Fuel Efficiency

 Today is Cinco de Mayo.

So, of course, I am going to ride--and eat Mexican food.  Which Mexican food(s), I haven't decided yet.

But I think this T-shirt might influence my choice:

The Need Remains; They Want To Keep On Delivering

Back in February, I wrote about Bicycle Meals and its founder, Mike Pak.

Last year, on a Monday, he put up a flyer on Instagram, calling for help in assembling and distributing packets to the un-housed of Koreatown, the Los Angeles community he calls home.  The following Friday, 20 strangers rolled up to his apartment, ready to help.

Bicycle Meals volunteer getting ready to deliver. Photo by Angel Carreras, from KCRW.

The volunteers included people of varied backgrounds, including graphic designers, audio producers and former chefs.  Most were either working from home or not working at all, so they were able to contribute much time and energy--and, in many cases, their own money (to purchase food and other items).  They assembled packets containing sandwiches, fruit, snacks, masks and hand sanitizer--in the apartments of Pak and Bicycle Meals co-founder Jacob Halpern.

They have since moved the assembly operation to the basement of a nearby church.  Halpern notes that this has made the operation more efficient, but there is another problem:  As pandemic restrictions loosen, many volunteers have returned to their old workplaces and schedules, which doesn't leave them as much time to be, well, volunteers.

The need for their services, however, has not decreased.  Nor is the need for food and supplies.  Local businesses supplied some of them, but much also came from the volunteers themselves.  Some of the businesses can't donate as much as they did at first because they've lost so much revenue, and some of the volunteers are tapped out.  So, Pak and Halpern are hoping to engage more of, and beyond, the community for help--not only with money and material resources, but also help in accessing social services and job placement.

It seems that with all of the changes, Pak and Halpern are still trying to deliver.

For Someone Who Has To Ride In The Snow

Today the temperature hovered a few degrees below freezing.  But snow fell; about four inches stuck to the sidewalks and streets.  Even after the snow stopped, the dampness in the air seeped through everything, it seemed, and made it seem even colder.


I didn't ride today because when I did my laundry and some grocery shopping, I noticed a lot of "black ice."  I don't have a pair of studded tires, and I'm not even sure that they would have helped.  Plus, Max, my surviving cat, wanted to spend some quality time with me.  (Yes, he reads all of the self-help and pop-psychology books.;-))


Plus,I didn't see anyone cycling today, and I didn't see any bikes that looked particularly forlorn, pristine or striking in any other way when parked in the snow.  I'd have liked to get a shot of one of the restaurant delivery guys who was carrying General Tso's Chicken and Hot and Sour soup in bags that dangled from the bars of a '90's mountain bike--a Trek, I think--cobbled together with parts from other bikes and stuff that was never meant for bikes.  


I couldn't help but to think of my own days as a messenger.  I didn't have any cats back then; in fact, I didn't have a regular address:  I was living in sublets.  I'll bet that delivery guy is living in a similar way.  Or, perhaps, he's living in a room with four or five other guys.  They might all be making deliveries, too, for other Chinese restaurants, pizzerias, diners and any other kind of place that sells food for people who can't or don't want to prepare it themselves. 


I once delivered pizza when I was a messenger. Two slices with sausage, pepperoni, peppers and onions to an office on the 89th floor of One  World Trade Center (the NorthTower).  Those two slices cost 3.50; the guy who ordered them (or, more precisely, his office)  paid six dollars to the company I worked for. I got about half of that as my commission, and the guy gave me a five-dollar tip.  In those days, that got me a couple of drinks or smokes.  And the man was clearly happy to get his pizza within five minutes of ordering it; the pizzeria's delivery system would have taken at least half an hour.  Plus, I think those two slices weren't enough to make the minimum for a delivery order.


