Taking It All With You

Everyone has his or her own idea of what "camping" is.  Most people would agree that it is something done outdoors, or at least outside the confines of one's home.  Beyond that, it's hard to say exactly what it is.

For some, it means being in remote wilderness areas, be they mountains, virgin forests, glaciers or undeveloped coastlines.  To others, it can mean setting up a tent or tarp in a backyard.  Still other people think that camping is anything that deprives you of access to a mall. Someone, I forget whom, described those who "camp" in a trailer or Winnebago-type vehicle with all of the accouterments of modern life--you know, flat-screen TVs, microwave ovens and the like--as "out-of-car-doorsmen".

I'll confess that it's been a while since I've done anything that might be described as camping.  But I've gone on bike trips and slept under the stars (or, in a couple of instances, in rain and even sleet), with and without a tent or a tarp.  I've set up camp under a canopy of branches and on a bed of wildflowers; I've also unrolled my sleeping bag under bridges and in farmers' fields, cemeteries--and a golf course!  Of course, I didn't realize I was in a golf course when I called it a day (night) of cycling!

I'll also admit that I never went on a cycling trip during which open spaces, or even KOA-style campgrounds, served as my lodgings most nights.  I camped  when I was nowhere near (as far as I could tell, anyway) a hostel, hotel or pensione, or couldn't afford one--or, in the days before widespread ATMS, when I was nowhere near a bank or other place where I could cash a traveler's check.  I also sometimes camped simply because the night and landscape were beautiful, or because I wasn't confident enough in my skills in a local language to knock on a stranger's door.  So, I didn't carry what one might think is a full set of camping equipment.  I never toted a stove:  My meals consisted of raw foods purchased at the last market or store I saw that day, or from prepared foods that were lukewarm or even cold by the time I got around to eating them.

I have respect for all of those cycle-campers (perhaps you are, or have been one) who carry everything they need for a wilderness expedition on two wheels, without motorized assistance.  Moreover, I admire those who tow trailers full of equipment (and, in some cases, their child(ren) and pets) across long distances on their bikes, though I have never aspired to be one of them.  

What would those hardy cycle-campers make of the Bushetrekka Cycle-Camper trailer?




For your next adventure....

It comes with the oversized tent cot you see in the photo. For the modest sum of $849.95, you "can carry anything you need and catch a little bit of shuteye at the end of the day"  on your "overnight adventure", according to its maker's advertising.

According to the advertising copy, the trailer--complete with cot--weighs 55 pounds.  According to people who've actually bought it (Yes, such people exist!), it actually weighs about 10 pounds more.  Worse, according to at least one commmenter, the wheels aren't sturdy enough.  

When I saw it, I had this question:  What, exactly, can that trailer do that even the biggest, heaviest and most expensive tent can't do--at a fraction of the weight and cost?

Worst of all, it could never be used for any of the "stealth" camping of the kind I did in my youth. In other words, I couldn't have set myself down in any of those fields, cemeteries or golf courses--or under the bridges--and scampered off at the crack of dawn if I had to collapse or dismantle or do whatever is necessary to the trailer so I could ride with it.

A Nomad And A UFO

Whenever I am in Florida, as I was a few days ago, I see lots of recreational vehicles as well as "campers".  In fact, when I ride along A1A, I pass by at least one RV or camper park.

Although trailers towed behind cars or carried on the backs of trucks are referred to as "campers", and people who use them--or even RVs--say they are "camping", I have a difficult time equating them with the camping I have done.  
There were days when I pedaled until I got lost, or couldn't pedal or see--or just didn't want to ride--anymore and simply unfurled my sleeping bag in a field or stretch of woods, or under a bridge.  There were also times when I pitched a tent or simply strung a piece of canvas or plastic between trees or other immobile objects and slept under it.  Perhaps having had such experiences makes it difficult for me to think that a person watching a wide-screen TV, even if he or she is in the open air, is "camping". 

Still, I can understand why people travel with "campers" or RV's:  They want to travel whenever they want, wherever they want, with as many of the conveniences of home as they can take with them.  That is also one of the reasons why they don't, and probably wouldn't, tour or camp by bicycle:  Even if you have front and rear panniers, a handlebar bag and a seat pack, you can't carry many of the comforts of even the most basic homes.

Perhaps a UFO could get them to travel by bicycle:

UFO stands for Urban Freedom Outlander, and this trailer is the Mark II model.  If there were camper trailers in ET, they might look something like that!

If the space-alien look isn't your thing, perhaps you might consider this:


Would sleeping in either of those trailers fit your definition of "camping"?  Even if it doesn't, at least pedaling either of them constitutes a bona fide outdoor activity--and, I would imagine, a workout!

