Really Going Dutch

 Probably the first “normal” thing—besides cycling—I did during the COVID-19 pandemic was to visit the hospital Metropolitan Museum of Art just after it reopened.

Of course, there were restrictions: Visitors had to wear a mask and have their temperatures taken. And, of course, we had to follow social-distancing protocols.

But one thing I loved—along with the Japanese exhibit I went to see—was a service that was provided:  a bicycle valet.  That person parked your bike in a nice safe spot in the parking garage and gave you a ticket, just as if you had checked a coat or backpack.

Now another venerable institution—actually, annual event that’s been held since 1929–is offering a similar convenience. Cyclists can ride to the event, check their bicycles with a valet, and spend the day exploring, not only a museum, but a large part of a town.

The town in question is holding its festival—Tulip Time—from the 4th until the 19th of May.  And, since tulips and bicycles sound so very, very Dutch, you might think that town is in the Netherlands.

Well, it’s not. Rather that town is the Netherlands—or, more precisely, Holland. And it’s located, not among canals, but amidst lakes.

The Holland in question is in the Great Lakes State, i.e., Michigan. Not surprisingly, it was founded by immigrants from the eponymous nation and the Tulip Festival features, not only the colorful flowers, but all things Dutch.

What better way to get there than by bicycle—especially when a valet will park it safely?

A Big Dipper Under Wrap

The Tumbleweed Bicycle Company has just introduced its Big Dipper drop handlebars.

They may well be the most comfortable long-distance bars ever created, and I just may try them.

Of course, with any new drop bar, there's the question of what kind of tape--and which color--you'll use to wrap it.  Most of the time, I use cotton cloth tape, which is available in a variety of hues.  "Basic black" is usually the safe choice, as it doesn't show dirt or clash with most bikes.  Some people like to match their saddles, if that's possible.  

Or, you could be adventurous

Photo by Ron Frazelle

and make your handlebars look like a piece of '60's Op Art. 

Where Were You When You Broke The Law?

 I broke a law.

Well, it may not have been a law where I committed the evil deed.  But a man did the same thing in another locale and was arrested.

To be fair, there was a warrant for his capture.  And the violation was just one charged to him when he was apprehended.

The cops who effected the bust were based in barracks in a town with one of the most quirkily beautiful toponyms I’ve heard:  Shickshinny, Pennsylvania. Imagine answering the query, “Where are you from?” with that.

Anyway, the benighted soul they ensnared, 51-year-old David Thomas Totten of Wilkes-Barre, was riding a bicycle eastbound in the westbound traffic lane of West End Road in Hanover Township.  It was just after midnight on 4 September 2023 and Totten didn’t have any lights on his bike.

Now, some officers might ignore such breaches of bicycle safety protocols. And unless the officers on duty had been involved with whatever led to Totten’s warrant—or there’s some tagging technology we don’t know about—they couldn’t have known about that warrant . So the question remains of what prompted the ones on duty to stop Totten and conduct a search that yielded a cigarette pack hiding suspected methamphetamine and a syringe.

Now, I’ve never smoked, owned or used a syringe or anything that could be construed as methamphetamine  or had warrant for my arrest (that I know of!). I’ll concede that I’ve ridden in the dark without lights or reflectors, though not within the past few decades. So what, exactly have both Mr. Totten and I done that resulted in an arrest for him, but not me.

He was carrying a table when he was stopped. I’ve done it, too, on more than one occasion. I’ve also carried chairs and bookcases—and a framed art pieces, including one that measured at least 2 feet by 3 feet (61 by 91 cm.).

The latter was a delivery I made, as a Manhattan bike messenger, from a Soho gallery to Judy Collins (yes, that one) on the Upper Wear Side. I made similar runs with oversized objets d’art and home furnishings in the steel and concrete canyons. I also hauled them as part of a move from one neighborhoods to another.

Of course, the prints, tables and such didn’t fit into my messenger bag, backpack, panniers or whatever I was using to haul stuff on my bike.  So, of course, I had to carry the item in one hand and navigate the bike with the other.

