Tosca Takes Me To The Neighborhood

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


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


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


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


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

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


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

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


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

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

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

I

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


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


Even Tosca would appreciate it:

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

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


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

Bikes On The Walls

Here in the USA, the news we hear about Argentina tends to fall into two categories:

           its football (soccer) team and players

           the bad news.

In the latter category was, during my youth, the Peron regime.  These days, it's about hyper-inflation:  People spend their money as soon as they get it because it loses value faster than a dot-com stock in 2000.

What's often forgotten, though, is the country's creativity:  Not for nothing has its capital, Buenos Aires, been called "the Paris of South America."

And the city's and country's artistry isn't limited to what ends up in museums or on pedestals in public squares.  From what I've heard, few cities have more murals.  And those displays that adorn the city's walls encompass all kinds of styles--and subjects, including bicycles and bicycling.

Mart Aire started to grace buildings and other structures with his artistry in the 1990s---when he was 12 years old.  I just love the way his colors and sheer whimsicality express the flights of fancy and sheer freedom I experience when I'm spinning along a seashore, pumping up--or coasting down--a hill or zigging and zagging through city streets.

Our Bodies, Our Bikes

Two weeks ago, I wrote "The Unbearable Whiteness of Cycling."  In it, I discussed some of the possible reasons why the current "bike boom" is largely a Caucasian phenomenon.  A major factor is the images of cyclists portrayed in advertising and the media in general:  Nearly everyone astride a two-wheeler is white.

And young, unless the cyclist in question is a celebrity--in which case, said cyclist probably looks younger than he or she is .

And easily idenitifiable as male or female:  There is little or no gender amibiguity or "queerness" among  cyclists shown in promos.

And thin, especially if the cyclist is female.

That last issue is the subject of a new video, "All Bodies on Bikes," directed by Zeppelin Zeerip, Its stars, Kailey Korhauser and Marlee Blonskey, remind us of a basic fact:  "To be a cyclist, you just have to be a person riding a bike."

As I watched this video, I was showing it to two other people:  My early-childhood self and the person I was early in my gender-affirmation (what I used to call my gender-transition) process. Before I started running, wrestling, playing soccer and riding long distances, I was a fat kid.  And, when I embarked on my journey from life as a man called Nick to a woman named Justine, I wondered whether I'd have to give up cycling.  I even raised that question to my social worker, a transgender man, and my therapist, a heterosexual cisgender woman--who, as it turned out, were cyclists themselves, though "not like you," as both told me.

I now realize that those fears showed how I'd internalized the images of cyclists I'd encountered, and how they were reinforced by my experiences: Until fairly late in my life as Nick, nearly all of the cyclists I knew were white and male, and if any were at all overweight, it was by only a few pounds.

My social worker and therapist used my question about cycling to re-pose (Is that a word?) another question to me:  How did I envision myself?  When I identify myself as female, how do I see that?  That, of course, is a question any therapist or social worker poses to anyone who believes he or she may be transgender, because it's fundamental:  Are you seeing yourself as Angelina Jolie or Jennifer Lopez (icons of the time when I embarked on my process )  or as the housewife or single mother you see in the market--or as your own mother, or someone else?

Although I've lost some weight and have been told I'm looking good, nobody will mistake my body for Christy Turlington's or Rihanna's.  Part of that is, of course, genetics and my body structure:  As I mentioned in my earlier post, I probably never will be smaller than a size 10.  That is true of many other women, including many who, at least to my eye, are quite beautiful.  

So, the issue of body shape is not just one of dress size (a sexist measurement).  It's also one of biology, class--and race.  Members of some ethnic groups, such as natives of American Samoa (which produces National Football League players far out of proportion to its population), are just naturally bigger than other people.  

This question of what a cyclist should look like is an example of what Kimberle Crenshaw defined as "intersectionality." For the most part, what we've seen in advertising and the rest of the media shows us that cyclists are supposed to be young, thin and white--and, by extension, of a certain social and economic class.  If we are to truly gain acceptance from larger society (and less hostility from motorists), the imagery of cycling has to be more inclusive.  "All Bodies on Bikes" is one step in that direction.

Why Was I Doing My Commute On Sunday?

Sometimes I joke about "going through the Gate of Hell to get to work every day."  The truth is, I ride over Hell Gate and by the Hell Gate Bridge when I cross the RFK Memorial (a.k.a. Triborough) Bridge every morning.

On Sunday I took Bill and Cindy by it.  If that was supposed to scare them into living on the straight and narrow, it wasn't very effective.  Then again, how could I scare, or persuade, anybody or anything into being straight?  