The guy I saw today had to have been delivering an order of at least ten dollars.  That's the minimum at the restaurant for which he works:  Fatima's Halal Kitchen, a Chinese restaurant in my neighborhood.  Their food is excellent; you just won't find ribs or pork there. (Here's a slogan for them:  Making Hungry Muslims Happy.)  On the other hand, they make some really good vegetarian dishes.


Anyway, he has to ride over slush and black ice, which is even more dangerous than rain, snow, sleet or hail.  I wonder whether he'll recall or relive days like this.  Or maybe he'll forget them altogether.  If he does, he probably won't be riding a bike, either.

What I Will And Won't Do On Cinco De Mayo

I have it on good authority (i.e., some Mexicans of my acquaintance) that one sure-fire way to give yourself away as a gringo is to eat Tex-Mex or Cal-Mex or Nuyo-Mex food and drink Corona beer on this day, Cinco de Mayo.

From what they tell me, outside of Puebla, the holiday is not widely celebrated in Mexico.  It's not seen as "Mexican Independence Day" any more than 24 December, the day the War of 1812 ended, is seen as American Independence Day.

From Pinterest

In fact, according to my authorities/acquaintances, Mexicans have actually taken to calling this day "Drinko de Mayo" and "Gringo de Mayo".  Somehow I'm not surprised:  The vast majority of folks who get drunk on St. Patrick's Day aren't Irish, or even partly of Celtic heritage of any sort.

And, in another parallel to Cinco de Mayo, St. Patrick's Day is celebrated more robustly in the US, Canada and Australia than it is in Ireland itself.  The day celebrating an Anglo-Roman who converted Ireland to Christianity has become, more than anything, an ostensible celebration of Irish heritage, just as Cinco has become a celebration of Mexican pride.

(Likewise, Italian-Americans see Columbus Day as an occasion to celebrate their roots and culture.  But why, of all people, do we choose someone who got lost?)

Photo by Can Turkyilmaz, from Oak Cliff Advocate

Anyway...I promise I won't wear a sombrero or fake moustache.  (Having had a real moustache--and beard--for long periods of my previous life, I get no thrill out of sporting facsimiles.)  I won't even wear a sarape or any of those brightly-colored dresses or shoes.   I might eat something Mexican because, well, I like Mexican food, even in all of its bastardizations.

"Working Relationship"  by Nick Mc Coy, from the Oak Cliff Advocate

But I'll probably go for a ride after work.  That's one thing that translates into almost any culture, and therefore isn't culturally insensitive!

From the Downtown Mobile Alliance

(That bike shop certainly looks OK to me!)

 

What Would You Eat If....

In this blog, I often talk about foods that I eat--and have eaten--before, during and after rides.

I got to thinking about that while reading something that appeared in my mailbox:  The Worst Foods To Eat In Every State.

Now, even for someone with my refined sensibilities (Yes, I typed that with a straight face!), such a title is "click bait". I am sure that Wil Fulton, the author of that article, or the editors of the "Thrillist" website know as much.

Of course, "worst" can be interpreted in all sorts of ways.  Mr. Fulton seemed to use the term to mean "whatever looks or sounds grossest to someone who's never eaten it before".  And, I have to admit, I probably would have to be stranded in North Dakota before I'd try lutefisk.  On the other hand, Illionois Gravy Bread doesn't sound any different from what I've eaten during, or at the end of, many a meal:  bread used as a sponge for gravy or meat drippings.  Nothing wrong with that.  But people actually have it delivered?

Anyway, I've eaten a few of the items in that article--yes, before, during and after bike rides.  Interestingly, even though I lived in Brooklyn until I was twelve--and have lived in New York City since I was twenty-five--I have eaten the Garbage Plate proper (Is that an oxymoron?) only twice in my life, both times during bike trips upstate.

This is what you eat during a ride in New Jersey

One food I often ate during rides, as well as devant and apres, is Pork Roll.  No one in my family, or I, had even heard of it while we were living in Brooklyn.  But, after we moved to New Jersey, it became a staple of our diets.  Of course, I didn't see it when I was living in France, but even after I moved to New York during the mid-80s, no one in the Big Apple seemed to know about it--or they thought it was something pornographic.