Such practices, it turns out, are transgressions against Chapter 35, Subchapter A, Section 3506 of the Pennsylvania vehicle code:

“ No person operating a pedal cycle shall carry any package, bundle, or article which prevents the driver from keeping at least one hand upon the handlebars.”

I guess it’s a good thing I was in New York and New Jersey when I committed my foul deeds—unless, of course, the Empire and Garden States have statutes like the one in the Keystone State.  Then again, if said laws exist, I would guess that the statute of limitations has run out. (Is that one of the benefits of getting older?)

Not Bolted Down

The Angkor Wat, which I visited five years ago, is definitely a marvel.  Of course, I was awed by its architecture, history, art and overall aesthetics, as well as its importance to the identity of a people--and the human race. But even if I didn't care about such things, and I concerned myself only with materialistic, quantitative and practical matters, I probably would have been just as awed as I was:  The temples were built without the use of cement, nails, screws or any other materials to fasten or bind the blocks to each other.  Rather, those stones were so precisely cut, and fit into each other so perfectly, that the temples have withstood a millenium (or more) of heat, humidity, torrential rains, wars, invasions and the ravages of the Khmer Rouge.

It doesn't take much for me to remember the Angkor Wat: It's one of those things you don't forget once you've seen and touched it.  But something in particular brought back, to my mind, the temples' construction. 

Since you're reading this blog, you've probably figured that something is a bicycle, or something that has to do with cycling.  But, aside from the fact that one can ride pedal to the monuments (I know, I did), what does a bicycle have to do with monuments built to Hindu deities and later re-purposed as Buddhist shrines?

Well, the bike in question is constructed without bolts.  At least, that's how it looks.

The two-wheeler in question is indeed a real bicycle--one that pedals, with no motors or other assists anywhere on the premises.  It's billed as the "world's most bespoke bicycle":  Not only is the frame fitted to the customer's exact measurements; so is everything that's fitted to the frame.  Some of those components, like the special-edition Brooks C 13 saddle, are modified versions of what you can buy in your local shop or an online retailer. But most of the other parts are custom-made.  As an example, crank arms usually come in lengths from 165 to 175 mm in increments of 2.5 mm. But for this bike, the length of the arms can be specified to a fraction of a millimetre.  Ditto for the handlebars and stem, which are 3D printed.

Also, the maker of this bike claims that it has the world's first fully integrated brake system:

Now, the way I spelled "millimetre" should give you a clue as to where this bike is made--and where you'll have to go if you want to be fitted for one.  Gaydon, a village in southern England, is home to, well, not much.  Nearby are the British Film Institute's National Archive (which includes some highly flammable nitrate films) and the former RAF V Bomber base.  Oh, and there is the British Motor Museum, home to the largest collection of historic British cars in the world.

That last fact is a clue as to who is involved in making the bike in question.

J. Laverack builds titanium bike frames nearby, and is teaming up with a local company to build the bike.  That other company is--wait for it--Aston Martin.

Yes, the same firm that made the vehicle--a DB 5--James Bond drove in 1964's Goldfinger.  The same firm that has had a Royal Warrant, since 1982, as a purveyor of motorcars (how British) to Prince Charles/King Charles III.  Why?  Because his wife simply would not be caught dead in a Mercedes-Benz.

All right, I admit, that last sentence was a tasteless joke.  But I couldn't resist. Well, OK, I could have but, really, why would I? However, I promise nothing like it again on this blog.  Really!

Anyway, the bike can be finished in any Aston Martin colour. After all, you can't have one vehicle clashing with the other.

Bicycling And Hip-Hop: Filling A Void

On this date in 1973, a fellow named Clive Campbell threw a back-to-school party for his sister.  For admission, he charged female guests 25 cents and 50 cents for males.  The money went for his sister's new clothes and supplies.

Such a party would have been like many others except for one thing.  You see, he was a DJ with an interesting background and unique set of skills and ideas.  

Six years earlier, when he was 12, he and his family emigrated from Kingston, Jamaica to Bronx, New York.  In addition to his talents as a musician and host, he brought with him the memory of music from a dancehall near his old home--and a tradition of "toasting," or talking over the music.

He would "toast" over the records he played--as he extended their beats--"breaking" or "scratching"--to give guests more time to dance to them.  

