what I rode after returning the bike I borrowed:

Turns out, Paris a Velo  (formerly known as Paris Velo, C'est Sympa) was open after all!  The proprietor, Victor, explained that the pandemic boosted demand for his bikes and, therefore, he's operated year-round ever since.  When I last rented one of his bikes four years ago (almost to the week!), he made a special trip into the shop for me and one other customer who'd made a reservation. That might be the reason why he remembered me, "d'une monde different."

The bike I rode was different, too:

in contrast to the more conventional hybrid/city bike I rode four years ago.  More about that later.

Leading

 Have you ever heard your bike calling out to you?

Well, I can’t say I have—at least, not literally.  But when I pedaled La-Vande, my King of Mercia, to Greenwich, Connecticut on Saturday, she seemed to be leading me there—the way Marlee does when she rubs against my ankles and steers me toward the sofa.

Well, Saturday was a nearly perfect day for a ride of any kind, of any length on any bike.  But I think La-Vande had ulterior motives.

She wanted to pose against a backdrop she knew would flatter her.

Sunday was almost as nice a day for a ride. So to Point Lookout I went, this time with Vera, my Mercian mixte. She didn’t seem to be “leading “ me there, but I believe she enjoyed the breeze off the sea, and the sun.

Oh, and when I got home, Marlee “led” me to the couch, and curled in my lap.

What The Gilets Jaunes Couldn't Interrupt

Yesterday, I went for a short ride--not much more than an hour--through side streets and alleys in and around the neighborhood in which I'm staying.  One reason is that I limited myself to riding in one direction--north and east of where I'm staying--because of police checkpoints and barricades in the other direction.  Also, I had a date with old friends in the afternoon.

I actually wondered, though, whether I would make it to our planned rendez-vous:  When I was about to cross the Place to get back to the hotel, a seemingly endless procession of police vehicles descended from the Boulevard de Clichy into the Plaza.  As the line of gendarmes' cars and mini-vans extended as far as I could see, I really wondered when I'd be able to cross.

But, of course, it did pass, and I was able to return to the hotel, where I stashed the bike and showered and changed clothes.  I'd thought about riding to my "date", but realized that I'd probably stay out late (on a Saturday night) and might run into a stream of drunks or gilets jaunes along the way.

Well, I did encounter the latter as Jay and I sipped juices in a cafe near the Centre Pompidou.  But it didn't take them as long to pass as the police procession took to get through the Place de Clicy, and--as I expected--they didn't care about Jay, me or anyone else nursing juice or tea or whatever in that cafe. They yelled their usual slogans, like "Demacronization 2019!" (Emanuel Macron is the President of France.), but on the whole, seemed no more menacing than any other large group of people.

Before that, Jay and I sauntered through one of the Centre Pompidou's galleries, where some Cubist works, and those of artists who influenced them, were on display.  I had seen a few of those works before, and several more in reproduction.  Some others, however, were not familiar to me, including this wood cutting from Paul Gauguin, long one of my favorite artists:

The work is titled "Soyez Mysterieuses," which translates as "Be Mysterious."  One thing I've always liked about him is that he could control a line or brush stroke in the way Bach could control a melody but still create an almost dreamy--mysterious--atmosphere.  That quality was evident in the woodcut, which I don't recall having seen before.

Anyway, after our Pompidou visit, drinks and our front-row view of the gilets jaunes, his wife Isabelle met us.  She teaches and in France, most kids go to school on Saturday mornings.  After her students were dismissed, she had to attend a meeting at the school.  

I knew Jay when he had all of his hair--and Isabelle when, well, she was Isabelle, only younger.

We hugged. I did not want to let go.  Nor did she.  And Jay would do nothing to discourage either of us.  I met him before he met her, and he surely knows that the love she and I have for each other is entirely intuitive--like the love I feel for Jay, as she surely knows.  Probably the only other couple with whom I have ever had this sort of relationship was the one I had with my friend Mildred (who is caring for Marlee while I"m gone) and her late husband, John.

The only other relationships--save for some members of my family--that have endured the trials and other changes I have endured are, perhaps, the ones I've had with my cats (including Marlee) and with reading, writing and Paris.  And France--and cycling.

Permission To Roam

My orthopedic doctor and the Texas governor said, basically, the same thing yesterday.