Before They Made Bikes: Cannondale

There are a few bike brands that even non-cyclists can name.  Here in the US, Schwinn is one of them.  Others include Raleigh, Peugeot, Motobecane and Fuji.  

Cannondale might also be included in that list.  I think they gained notice with the general public because when their bicycles were first introduced in 1983, they looked very different from the others.  While Klein may have been the first to make aluminum frames from large-diameter tubing, Cannondale made them a mass-market (relatively speaking, anyway) item.  To this day, those frames are the first thing most people associate with the name "Cannondale".

What most people, especially those younger than--ahem--a certain age, don't realize is that Cannondale was in business for more than a decade before they built their first bicycle.  Furthermore, even though the first product they ever made was bicycle-related, their early reputation was established as much on non-bike equipment as on accessories for two-wheelers.

In the late 1960's, Joe Montgomery was a self-described "grunt" on Wall Street.  The experience, he later related, taught him how businesses work.  Always an avid outdoorsman, he saw a growing enthusiasm for hiking, camping and related activities--and foresaw the North American Bike Boom.  He knew he wanted to build bikes but didn't have the necessary capital.  So, when he started Cannondale (and named it, as nearly everyone knows by now, after a Connecticut train station) in 1971, he knew he had to develop and market a product that would distinguish his new enterprise as well as help him raise the money he'd need to build bikes.

Thus was the world's first bicycle-towed trailer--the Bugger--born.  One funny thing about it was that it predated, if unwittingly, the luggage that people roll through airport lobbies all over the world.  That's because the Bugger was, in essence, a big backpack on wheels.  Since it was mounted on an angle, it transferred all of the weight carried in it to its tires and didn't add to the weight of the bicycle.  I never owned one, but had opportunities to ride with one.  While it increased the turning radius, it didn't affect other aspects of the ride nearly as much as I expected.

The original Cannondale Bugger, 1972.

Sales took off and in spite (or, perhaps, because) of the connotations of its name, it sold well in the UK.  That allowed the new company to create other products for which they would be known.  They included panniers and handlebar bags with innovative designs and sturdy construction.  

Within a couple of years, Cannondale was also making backpacks, sleeping bags, parkas, and other items for camping, hiking, snowshoeing and other outdoor sports.  LL Bean sold them through their catalogue; one was as likely to find Cannondale products in ski shops as in bike shops. 

The "Trackwalker" is on the left.  Mine was black, with tan leather and red tabs.

During that time, I used several Cannondale products, in part because the shops in which I worked (as well as American Youth Hostels, where I also worked) carried them.  For at least a decade, my "Trackwalker" backpack was my go-to bag when I was off the bike--and sometimes on it.  With its black body, tan leather bottom and red "spider" zipper tabs, it had a very distinctive look.  Also, I wore one of their parkas through a number of seasons.  They, like their bike bags (I used one of their handlebar bags and seat bags on my first few bike tours) were well-constructed and practical.  

But my favorite Cannondale product of all time (Remember, I owned and rode two of their bicycles) was the glove they made--by hand, in Pennsylvania--during the 1980's.  I don't think I've come across another sport glove--or, for that matter, any glove--made from such high-quality materials and with such good workmanship.  It was like a Brooks saddle:  stiff at first, but once broken in, a perfect fit that would last for many years.  I wore mine until the crochet backings deteriorated--a long, long time after I first started wearing the gloves.

The best glove ever made--by far!

I wish I could find a pair of them--or something as good--now.  Back then, a pair of those gloves retailed for $25-30, which, it seems,  is what a "good" pair of gloves costs now. 

 I'm guessing that Cannondale couldn't continue to make them in Pennsylvania--or anywhere in the US--without raising the price significantly.  So production of those gloves was sent overseas.  Later, that of their bike apparel and accessories and, finally, their bikes followed.  Around the time Cannondale introduced their bicycles, they stopped making and selling backpacks, parkas and other non-bike-related gear.

(If you want to learn more about what Cannondale was doing before they started building bikes, check out this site.)

A Hosteler

How many of you have gone on a hostelling trip?

As I anticipated my first bike trip abroad, I told people I was going to stay in hostels, at least for part of my trip. In those days, most Americans--at least those I knew--had no idea of what a hostel was.  What's really funny, in retrospect, is that some of the grown-ups in my life (I thought I was one; now I know I wasn't!) were actually more worried about that than about my plan to camp on nights when I didn't stay in hostels. 

Actually, I didn't bring camping equipment with me, save for a sleeping bag and Swiss Army knife.  On those nights when I "camped", I slept under bridges, overhangs or the stars (or clouds).  