Now stores in this town are selling it.  I think people here were introduced to it a few months ago, when Dunkin' Donuts offered a "limited-time special" sandwich that included it. When I was living in The Garden State, I often had the "Jersey Classic"--a sandwich of pork roll, egg and cheese--at diners, coffee shops and roadside stands during rides.  

What does pork roll taste like?  Some might say it's a better version of Spam, or a milder version of their favorite ham.   It really tastes better than it sounds:  It's pork with a nice combination of sweet and mild spices with salt. 

Is it "healthy"?  Of course not!  (Well, as a "comfort food", perhaps it's good for your mental health.) But I have eaten all manner of pizzas and baked goods during rides, not to mention chili, burgers, tacos, take-out Chinese foods and such delicacies as the jambon-beurre.

By the way:  I have eaten scrapple, the Pennsylvania Dutch-country "mystery meat".  It's actually pretty good--though, I confess, I prefer good ol' Jersey Pork Roll.  Or jambon-beurre.

Is This What They Mean By "Going Green?"

 In my half-century of dedicated cycling, I've noticed that, when it comes to food, there are two extreme types of cyclists.  One fuels up on pepperoni pizza washed down with Coke or Pepsi and eats steaks or cheeseburgers and ice cream after the ride.  The other wants the packaging to be as organic as the food in it.

Most cyclists, of course, fall somewhere in between. I admit that I eat and drink stuff that isn't found on most training tables, but I cringe at Twinkies, Jell-O and the like.  I eat less meat in all forms than I did in my youth--and I not only eat more vegetables, but more of them are fresh rather than processed.

Like many other Americans, during the past decade or so, I have discovered the joys of one vegetable in particular:

Why They Should Be Recognized As Professionals

Americans often complain that French--or even Asian--waiters are "rude," or simply not friendly.

On the other hand, some gourmands will argue that the quality of a restaurant's food is inversely proportional to the friendliness of its service.  

I would agree with that second assertion, to a point.  I recall that the old Second Avenue Deli had, arguably, the best matzoh ball soup and pastrami sandwiches--and the rudest waiters--in Manhattan.  And I have been in many a restaurant--yes, even Italian and Indian-Pakistani ones--where I loved the food but the waitstaff weren't vying to be Mr. or Ms. Congeniality.

Now, French and even high-end Asian restaurants represent cultures very different (at least in some ways) from those that gave us the various ethnic restaurants found in New York and other American cities.  But I have always sensed that there is a certain kinship in the attitude of waitstaff.  

In France, and perhaps to a lesser degree in other European and Asian countries, being a waiter or waitress isn't something you do to pay for college or because you don't have the documentation or credentials for other kinds of work.  In fact, it isn't just a job:  It's a profession.

One almost never hears the words "professional" and "waiter" or "waitress" used together in the English-speaking world.  That, perhaps, is a reason why they are not given respect--or a living wage.  (As you may know, you don't tip a waiter in France: there's a service charge built into your bill.)  On the other hand, a waiter, like a chef, sous chef or anyone else involved in creating, preparing and delivering a meal, is expected to help create a dining experience.  So a waiter not only hauls trays and plates; he or she also choreographs the dining experience, ensuring that everything from the table arrangement to the wines are appropriate for the meal that is being consumed.

I think now of something a lawyer once told me:  "It's not my job to be my client's friend; I am here to be my client's advocate."  I think it's a fair summation of any profession. Yes, you want your lawyer or doctor or teacher or whoever to be courteous and respectful.  But it's not his or her job to be your buddy.  And that professional does not quit at a certain time of day.  Most important of all, a professional is always learning something new.

I know of bike mechanics like that. In fact, I go to a couple of them when I don't have the right tool(s) or simply don't have (or don't want to spend) the time to do something properly.  The mechanics I am talking about have been doing their work for years, or even decades, and because of their expertise, they work year-round in shops, even during seasons when other mechanics are laid off.

