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...

A Tale Of Two Pedals (A Review Of Two Products)

It's the best design; it's an old design.

All right, now that I've got Dickens spinning in his grave, I'm going to tell you about two pedals that, in most ways, are very similar.

The designs of both pedals' bodies are based, to a large degree, on that of the Lyotard Berthet #23, one of the most popular pedals in the history of cycling.

Both have long, curved "tongues" that allow for easy entry and exit from toe clips and straps.

The "tongues" of both pedals lead to relatively wide flat surfaces that nonetheless allow for good grip with a wide variety of shoes.

Both pedals have sealed cartridge bearings that spin smoothly and require little, if any, maintenance.  

Both are available in either silver or black.

A pair of either pedal weighs approximately the same:  300 grams, give or take.

I have ridden one of the pedals in question for nearly two years, while the others have been part of my daily commute for almost two months.

So, you want to know, what pedals am I talking about?

Well, the ones I've been riding for nearly two years are the White Industries Urban Platform pedal.  The pedals I've been using on my rides to and from work are made by Mikashima (MKS) and are called--you guessed it--the Urban Platform pedal.

In one of my earliest posts, I wrote about the White Industries pedals.  In the nearly two years since I wrote that post, I've scarcely thought about them at all.  They run smoothly, are comfortable on long rides and, so far, I haven't had to clean, much less overhaul, them.  Plus, the ones on Tosca (my Mercian fixie) and Arielle (my Mercian road bike) seem not to have been affected, at least functionally, by bumps, scrapes and a couple of tumbles.

The pair pictured in that post went on Arielle.  Subsequent pairs found their way onto Tosca and Helene (my custom Miss Mercian) in that order.  The pedal in this photo is on Helene:

White Indstries Urban Pedal

The WI pedals on Arielle and Helene are silver; the ones on Tosca are black.  While I liked the look of the black ones in the beginning (especially in how it offset the brass dustcap), I wouldn't buy them in black today, as the ones I have scuffed and scratched.  The silver ones don't show such wear.

All in all, the White Industries pedals are among the finest components I have ever used.  In their design and quality of materials and workmanship, they are (I believe) in the same class as Chris King headsets, Phil Wood hubs and bottom brackets, Mavic Open Pro rims and Nitto handlebars, stems and seatposts--all of which I have used for years.

MKS Urban Platform Pedal

Now, I can't speak for the durability my the MKS Urban Platform pedals, which I've been riding on Vera, the 1994 Mercian mixte I purchased last year.  However, if they are anything like other MKS pedals I've used, they should provide me many years and miles of service--barring an accident, of course.

While the basic form of the MKS pedal is much like that of its White Industries counterpart, there are some subtle differences.  There are more pronounced "ridges" on the MKS pedal, which one would expect to provide somewhat better grip.  However, I haven't noticed any real difference in that area between the two pedals.

Also, on the WI pedal, the transition from the pedal body to the toeclip is smooth and flat.  In contrast, the toe clip mounts slightly below the edge of the MKS Urban pedal, as it does on the GR-9, the other platform pedal MKS makes.  I did not feel any discomfort as a result of it; then again, I have been used WI pedals on longer rides, and for a longer period of time, than I've used the MKS Urban.

The platform width of both pedals is about the same, and each is slightly wider than the Berthet and significantly wider than the GR-9.

Another difference is between the two pedals is that the MKS Urban has a one-piece cast body, while the platform of the WI is attached to a precision stainless-steel spindle with sealed bearings.  What that means, in terms of aesthetics, is that while the two pedals look very similar from above, the MKS Urban looks more like the GR-9 from below, while the WI looks a bit more like the Berthet.  What that means in terms of function, I don't know:  They work in similar ways, and seem to have the same amount of ground clearance.  

Underside of White Industries Urban Pedal

Perhaps the clearest difference between the pedals, apart from their appearance, is price:  My MKS Urbans cost about half of what I paid for each pair of WI pedals I now ride.  I got what was probably the lowest price available on my WIs from Universal Cycles of Portland, OR; coupons brought the price down even further.  I purchased my MKS Urbans from Bell's Bike Shop of Philadelphia, which sells on eBay. 