Now, many have argued--plausibly--that other artists and performers were "breaking," "scratching" and "toasting" years before Clive Campbell's party. But that party is cited as the "birth" of what we now call "hip-hop" because it's the first recorded instance of those elements coming together to create, not just a musical style, but an artistic movement in which "toasting" came to be known as "rapping" and would include "break" dancing and the kind of graffiti that pulses like the waves of urban life across subway cars.

So what does the "50th anniversary of hip-hop" have to do with bicycling?

Well, the music, art and dance I've described are part of a response--and a way of coping--with the conditions--including poverty and violence as well as extraordinary diversity-- of life in the Bronx and other urban areas of the 1970s and 1980s. Soon, people in conditions and places far removed from those of 1520 Sedgwick Avenue--where Clive Campbell, whom the world would come to know as DJ Kool Herc threw that party--would see the music he pioneered, and the lyrics he, and others would "rap" over it--expressed something they were feeling or, at least, that it was fresh in a way that the popular music of the time wasn't.

In other words, hip hop filed, and continues to fill, a void.  So does cycling.  Shaka Pitts understands as much.  He co-founded the Baltimore advocacy group Black People Ride Bikes--and Pits Fights Battle League, one of the city's longest-running hip-hop events.  He says he's "doing the same thing" in the cycling and hip-hop worlds:  "I bring in other people.  I lateral things off."  That is how he fills the void--and helps people to cope with, and express the realities, of their lives.

You Don't Have To Ride To The End Of This Tunnel To See The Light.

 As a cyclist, I have an interesting relationship with tunnels. (A Freudian would have a field day with that statement!)  I've ridden, probably, my share and some long underpasses that could just as well have been tunnels.  (I think of one in particular that dips as it goes under the Long Island Railroad trestle at 130th Street in Queens.)  I can't say I seek out those long, enclosed passages, but when I enter them, I experience a mild adrenaline rush: Even if I know what's on either end of it, I like to imagine that I'm going to emerge in a different world from the one where I entered.

That said, one of the most gratifying experiences I've had as a cyclist took me through a tunnel. I detoured from one Alpine road--closed, probably, by an avalanche--to another, only to come to a tunnel in which an electrical outage extinguished the lights.    

A driver in a Citroen waved to me.  He told me to ride ahead of him, in the wake of his headlights, and the drivers behind him would follow.  And they did!

I thought of that day when I came across this news item:  A three-kilometer (1.8 mile) tunnel through the base of  Lovstakken mountain Bergen, Norway has just opened in Bergen, Norway.

While that, in itself, may not seem so unusual--after all, the Norwegians, French, Italians, Japanese and other people who live in or by mountains have been building them for centuries---the purpose of the tunnel makes it a record-breaker.  

Photo by Ronny Turoy

The Norwegian under-pasage is the longest such structure built specifically for cyclists and pedestrians.  There are separate lanes for each, and motorized vehicles are verboten. (OK, I know that's a German word.  I don't know Norwegian!)

Perhaps the most unique and gratifying part of the tunnel, though, is that its designers seemed to do everything they could to make it seem less like a tunnel.  The walls are lined with art and other visual delights, and the cave is illuminated with different colors of light in different parts of the tunnel, which helps to give people who pedal, walk and run an idea of how far they've progressed through it.  And, in the middle of the tunnel there's a "sundial" in a place where the sun will never shine.  It's intended, in part, to further break up the monotony of the tunnel, which is completely straight (which is something I never could claim) except for slight bends at the entrance and exit. 

A Journey Blossoms

 What would my younger self have thought?

My younger self was not only, well, younger, but also stronger, skinnier and perhaps sillier: Even after I’d given up on racing, I prided myself on riding like a racer.  Some of that may have had to do with living as male and riding, if not solo, then mostly in the company of male riders who were racers, ex-racers or wannabes.

Now I’m going to make a confession: While I sometimes rode just as hard and fast during my solo rides, on other solo rides—and only on solo rides, I’d stop to look at buildings, trees or flowers.

Which is what I’ve been doing lately.  In this part of the world, we are entering the peak of cherry blossom season and I’m becoming a blossom rider—or a cherry chaser?