They aren't professionals just because they're getting paid to work on bikes:  They attain such status, at least in my eyes, because of the way they approach their work--and their relations with customers.   Their goal is to make your bike work, and to work for you.  Moreover, they understand how bikes and cyclists are changing--and remaining the same.

But almost nobody--at least in the US--thinks of being a bike mechanic as a profession.  Part of the reason, I suspect, as that most mechanics, save for the ones I've described, don't see themselves as practicing a profession.  It's a job--as, I admit, fixing and assembling bikes was for me at different times in my life--that will sustain you until you complete your degree or move on to something else in your life.

Also, a professional isn't bound by one employer or workplace.  As an example, a doctor doesn't stop being a doctor upon leaving a hospital where he or she worked--or if that hospital shuts down.  That doctor can work elsewhere, or set up his or her own practices.

Mechanics are going to need that sort of mobility.  With the rise of internet sales and bike-share programs--and rising rents--the existence of a bike shop is increasingly precarious.  But even if people buy their bikes from online wholesalers or use bike-share programs (instead of renting bikes from shops), someone will have to assemble that new bike, or fix it after it's been ridden through streets and over hill and dale.  Many cyclists don't have the time or inclination to make those repairs (or they're not allowed to fix share bikes).  So, there will always be a need, I believe, for mechanics.  And because bike designs, and the ways in which bikes are ridden, are changing, mechanics and other bike industry professionals need to keep on learning.

As I understand, those are the motivations behind the Professional Bicycle Mechanics Association, founded two and a half years ago.  As its president, James Stanfill, says, "Service is to me what we do for others, and for us mechanics, it is absolutely inclusive of all we, as an industry, do for others."  

 

  Many mechanics, and others in the bike industry, are already living and working by that credo.  So it makes sense to start a "professional association" (which is not the same thing as a union) for bike mechanics.  I mean, auto mechanics are recognized as professionals, as they should be.  So why not bike mechanics?  If nothing else, I think such recognition would help not only to bring more respect to the bicycle industry, but to cycling itself.

New York Pretzels

Time was, not so long ago, that every true New Yorker had eaten a hot pretzel sold on a street cart at least once.  And, if you were a tourist, that was part of your "New York experience."

As often as not, we bought those pretzels from the same carts that sold hot dogs--usually the Sabrett's brand.  You could find such carts in just about every neighborhood in the five boroughs, and, it seemed, on nearly every corner in the busier parts of Midtown and Downtown Manhattan.

By Francisco Companioni

But I've noticed that in the past fifteen years or so, those carts have been disappearing.  Or, perhaps, I just don't notice the existing ones as much, as The Big Apple's street food offerings have become more diverse.  Now it's possible to find carts and trucks from which crepes, waffles, fried chicken, various Middle Eastern and Indo-Pakistani delicacies, sushi and even Maine Lobster rolls are vended.  Back in the day, carts that sold pretzels and Sabrett's hot dogs pretty much were New York street food.

Truth be told, most of the time the pretzels weren't that good.  Usually, when you bought one, it spent hours over the warmer, so it was probably as dry as the salt crystals that coated its top.  Now, I don't claim to be a pretzel aficianado, but if I'm going to eat a big, hot pretzel, I want it to be chewy.  If I want hard pretzels, I'll stick to the smaller ones that you can buy in most grocery stores.

Anyway, as those Sabrett's carts have disappeared in New York, I've noticed another kind of pretzel.  I found this sample on a Tribeca street today:

That doesn't even come close to being the worst I've seen.  Here's something even more bent:

From Abandoned Bicycles of New York

When I worked in bike shops, we used to say such wheels were "pretzeled".  But a wheel like that can only be found in the Big Apple, I think.