In the months leading up to that trip, I pored over hostel guides.  In one of them, I found out that there was actually such a thing as a hosteling bike.  In fact, the French bike company Gitane actually made a model called "The Hosteler."

When hosteling, one doesn't have to carry quite as much equipment as is necessary for camping. So, a hosteler probably can get away with riding a lighter bike with a somewhat shorter wheelbase-- and, while he or she would need sturdy pannier racks, they probably wouldn't have to be quite as strong as a camper would need.

At least, that's what I surmised when I saw the one and only Gitane Hosteler I ever saw.  It looked like a nice bike, and I expect that it would be, as Gitane made some well-designed and crafted bikes.  (However, you never knew what components you'd get on your Gitane:  They had a reputation for using whatever they had on hand.  So, as an example, one model came with Huret Allvit, Simplex Prestige, Huret Svelto and Campagnolo Valentino rear deraileurs--all within the same model year!)

Anyway, I indulged in a few memories on coming across the photo I've included in this post. The owner of the Gitane Hosteler had just had it restored.  However, I don't think there are any original parts on it!  Still, it's a fine bike for hosteling.  If anything, the modern drivetrain components made it even better.

A Proteus Bicycle: They--Or You--Could Build It

The other day, in writing about the Tokheim "Gear Maker", I mentioned that a number of American manufacturers tried to cash in on their country's "Bike Boom" during the 1970s, even though those companies had no experience in making anything bike-related.  Most, like Tokheim, were either out of the bike business or defunct within a decade. 

 

Then there were companies like Cannondale and Bellwether that entered the market during the decade, which also included a "boom" in hiking, skiing, camping and other outdoor activities.  Bellwether made bike bags and clothing; they are still in the bike clothing business.  (I still use some winter items of theirs I bought years ago.)  And, of course, Cannondale is one of the best-known names in cycling.  They still offer small seat and frame pouches, but not the panniers or handlebar bags many of us used in tours past.  "C" also has a line of bike clothing in addition to their bikes.  Ironically, when Cannondale first appeared on the scene in 1970, they did not make bicycles or bicycle clothing (those items would not be part of the company's offerings for another dozen years); the hiking, camping and skiing  gear they made in those days hasn't been made since the mid-1980's.

 

During the 1970s in the US, there was also something of a mini-boom in hand- and custom-frame building.  During the days of the six-day races, there were many such builders, especially in the New York, Detroit and Chicago areas, as well as in California.  Some hung on during the "dark ages" of cycling after World War II and catered to the small but enthusiastic community of cyclists still found in the 'States.  But most of those builders had either died, left the business or retired by the 1960s.  So, the American builders of the 1970s were mostly a new breed.

 

One of the most respected was Albert Eisentraut, who worked in the San Francisco Bay area.  One way in which he and the other new American builders differed from those of the previous generation is that they were home-grown and, in many cases, self-taught, in contrast to earlier builders who came from the other side of the Atlantic or had spent considerable time there.  Also, the new builders didn't even have the remanants of a racing or general cycling culture the earlier builders could draw upon.

 

That lack of precedent was both a hindrance and a help.  Of course, it was a hindrance because it steepened the learning curve for the newcomers; also, there were some (whom we don't hear about today) who didn't stay in the "game" because they overheated frame tubes or made other mistakes that resulted in their frames failing or simply not riding satisfactorily.  On the other hand, the lack of antecedents also gave the newcomers the freedom to approach their work in ways traditional builders never would have dreamed of.

 

 

A Proteus touring bike, circa 1977

 One of those new builders was really a collective known as Proteus Cycles.  Founded by Barry Konig, Larry Dean and Steve Schuman in 1971, they weren't French-style constructeurs who built the whole bike from the ground up with custom-made components.  They even, in some ways, parted company with British builders like Ron Cooper, from whom they learned many of their skills.  Builders like Cooper, Bob Jackson and Mercian usually sell frames, whether custom or stock, and customers or their local shop build them up with components the customer chooses (although those builders sometimes sell complete bikes).  But the frames you get from such builders are entirely their own work; while the customer might have a say in designing it, he or she leaves the actual building to the builder.

The customer could order such a frame, or a complete bike, from Proteus.  Or, he or she could let them build it, and finish it him or herself. Or he or she could build the frame and Proteus would finish it.

Dan Rovelli's 1979 Proteus.  From Classic Rendezvous

That last option was particularly intriguing.  You see, at its peak, Proteus held frame-building classes and even published a book about frame building, penned by a fictitious "Dr. Paul Proteus."  Konig, Dean and Schulman were, of course, the probable authors, and they recommended that anyone who wanted to build a frame should read it first--even before taking their classes or ordering one of the frame-building kits (which included tubing, lugs and other fitments) Proteus sold.  It was even possible to buy individual frame fitments, such as fork tangs, from the builders.