Underside of MKS Urban Platform Peal

As happy as I am with my White Industries pedals, I might not have bought them had I known about the MKS Urban pedals, or had I not found the deals I got.  Or, perhaps, I would have bought them for one, or possibly two, of my bikes.  That is not to say, of course, that you shouldn't buy WI pedals, especially if you truly appreciate fine design and workmanship and/or can score a good deal.  But for half of the price of the White Industries Urban pedal, you can get the MKS Urban Platform, which, in my estimation, is about 95 percent as good.

Fixed Gear eBike: An Oxymoronic Contradiction?

An a capella heavy metal band?

When I first heard about it, a dozen years ago, I thought it was a joke.  Then I heard Van Canto and the combination seemed no more incongruous than, say, Saint Andre cheese on a bagel from Lots O' Bagels. (That's what I ate the other day, on Christmas morning.) And, hey, those guys were doing something I did when I was part of a punk band you've never heard of, and never will:  making a lot of noise with musical instruments and screaming.  

So why am I mentioning an a capella heavy metal band?  Well, knowing about them made what I am about to describe seem less implausible than it might otherwise have seen.  

In case you're new to this blog, or if your cycling is experience is limited, I'll explain a couple of things.  

First, this:  a fixed-gear bike. One of my Mercians--Tosca--is of this type. A single cog screws directly onto the rear hub.  When you ride this type of bike, if the wheels turn, so do your pedals--or vice versa.  In other words, you can't coast, which turns your ride into more of a workout. That is why I often take Tosca on short rides.  It's also the reason why all bikes raced on velodromes--enclosed tracks--have fixed gears: They are more efficient, and therefore capable of greater speeds.

I have to admit that when I ride Tosca, with my legs in continuous motion, it's difficult for me to imagine riding an electric bike, a.k.a., eBike,  which not only allows coasting, but also "assists" the rider.  In other words, a fixed-gear bike seems to be the antithesis of an eBike. 

Indeed it is, in spite of claims to the contrary.  "Fixed gear eBike" is, if you ask me, "click-bait."  If you actually click onto the websites where claims for such a bike are made, you'll find that the "fixed gear" is actually a single-speed freewheel or other drivetrain without a derailleur.

If they're not being deceptive, they simply don't understand the difference between "single speed" and "fixed gear."  It's not difficult for me to imagine an eBike with a single speed freewheel.  For one thing, the two systems would work well together.  For another, folks who'd want an electric, or any other kind of, assist, are also likely to coast for significant parts of their rides.  If they could pedal nonstop, even if only for a few minutes, why would they want an assist--unless, of course, it kept them pedaling?

So...while I can't say with certainty that a fixed-gear eBike is impossible, implausible or even impractical, I don't know how it's possible, necessary or desirable?

Tosca Takes Me To The Neighborhood

Today the US National Soccer team played its counterpart from England.  I would've liked to watch it, but I don't have the necessary cable service (by choice) and I didn't want to go into a sports bar.  I think most of you could understand why.


Being a good American, I would've rooted for this country's team.  But I don't expect them to win the tournament.  Not many other people do, either. If and when the US team is eliminated, if Italy's still standing, I'll root for them.  And after la forza azzuri, I'll root for les bleus of France.  But if Brazil wins, I won't be upset.


However, I don't follow sports with the same passion I once did.  I could blame the hormones and such, and Dirt and her ilk will say that I'm impersonating feminized behavior.  Rather, it's harder to feel passion for pursuits and performers that have little, if anything, to do with my own life.  Plus, professional sports is an overwhelmingly male field.  Now, sometimes I don't mind that.  After all, when you I someone like Lance Armstrong (who, by the way, I have seen in person and photographed climbing Chamrousse in the 2001 Tour  de France)  exerting himself and not wearing much while doing it, well, let's say I don't look the other way or think about strategy.