The street pretzel vendors of yore didn't seem to realize that it doesn't take very long to turn something into a pretzel--which is the reason why their snacks were usually dry and hard.  But seriously: Once I parked on a street near the UN for about 45 minutes.  That's all it took to turn my rear wheel into one of those twisted treasures.  The difference is, the New York pretzels on bikes can't be made edible by slathering them with mustard!

Bicycles: Food For Thought

Some years ago, Santa left a package of this in my Christmas stocking:

It was actually very good pasta.  If I recall correctly, it was made in Italy.  At any rate, it came in the trecolori of verte, blanco e rosso.  As much of a Francophile as I am, I'm not so sure that I would have wanted pasta en bleu.

I have seen cookies and other foods--usually sweets--shaped like bicycles.  I can easily imagine cutting vegetables and fruits and forming the pieces into two-wheeled crudites.  However, I have a harder time seeing meat, fish or fowl as velocipedic viandes.

All of this begs a question:  Has anyone ever eaten an actual bicycle?

One Michel Lotito--a Grenoble native who performed under the name "Monsieur Mangetout"-- would have answered, "Moi!"

The best part is that he ate not one, but eighteen, bicycles during his lifetime.  Apparently, it was his favorite non-food delicacy:  He also consumed fifteen shopping carts, seven televisions, six chandeliers and one Cessna 150 aircraft, among other objects you won't find on the menus of restaurants in his hometown. (I know: I've been there!)

Before partaking of his meals, he cut the objects into pieces and, when necessary, ground up the parts.  I don't know whether or not he said grace, but he did gulp some mineral oil before downing his repasts, and drank water throughout each "course".  If you ask me, his exploits give new meaning to the term "slider".

He claimed never to have suffered any ill effects from his galvanized gourmandizing, even though he consumed some substances that are considered poisonous.  He also said he never had trouble passing any of the estimated nine tons of metal he ingested between 1959 and 1997.  No Montezuma's  Revenge for him.  However, he also said that bananas and hard-boiled eggs made him sick.

On 25 June 2007, ten days after he turned 57, he died "of natural causes".

All of this, of course, begs another question:  Did he ever eat a carbon fiber bike?  If so, did its fiber content aid his digestion?

How Many Bananas?

Last week, while out for a ride, I stopped at a Halal cart for a falafel.  It got me to thinking about how much the definition of "street food" has changed here in New York.  

In addition to falafel, hummus and those tasty chicken-and rice or lamb-and-rice dishes the Middle Eastern street cooks/vendors offer, it's possible to buy tacos, pizza, curries, waffles, sushi, various kinds of sandwiches, fried chicken, lobster rolls, crepes, salads, meat-on-a-stick and cupcakes as well as familiar fare like ice cream and almost anything based on coffee or tea from various trucks and carts all over the city.

It wasn't so long ago that "street food" in the Big Apple meant "dirty water" hot dogs (with mustard and barbecued onions), knishes and pretzels that were baked dry, then burnt on the hot plates the vendors used to warm them up.

Ruminating about such urban delicacies (as if I don't have better uses for my brain cells!) led me to recall the days when "energy bars" hadn't been invented.  Back then, we carried "trail mix" or other combinations of dried fruits, nuts (and, for some of us, chocolate) as well as other fruits--especially bananas.

In fact, when I was co-editing a club newsletter, we had a five-banana rating system for rides.  The most difficult rides, of course, got five while the easiest rides were marked with only one.

That system would have been entirely useless had someone shown up to ride in this:

From Extreme Mobility

Food For Thought

Definitions of a good cycling diet have changed and diverged during my nearly-half century of dedicated riding.  Around the time I first started taking rides more of more than an hour from my family's home, Eddy Mercx broke the hour record in Mexico City on a day when he downed toast, ham and cheese--all of which he brought from his native Belgium--for breakfast.

Over the years, we've been told not to eat meat or dairy during a ride, or at all.  We've also been advised that we should consume carbohydrates and  everything from GORP (good ol' raisins and peanuts) to Himalayan foxtail millet cakes slathered with  yak butter touted as  the ideal cycling foods.  

