In the middle of the journey of my life, I am--as always--a woman on a bike. Although I do not know where this road will lead, the way is not lost, for I have arrived here. And I am on my bicycle, again.
Some day—perhaps soon—I’ll believe that I’ve moved to the most wonderful neighborhood in the universe. As much as I love my new apartment (even if it is smaller than my old one), its views and its light, and as friendly as my neighbors have been, there are still things I miss about Astoria.
Those things include, of course, my friends—with whom I’ll try to stay in touch. Also, it had, if not the best, then some of the best, of New York: It’s about as close as you can get to Manhattan without being there, but it doesn’t have the self-conscious hipsterism of Williamsburg, Greenpoint or Bushwick.
Oh, and there was the food. I’m finding good eats here, but I still haven’t come across a bakery, let alone one that makes bread or cookies like Parisi’s or bagels like Lots o’ Bagels.
And of course, there are the rides. I could continue to do them, but I would have to ride (or take a train) to get to them. I’m just starting to discover some good routes here, but I’m still in the “It’s not the Fort Totten ride!” stage.
Finally, there are the characters. I’m sure I’ll find them here, but I still think of the ones I just left. They include the guy who hung out by the train station and the stores. He approached me and, probably, every other woman in the neighborhood, with this proposal: “Will you marry me? I’ve got food stamps!”
I have to admit, there are worse—or at least more bizarre—pickup lines.
Soon I will return to regular posting. I have been so busy—and tired—that it seems like a miracle that I actually managed to do two rides—about 25 miles each—that had nothing to do with commuting or errands.
Sometimes sporting events aren't only about the event itself. Rather, the event becomes a platform for all sorts of communal rituals and spectacles, if not outright marketing.
The Super Bowl, which will be played tonight, is the perfect example of that. Two out of every three Americans, according to one poll, plan to watch the game. Of them, 45 percent don't care which team wins.
Part of the reason why so many people have no interest in the outcome of the game is that they don't have a rooting interest in either the Denver Broncos or Carolina Panthers,the two teams that are contesting the match. Another, possibly more important, reason is that many will not be watching the game as football fans: They are attending or hosting Super Bowl parties in their or friends or family members' homes, or in sports bars.
Really, the Super Bowl has become like another holiday that is an excuse to get together with friends and/or family to eat, drink and let loose. Just as the American holiday of Thanksgiving has such traditional foods as turkey with stuffing and pumpkin pie, Super Bowl Sunday is associated with chicken wings (barbecue or Buffalo style), pizza, tortilla chips with guacamole and beer.
Also, plenty of people will watch the game to see the halftime shows and, most of all, new commercials that will debut. On one hand, it's distressing to think that some of the greatest and most creative minds in this country are employed to sell colored sugar water and cars that will be in landfills long before they are paid for. On the other hand, the commercials can be fun to watch because they are imaginative and sometimes whimsical or, on occasion, beautiful.
So why am I talking about the Super Bowl Spectacle on a bike blog? Well, I am reminded of the hoopla surrounding the stages of the Tour de France I attended (including the finish of the 1980 edition). People camp out along the route and spend the day cooking and consuming all sorts of foods and, of course, drinking. They play music, some dance; everyone is in a good mood. Before the peloton whizzes through, caravans of Tour and team sponsors' vehicles roll by with various floats in tow. Music streams from those vehicles; some tow stages on which musicians and dancers perform, or screens that flash scnes from the previous day's stage of the race. And, from those trucks, vans and cars, drivers and passengers toss all manner of schwag to spectators: keychains, mini-dolls and such with teams' and sponsors' names on them; one even threw packets of Mini-Babybel cheese nuggets!
Ah, yes--It's always about the food, isn't it? Just like it was on a bike ride the Central Jersey Bike club used to run on winter Sundays (including Super Bowl Sunday) to a rural firehouse. The ride itself was pleasant and calming, though not challenging, even for those riders who were in their mid-winter doldrums: about 50 or 60 kilometers round-trip, as I recall, through flat countryside.
The real "event", if you will, was going to the firehouse, where they had all-you-can-eat pancake breakfasts for three dollars, if memory serves. You could also have all of the coffee, tea, orange juice, scrambled eggs bacon, sausage or ham or hash browns you wanted. Being young and poor, I was usually hungry, even before riding, so that breakfast, I mean ride, appealed to me.