Anyway...oh, wait, you wanted serious intellectual discussion, didn't you?  OK, here goes.  Well, OK, what follows may not be terribly intellectual.  But you might enjoy some of it.  After all, it is about a bike ride.  And you know how I love to ride, and to write about it!


Well, today I took another one of those aimless rambles that led me to some of the same streets three or four times and others in ways I hadn't expected.  And somehow I ended up, after an hour and a half of pedalling my fixed-gear, here:

If you hear me or anyone else speaking in superlatives about this place, as some wise ol' philosopher once said, believe the hype.  I have slurped lemon Italian ices in any number of communes in and out of this country.  None come close to what they make in this place.  Yes, they make the stuff themselves.  And, yes, you're likely to find actual lemon in yours, just as you'll find pieces of whatever fruit went into whatever flavor you've ordred.  (Their flavor list is in the window, to the right of the guys in white.)  I haven't tried all of their flavors--somehow I just can't bring myself to eat an Italian ice with peanut butter in it--but the ones I've tried were all excellent:  cherry, coconut, cremolata (like the ice cream), pistachio, cantaloupe, watermelon and a couple of others I can't think of right now.  Lemon is, of course, the classic, and when you eat it, you realize just how good the ice is:  It's elegant and, in its own way, pure--sort of like a beautifully done classic sauce, without any extra ingredients to detract from it.  Of the other flavors, I like cherry the best.  The office manager of my department likes the coconut ice.


It may not be Gatorade or an energy bar, but in its own way, it's the perfect snack to have during a ride:  It's delicious and refreshing, but not too heavy.  And, right across from LIKC, there's the perfect spot to enjoy it:

Yes, what better place to enjoy an Italian ice than in a park where older Italian men are playing bocce, watching their friends play it or simply passing the time of day?  Now there's a sport. Imagine the sense of deja vu I had at the end of a day of ascending and descending Pyreneean peaks and seeing, in the parc de ville of a ville that was tres petite, a bunch of weathered but rather dignified men immersed in their day's petanque match.


Neither they nor the men I saw in Corona were making any money from making metal balls roll and sometimes skitter on strips of sand.  Nor did the friends of my grandfather and uncles who played underneath the ancient railroad viaduct in my old Brooklyn neighborhood.  But they were having as much serious fun, or were having as much fun about being serious, as anyone in Major League Baseball, the NBA or the English Premier League.  Maybe more so.

Could this be Il Giro d'Italia meets Les Bourgeois de Calais?

But the determined faces were not just those of older men.  On this day of major World Cup games, a couple of aspiring stars were in their own shootout:

I

I was scooping and slurping my sublime glacial confection on a bench about fifteen feet behind the kid in the red shirt.  When the ball sailed by him and missed me and Tosca by less than the width of her handlebar, the kid turned and said, "I'm sorry, lady!"


Can you imagine some goalie in the World Cup doing that?  Clint Dempsey's shot leaves Robert Green sprawled on his side and, after getting up and dusting himself off, he turns to the crowd, looks at a middle-aged female spectator and says, "Pardon me, ma'am"?   Now that would be a World Cup moment!


Even Tosca would appreciate it:

Which reminds me:  I caught her in just the right light and she showed something she shares with Arielle, my road bike:

You can see, at least somewhat, what makes their finishes unusual.  They're both Mercian's Number 57, the so-called "flip-flop" finish. If you look at the top tube, you can see what happens to the color when the purple flips or flops, depending on your point of view.


In case you're interested:  That's a single-speed freewheel on the left side. (Why am I bragging about that?  I have no excuse:  I have no more testosterone!)  I haven't ridden it yet.  On the bike's right is a fixed gear.  I know I don't use the same gear ratio as anyone who's ever riden in Vigorelli, but what the hell.

Tosca Returns

You've seen her before:

Soon you'll see her all dressed up.

Yes, she's Tosca.  She absconded a few weeks ago and now she's back.  