Deep down, though, we all  know there's one food all cyclists--in fact, all people--love:

Aside from showing a woman eating a slice while cradling a box of pizza on her exercise bike, this photo is funny in other ways.  For one, it could only be from the '80's:  When else would someone wear sport an outfit or hairdo like hers?  Or wear a waist pack on an exercise bike?  

But eating pizza:  That's always permissible.  It's one of the few things that never goes out of style, among cyclists or anyone else!   

What We Really Go For

From the saddle, you can learn all sorts of interesting things.

For example, I never knew it was possible to camouflage a McDonald’s until I rode on Long Island today.  

It looks more like one of those steakhouses-with-a-view one might find in Roslyn or Sea Cliff or someplace else on the North Shore (a.k.a. Gatsby Country).  Maybe that was the intent of whoever decided to put a fast-food franchise in that house.

When I stopped to take the photo (with my cell phone), I got to talking with a woman who was doing the same thing.  She was visiting relatives, she said, when she noticed it, as I did, in passing.  Her relatives never knew a McDonald’s was there; when her young niece saw it, she exclaimed, “Ooh!  The Ronald Mc Donald House!”

According to the woman, there is upstairs “dining” (Can anything at McDonald’s be so named?) in the upstairs room.  I suppose that it makes sense when you realize that when people go to a restaurant for the view, they’re probably not going for the food anyway.

About those North Shore restaurants:  I didn’t eat (or take in the view) in any of them.  But I rode by some of them.  Roslyn’s downtown, on a cove of the Sound, is particularly lovely.  However, all of those nice old houses (built between 1690 and 1865) are centered around this clock tower:

I actually like the tower, except for one thing:  None of the clocks on any of the tower’s four sides tell the same time.  And none of the times they give are the right time. 

Maybe I shouldn't criticize that.  After all, does anybody look at such a tower (at least these days) to find out what time it is? 

How A Stolen Bike Became The Gift That Gave Back

By now you know that I have a soft spot for people who, in whatever ways, bring bikes to kids who couldn't otherwise afford them.

Most of the stories I've posted so far are about individuals or organizations who restore old bikes that might otherwise have ended up in a landfill.   Some started out as one-person operations and mushroomed into local non-profit organizations.

Well, today I'm going to tell you about a kid who gave his bike to another kid, and whose family helped out that other kid's family at the holidays.  And there's a particularly interesting "twist" to this story.

Fifty years ago, on Christmas Eve 1967, 18-year-old William Lynn Weaver was walking around in his neighborhood, the Mechanicsville area of Knoxville, Tennessee.  He saw another boy gliding down the street on a bike.  "Boy, that looks like my brother's bike," he thought.

When he got home, he asked his younger brother Wayne whether he knew where his bicycle was.  "It's down on the steps," he replied.  Except that it wasn't.

William Lynn Weaver with his brother in 1963.

Well, Mr. Weaver tracked down the kid who took his brother's bike--to an unlit shack in an alley--and planned to confront the kid.  But his father, who accompanied him, told him,"Just shut up and let me talk."

He knocked on the door.  An elderly man answered.  Inside, the shack was cold and dark, with only a single candle for light.  It turned out that the thief was indeed the old man's grandson.

He and William took the bike and walked home.

The father told the mother, who was cutting a turkey, about the incident.  She said nothing, but packed up some of the food.  Then "my father went to the coal yard and got a bag of coal," William recalls.  Then his father looked at his brother and said, "You've got another bike, don't you?"  The brother nodded, and the three of them returned to the shack with the food, coal and bike.  

The father handed over $20--not an inconsiderable sum in those days--and said, "Merry Christmas."  The man broke down in tears.

William Lynn Weaver today.