I'm sure other club members, as well as many of the local people who went for the breakfast, were also there to fill themselves up for not very much money. But for them, and for us, it was a social event as well: We talked, we gossiped; some of us boasted and made challenges, but we came together for a comforting meal on a cold day. Then we got on our bikes and rode back to Highland Park, just as the locals got in their cars and went home. They--and we--would return for the next pancake breakfast in the firehouse, just as many people will, today, return to familiar haunts with familiar faces and consume familiar foods and drinks, the Super Bowl on a screen as their background.
I stayed on Santorini long enough to see the sunset I showed yesterday. The island, with its volcanic rock faces dropping directly into the sea, is beautiful. But it's also full of tourists. And expensive. When I got to Oia--the place you see in all of those Instagram photos of Santorini sunsets--it was like being in an older and more beautiful version of Times Square on New Year's Eve. It's was so crowded that with people taking selfies that you can't do much more than take a selfie--which, as you've probably noticed in this blog, is something I don't do.
It's odd that another New York analogy comes to mind: the road that winds (and I mean winds) its way down to the port of Athinios in a similar way to the Route 495 spur to the Lincoln tunnel. The difference is that the road to Athinios is about a tenth as wide (or so it seems) and its turns are sharper: hairpins in a couple of places. To complicate matters even further, the port itself sits on an improbably small shelf of land in front of a rock face. So, only one vehicle can reach it at a time and people spend more time waiting in that line of traffic than they did in getting from wherever on the island they came.
One more thing about Santorini: I saw mules. Some, it seems, are for tourists while a few others were being used by families who have been living there for generations. In a day and a half, however, I saw one bicycle.
Anyway, it is worth it to visit Santorini, however briefly, for its natural beauty and, of course, its sunsets. And, away from the tourist traps, the food is actually quite good, often made from local produce. Still, I was happy to go to Milos, which the world knows because of Venus de Milo(s). I took a "Sea Jet", which really is more like riding in the cabin of a plane than a boat, except that you get to see the blue (Yes, it really is!) Aegean and some islands instead of endless clouds. And the port of Adamas isn't just a port: There are other things to see and do, which I'll talk about in my next post. The best part, though, is that it spreads across the shoreline and is not nearly as claustrophobic as Athinios.
This month--February--is Black History Month here in the US.
Mention "black cyclists" and one of the first names that comes to mind is "Major Taylor".
He was the first African-American athlete to win the world championship of any sport. (Canadian bantamweight boxer George Dixon was the first black athlete to accomplish that feat.) Although he was one of the most famous and admired athletes in the world, the "Worcester Whirlwind" was not insulated from racism.
The Worcester Whirlwind, circa 1900. From wikipedia.
The city from which Taylor's nickname was derived--Worcester, Massachusetts--was one of the centers of the Abolitionist movement. Even so, not everyone there welcomed him with open arms. When he bought a house in the well-to-do Columbus Park enclave, alarmed white neighbors tried to buy it back from him.
Even if you're the best in the world, you can't stop fools from being foolish.
Even so, life was better for him in Worcester--and in the rest of the Northeast--than it was elsewhere in the US. While he won pretty much every race and award that could be won in his home region, he could not advance his career unless he won in other parts of the country. Two things conspired against him: One, owners and promoters of races and tracks in the South banned him--and all other black cyclists--outright. Second, in 1894, just as Taylor's career was in ascendancy, the League of American Wheelmen--then the governing body of bicycle racing--voted to ban blacks. Some have speculated that the ban was specifically aimed at Taylor, who, even at the age of 17, was beating his white challengers, some of whom were far more experienced than he was.
(The LAW is now known as the League of American Bicyclists.)
That ban, of course, closed other doors for him. There were, however, a number of races--mostly in the Northeast--that allowed him to compete. And, of course, he went to Canada: In 1899, he won the World Championship for the one-mile sprint in Montreal.
(Interesting aside: In 1946, Jackie Robinson played for the Montreal Royals, which was the top minor-league team of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Fans in Montreal embraced him, as they did Taylor half a century earlier.)
But even in the relative tolerance of his home region, Taylor encountered hostility. He was often denied lodgings and food on account of his color, and white racers turned into pure-and-simple thugs when riding against him: One opponent hauled him off his bike and choked him into unconsciousness.