Well, we all know that if we let our friends out of our sight for a while, they change.  I shouldn't be surprised. ;-)

Do You Ride A "Fixie" Or A Bike With A Fixed Gear Into The Sunset

If I count the miles I pedaled going to and from yesterday's ride, I did about 45 miles all together--on Tosca, my fixie.


Of course, I've cycled many more miles than that in one ride.  However, it's been a while since I've ridden that many miles on a fixed gear.


Today I rode only a few miles, albeit on a fixed gear.  Notice I said "a fixed gear" as opposed to "my fixie."  A few months ago, I fitted a fixed gear to Marianela.  However, I don't think of it as a fixie:  I think of it as my commuter/utility bike, which I just happen to be riding with a fixed gear.


I think the difference in the way I think about each of them has to do with the fact that Tosca is a bike that's made to be used with fixed gears, while Marianela started life as a late '70's ten-speed bike.

Anyway, Marianela seems to have this thing for sunsets.  So after a brief late day ride, I found myself having a picnic in Astoria Park.  The food consisted of a hero sandwich from Sal, Kris and Charlie's of Astoria.  It's one of those old-school Italian-American sandwich shops that seemed to be everywhere in the NY Metro area when I was growing up.  You probably wouldn't want to go there if you are a vegetarian.  I might become one, some day.  But not tonight.  I ordered something called "The Bomb."  (I mean, how could I not, with a name like that!)  Let me tell you, it was worth every damn calorie, gram of sodium and whatever of cholestrol I downed.  I didn't order it with mustard or mayo, but I did get oil and vinegar, which were perfect on this sandwich!


I almost feel guilty for not having shared, even if these people were enjoying each other's company:

After eating that sandwich, I probably could have attached a chain to my bike and pulled this train into the sunset all by myself:

The light inside that train alone would be worth the ride.  Heck, I wouldn't even mind being inside the windows of that building underneath the trestle, even if it is a water treatment plant.  But I got the best view of all--after riding my bike.

Only Gear Syndrome

Is Tosca suffering from Only Gear Syndrome?  You know what it is: When they don't have to share their single gear with any other bike, they think they're always the center of attention.

Truth is, everyone does pay attention to her, especially when she's at the beach.

People are always peeping at her.  But she loves being the center of attention.  It's really her world.

The evening is young. That's Tosca's time. She's getting ready now.

Well...Even if she suffers from Only Gear Syndrome, she's given me a lot of good times.  And, I hope, she will give me more for a long time to come.

The Tour I Missed

All right. I'm going to show you some photos I took during my ride yesterday, and I'll let you guess where I rode.


My first stop brought me here:

Here is another shot from that same stop:

A few miles later, I was struck by the lines of the tree in the foreground:

A bunch of miles later, I took a detour.  Actually, I think Tosca detoured me, for she felt right at home here:

Some more miles later, I stopped to visit some friends:

They weren't far from this:

or this:

And thus did my journey end:

All right...So you want to know where I rode?  Well, I'll tellya:  What I just said ought to be a clue.  I was in da Bronx.  My detour, during which Tosca posed in front of the floral shop window, took me through the Westchester County communities of Mount Vernon and Pelham Manor.


I had planned to join Lakythia and Mildred for the Tour de Bronx, one of the few organized bike rides that's still free.  I've always known that there were a surprising number of good places to ride and interesting sights in what may be New York City's most maligned borough.  And, I'll admit, I wanted the opportunity to show them to Lakythia and Mildred.  However, teaching evening classes has thrown off my body rythms, and I don't get up as early as I did when I was teaching day classes.  So I got to the Bronx after registration had ended and the riders left.  I thought I might catch up to them, but I might've made a wrong turn or two. Plus, I realized that in a large organized ride, I might not find them.  So I gave up and gave into a ride that basically happened.  When I'm riding alone on as beautiful a day as we had yesterday, I don't mind that.


I must say, though, that today I noticed changes in tree coloration for the first time this year.  I'm not the only one who think it's happening late this year.  Although trees and plants have their own internal "clocks", at least one person who's knowledgeable about such things has suggested that that the relatively warm and very wet season we've had might've wreaked havoc with the trees' timing.