As William explains, his family wasn't as badly-off as the boy and man who lived in the shack, but they didn't have much, either.  "My father was a chauffeur, and my mother was a domestic," he explained.  "That Christmas, I don't remember what gift I got, but I do know that [giving to the boy and his grandfather] made me feel better than any Christmas I've ever had."

Ah, the power of a bike...

Nominated For The Liebster Award

All of this work (ha, ha) might make me rich and famous after all.

I've been nominated for an award!  Yes, an award:  the Liebster.  I thank The Accidental Environmentalist for that.

Here are the rules for the Liebster Award:

1. Each blogger should post 11 random facts about themselves.
2. Answer the questions the tagger has set for you, then create 11 new questions for the bloggers you pass the award to.
3. Choose 11 new bloggers (with less than 200 followers) to pass the award to and link them in your post.
4. Go to their page and tell them about the award.
5. No tag backs.

OK, so here are some random facts about me:

1.  I was originally named after my father.

2.  My mother and I have nearly identical tastes in food.

3.  I have taught in a yeshiva.

4.  I attended Catholic school.

5.  At the age of three, I rode my tricycle down the stairs to the basement of the apartment building where I was living with Mom and Dad.  I still have a scar from it.

6.  I have dated two women who were born on Christmas Eve, and two others who were born on Ground Hog Day.  I dated a man born on 15 April (tax day in the US) and another born on Veterans'/Armistice Day.

7.  I was born on the Fourth of July.  And, no, I'm not related to Bruce Springsteen, though I went to high school with his cousin.

8.  My favorite Shakespeare plays are The Tempest, Othello and Macbeth.

9.  I have slept in graveyards--twice, both times during cycling trips.


10.  I didn't touch a computer until I was 41 years old.

11.  My mother would have named me "Justine" had I been born a girl.


Now, here are The Accidental Environmentalist's questions and my answers:

1.  How long have you been blogging?--Four years, seven months:  I began in July, 2008 with "Transwoman Times".

2.  If we had a third party in the United States, which would it be?--One that could become the first or second party.

3.  Dr. Pepper or Mr. Pibb?--I don't know about Mr. Pibb, and I've never liked Dr. Pepper.

4.  What is your favorite bird?--Cardinal

5.  What sport do you watch or participate in most regularly?--Bicycling

6.  When you decide to splurge, what do you spend money on?--Accessories, for myself and my bike

7.  What is your favorite junk food?--Tortilla chips with melted cheese

8.  What was your favorite vacation spot ever?--The Pyrenees

9.  What is your favorite amusement park ride?--I don't know. I haven't gone to a amusement park in a long time.

10. Do you have pets and if so, what pets do you have?--Two cats, named Max and Marley.  They're both rescue cats. 

11.  What era of U.S. history would you most want to be a part?--The 1920's. It seems that there was so much going on in the arts, sports and in science at that time.  I would be part of the 1930's, too, if I didn't have to be poor or unemployed.

And now, my nominees:

Bike Bliss

Biking In Heels

Citizen Rider

Cycling Art Blog 

DFW Point To Point

Educated & Poor 

Fragmentos do Cotidiano

Girls And Bicycles

Like It Or Not: Ted Burke

Might As Well Suffer

Urban Adventure League

Remember, nominations are limited to blogs with 200 or fewer followers.  So, if your blog isn't on this list, it's not because I don't read or like it.

Anyway, you might want to check out the ones I've listed, if you haven't already!

For my nominees/victims, here are my questions:

1.  What is the best or most meaningful gift you ever received?

2.  What was the best-received gift you ever gave anybody?

3.  What historical figure would you be most interested in meeting?

4.  If you were a country, which one would it be?

5.  Was there any part of your schooling (elementary, secondary, university, vocational) that you especially liked or disliked?  Why?

6.  Think of all of the places in which you've ever lived, or visited. Which is your favorite?  If you had one day to spend there, what would you do?

7.  Have you ever Googled the name of someone you hadn't thought about in years?  If so, did the results surprise you?

8.   If you had the opportunity to become the President of the United States or the Pope, would you take it?  Why or why not?