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you know that few things make me happier, if for a moment, than those pink blooms.  (Lilacs, which should be showing up soon, are another.) 

It’s not just their prettiness that moves me.  I must say that I never understood haiku or Japanese art (or why it so inspired Monet and other Impressionist artists) until I paid attention to cherry blossoms.

You see, haiku isn’t just about the syllable count and Japanese painting isn’t only a style.  Both are about experiencing the beauty and intensity of something in a moment but appreciating that moment’s ephemerality. And that, I believe, is the reason why there’s so much respect for elders and ancestors in Japanese culture.

So…while my recent rides have been sensual and aesthetic experiences—which my younger self would have secretly embraced—they have also been lessons which, possibly, my younger self could not’ve understood.

In Suspense--Or In Thrall To Aesthetics?

Sometimes I think the '90's were the end of an era:  when you could care about aesthetics and still buy a high-end road racing bicycle.

Today, you can get a beautiful frame from a builder like Mercian or any number of other custom makers.  But even though it can be sleek and relatively light, it's likely to be heavier and less aerodynamic than a new racing bike.  Those gorgeous frames with their beautiful lugs or filet-brazed joints and lustrous paint jobs are most likely to be steel, whether from Reynolds, Columbus or some other maker, but most racers are now astride frames made of carbon fiber.  Although I can appreciate the lightness and stiffness of carbon fiber frames, I know that their lifespan is nowhere near that of most good steel, titanium or aluminum frames.  Also, their Darth Vader shapes and surfaces are too often plastered with cartoony or just plain creepy graphics.

But during that last "golden era" for road bikes, two seemingly-disparate groups of cyclists seemed to abandon any sense of velocepedic voluptuousness.  According to Eben Weiss' latest article in Outside magazine, those riders were mountain bikers--especially of the downhill variety--and triathlon competitors.   As he notes, mountain biking and triathlon racing  came into their own as disciplines at roughly the same time, more or less independent of the prevailing cycling cultures (racing, touring, track, club riding).  Although many mountain riders came from road riding, they tended to be younger and not as bound to the prevailing traditions and conventions of riding.  Then there were those mountain riders who, like most triathloners, had little or no previous experience with cycling and were therefore even less wed to ideas about what bikes should look or ride like.

One result of that disdain for bicycle tradition was modern suspension systems.  One irony is that those who developed it for mountain bikes thought they were doing something new and revolutionary when, in fact, bicycle suspension  has been around for almost as long as bicycles themselves.  The chief question seemed to be whether to suspend the rider or the bike itself:  The former would offer more comfort and would, therefore, keep the rider in better control of the bike. The latter, on the other hand, would make the bike itself more stable at high speeds and in rough conditions: what would encounter in a downhill or on technical singletrack.

One of the earliest--and, perhaps, still most widely-used--forms of suspension is the sprung saddle, which would fall into the category of suspending the rider. Later, balloon-tired bikes from Schwinn, Columbia and other American manufacturers came with large bars and springs connected to the handlebars and front forks.  How much shock they actually absorbed, I don't know.  I get the feeling they were added, like the ones on the "Krate" and "Chopper" bikes of the '60's and '70's, so that kids could pretend that their bikes were scaled-down motorcycles. 

Around the same time as those wannabe Harleys were made, Dan Henry's (of the Arrows fame) rigged up a Reynolds 531 fork with springs which, he said, allowed him to ride the lightest rims and tubular tires even in the roughest conditions.  But the '70's and '80's saw little, if any, experimentation with, let alone manufacture of, suspended bikes or parts.

That all changed when the first Rock Shox forks and Girvin Flex Stems were introduced in 1989.  The latter defied all notions of the graceful "gooseneck" in mirror-polished or milky silver, and Rock Shox looked nothing like those curved or tapered blades seen on classic road bikes.  Then, it seemed, all sense of aesthetics went out the window--unless your idea of art is a sex toy or something that would render a man incapable of bringing any new cyclists into this world--with the Softride.