But I digress.  We were riding to Van Cortland Park.  They wanted to take the Greenway along the Hudson River (and the West Side Highway.)  While I like the views and that it's so close to the water, I knew that on a sunny Sunday, half of the cyclists, 70 percent of the skateboarders and 99 percent of the people with dogs or baby strollers would be on that path.  Pedaling through the Port Morris industrial area--deserted on Sunday--and Bronx side streets would be bucolic by comparison.

So, after taking Bill and Cindy through, or by, the Gates of Hell, we descended (literally) to Randall's Island where we rode underneath the Amtrak viaduct.  After the Gate, these arches were rather impressive.  Funny thing is, I don't normally see them that way:  They are, after all, part of my commute.

So are these houses on Alexander Avenue in the Bronx:

Not far away are these houses.   Save for the graffiti next to the "fish" building, almost nobody expects to see them in the South Bronx:

They're diagonally across from each other on the Grand Concourse.  The mansion is the Freedman House, built in the 1920s for formerly-wealthy people who had fallen on hard times. Now it contains an event space, art studio and bed-and-breakfast. It's almost jarring to see such a classically Florentine house across the Concourse from the Art Deco building with its mosaic. 

Anyway, Cindy had an appointment and had to leave us before we reached Van Cortlandt Park. Back when I lived on the Upper West Side and in Washington Heights, I used to take quick spins to the park, where I would check out whatever was on display in the Manor or watch the Irish rugby and soccer players. Time marches on, and now there are different folks playing a different game.

The clouds thickened, but never threatened rain.  But they didn't portend anything like Spring, either.  Rolling across the hills of Riverdale, they broke against the shore of Spuyten Duyvil, another place almost nobody expects to find in the Bronx:

From A Late Night, Into The Mists

Last night, I stayed at work a bit later than I expected.  What that meant was, among other things, encountering less traffic than I usually see.

It also meant dealing with a change in the weather.  In the morning, I rode to work in a drizzle that occasionally turned into rain.  But, by the time night rolled around, a dense fog blanketed the city.

Normally, I can see the towers on the Queens spur of the RFK Memorial Bridge as soon as I make the turn from 132nd Street onto the Randall's Island Connector.  At that point, the entrance to the RFK Bridge lane is about 1 3/4 miles, or about 3 kilometers, away.  

Last night, though, I could not see the towers or cables until they were right in front of me--when I was in the lane.

When I reached the middle of the bridge, over the waters of Hell Gate (which I couldn't see), I looked back at the soccer field on the Randall's Island shore:

and ahead to the Queens side

My apartment is in there, somewhere!

Why She--And I--Aren't Going To Arkansas

A few US states have a problem with gender identity and variance.  Cycling, as a competitive sport and as an activity, shouldn't join them.

That is what Molly Cameron says in her Bicycling online article.  She is referring, specifically, to the bill in Arkansas that would ban trans girls and women  from competing on school and university sports teams consistent with their gender identity.  It would also ban young trans people from getting the health care they need.

About that second issue:  health care, for trans people of any age, is not just about hormones and surgery.  In fact, many trans and non-binary people choose to forego them (or, sometimes, just the surgery) for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is cost. In the following paragraph, I'll mention some of the things involved in transgender health care. In it, I'll mention a few intimate and painful details of my life.  If you are not comfortable about reading such things, you can skip the rest of this post.

If you embark on a gender-affirmation (what people used to call gender transition or gender change), or simply explore the possiblilty of one, you have to go through a few rigorous processes that involve various health care and social service providers.  (That is, of course, unless you buy hormones and get surgery on the "black market," which too many trans people, especially the young or nonwhite, still do.)  Your primary doctor and specialists such as endocrinologists examine your physical fitness for the process.  You also spend lots of time with mental health specialists--I saw a therapist and social worker every week--who, not only want to ascertain that you have a clear and accurate idea of what it will really mean to live in your "new" gender, but also to sort through the trauma as well as the positive effects of having performed a gender you were assigned at birth.  To some degree, your primary doctor, endocrinologists and other health-care professionals may deal with them, too.

The positive aspects include, for many of us, achievements.  I ran, wrestled, played soccer and cycled long distances, in part, in the hope that they would make me more masculine.  Whether or not they did that is debatable, but at least becoming an athlete, at least in some fashion, mostly stopped the bullying I'd experienced.  The bullies, I am sure, turned to gossip and rumor-mongering, or other low-level forms of aggression, but at least I wasn't getting beat up every day.  