In any event, it was a fine ride, but it would have been better with Lakythia and Millie.  Does this mean I should return to teaching day classes?

A Climb

If you've ever thought there were no hills in New York City, take a look at this:

At the bottom of these stairs  is the Morris Heights section of the Bronx.  Climb them and you're in the aptly-named University Heights neighborhood.  The latter was home to a New York University campus until the early 1970's.  Now that campus is occupied by the Bronx Community College.

I rode up that way this morning.  And, yes, I ascended those stairs on Tosca, my fixie. All right, I climbed with Tosca on my shoulder.

Riding On Rails

Today I took Tosca, my fixed-gear Mercian, for a ride.  

Sometimes people who haven't ridden a track bike or a "fixie" ask me what it's like.  One description I've given is that--if you'll pardon me a cliche--it's like "riding on rails".

Perhaps that's what, subconsciously, led me along the South Shore of Nassau County, Queens and Brooklyn to Coney Island:

Now, if you want to talk about "riding on rails", you have to think about the Thunderbolt.  

If you ask most people to name a roller coaster on Coney Island, they'll say "Cyclone", with good reason:  Few amusement-park rides, anywhere, are better-known.  Even if you've never been to Coney Island, you've probably seen it in movies (such as The Wiz and The Sting II), Beyonce's video XO or in Grand Theft Auto IV (in which it's called The Screamer).  Roller-coaster aficionados still rate it as among the best; it's almost certainly one the most thrilling rides to be had anywhere and one of the best remaining examples of a wooden-car roller coaster.

The current Thunderbolt, by contrast, opened only last year.  It's more like a modern mega-amusement park ride, with its twists and turns.  What most people under a certain age don't realize is that there was another Thunderbolt, which opened in 1925 (two years before the Cyclone) and closed in 1982.  The Cyclone very nearly met the same fate in the late 1960s, when attendance at Coney Island's amusement parks and beaches declined sharply with the opening of newer parks and beaches, accessible by expressways, and the deterioration of the neighborhood around the roller coaster.  (In the 1980s, Coney Island was often referred to as "Crack Island"; since the late 1990s, the area has been rebuilt, bit by bit.) Today I saw crowds like I've never before seen; kids of various ages screamed with terror or squealed with delight as the the Thunderbolt rose and dropped.

Speaking of dropping:  For the past half-century or so, the Parachute Jump (the "umbrella" you see in the background) has been closed.  There have been rumors about reopening it.  Perhaps there could be some way to connect it to the Thunderbolt:  When it reaches the peak of the loop, riders could "bail out".  

Hmm...I wonder what the city Parks Department would think of that.

As for me:  I'll stick to "riding on rails"--on Tosca.

 

Afternoon Delight With The Rocket Thrower

I had an Afternoon Delight today.  No, it didn't have anything to do with that.  This is a blog for PG audiences!

All right, that all depends on how you define PG.  Anyway, my afternoon delight was a short but sweet (ah, the cliches!) ride via a circuitous route to Flushing Medow Park.

Tosca seemed content to ride and fade into the background.  She had the chance:

I mean, if she wanted to camoflauge herself, could she have picked a better spot?

Actually, I think she looked quite lovely there.  The folks in the New York City Parks Department do a nice job.

Even if the arrangement had consisted entirely of lilies, Tosca would have been hiding in plain sight of this icon:

The Rocket Thrower clearly has his sights elsewhere.  Good thing:  He probably wouldn't want to see some of the things that go on right at his feet.  

For that matter, he probably wouldn't want to hear, either.  When he was unveiled, for the opening of the 1964-65 World's Fair (held in Flushing Meadow Park), some people said absolutely terrible things about him.  One of the most merciless was the New York Times art critic (who else?) John Canady described The Rocket Thrower as "the most lamentable monster, making Walt Disney look like Leonardo da Vinci".