I must admit I never tried Softride:  Even though I was leaner and lighter than I am now, I was leery of mounting anything that didn't have support from below. (Read that as you will.)  Weiss rode one recently, three decades after its introduction, and found it to be "more subtle" than he expected though, he pointed out, he could have been just as, and more elegantly, cushioned from road and trail shock with a leather saddle or wide tires.  Subtract the "diving board" and Girvin Flex stem, he notes, and one is left with a rigid mountain bike like the ones riders had been riding before. 

If I had a couple of barns or garages, I'd probably acquire a Soft Ride to complete the collection I'd have.  But even if I liked its suspension qualities, I'm not sure how much I'd ride it:  I'm still too wedded to my vision of a beautiful bicycle.  There are some things I just don't want to be caught dead on. 

Don't Look Now!

I took an Art History course that  included a final exam with this essay question: "Explain the Mona Lisa smile."

I don't remember what I wrote. I am sure, however, that it wasn't profound, brilliant or original in spite of my belief that it, like everything I wrote in those days, embodied all of those qualities.  So it wouldn't surprise you to know that the grade I got--a B, if I remember correctly-- aroused my indignation. (It didn't take much, did it?)

So, being older and wiser, I won't venture an opinion about why the young woman has her hands over her eyes:

I simply thought the image is light and funny--just right for a Sunday morning.

If I Were A Museum Director...

 Every museum should have bicycle parking facilities--preferably indoors, with a valet.

The Metropolitan Museum in New York offered it briefly, thanks to a collaboration with Transportation Alternatives, when it re-opened after its pandemic-induced closure.  I was reminded of that during my latest Paris trip, when I went museum-hopping on the bikes I borrowed and rented.

In nine days, I visited the Rodin, Picasso, Modern Art (twice), Jacquemart-Andre and Orsay Museums. Sidewalk or curbside bike racks stood just outside all of them, secluded from the traffic.  Also, there were Velib ports near all of them.  So, in Paris it is easier than it is in New York to bike from museum to museum, without having to worry about whether your bike will be where you parked it after spending a couple or a few hours looking at paintings and sculptures.  Still, I would love to see indoor facilities--and even more encouragement of, not only cycling in general (which Paris' current mayor seems to be doing plenty of) but of riding to museums and other cultural sites.

"The Scream" isn't Edvard Munch's only painting.

I mean, for me, there is nothing like taking in the colors and forms, and the ideas and feelings they convey, after a ride along city streets.  The people, buildings and streets I see, almost kaleidoscopically, put me in a mind and mood about how artists see the subjects of their work and transform them into transmissible visions. 

Perhaps it has to do with the blood that pumps into my brain as much as the sensory stimuli I experience while riding.  That might also be the reason why I can go into "old favorite" museums like the Rodin or New York's Guggenheim, or newer favorites like the Jacquemart-Andre,  and feel as if I am, not only re-connecting, but re-discovering.

Lady Macbeth, by Fussli

Now, in the Jacquemart- Andre, I sauntered through a special exhibit of Johan Heinrich Fussli, an artist I knew peripherally through his connections with the London literary and theatre worlds of the 18th Century.  But its permanent exhibit, like the one in the Rodin, also felt fresh. So did seeing the more as well as the less famous Edvard Munch works in a special exhibit at the Orsay:  Even the "Scream" resonated for me, as did the works of Oskar Kokoschka in a Modern Art special exhibit.

Oskar Kokoschka, self-portrait

If I were a museum director, I would make bike riding a requirement for entrance.  Or, at least, I would offer a discounted admission price. (I can't exclude people who can't ride, after all!)  On second thought, if I had my way, all museums would be free.  It would be the only policy that would be fair to everybody, wouldn't it? 

That I think that way is probably one reason why I never could be a museum director:  They have to raise money somehow.  But perhaps one will listen to me when I say that cyclists make the best museum visitors.  Really, we do.

Riding To A Light Show

More about my Paris trip--including the bike I rented and one I saw on the street--are on the way, I promise.  I'm still under the weather, just as the new semester is beginning.

In the meantime, I'll show you a treat that awaited me during one of my rides in the City of Light.

You were expecting a crepe or some such thing?  Actually, I did enjoy one with creme de marron (chestnut paste--much better than Nutella!) at a nearby stand. The fellow who made it was, in his own right, an artist.  So was the person (or were the persons) responsible for that riot of light and color.