Ben Dillingham's Proteus, with modern touches

I like to think that Proteus was more like a studio or a gallery combined with an art-supply shop than a traditional bike-building enterprise:  the artists/artisans not only worked on their creations; they also conducted classes and the organization sold the materials needed as well as related publications.  To my knowledge, no European or Japanese (or, for that matter, any other American) builder offered such a wide range of products and services.

I have tried to find out when, exactly, Proteus stopped being, well, Proteus.  Apparently, that happened some time in the late 1980s or thereabouts.  At that time, technology started to displace craftsmanship in the bicycle world, and I think that people simply didn't have as much time (or money) to spend on classes or to build their own bikes. I know that when I have a limited amount of time, I'd rather ride my bikes than work on them!

Today there is a bike shop called Proteus that is a descendent of the legendary bike-building collective.  Apparently, the Proteus partners continued to operate a bicycle retail business after they stopped building frames and, in time, sold the business to others.  According to the shop's website, it holds social events and holds classes as well as rides.  I guess, in some way, they are keeping up the spirit of "Dr. Paul Proteus."

(P.S.:  Jill Di Mauro bought the shop in 2002.  In 2007, Di Mauro married her Canadian partner in Canada.  Though Maryland would legalize same-sex marriage four years later, federal laws--including immigration statutes--didn't recognize their union.  So, when Di Mauro's wife's visa expired, she had to return to Canada.  In 2012, Di Mauro sold the shop and moved to upstate New York to be closer to her wife while she applied to return to the US.)

 

 

You Can Take This Turtle On Your Next Trip

Chris Rock once defined camping as "white people pretending to be homeless."

Or, as a former coworker of mine once put it, "when you don't have room service."

Seriously, though, we have our own ideas about what it is and whether or not we've done, or would do, it.  During the course of bicycle tours, I have slept outdoors, with no shelter besides my sleeping bag:  sometimes under an open sky, other times under bridges and overpasses.  I have also slept in tents and tarps.  But I have never hauled a camper trailer behind my bike!

If you really want to pull a trailer, you can choose between ones with full-sized tents or bubbles that look like RVs designed for ET.  Now Austrian tent specialist GentleTent is offering something new:  a bicycle camping trailer with an inflatable tent.

Yes, you read that right:  inflatable.  The B-Turtle consists of an aluminum frame topped by an inflatable tent wrapped in a  PVC protective cover.  Inside the chassis is a 120 liter slide-out storage compartment for carrying additional gear.  That is also protected by a PVC cover.

According to GentleTent, it can be set up in 10 to 20 minutes.  It can house two people, each of whom can sit, but not stand, comfortably.   While it's made for cyclists, GentleTent says it's meant for pedalecs (electric-assisted bikes) that max out at 25 KPH (15.5 MPH) or less.

The kit, as it's offered, includes the trailer, tent, guy-lines, stakes, repair kit and hand pump.  The price?  2990 Euros (about 3500 USD at current exchange rates).  Hey, that's a steal:  It's not so much more, really, than a night in the Gatsby-themed room in the Plaza Hotel!  

Painting--And Cycling--En Plein Air

 On a recent post, Coline commented, "Cycling helps clear thinking" and "opens the mind to exploration."

It also sparks creativity.  Lewis Williams understands this as well as anybody does.  For his 60th birthday, the Montrose, Colorado-based artist wanted to "rattle the cage a bit" to "see what would his shake out."  So, he decided to combine one of his preferred methods of working--plein-air painting--with his love of being outdoors and bicycling.

Yesterday, he embarked from San Diego on a cross-continental cycling trip.  He plans to arrive in Bar Harbor, Maine during the first week of August.  Along the way, he'll ride two historic trails, he says.  And he plans to paint outdoors, in the open air (the meaning of "plein air") along the way.  After that, he plans to participate in the Plein Air painting competition of the Red Rock Arts Festival.  

His wife is accompanying him on this journey, he says.

I know how difficult it is to carry cameras and multiple lenses--not to mention other photographic equipment--on a bike, especially if you're carrying camping equipment and clothing for a multi-day tour.  I imagine that it's so much more difficult for a painter to carry supplies.  So, he outfitted a van for camping and attached a trailer to carry his art-related necessities.  

The purpose of the vehicle is not just as a "sag" wagon one sometimes sees on organized rides.  Williams says that if any of his riding or painting takes longer than he anticipated, he and his wife will "mix up the riding with the driving" as needed.