In the racial atmosphere of that time, the only way Taylor could advance his career was by racing in Europe. He, in fact, had a number of offers to participate in races and join teams, especially in France. He was grateful for the opportunities but would not accept them at first: In Europe, many races were held on Sunday, as they are now. Taylor had become a devout Baptist after his mother's death and would not race on the Sabbath.
Some of the offers he received were lucrative, to say the least. When pleas and urgings from prominent African-Americans as well as cycling fans had no effect on him, black newspaper editors of the time published what we would now call "fake news"--saying that his religious scruples had been conquered by Mammon--or editorials speculating that such a thing would happen.
Of course, it didn't. Finally, in 1901, a French team offered him a contract that specified he wouldn't have to race on Sunday. He accepted, and before he even mounted a bicycle on the other side of the Atlantic, he was treated to a hero's welcome.
An American in Paris.
Europeans were as impressed with his dignity and grace as they were with his athletic prowess. He did much to help improve the level of European racing, not only by his presence, but also by mentoring young racers. Here is one account of such tutoring, from his autobiography:
I recall that on my first trip to Europe in 1901I saw a French youth, whose name was Poulain, ride in an amateur event at Nantes, France. He was very awkward as he rode about the track, but something about him caught my eye, and I became interested in him at once. At the close of the race I made several suggestions to him, adjusting his pedals, and handle bars, and giving him some advice on how to train. I stressed clean living upon him, and told him in conclusion that if he trained carefully and lived a clean life, I would predict that some day he would beat all the amateurs of Europe and the professionals as well.
When I returned to France in 1908 this same Poulain, who in the meantime had won the amateur and professional championships of France, defeated me in a special match race. Imagine my surprise at the conclusion of this event when my conqueror told me who he was. The laugh certainly was on me. I did manage to bring him into camp, however, after I reached by best form.
"The laugh was certainly on me." How could they not love someone with such an attitude? Unfortunately, not everyone in his home country felt the same way.
Well, then, you are misguided. A real cyclist knows you don't need food- (or drink-) specific utensils:
I mean, you can eat pizza with a bicycle fork. Right? Well, all right: As a New Yorker of Italian heritage, I would never, ever use anything besides my fingers to handle Neopolitan or Sicilian slices. (A person of my background also does not allow any sort of topping on her pizza. Pineapples? Barbecued beef? They're like chocolate chips in a bagel, as far as I'm concerned.) So what do you eat with your cone wrench?
Perhaps it has to do with having gone from living as a guy named Nick to a woman named Justine. Or maybe it's just a result of aging. Although I still like long rides--and, sometimes, to pedal as long, fast and hard as I can--my attitudes about cycling have been changing. Now I can see how arrogant and, frankly, elitist--at least when it came to cycling--I was not so long ago. Sometimes I still find remnants of those old notions within me: I still get annoyed with riders (these days, many of them on Citibikes) who twiddle along and take up just enough of the lane or road to keep me from passing. Those dilettantes! But now I understand how such snobbishness--whether against riders who aren't kitted out in the latest lycra uniforms or bikes that aren't what riders in the Tour would ride--has kept bicycles from becoming the vehicles for change (pardon the pun) they can be. To be more precise: Such attitudes have kept people (like yours truly) from allowing the bicycle to transform our cities and our lives in, well, ways that would make our cycling more pleasant as well as practical. Too many planners see planning only in terms of painting lines on a streets and calling them "bike lanes"; in turn, too many people see those lanes--as well as bike share programs as entitlements for privileged young people. As much as I love my nice bikes and rides, I know that if cycling has a future, it lies with the unemployed and minimum-wage workers who ride so they don't have to spend large portions of their incomes (or savings) to buy, maintain, fuel, park and repair cars. It lies with people pedaling to their schools, offices and shops, and those who go for a spin with their kids or parents or neighbors at the end of the day--as well as those who want to have schools, offices and shops to ride to, and people to ride with. Last year, I wrote about how city planners and non-profit groups came to recognize these facts, and re-thought what makes a city "bike friendly". They came to see that in Reading, Pennsylvania, where they were working, it meant creating a network of bike lanes that actually allowed people to pedal quickly and safely all over to the city. They also realized that, in a poor post-indstrial city that has little mass transportation, they had to make bicycling more affordable and convenient for residents. So, bike racks were installed on city buses, and when Reading's first bike shop opened, it concentrated on selling used bikes and affordable parts, conducting safety and repair workshops--and loaning tools.