Also, I was a fairly good student.  And, it may well be that my experience is, if not the reason, then a factor in my becoming a writer and teacher.  While I have met too many homeless or otherwise food- and housing-insecure trans people, I have also met, and know of, many who achieved much.  One such trans person is Dr. Marci Bowers, who performed my surgery.

On the other hand, almost all of us carry the often-toxic detritus of having to live as someone else.  Too many of us--including some of the high-achievers, and me--have struggled with substance abuse, failed relationships and other problems. More than a few of us have attempted suicide, and some, including two friends of mine, actually took their lives because they couldn't deal with the struggle anymore.  I can't help but to wonder whether, had they gotten help (which was unavailable to them, as it was to me, because of the times and places in which we lived) earlier in their lives, they might still be living and thriving as their true selves today.

From Cyclocross Magazine

That help, for some, includes participation in a sport--and, just as important, not having to pretend to be someone else in order to participate in that sport.  I can't help but to think that at least some of the politicians who proposed Arkansas' bill—and other related legislation, such as North Carolina's "bathroom bill"--have positive memories of participating in some sport, whether in school or in another organization like Little League or Pop Warner football.  I would assume that most, if not all, of them did not have to pretend to be someone else in order to play--or to use the bathroom once the competition is over.

Molly Cameron has drawn attention to the Arkansas bill for several reasons.  For one, she is a trans woman. For another, she has been involved in Cyclo-cross, as a racer and event promoter, for more than two decades.  Which leads to the final reason:  a Cyclocross World Cup event is scheduled for the state in October, and it will host the 2022 Cyclocross World Championships.  

She is not calling for a boycott at the moment, but she says that if the events are held in Arkansas, she won't be going.  She adds, "I won't be spending any money in Arkansas or any other state that is passing laws to discriminate against the LGBTQ community."  Finally, though, she offers her prescription:  "I am putting in the work and am hopeful that things will change."

Her optimism is not unfounded.  Change is indeed coming, however slowly, whether or not legislators in Arkansas or other states want to acknowledge it.

 

R.I.P. The Bicycle Chef

A few days ago, I wrote about Stephen Ambruzs' bike shop/ cafe, "Downshift", and how it--and other bike cafes--could be affected by the repeal of "net neutrality."

Today, nearly any municipality with a community of a few hundred or more cyclists has at least one place where you can have espresso or Earl Grey--or even a craft beer or cider--and chat, check your e-mail or check out some books and magazines while your brakes are being adjusted.  It's sometimes hard to believe that just a decade ago, very few such places existed.

One of the first bicycle cafes--or, at least, one of the first places to bill itself as such--opened in Sacramento (near Davis), California in 2005.  Business owners, especially restaurateurs, often name their enterprises after themselves.  Well, the fellow who started the bicycle cafe I'm about to mention did just that--well, sort of.  Bicycle Chef was indeed begun by someone who was a bicycle racer--Category II, to be exact--and a certified chef.

Actually, by the time he started the cafe, he was no longer racing:  a back injury ended his career. But he never gave up his passion for pedaling:  He continued to ride and coach young riders--as well as football (soccer) players--even as the responsibilities of his business and family took up most of his time.

Christopher Davis-Murai with his wife, Jennifer Davis-Murai, and their children, Naomi and Toshiro.

It never seems fair that, like the rest of us, such a person has only a limited amount of time in this world.  For Christopher Davis-Murai, that amount of time totaled 51 years, and it ended last Thursday when he collapsed just after stepping outside his house. 

Jennifer Davis-Murai has just lost her husband, and Naomi and Toshiro their father.  Many others in their community lost a mentor and friend.  And, many of us could say we've lost a pioneer who helped to create an idea--a bicycle cafe--that is part of today's cycling landscape.

Riding On Air--Or Full Of Hot Air?

When I first built my Bontrager Race Lite frame--my Christmas present to myself in 1995--I installed a Rock Shox Mag 21 fork because that was what I had.  Within a few months, though, I'd replaced it with a Rock Shox Judy SL.  Even if you weren't a mountain biker--or on this planet--back then, you've probably seen the Judy SL, with its distinctive yellow finish, in person or images.

It was a great fork, at least for a few rides.  It suspension consisted of a Monocellular Urethane (MCU) spring with a hydraulic damping cartridge.  MCU, like "carbon fiber", shows the power of words or, more precisely, marketing:  Both terms entice people to fork (pun intended) over large sums of money for plastic.

To be fair, though, the hydraulic damping cartridges weren't much sturdier than those springs.  Neither one stood up to sustained punishment, something I could inflict on a bike even in those days, when I was skinny.  