This tour is an extension of an ethos he lives by:  "Find creative outlets in your life."  He, who has worked with senior citizens, believes that people are "not too old to do what they want to do or try something new." Why else would he embark on such a journey for his 60th birthday?

Getting Badged

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What You Can Carry Isn't Necessarily What You Can Stash

Many of us ride with cute little "bike purses" tucked under, or between, the rails of our saddles.  In them, we might carry a spare inner tube, patches, a small multi-tool and, depending on the size of the "purse", a mini-pump and/or cell phone and/or wallet. 

There are larger versions of such "purses", including "banana" bags of the kind popularized by Gilles Berthoud and others, and small versions of boxier saddle bags, like the X-Small Saddle Sack from Rivendell.

And, of course there are larger saddle bags like those from Carradice made in sizes to carry what you need for a day or weekend trip, or even camping gear. Carradice's Camper Longflap almost seems to have been an exercise in carrying as much as possible without using panniers and an expedition-style rack.

Of course, when some people ponder the question of "how much" they can carry under their saddles, they are not talking about volume in liters or cubic inches or whatever.  Instead, they are talking about "street value."

At least, that seemed to be the case for  37-year-old  Mohamed Mohmoud Charara, who lived with his parents in  Windsor, Ontario, Canada.  He kept his bike in a common stairwell area where other residents of his building kept their bikes.  It seems, though, that he wasn't using his wheels to get around the city just across the river from Detroit.  He wasn't even using it to conduct business. Instead, he serviced his clients from a black Escalade SUV parked outside the building. The bike was just for storage.

And what did he keep under the seat?  Well, when he was busted, city constables found 24.7 grams of crack cocaine and 13.2 grams of powder cocaine. Together, they had a street value of almost $3800.

The cops also seized a few things Charara couldn't keep under his bike seat, like a digital scale, other drug paraphenalia, an iPhone (well, with the right bag, he could have kept it on his bike) and $1695 cash.

What if he'd tried to use that bike as a getaway vehicle?  Would he have ended up like this guy?

Miyata 912

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I Was A Guinea Pig: Riding An Early Cannondale

Today I am going to reveal one of my dim, dark secrets.  Yes, even at this late date, I still have them.

Here goes:  I actually owned--gasp!--a Cannondale racing bike.  One of the very first ones, in fact. 

One might say it was one of my youthful follies. The year was 1984.  I was working for American Youth Hostels. Back then, the organization was located on Spring Street, near Wooster, when the neighborhood (Soho) still had some halfway interesting art galleries and eccentric stores and cafes.  At that time, AYH had an store and mail-order service that sold bicycling, camping, hiking and other outdoor equipment.

Back then, Cannondale was known mainly for its bags and outdoor wear. Their bike bags were actually well-made and reasonably priced:  I used a few in my time. And I used one of their backpacks for the longest time.  AYH employees were able to buy Cannondale goods at their wholesale prices.

So I became, in essence, a guinea pig.  I bought their original model racing bike, with a full Campagnolo Nuovo Record component grouppo, for something like $500. 

It was one of the first--and last--times I succumbed to the urge to be the "first kid on the block" with some new item. 

The photo doesn't do justice to just how ugly that bike actually was.  The welds were cobbly; later Cannondales have the smooth joints you see on today's models.  Plus, the oversized aluminum tubes were very in-your-face, especially if you were used to steel-tubed frames. 

Being a snot-nosed kid with something to prove, getting such a bike wasn't enough for me. I wanted to be really badass, so I got it in black. I don't remember what kind or color bar tape came with it; whatever it was, I replaced it with red Benotto cellophane tape. And, I got cable housings to match.

Aside from its proportions, another thing that struck me was how much lighter the bike was than others I'd ridden.  Also, it was--as advertised--the stiffest bike I'd ridden up to that time. Maybe it's still the stiffest bike I've ever ridden.

What that meant is that the bike could go very fast. However, it also meant that it rode like a jackhammer.  Even my young, sevelte self felt beat-up after a ride on it.  I think that it actually slowed me down, ultimately:  I can ride only so hard or so long when every bone in my body is aching.

A few people swore by those bikes.  It's hard to imagine that anything Cannondale--or any other bike maker, for that matter--has made since then could be any stiffer.

Those early Cannondales came with CroMo steel forks--Tange, I think. I'd ridden the bike for close to a year when those forks were recalled.  After I got my replacement, I stripped the Campagnolo components off  the bike and replaced them with other stuff I had lying around or that mechanics of my acquaintance filched fetched from their shops' parts bins.  And I gave that Cannondale to my landlord for a month's rent.

Those Campy components went on to bigger and better things (ha!) I'll describe in another post.