No, a rabid painter or eccentric designer didn't storm his or her way into the abbey of Saint Germain des Pres.  The artist or artists in question did their work long ago and, perhaps unwittingly, made another kind of art--something we might call an "installation"--possible.

Ironically, the abbey stands across the eponymous Place from a cafe--Deux Magots--renowned as a haven for artists, writers, composers and other creative people during the first half of the twentieth century. Most who make the pilgrimage to the cafe and the surrounding area for its literary and artistic heritage do not, I suspect, visit the church for which the Place is named.  Likewise, I don't think most who enter the church are much interested in the walking in the footsteps or imbibing the  nectar that nourished the talents of Sartre, de Beauvoir, Hemingway and their contemporaries.

Me Revoila!

You haven't heard a day-by-day description because I really filled my days there and wasn't getting back to my hotel room until the wee hours of morning.  By then, between all of the bike riding, museum and cathedral visits and socializing, I was tired, though in good ways.

Perhaps, in reading the previous sentence, you might think I shouldn't be calling this blog "Midlife Cycling" anymore.  But I'll continue to do so because, well, what else am I going to call it?  Anything with "Old" or "Senior" in the title just wouldn't have the same ring. Besides, I want to stick to "Midlife Cycling" as an act of defiance, just as I continue to speak French for as long as I can get away with it after getting home from a trip.

But I digress...and now I'll confess:  I simply wanted to spend a few days un-tethered to my electronic devices.  I didn't turn on my laptop and or answer e-mails on my smartphone unless they came from my friends in Paris or anything else related to my trip. 

I mean, when the spire of the Eiffel Tower is peering from behind l'Ecole Militaire, across the street from my hotel (the Derby Eiffel), the Seine is a five-minute walk away, and art, great food, friends and new bike lanes--real ones!--beckon, why would I want to spend time with my face in front of a screen? 

During the next few days, I'll tell you more about my trip...including, of course, where and what I rode!

The Clues Lead To This

Yesterday's post contained clues to today's.

Here's another clue:

Now, that bike might tell you something else about this post.  Is its subject a bike

or a place where you might find it?

No, I'm not in Hell.  I was always very quick to remind my students that they weren't, either, when I assigned a paper on the image in question--or the literary work on which it's based.

I have, however, visited one cathedral

and another:

and  didn't have to hear "I am beautiful" from Christina Aguilera. Instead, I saw it from one of my favorite artists*:

OK, so you've probably figured out that this post isn't about a bike--or any thing.  It's also not about any person--except, perhaps, me. 

So now you know you're reading about a place.  I saw this last night, when I stepped out of where I'm staying

and this, on my way back in this evening:

Yes, I am indeed in Paris.  The weather has been remarkably Spring-like, minus the sun:  Daytime temperatures have been in the 10-12C (50-55F) range.  Of course, over the next few days, they could drop so, perhaps, bringing warm clothes won't have been in vain.

It may seem odd that I could take a ten-day vacation here for less than most trips in the US. Then again, I'm travelling after the holiday, and I'm not here during the Summer, which is the normal "peak season." That meant that in September, I got a really good price on  a package that included non-stop flights between JFK and Charles de Gaulle (CDG) and a hotel just a couple of blocks from..wait for it...the Eiffel Tower.    Also, I know this city well enough not to make the mistakes, money-wise, that first-time visitors make.  And, of course, I have friends here, whom I'll see.

I didn't arrange to rent a bike, as I normally do.  For one thing, some of the rental services, which also do tours of the city, are closed for the winter. (When I came four years ago and rented a bike, the owner of the service actually made a special trip in to town to rent the bike.  Had I known that, I might not have arranged the rental.)  So, I am going to try the Velib. It will be interesting mainly because it will be my first experience with a municipal bike-share system.

However it is, I'm still in a city I love--where friends end e-mails, not with "sincerely," or "best,' but "bises."

*--Je suis belle, my favorite Rodin work and one of my favorite works of art.

They Didn't Try This At Home

When I came across this image, I thought it was a joke or someone's attempt to create "art." 