Now, I don't  know much about my doctor's politics, but he probably has never thought about Greg Abbott in his life. So how could they have echoed each other?

Well, the Governor told businesses in his state that, starting next week, restaurants and other businesses can open fully.  "People want to go back to living," he said.  He's declared that they can.  

My doctor gave me the same permission.  He confirmed what I suspected:  My injuries from getting "doored" are healed, save for two still-visible scars.  They'll take "about a year" to disappear, he said.  In the meantime, I could use a skin ointment, but if I should I should "be careful" because I have sensitive skin.  Looking at my helmet, he grinned and crooned, "Enjoy."

It's been more than a month since I did two of my regular long rides (Connecticut and Point Lookout).  The reason is not my injuries:  rather, it's the snow and ice that's covered many of the roads.  Also, Marlee seems to be guided by her animal instinct to hibernate and takes any chance she can to curl up on me and doze.  She's so cute, and calms me as much as a meditation or therapy session, that I want to stay with her.

I want to get out because, even on rides I've done dozens of times before, I notice something or another that previously escaped my attention--or wasn't there. During my ride to the doctor's office, a traffic light stop at Third Avenue and 17th Street brought this into my view:

I hadn't been inside that building in years--or looked at its exterior.  Whenever I entered, I listened to music or poetry.  I don't know whether its architectural details were covered, or perhaps I just hadn't noticed them because I always arrived at night, when throngs of people fronted and filled it.

Perhaps I will always think of that building--as long as it's still there--Fat Tuesday's, the jazz club/performance space that occupied it for years.  It closed around 15 years ago, when the changes I've witnessed in this city accelerated.  After that, it was occupied by a variety of venues, including a yoga and Pilates studio.

But, as you can see, the designers and builders of the edifice probably didn't envision any of the venues I--or most people living today--associate with it. Constructed in 1894-95, it originally served as a restaurant and beer garden.  The latter is not surprising when you realize that the surrounding neighborhood--Gramercy Park/Irving Place--was, at the time, said to be the home of more Germans than any place outside of Europe.  

The building would later host the German-American Athletic club and the German-American Rathskeller.  Given this history, it's makes sense that it's named for Joseph Viktor von Scheffel, a German poet and novelist.  

I don't know what "Allaires" refers to.  Ironically, when I first saw that name, I thought of a village in Brittany, France (through which I've biked) and a park in New Jersey where I biked, hiked and camped as a teenager.  That park was named for James Allaire, who owned an ironworks and village on the site.  The metal produced there was shipped to Allaire's factory in this city, where parts for steam ships were made.  He had a home on Cherry Street, about a mile from Scheffel Hall, so it's possible that his family owned all or part of the building or businesses that were in it.

One more thing:  Given the building's literary and artistic associations, it's not surprising that O.Henry wrote some of his stories--and set one of them, "The Halberdier of the Little Rheinschloss" in Scheffel Hall.

Anyway, as you can see, I didn't need permission from a doctor or governor to go back to doing the things I normally do:  cycling and learning about whatever I see along the way.  Marlee doesn't always approve, but, hey, nobody's perfect!

I Can Get Absolutely Anybody Onto A Bike. Really!

As I've mentioned in earlier posts, sometimes my biggest obstacles to riding my bike are Max and Marlee.  There are times when either or both of them will jump into my lap or circle around my ankles when I'm about to go on a ride. Or they pose on the table, in front of my bikes. They just know what I'm about to do.

So I got this idea that maybe if I got them to ride with me, they wouldn't try to stop me.  Let's see...I tried that with an ex or two...and how did that work?  But, at least neither Max nor Marlee has--as far as I can tell--any of the issues my exes (or, for that matter, I) had.  And they're certainly playful cats.  So maybe I can channel some of their energy into pedal power.

How is it working.  I think this note says it all:

From The Journey

Taking One For The Humans

I don't drive.  So, if Marlee has ever been in a car, it was with her rescuer.

And I've tried taking her on rides with me.  If yo have a cat, you know how well that worked out.

Therefore, I have no idea of how she'd react to a pothole.  But she might know a thing or two about how we, as humans, might respond:

(By the way, those photos are not of Marlee.  She's been in other posts!)