Robert Moses, the "master builder" behind the Worlds' Fair, famously sneered, "Critics build nothing".  So, perhaps, it isn't a surprise that he tried to console Donald De Lue, the sculptor of The Rocket Thrower.  "This is the greatest compliment you could have," Moses said.  "[Canady] hates everything that is good."

Hmm...I'll admit, it certainly doesn't compare to Da Vinci or Michelangelo or Rodin.  Or even Brancusi.  But it fits into something like a Worlds' Fair, especially one in the age of space exploration.  And, on his lofty perch, nobody can take "selfies" with him!

Riding The Penny Bridge To The Market

"Penny Bridge."  It sounds like a song from Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club doesn't it?

But its location is less quaint, if oddly bucolic.  Actually, I should say "was":  That bridge, so named because it cost a penny to cross (It was privately built and operated), stood at a spot I reached on my afternoon ride.

I'd ridden into the area-- possibly the last part of Williamsburg not claimed by hipsters, trust fund kids or Hasidim--before.  I had not, however, stopped at that particular spot, on Newtown Creek, until yesterday.

It's only a few hundred meters upstream from the new Kosciuszko Bridge, which has a nice pedestrian and bike lane.  But that spot, on the edge of an industrial area, is out of reach of the trucks, cars and buses and, it seems, rarely visited by anyone.  So, in spite of the hustle and bustle, the soot and grime all around it, it's rather peaceful.  

The Penny Bridge, built over 200 years ago, was the first crossing over Newtown Creek and helped to spur industries that continues to this day.  According to a marker at the site, the Creek, being a navigable waterway that empties into the East River (which is really a bay of the Atlantic Ocean), once carried more nautical traffic and freight than the Mississippi River!

I meandered along side streets, from one Brooklyn neighborhood to another, and after about 20 kilometers of pedaling, I found myself in another interesting spot about 5 kilometers from Penny Bridge:

Before today, I think I'd read or heard about the Moore Street Retail Market.  Opened in 1941, it's one of the later Works Progress Administration structures built in New York City.  Architecturally, it's hardly unique but certainly identifiable as a WPA structure.  One reason it's interesting and important is that it's one of a series of Retail Market Places built by the WPA. (Others include the Arthur Avenue Market in the Bronx, Essex Street in Manhattan and 39th Street in Brooklyn.)  While other WPA projects include everything from schools and courthouses to roadways and waterworks, the marketplaces may have been unique in their conception and purpose.  

Fiorello LaGuardia's tenure as Mayor of New York City almost exactly coincided with the Presidency of Franklin D. Roosevelt, who signed the WPA into being.  Though they were of opposing parties, they were allies on many issues. (Funny how crises like the Great Depression had a way of making that happen!)  They both wanted to put people back to work, and LaGuardia was trying to clean up the city, literally.  He was able to get the WPA to build those market places, which contain stalls of everything from fresh produce and homemade specialties from the ethnic groups living in the neighborhood to housewares and children's clothing, were meant to replace horse-drawn vending carts, which he believed to be un-hygenic and unsightly.

I'd wanted to go inside the marketplace, but the "no bikes" policy was being enforced.  I propped Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, against a pole.

 

"Don't leave that bike here!"  Of course I wouldn't; even if I'd brought a lock with me, I wasn't about to leave Tosca, or any of my Mercians, on the street.  But I think the wiry Hispanic man knew that. "That's one nice bike you've got."  I thanked him. "Do you want to see mine?"  Of course I did, and he pulled out his i-phone to show me images of a Throne track bike and a Trek road bike with a Creamsicle finish (which I actually liked) and, I think, Shimano 600 components.  I mention that last detail because I couldn't tell which model it was, but my guess it was one of the better ones in the Trek lineup.

Another man, a friend of his, stopped to greet him and look at my bike.  He, too, pulled out his phone to show me his Bianchi road bike--carbon fiber, but still in that trademark Celeste green.

So, while I didn't get to shop in the marketplace, I did pick up a few moments of cameraderie with a couple of cyclists.  Perhaps I'll bump into them again.