Now, I don't know whether planners in Stockton, California have been paying attention to what the folks in Reading have done. It seems as if they have been: The city's latest plan calls for a series of bike lanes that will allow cyclists to pedal out of their neighborhoods and ride all over town. But these lanes won't be just lines on the street: They will be separated from motor vehicle traffic by barriers or raised medians. In some areas, traffic lanes will be removed in order to make room for cyclists. Whether or not the planners in Stockton followed the work of their peers in Reading, they at least seemed to be listening to the concerns of everyday cyclists like Alfonso Macias. He is a 56-year-old farm worker who doesn't own a car. Bungee cords hold a grocery crate to the rear rack of a bike he pedals to the store, where he buys the food he carts to his house. Along the way, he has to share streets that don't have bike lanes, or even shoulders, with drivers who weave around him, or around whom he has to weave. "Thank god I've never been hit," he says. Now, he is cycling out of necessity. Others, who could choose to leave their cars home and ride for errands and such, are deterred from doing so because of the hazards Macias faces. Here in New York, people have expressed similar concerns, and even wondered how I could ride in this city's traffic. "Aren't you scared?," they wonder. Even if people perceive cycling as more dangerous than it actually is, their fears need to be heard. So must the concerns of folks who tie grocery crates to their bikes so they can go shopping. They, not the wannabe racers encased in lycra, are the future of cycling.
I am an invasive species. All right, I won't give myself that much credit. I am only one of an invasive species. Is it because I'm female? Transgender? (Yes, we really are trying to take over the world!;-)) Someone who didn't vote for Trump? No, it's not because of any of those things. At least, that's what Scott Sales, a Montana State Senator, would have you believe. Yes, Senator Sales, I am a cyclist. IIII aaam aaa cyyyy-clisssst. Booo! I am coming to take over your state! Bwa-ha-ha-ha! OK, so he didn't say "Cyclists are an invasive species" as an exclamatory or declarative sentence. But he did something that, in effect, labelled us as such. He wants to make any out-of-state cyclist entering the state buy a $25 sticker, which would have to be attached to the bicycle and renewed every year, by tacking an amendment onto SB 363, a bill about invasive species management. Specifically, he wants the money he shakes down from us (Well, all right, I wasn't planning to go to Montana this year!) to be used against an invasive mussel species in the state's waterways. So let me get this straight (Please don't read anything into that last word!): Senator Sales is equating cyclists with invasive mussels.
Please tell me he's being ironic. Is he capable of irony? (From Montana Public Radio)
I don't have to tell you how absurd this idea is. What in the world can taxing cyclists do to halt the spread of a mussel that multiplies faster than anything else in the Big Sky State's rivers, streams and lakes? Folks who use motorized fishing boats don't have to pay any such fee for the privilege. Now, perhaps I'm ignorant in the ways mussels spread their range, but I should think that one boat can do far more to facilitate that than all of the cyclists in the world ever could. Hon. Sales' proposal, moreover, demonstrates all sorts of profound ignorance regarding cyclists. He said that cyclists need "to put some skin in the game" in regards to road and recreation funding in the state". He has called cyclists "some of the rudest and most self-centered people I've ever met" who "think they own the highway." This, from a guy who shot down another bill that would have required motorists to give cyclists a three-foot berth when passing at 35MPH and five feet while driving any faster than that. Of course, anyone who would put the kibosh on such an idea doesn't realize that, unlike motorists, we can't operate our machines while texting or distracted in other ways. Moreover, we are far less likely to ride than drivers are to drive while munching on fast food or imbibing alcohol because, well, it's difficult, if not impossible, for us to do those things. About his "skin in the game" comment: It's not the first time I've heard this wholly inaccurate perception of what we do or don't have invested "in the game." Of course, it wasn't nearly as dangerous when it came from the folks from whom I've previously heard it as it is when it emanates from the mouth or pen of a lawmaker. You see, we pay the same taxes as motorists pay, whether or not we drive. Contrary to what some believe, there is no separate "road tax", at least not from the Federal government or any state or municipality of which I'm aware. In fact, the only taxes I don't pay that any motorist pays are the ones added to gasoline. Aside from that, I have just as much "skin in the game" as any motorist. I'll admit, though, that as the weather gets nicer and I'm riding more, I won't have as much skin in the game because, well, I won't have as much skin. That, I should think, would make me less invasive.