I would soon find out, though, that my springs and cartridges weren't failing because I was a particularly hard-charging rider, as much as I fancied myself as one.  Other mountain bikers were having similar experiences.  In fact, I even witnessed riders losing their suspension in the middle of rides or, worse, jumps.  

Some of those riders switched to other suspension forks, like those from Manitou and Marzocchi.  On the other hand, other riders--including yours truly--retrofitted their Judy forks with Englund air cartridges that we kept inflated with tiny pumps that had needles like the ones used to fill up basketballs and soccer balls at the ends of them.

Those air cartridges were far more durable and were smoother than elastomers (especially when they got dirty) or other kinds of suspension.  It makes sense when you realize that what is arguably the first successful kind of suspension for bicycles (or wheeled vehicles generally) ever made is the pneumatic tire.

Hey, it's not for nothing that we have the phrase "like floating on air" to describe a smooth ride.

With that in mind, I can't help but to wonder how this bicycle would ride:

What I am about to tell you is not a joke:  The bike is inflatable.  Yes, the bike.  

Its frame consists of a series of rubber tubes connected by valves.  This system is supposed to help keep the bike rigid while it's ridden.  The seat stays (or, as the psfk article calls them, the "tubes connecting the seat and back wheel") can be adjusted to give a softer or harder ride.

In case you were wondering:  The rubber tubes were designed with a Kevlar sheath which, according to the bike's designers, make it difficult to cut and help to support the rider's weight.

The bike is designed so that when it's deflated, it will fit in the storage boot of a car.  So, perhaps, it won't surprise you to learn that the bicycle was designed by Ford engineers.

Henry Ford was a bicycle mechanic and, even in his seventies, took "a three mile spin every evening after supper," according to a Time magazine article.  I wonder what he would make of this inflatable bike.

The Incredible Shrinking Distance Between Bikes And Cars

Apparently, I am not the only one who perceives what I am about to describe.  Moreover (How many times have I used that word on this blog?), there is empirical evidence to back it up.

In New York City, where I live, as well as other American municipalities, there are more bike lanes than at any time since, probably, the 1890s bike boom. Of course, that is not to say that you can get from anywhere to anywhere you want or need to go in a lane separated from traffic, but you can spend at least some of your cycling time secluded from large motor vehicles.

Well, at least in theory, that's possible.  But there is something else that's mitigating against cyclists' safety.  As more "cycling infrastructure" is being built (too often, from misconceptions about cycling and traffic), motor vehicles are getting bigger.  Twenty years ago, a typical family vehicle was a Toyota Camry or some other sedan.  Today, it is a sport-utility vehicle (SUV) like the Kia Ascent or pickup truck like the Ford F-150. As an infographic from Transportation Alternatives shows, that means the typical amount of "elbow room" between a cyclist and a vehicle has shrunk from 18 inches to 4 (46 to 10 cm), a reduction of about 75 percent.

The trend toward larger vehicles began and accelerated well before cities like New York started to build bike lanes.  So, encounters between motor vehicles and cyclists were already getting closer.  That means drivers can't use the excuse that bike lanes were "taking away" their space for driving.  

On the other hand, as I've said in other posts, lines of paint does not a bike lane make.  Many family vehicles*  on the road today take up the entire width of a traffic lane.  So, if someone is driving their Toyota 4Runner to their kid's school or soccer practice and is trying to pass another driver, or has to swerve for any other reason, there's a good chance that the SUV will veer, or even careen, into the bike lane. At least one driver has done exactly that right in front of me.

Of course, a couple of lines of paint or a "neutral" buffer strip between a bike and traffic or parking lane won't protect a cyclist--or change a motorist's behavior--in such a situation.  Then again, so-called "protected" lanes don't, either:  Most of the objects used to segregate lanes, like bollards or planters, are easy to knock over, especially with a multiton vehicle.  

The size and weight of the vehicles presents another problem.  Safety experts say that driving even a mid-sized SUV like the Buick Enclave, let alone a full-sized one like the Cadillac Escalade, is more like driving a truck than a family sedan of the 1990s.  With all due respect to all of those parents who ferry their kids and aging parents, most of them don't have the driving skills of someone who operates a long-hauler.**  So, Sarah or Seth driving their Honda CR-V to pick up Ian or Beth can easily misjudge the distance between them and other vehicles--or pedestrians or cyclists. Worse, the larger size and heavier weight of their vehicles means that a blow that might have struck a pedestrian or cyclist in the middle of their body and caused damage that could be serious but was probably survivable had the vehicle been a Honda Accord or Ford Escort could, instead, trap the benighted person riding along the street or crossing it underneath the grille or the vehicle itself.