What Do I Miss? Mes Chats et Mes Velos

In 1992, I did a bike tour from Paris to Chartres, and from there to the Loire Valley and Burgundy to Dijon, before heading back to Paris--and, from there, taking a train, boat and train to England to visit my aunt.  

As I was about to head to Blighty, I was away from home for nearly a month.  I spent time with one of my friends, who lived near Paris at that time.  She asked what I missed most about home.

"Ma chat":  my cat.

Charlie I:  The cat who brought me back home.

Now, it  wasn't as if I didn't have friends in New York or anywhere else in the US.  Ditto for family: An aunt, uncle and cousin were still in Brooklyn, and my parents and one of my brothers were still living on the (New) Jersey Shore.  But the previous year had been a very difficult--though, in many ways, fruitful--time for me.  I wrote a lot.  How could I not?:  I was in graduate school, studying poetry.  My marriage had officially ended that year (though, in reality, it was dead long before that), and from Memorial Day until Christmas of 1991, I lost five friends to AIDS-related illnesses and the brother of someone I dated was murdered in the hallway of the building in which I was living.

Max

I was tempted not to go back, even though I had only to take a couple more courses, complete my dissertation (a book of poems) and take my comprehensive exam (which wasn't as difficult as I expected) to complete my degree.  After experiencing the losses I've mentioned, I had a kind of crisis from that happened much earlier in my life.  In retrospect, I realize that dealing with it--in part, by taking the trip I've mentioned--led me, if as indirectly as the route that took me from and to Paris, to the transition I would start a decade later.  

Marlee

Anyway, aside from the pain of past experience, I wanted to leave the United States behind, or so I believed.  Oh--I should mention that an acquaintance of mine was killed during our first invasion of Iraq.  I really believed that the country in which I'd spent most of my life was not, and could not be, a force for good in this world (I still feel that way, often) and it looked like Daddy Bush would be re-elected.  Him!--after eight years of Reagan!  I simply did not want to be associated with such things.  

(Would that I could have seen the future!)

Anyway, it seemed as if the only answer to my friend's question was, indeed, "ma chat".  (I had one at the time.)  She was convinced there had to be something else waiting for me:  she pointed out the family, friends, studies and writing I've mentioned.  And, of course, there were my bikes, although the one I was riding during that trip was quite nice.

The funny thing is I felt almost exactly the same way a couple of days ago, as I was leaving Paris.  In so many ways, my home country, and even my home town, are less tenable than they were nearly a quarter-century ago.  We have had non-stop war for the past fifteen years, and Donald Trump makes Bush The Elder seem like Nelson Mandela.  The idea of leaving is even more tempting than it was then, though I know it will be more difficult than I realized it could be in those days.

Arielle

I am back, for now.  And what did I miss, aside from some people?  Well, Max and Marlee--yes, I have one more cat than I did in those days.  And, today, I realized, I missed my bikes.  After spending more than a week riding a rental--which, as rentals go, was actually pretty good--taking Arielle, my Mercian Audax, for a ride today, with its perfect weather, seemed heavenly.  

So I missed my cats, my bikes and....

I'm Back And She Won't Let Me Explain

Someone wants me to explain why I left her in cold, rainy New York while I was bike riding in 80 degree (27C) Florida sunshine.



Marlee was well cared-for.  Mildred, my cat-sitter, even spent time with her on New Year's Eve.  But Marlee still wants to know why I get to have all the fun.  She's not buying my explanation that I was visiting my parents.

Really, I was...

Hey! Don't Forget About Me!

A few days ago, I “blamed” Max when I didn’t get out of the house earlier than I did for a ride. 

Of course, I wasn’t upset with him.  How could I be?  When he’s not impeding progress I probably wouldn’t have made anyway, he climbs on me and purrs.  

Marlee does that, too.  However, she’s a bit more possessive of everything—including my lap and the spotlight—than Max is.  So she wasn’t content to see Max get all of the attention.

So she’s been posing in front of me whenever I sit, stand, take down one of my bikes, read, eat, talk on the telephone, write—or do just about anything else.  She wants me to take her picture because she knows, just knows, that she’s so photogenic and every picture I take of her is going to be better than the last.  Of course, neither the camera nor the photographer has anything to do with that!

Max can make orange the new black or whatever just because…well, because he’s orange and he’s Max.  But Marlee knows how to work her stripes:

Who, me?  Yeah, you!