No, I didn't go hunting today. Two of my uncles and my maternal grandfather hunted for sport (and food). I cannot imagine myself doing such a thing--unless, perhaps, I were really desperate. But I digress. You may have noticed a staff propping up the "dog". There are four such decoys or statues or whatever they are in a playground in Fort Totten Park, where I rode today.
The day was a bit colder than normal for this time of year. The wind was to be expected. However, I think it was the sky that made this afternoon feel more autumnal than spring-like.
However, Tosca looks good in any season, if I do say so myself.
Nearly two weeks ago, "Velouria" of Lovely Bicycle! wrote about parking her Gazelle commuter bike outdoors.
Well, I've been keeping Marianela (a 1979 Schwinn LeTour III turned into a "fixie" with a fixed/free "flip-flop" rear hub) outside for about a month, after keeping it indoors during one of the snowiest winters this area has ever had. While Marianela is probably not as heavy as "Velouria"'s Dutch bike, and therefore not as difficult to maneuver in and out of my apartment, it's still more convenient to have the bike waiting outside for me, especially if I'm taking it on a short errand.
I've kept bikes outdoors before. But, today, I was reminded of one of the consequences of doing so:
Now, I've had all sorts of things left in my front basket or on my rear rack: beverage bottles, fast-food bags and containers, condom wrappers and things even less mentionable. But nothing so far has been quite as interesting as this Lincoln hubcap.
One man who chanced by as I unlocked the bike stopped and looked. We both had a good laugh. I mean, what else could we do?
I left the cap on a nearby fire hydrant. When I returned tonight, it was gone.
Most of the time, it's an annoyance (except, of course, when I find a book or a newspaper), but I guess it's better than having a saddle or pedals stolen, or tires slashed. Yes, those things have also happened when I've parked my bike.
But I don't think I've ever encountered anything quite like what was deposited in the Wald front basket on my LeTour:
CDs? Hmm....Maybe it's some rare recording: Something I'd keep--or sell on eBay.
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.
Have you ever decided not to participate in a bike ride--or any other event--because of its name?
Or has such a name ever been so vile, repulsive and opposed to all of your values that you simply had to check out the event?
I've just come across such an event: The Dead Baby Downhill.
Now, to be fair, no babies are harmed or killed in the ride. From what I can see, there weren't very many babies anywhere near it.
The ride is sponsored by--you guessed it--the Dead Baby Club, which has been described as what a motorcycle club would be if its members rode bicycles. One of the requirements for participation in the club and event seems to be tatoos. Another seems to be a quirky sense of humor. The ride itself is really one event in the festival of--well, bikes, but also--shall we say--some creative costuming as well as food, drink and other things cyclists (and other people) enjoy. One thing I would have loved to see is this
seven-human Monster Truck designed, engineered and fabricated by a boy-genius who calls himself Haulin' Colin. A good time was had by all, I'm sure. And they will tell their children and grandchildren about it.
In my time, I've cycled on pretty much every holiday you can think of, including ones I never celebrated. For that matter, I've probably cycled on holidays without even knowing it.
I'd guess that, in most years, I've ridden on Cinco de Mayo, whether it was a weekend day ride or simply a commute to work, as I did today. But I never did a ride like this:
I suppose that's about as appropriate a ride as any for this fete. This ride was scheduled for today in--where else?--Texas. It was in Austin, to be precise. If I'm not mistaken, that's Lance Armstrong's hometown.
I wonder whether he ever did a ride like that. BMX is one of the few kinds of riding I've never done, mainly because I was a bit old for it by the time it came along. That, and bicycle polo. But who'd play a game of bicycle polo on Cinco de Mayo? I would, just because "bicycle polo on Cinco de Mayo" has a nice ring to it, verdad? (I couldn't type an upside-down question mark before "verdad.")
Anyway...Did you do a ride to commemorate this day? Or did you just do a ride and eat Mexican food afterward? Actually, that's what I did. And I washed it down with a "virgin" margarita. That's how I reward myself for doing something I enjoy. Es una buena vida, verdad?
This is one sure sign of Middle Age, with the Capital M and Capital A: going for a colonoscopy.