Note:  The frame in the photo is larger than the one I had.  Plus, it has different components. 

Bananas?

When I was very young--which, believe it or not, I once was--bicycles with small-diameter (usually 20 inches) wheels and "banana" seats were popular.

The models oriented for girls were usually white or pink or lavender and had flowers, rainbows and such painted on them. But the ones for boys sported racing stripes and other things meant to evoke racing. 

One example of a girls' bike was the Schwinn Lil' Chik.  For boys, Schwinn made the "Krate" series (apple, orange and pea picker) while Raleigh offered the "Chopper".

Schwinn, Raleigh and other companies seem to have stopped making those bikes some time in the late 1970's.  If I recall correctly, the Consumer Products Safety Commission published a warning about them, or banned them outright.  I also heard that Schwinn, Raleigh and other companies that made such bikes were facing lawsuits from the families of kids who were injured when the bike toppled or, more commonly, when the struts of the banana seat broke.

It seems that nobody was even making those bikes or seats until a few years ago.  I don't know whether the government changed its regulations or whether the struts are better-designed or made with stronger materials than the old ones.  But, somehow, they are recapturing a part of the market and showing up in what would have been the most unlikely places:

I'm guessing that the banana seat on the back of this Trek hybrid is intended for a passenger.  I've ridden bikes with 15 to 25 kilos--about the weight of a young child-- loaded on the rear.  However, my loads--which usually consisted of clothing, camping and hiking equipment, notebooks and such--were packed into pannier bags attached to the sides of a rear rack.  Weight carried in that position is more stable than the same amount of weight fastened to the top of a rack--or on a banana seat.

I wonder what the safety record is for today's "banana" seats, especially given that increasing numbers of them are being attached to bicycles like the one in the photo.

When We Pedaled 100 Miles Barefoot In The Snow To Our Training Rides

On Le Col du Lauteret during Le Tour de France, 1930

At the New Amsterdam Bike Show, I bumped into someone who works at a bike shop I've mentioned on this blog.  As it happens, this person and I share similar tastes in bikes and attitudes toward riding.

He recently fixed up a vintage frame with components that were mostly from the same period as the frame.  After taking it out for a ride, he said there was something he simply could not understand:  "How did you climb hills with a 13-21 cluster?"

Back in the day, we didn't use cassettes that mounted on cog carriers on our rear wheels. They weren't available.   Instead, we used freewheels that threaded onto the hub itself.  We usually referred to the cogs that were on the freewheel as a "cluster."  So, a "13-21 cluster" meant that the largest gear had 21 teeth and the smallest, 13. 

SunTour "Winner" freewheel:  one of the best of its era

The ratio I just mentioned was the one most commonly used by racers. Usually, we rode them with front chainrings of 42 and 52 or 53 (or, sometimes, 54) teeth.  To compare, consider that most racers today are riding 12-23 or 12-25 cassettes with 39-53 in the front.

(Experienced cyclists know that in the rear, a smaller sprocket means a higher gear, but a lower gear on the front.)

"Sawtooth" pedals, a.k.a. Campagnolo Pista con denti

I was going to tell me young friend that, yes, we were tougher in those days before video games, i-Phones and such.  Yes, indeed, I would have told him that we pedaled--with our bare feet on "sawtooth" pedals--100 miles through the snow every day to get to our training rides. But my young friend is, of course, intelligent enough not to believe anything like that.  Besides, it's one thing for a middle-aged man who weighs about forty pounds more than he did in his racing days to say such things.  For a middle-aged woman to say it really would have stretched the limits of his credulity.  What I'm really saying in the previous sentence is that I would have simply felt silly telling a story like that.

Anyway, I ventured a few explanations for him.  For one thing, I said, we didn't know as much about cycling injuries in those days, so many of us pedaled and pedaled--in high gears--until we blew out our knees or hurt ourselves in other ways.  We thought we could "pedal through" whatever ailed us. Plus, the prevailing wisdom of the day stressed power rather than a high rate of RPMs. 

Also, I said, bikes and gearing were different.  Eddy Mercx won five Tours with only five gears in his rear cluster.  So, he was riding with ten speeds--in total.  Today, "ten speed" refers to the number of gears (sprockets) in the rear cassette of a typical (Shimano-equipped) racing bike.

What that meant was that the jumps or gaps between gears was much greater on five-speed clusters than it is on ten-speed cassettes with the same range of gears.  That is the reason why the smallest gears were bigger (typically 13 or 14 vs. today's 12 or 11) and the largest were smaller (19, 20 or 21 vs. 23, 24, 25 or even 26) than what's found on racing bikes today.