Turns out, it had an illustrative purpose.  Apparently, in Baldwin Park, California, it is illegal to ride a bicycle in a swimming pool.

Note that I used the present tense: "it is illegal."  Yes, that law is on the books, though it's (thankfully) not enforced and no one is sure of whether it ever has been.

From what info I've gleaned, the law against riding on or in was passed in the 1970s, when BMX cycling and skateboarding were popular, mainly among adolescent and young adult males.  The real purpose of the law, I think, was not to keep kids from pedaling in their families' backyard swimming pools.  No self-respecting teenaged boy in California (or most other places) would have done such a thing.  Rather, I suspect that the law was passed in response to complaints after those young rebels broke or cut into fences surrounding larger pools.  

But the young and restless weren't looking to turn their bikes into amphibious vehicles or their skateboards into water-skis. Instead, they broke in during the fall and winter, when those pools were drained and became, in effect, rinks. So, as often as not, the owners of the properties didn't discover the "crime" until weeks, or even months, after it was committed.

I strongly suspect that at least some of California's current law-makers and -enforcers broke that law at some time in their youth.  And that is the reason why the law hasn't been repealed:  Part of the fun of being an adolescent is rebelling against something (or, at least, feeling as if you are) and getting away with it.  So, while living in such a mindset, what could be better than breaking a law and knowing that you most likely will get away with it.  And what loving parent wants to deny their kid that pleasure?

Should The Pedaling Picasso Become A Planner?

Who is an artist?

More specifically, what makes an artist an artist?

OK, I know that you (some of you, anyway) don't come to this blog for answers to questions like those.  Greater minds than mine can't come up with them, so I won't try to formulate any on this blog, let alone in this post.

There are, however, cyclists who make, if not objets d'art, then at least conceptual creations when they ride.  

Anthony Hoyte, a.k.a. The Pedaling Picasso, created this Strava image of Pere Noel in and around Paris.  While pedaling 109.7 miles over 13 hours and 19 minutes does not yield an impressive average speed, you have to remember that works of art, great or not, take time.  In Hoyte's case, he probably spent much of that time simply navigating his route.

Likewise, his GPS must have worked overtime as he pedaled sketches of Frosty the Snowman, a reindeer, Santa's head and the words "Merry Christmas in and around London and Birmingham.

If he could make street-level route maps of those images, they would be more useful than some of the "bicycle infrastructure" built lately:

I mean, what is the point of a "roundabout" in a bike lane? An intersection with signal lights synchronized so that cyclists cross before the traffic would be infinitely  more practical--and safer. 

A true artist would know better, I think.

Voyage En Rose

 In  2000, I did a bike tour through the Pyrenees, from France into Spain and back.  I started in Toulouse, where I spent four days.  To this day, it's one of my favorite large cities.  The people are friendly and it has all of the other things to love about French cities and towns:  great food, beautiful public spaces and interesting art.  But the thing that leaves me with a warm glow (please indulge me in this analogy/pun) is the light at the end of the day.  So much of the city softly blazes as the sun sets among brick buildings.  For that, Toulouse is often called la ville rose.

So why did I think about that while riding yesterday?  (Well, why wouldn't I?)  As we near the winter solstice, the days are growing shorter.  So any given ride has a greater chance of ending, or even continuing, into the sunset, under twilight.  After riding to the Rockaways and Coney Island, I passed through Clinton Hill--a neighborhood just east of the Brooklyn Academy of Music and Atlantic Center.  

The area is probably best known for its old stone churches, brownstones and the Pratt Institute.  Nestled among them is a smaller but well-respected university:  St. Joseph's.  As a longtime presence, it--not surprisingly--shares the neighborhood's architectural and other visual delights.  

Those buildings, on Clinton Avenue, are adjacent to St. Joseph's and share many characteristics with its other buildings.  They are not, however, part of the university.  The exteriors have been almost unchanged since they were built in 1905, in part because the block is one of the city's first designated historic districts.

Whoever lives in those buildings comes home to a maison rose at the end of the day.  That might be reason enough to live in them, as so many other parts of this city have less rose and look more and more like they're built with neutral-tone Lego blocks.