I last had one ten years ago, just nine months(!) after my gender reaffirmation surgery. The procedure hasn't changed much (at least from what I can recall): They knock you out for a few minutes and look for polyps
The good doctor didn't find any. A week and a half ago, during our preliminary appointment, he told me I'd need a ride home, as the anesthetic would take a few hours to wear off.
But he said nothing about getting there: a few blocks from the Intrepid Air and Space Museum. That's about 7 kilometers from my apartment. Despite the MTA's assurances, I still don't want to take the subway or a bus. So, I did something that, in all of my years of living in New York, I had never before done.
No, I didn't visit the Statue of Liberty. Rather, I rode a Citibike.
The irony of that is that in addition to living in New York, I've visited several cities with bike share programs. In those places, however, I rented bikes from shops and when I'm at home, I ride my own bikes. Also, I repaired and assembled Citibikes a few weeks after the program started. But I'd never ridden my handiwork, if you will.
The bike was about what I'd expected: very comfortable but not very fast or maneuverable. That, of course, is how they're built: to take the pounding of day-to-day use on city streets.
In all, it wasn't bad. The hard part, for me, was buying the pass and unlocking the bike, which I did via a Lyft app. I don't think the problem was the system, as lots of other people seem to use it easily. Rather, I am a bit of a techno-ditz: Any time I use a new app or program, it's as if I'm re-inventing the wheel (pun intended). Also, when I arrived, some of the docks at the nearest station weren't working properly (or was I not using them properly)? I had to try a few before I heard the "click" and the green light flashed.
Although I don't expect to be a regular Citibike user, understand why it's popular, and I wouldn't dissuade anyone who doesn't have his or own bike (or a safe place to park it) from using those blue two-wheelers.
(Another bit of good news came out of today's procedure--or, more precisely, the screening: My weight is the lowest it's been since I took my bike tour of the French and Italian Alps in 2001. I guess I shouldn't be surprised: For the past few months, I've cycled or walked just about everywhere I've gone, and one unanticipated, but welcome, side-effect of not going into the college is that I'm eating healthier food.)
It's soo '90's! And if it's soo '90's, it must be reeealy...'70s!
What am I talking about? It has nothing to do with food, clothing or hairstyles. It's not a musical genre, either. Since you're reading this blog, you surely realize that it has something to do with cycling. Indeed it does. So what is it from the '70's that became all the rage--or, at least, seemed poised to become all the rage--in the '90's?
Why, titanium frames, of course.
About two decades ago, the Great Titanium Debate, at least in road bikes, was Litespeed vs. Merlin. It seemed that all of the titanium bikes that weren't being made by custom builders were made by one of those two companies--including many that bore the labels of leading mass-producers (like Bianchi) of the time. Oh, there were builders like Dean and Moots, who made their bikes one-at-a-time, by hand, in smaller volumes than Litespeed or Merlin. And a few custom builders, such as Serotta, made frames of the material. But the vast majority of titanium bikes that rolled out of bike shops (at least in the US) during the '90s came from Litespeed or Merlin.
At that time, "Ti" seemed poised to become the material of choice for the most demanding or well-heeled cyclists. It seemed to have everything going for it: light weight, resistance to the elements and a silky yet swift ride. The world's pelotons--and cyclists who wanted to emulate them--were not sold on carbon fiber. And, aluminum and steel seemed to reach plateaus in their development.
So what happened? In a word: cost. Titanium is an expensive material; so is manganese-molybdenum (Reynolds 531) or chrome-molybdenum steel tubing. More important, their production techniques are more labor-intensive than those of carbon fiber or aluminum.
Also, welding titanium properly is more difficult because the process attracts the very elements--nitrogen and hydrogen--that contaminate titanium and render it weaker. That is one reason why some of the titanium frames made during the 1970s--and a few in the early '90's--failed: The welders didn't seem to realize that the weld area has to be shielded by argon, not only during the process of welding, but until the weld has cooled.
In fact, in the 1970s, little besides its light weight was actually understood about titanium. That is the reason why most titanium components of that time--even the ones made by Campagnolo--didn't stand up to the rigors of hard use.