Back in those days, tourists rode clusters on which the smallest sprocket had 14 teeth and the largest comprised 28, 32, 34 or even 36 teeth. You can see that on a five- (or even six- or seven-) speed cluster, the gaps between gears would be enormous.  Some tourists would overcome that somewhat by having two closely-spaced sprockets (chainrings), along with one that was much smaller (the "granny" gear) in the front.  However, racers and others who ride a lot of training miles prefer smaller differences between gears because those differences are more noticeable on a lightweight bike that's not loaded down with panniers full of clothing and camping equipment.

"Corncob" freewheel.  Yes, I rode this very freewheel, and others like it!

In other words, we were riding those small ("corncob") clusters because of the quirks in the equipment that was available to us, as well as our relative ignorance about cycling injuries.  And, in my case, I had something (besides a few thousand fewer fat cells) in my body that I don't have now:  testosterone.  Of course, my young friend still has that.  So he has no excuse. (Ha, ha!)

Is Cycling Withering On The Lanes In The Rose City?

Last Saturday marked three years since the World Health Organization declared that the COVID-19 outbreaks were, indeed, a pandemic.  Not long after that, schools and businesses closed and a seeming caravan of ambulances flashed their lights and blasted their sirens through my windows, which are only a block and a half from Mount Sinai-Queens--one of the first hospitals in this city to set up a temporary morgue outside its doors.

Like other locales where residents weren't subjected to a hard lockdown, New York experienced a "bike boom."  Because the city's subways shut down for a while, and bus service was reduced, people who hadn't been on a bike in ages started pedaling to work. (During that time, I gave one of my bikes to an emergency room worker at Mount Sinai.) Though shops and even online retailers soon ran out of bikes, parts, helmets and almost anything related to bicycles,  the world (parts of it, anyway) seemed like a cyclist's dream come true:  There was very little traffic and, those who ventured outside, whether by choice or necessity, were almost preternaturally courteous and even empathetic. 

Oh, and about a year into the pandemic, a new bike lane opened on my street, for better and worse.

While my hometown of New York and the city that comes closest to my second home--Paris--experienced the "boom" in cycling I've described (which, when I visited in January, seemed to be going even stronger in the City of Light!), the city that has been called America's "biketopia" continued a steep downturn in cycling that began a few years before COVID-19 struck.

According to the Portland Bureau of Transportation (PBOT), fewer people were cycling in Oregon's largest city than at any time since 2006.

From 2019 to 2022, the number of cyclists in the Rose City dropped by 37 percent.  In other words, more than one of every three Portlanders who pedaled the year before COVID-19 reached these shores was no longer in the saddle during the pandemic's third year. 

Actually, the decline began after 2013, when almost half again as many people rode bicycles as did in 2022. But, as you can see, the drop over the past four years from 2019 to 2022 was even steeper than during the previous six years.

From KATU News

Now, some might argue that cycling was bound to fall off in "America's Weirdest City" just because it reached such (at least comparative) heights.  Well, from what I've heard and read, it did--or, at least, cycling culture did--from about 2005 to about 2010.  But there are other, more pernicious factors in play than the disappearance of custom frame builders and bikes shops--and Portlanders themselves, many of whom moved in after places like San Francisco and Seattle swelled with tech money-- only to be, in a cruel irony, priced out of Portland. 

According to at least one survey, the chief reasons for the sharp fall-off in cycling are not that people are still working from home (after all, in other places, people continued to ride to the stores, theatre or just for fun even if they didn't return to their offices or classrooms) or the sharp rise in bike theft that accompanied the increase in ridership and shortages of bikes and supplies, although both were cited.  Rather, by far the biggest reason why some people have stopped cycling is something that I haven't--as yet, anyway--seen here in the Big Apple:  homeless people setting up tents or otherwise camping themselves in bike lanes.  

(To be sure, the homeless population has exploded during the past few years in my hometown, but I haven't seen them in bike lanes.  Then again, I don't do most of my riding in the lanes because they can't always get me to where I need or want to go and I sometimes feel safer riding in traffic than on poorly-designed or maintained lanes where motorbikes and motor-scooter riders zip along without regard for anyone else or the rules of the road.)

That issue, according to Bike Portland editor Jonathan Maus, has to be addressed in any discussions of solutions and safety.  "What we've ended up with is allowing people just to sleep anywhere," he explains, "and there's never been a conversation about taking the transportation routes and making sure that people who use them can feel safe and still get to where they need to go."  That second part of what he said leads to the second most common reason Portlanders cite for giving up on cycling:  drivers who, like their counterparts in New York, seem to have become even more aggressive since the pandemic.  