9.   What is the most surprising or unexpected thing anybody could learn about you?

10.  If you could bring five books with you to a desert island, what would they be?  What else would you bring?

11.  Butter pecan, cherry vanilla, rocky road, pistachio or chocolate chocolate chip?

A Fast Food Phantom Picnic In My Basket

I’m really glad to have baskets on the LeTour.  However, I never planned for them to be used this way:

I am torn.  On one hand, I am upset because, of all of the fast-food trash one could leave, the litterbug who found my bike had to leave White Castle’s.  On the other hand, the colors and graphics go very well with the bike.

The next time I park the bike on the street, I’ll leave a note that says, “No Dumping, Or I’ll Dump On You”—or something like that.

Bringing Us Our Daily Bread

People curse and depend on them.  I'm talking about those food delivery workers on e-bikes who weave, at breakneck speeds, through traffic and buzz pedestrians and cyclists.  People complain when they're nearly struck, or simply scared, by those couriers whom they expect to bring pizza, tacos, General Tso's chicken, sushi or pad thai to their doors within 15 minutes after placing their orders.  And, since most of those delivery workers are paid by the number of deliveries they make, and depend on tips, they will continue to rush within a hair's breath of anyone who's walking or pedaling in "their" bike lane.  As much as that annoys, exasperates and freaks me out, I try not to be too angry with them:  After all, many of them are supporting families here and in their native countries (nearly all are immigrants, many of them undocumented) and have limited job opportunities because they speak English poorly or not at all and may have educational or professional credentials that aren't recognized here.

Still, as much as I respect their work ethic,  I have to admit that no delivery worker I've seen has anything on this one in Cairo, Egypt:

#video
bread delivery in Cairo 🥖
🚲#ifb #SaturdayKitchen #Food #bicycle pic.twitter.com/dxqQBUr64R

— You Must Do✍️SURVEYS (@youmustdo1) August 14, 2021

A Short Trip for the Fourth

Today I just barely got on my bike:  About a mile to the barbecue at Millie's house, and a bit more coming home.  I surely consumed many times the number of calories I burned up today.   But, hey, isn't that what barbecues are for?  


And they had a cake for my birthday:

Actually, all of those colors were on a plastic piece that covered the cake.  Underneath, everything was chocolate:  creamy cocoa frosting over a dark devil's food cake.   


It's not the sort of food one finds at training tables.  Then again, although I'm working at getting myself into better shape, I'm not training for anything:  I simply want cycling and better conditioning to be facts of my life.   A wise old philosopher once told me, "Life ain't no rehearsal."  I rode yesterday; I will ride again; I have no goal (at least as a cyclist) but to ride my bike again.


Plus, I was happy to be with Millie and John, their kids and grandkids, and Millie's friend Catherine, again.  This day last year marked the first time since I moved to Queens that I didn't spend the Fourth with them.   Millie decided not to have the barbecue because I couldn't make it.  She saw me off that day when I was leaving for Trinidad.


That day, I knew I wouldn't be cycling again for a long time.  My mother said, only half-jokingly, that she knew I really wanted to go for the operation because I was willing to give up, in essence, a season of cycling for it.   But I knew that I wasn't so much giving up a season of cycling as I was embarking on a journey.  Even the riders of the Tour de France have to get off their bikes sometimes; I knew--or at least hoped--that when I got back on mine, I would be on the tour, if you will, that only I could take.  At least some of it would be on my bicycle, I believed.


After eating barbecued chicken, shish kebabs, corn and a few other things one might expect to consume at a barbecue, I took the long way home.  I still haven't mastered the fine art of taking photos while on the bike.  But, here is a shot I took just outside Rainey Park, which is on the East River:

Perhaps one day I'll get it right.  Until then, it's a journey and I'm on it.  At least today's segment, as short as it was, fulfilled me:   I was happy to go where I went and happy to return.