Speedwell Titanium Bike (UK) with Campagnolo Record equipment, circa 1975
On the other hand, carbon and aluminum aren't as expensive to fabricate as frames, at least with current production methods. As titanium's popularity peaked just before the turn of the millennium, and carbon was in ascendancy, most of the world's bicycle production--even of high-end models--was moving from the West and Japan to Taiwan and China. For bike and parts makers that had committed themselves to carbon, the choice between retooling old factories (or building new ones) in the high-wage, high-cost countries of Europe and North America (and Japan), or building new facilities with modern production methods in low-wage China and southeast Asian countries was a no-brainer. Thus, nearly every carbon frame available (and, to be fair, the vast majority of those not made by custom or specialty builders) comes from that part of the world.
Is it possible to shift Titanium--and high-end steel--production to those areas? Possibly. Does that mean that Titanium will once again become "the frame material of the future". Well, it was in the '70's and '90's. Every other decade...hmm...could it be time for another Ti renaissance?
So...Back in the good ol' USA, my Internet connection has been out for three out of five days. It's nice to be back in the technological leader of the world, isn't it?
OK, I'll end the gratuitous sarcasm. I guess I'm suffering from a kind of post-partum depression about my trip. I really want to be back in Prague--with at least one of my bikes, of course.
The weather has been a bit warmer than what I experienced in Prague, and it's been raining on and off, it seems, all of this week. Astoria's not a bad place to be, but when the skies are gray, I want a Gothic skyline. At least, that's how I feel now that I've seen Prague.
I must confess: I haven't been on my bike since I got back. I'm doing now what I did after each bike tour I took abroad, I guess. After cycling among scenery you wouldn't see in Brooklyn or Queens, and ending each ride with food they don't have here, it's kind of difficult to get used to the mundane--or, at least, what's mundane in your own life--again. I guess, though, once I start riding again, I'll appreciate seeing street signs I can read, not to mention asphalt instead of cobblestones and tram tracks.
What made all of that even better? Cycling. La ville aux cent clochers is, simply, one of the best cities for cycling I've encountered. The bike lanes aren't just lines of paint in a street: They're physically separated from the rest of the traffic (although a couple I rode seemed a bit narrow for two-way bicycle traffic) and there seems to be more respect, or at least a better detente , between cyclists and drivers than I've seen in any US locale.
Moreover, the lanes I encountered weren't just paths that suddenly began in one place and just as suddenly ended somewhere else, far from any place else. (Perhaps if I'd spent more time in the city, I might have found such useless paths.) Instead, there are at least a couple of lanes on which you can cross the city, and other lanes are actually useful in getting to and from anywhere you might be or want or need to go. You can even ride a lane to the Jacques Cartier Bridge or other crossings to or from the city, which is on an island.
What I didn't realize was that much of that pleasant, stress-free riding was a result, directly or indirectly, of "Bicycle Bob" Silverman.
In the previous paragraph, you might've noticed that Silverman had a penchant for appropriating the rhetoric of political upheval. That was no accident: He identified as a Trotskyite and, in his twenties, lived in Cuba, where he met Che Guevara, before he was deported for distributing anti-Soviet literature. After that, he lived and worked on an Israeli kibutz before "bouncing around Europe" and falling in love with cycling while riding in France (of course!).
His vocabulary also reflected his flair for the dramatic. Le Monde à Bicyclette staged "die-ins" to protest cyclist deaths--which have since decreased significantly--in the city and province. Silverman and his organization argued that the reason was not, as some claimed, that cyclists were careless or they shouldn't have been cycling in the city in the first place. Rather, he argued that there were too many cars and that their number wouldn't stop growing as long as the city's and province's infrastructure is built around moving them rather than on human interactions and sustainable transportation--and that the bicycle is as viable a mode of transport as any other.
He also led other kinds of demonstrations, like the time he dressed up as Moses* and pretended to part the waters of the St. Lawrence River to lead cyclists across. (Hmm...Maybe this is why he was called a "prophet" of the bicycle-friendly, sustainable city.) Another time, he rolled out a carpet on Boulevard Maisonneuve to press for the group's demand for an east-west cycle route (which now exists) across the city. In yet another action--which got Silverman three days in prison--he and a group of fellow cyclists painted clandestine cycle lanes in the dark of night.
He and others want to memorialize Robert Silverman, who passed away at age 87 on Sunday.
Whatever the city does, the next time you ride there (or if you ever get to ride there), thank him.
*—I tried to find a photo of “Bicycle Bob” in Old Testament prophet mode. To this day, my mental image of Moses is Charlton Heston: a result, most likely, of seeing “The Ten Commandments “ every year, on the night before Easter, during my childhood.