Reconciliation

One of the nice things about being my age is that, if you're lucky, you can start to reconcile all kinds of things that seemed irreconcilable. If you're not lucky, they reconcile themselves, though perhaps not in the ways you'd intended--or one might destroy the other.


Where am I going with this?  Well, it's about cycling, but it also has to do with stuff you'd find on my other blog, if you read it.  So consider yourself forewarned.


You see, from the time I found out about John Rakowski, I wanted to do something like what he did.  He cycled around the world, turning his pedals on every continent except Antarctica.  (What would penguins think of some guy with a bike laden with full front and rear panniers, camping equipment and bottles of water anyplace they'd fit on the bike?)  He recounted his adventures in Bicycling! magazine during my teen years.


Rakowski was in his early 50's when he undertook his journey, which lasted three years, if I recall correctly.  As it turned out, he was living not far from where I lived, in New Jersey, at the time.  And, yes I met him, and he signed my magazines.  


Well, the fact that he lived nearby and did what he did would have been reason enough for me to take him as an inspiration, if not a role model.  But there was another reason--apart from the "local boy" and "cycling" aspects of the story--that meant so much to me at that time in my life.


However, as important as his feat was to me, I never talked about it with anybody.  For one thing, no one else in my family, or even in my circle of peers or the neighborhood in which I was living, shared my passion for cycling.   It was as if the so-called "bike boom" had passed them all by.  Everybody predicted that I would "grow out of" my obsession with cycling as soon as I got my driver's licence.  Then again, people said I would "grow out of" all sorts of other things, as if they were tops and shoes.


You may have figured out where this is going: something else I didn't "grow out of."  I'm talking, of course, about my wish to be able to wear bike jerseys and shorts with cleated shoes (in that place and time, almost no one had ever seen them), or skirts and blouses with heels, as a way of life.


The reason, of course, I didn't "grow out of" those desires is that there was more to them--which, of course, I didn't talk about with anybody.  Wearing the clothes wasn't the point for me; I wanted to be the person who was expected to wear them--or, at least, a person who wouldn't face opprobrium for doing so.  


That John Rakowski was a man, and most cyclists were men, was problematic.  How could I want to ride around the world and win the Tour de France and be a woman at the same time?


Today, of course, there are more female cyclists than there were in those days, and women's racing enjoyed a heyday during the late '80's and the '90's.  I could not understand why only men should race, tour or participate in most other sports.  Title IX had been enacted around that time; however, it would take time for women's sports to gain any momentum because the sorts of sports programs, like Little League and Pop Warner football, that existed for boys didn't exist for girls.  


It was a time when many people--including many women--thought sports were "unfeminine."  I recall one girl in my high school who was as an even better athlete than most of the boys.  Her family, which included three brothers who were athletes,  was supportive of her interests.  However, some of the teachers and other adults tried to discourage her, saying that no man would want to marry her.  I couldn't understand that:  She was a very attractive girl who had no difficulty getting dates.


Fortunately for her, she was able to play basketball and a couple of other sports in college.  Of course, I would have wanted to be like her.  Perhaps I could have been:  I played soccer in high school.  However, my real passion always lay with cycling, and only a few colleges had teams or even clubs for cycling.  To my knowledge, none were for women.


Although I repressed my desire to be a woman then, and for most of the next three decades, I always felt, deep down, that there was no contradiction between wanting to ride the world, and to race, on my bike--and being a woman.  What has always drawn me to cycling is the freedom I feel when I ride.  I feel as if my spirit is unchained, that--if you'll indulge me a cliche--I felt as free as the wind and as open as the air.  


And that, naturally, was what the woman in me wanted.  She wanted to be free from what I now realize were the same boundaries that seemed to contain me when I was off my bike.  When I say what I'm about to say, I don't mean to aggrandize myself:  To be a long-distance cyclist at an age after you were supposed to have a drivers license and a car, you had to be an independent spirit.  And, of course, it's impossible to be anything else if you want to live by the imperatives of your spirit rather than the dictates of your school, community and society.  That's doubly true if your subconscious or unconscious gender--the one you are when you're by yourself--is different from the one on your birth certificate, and for which you are being trained by your school, church and other institutions.


I wanted to be free--to be Justine, on a bike.  At least I lived long enough to know that those things weren't contradictory, and to meet people who understand that.  And, just as important,from my point of view, is that I've begun to develop a language to explain my complications, contradictions and complexities.  It makes sense to me, which means that I can also make it make sense to others--well, some other people anyway.  If they don't understand, or don't accept it, that is all right.  


I am Justine, and ride wherever and whenever my time and resources allow.  Hopefully, some day, I'll have more of both.  For now, living my life and riding my bikes are inseparable, and offer me so much.