So, while the effort, if not the results, to build "bicycle infrastructure" is laudable, it won't make much difference in cycling (or pedestrians') safety if typical family vehicles continue to grow in size, along with the sense of entitlement that some drivers have.

*--I'm not talking about delivery trucks and the like, which have remained more or less constant in size.

**--Although I've never driven such conveyances, I am aware of the differences in driving skills between people who drive them and the average driver:  One of my uncles and a close friend, both departed, drove trucks for a living and another uncle and a cousin did so for significant parts of their working lives.

 

1000 Books For A Bike

As a Scout, I earned a merit badge for reading.

Until I saw it in Clayton and Magee, the Red Bank, NJ  men's and boys' clothier  that sold Scout uniforms and equipment, I didn't know that such a thing existed.  Nor did my scoutmaster, or anyone else in the troop.  To get the badge, I had to document that I'd read at least 12 books in a year--something I normally do--and write reports, reviews and critiques on them.  

My English teacher, Mrs. McKenna, was also unaware of the badge until I mentioned it. She happily signed off on it and mentioned it to the rest of the class, which included a few other Scouts.  To my knowledge, only one other kid pursued that opportunity.

I don't remember exactly how many books I read, but I know that I easily exceeded the requirements.  I don't think I read 1000, though.

Ayan Geer and Kristopher Depaz did, however.  For their achievement, the Riverhead, Long Island residents got a reward that I never could have dreamed of:  new bicycles, presented to them the other night at their town's public library.

Not to take anything away from their achievements, I will mention that Ayan's favorite books were "Crocodile and Hen" and "Pete the Cat." Kristopher didn't specify a favorite, but mentioned that he loves playing soccer with his father and wants to be a professional player when he grows up.  
One more thing I should mention:  Ayan and Kristopher each read 1000 books before starting kindergarten.

Forget about a merit badge:  They should get medals.  Solid gold ones.  And bicycles for life.

Riding Into Crowds And The Wild Blue Yonder

One thing about air shows:  You don't have to be at the venue in which they're held in order to see them.  You can see them for miles around.

I should have remembered that when I decided to head for Point Lookout yesterday.  When I got there, I wondered why it was so crowded (well, at least in comparison to the way it usually is).  Jones Beach, where the the Bethpage Air Show was held, is only the length of a football (soccer, I mean) field from the rocks at Point Lookout where I usually lunch and/or meditate in the middle of my ride.  So, of course, the spectators at Point Lookout had as good a vantage point as the folks at Jones Beach or Bethpage.

In a way, that turned out just as well.  I took Tosca--my Mercian fixed gear--along a sandy path to a more remote area of the beach.  The tide was out, so there was a lot of beach.  (In places like Jones Inlet, what's good for bathers or beach loungers is not good for boaters:  The fact that the tide was out also meant that sandbars were exposed.) She didn't mind that I pushed her along the sand:  I pedaled into the wind most of the way out there, so I was pushing pretty hard on the pedals.  

Of course, that meant I had the wind at my back for most of my way back. Interestingly, even though there was a crowd at Point Lookout, I didn't see much traffic anywhere along my ride--not even along the strips of bars and restaurants in Long Beach and Rockaway Beach.

They were still watching the air show, I think, when I got home.

Cycling, Football And Sociology

In an earlier post, I noted that some of the best teams in the World Cup football (soccer, to Yanks) tournament represent some of the world's top cycling nations--and that the US is in ascendancy in both sports.

In following the tournament and the opening stages of the Tour de France, I realized another striking parallel between the two sports.  In the traditional powerhouses of cycling and football, the top players and riders come from the ranks of the poor or working class.  Much of the peloton could just as easily have been working in a factory or farm had their cycling talents not been discovered and developed.  In fact, at the beginning of his professional career, at least one journalist wondered whether Eddy Mercx had the desire or discipline to win because he was "bourgeois"?  How bourgeois was he?  His father owned a grocery store and had just acquired another.  In purely Marxist terms that indeed made Mercx pere "bourgeois", but hardly made his son a "rich kid."

Adonia Lugo, a bike advocate and anthropologist in Los Angeles

Football players have traditionally come from backgrounds similar to those of cyclists, although there is a greater presence of immigrants, or children of immigrants, on the pitch than one finds in the peloton. Still, one rarely finds someone in football or cycling team kit who had the opportunity to do other things.

Here in the US, things are different.  Both sports are seen as suburban and middle-class.  It's true that not many of our cyclists or footballers have come from the inner cities or farmlands.  Rather, the hotbeds of both sports are found mainly in middle-to-upper class suburbs on the two coasts rather than in the Rust Belt.

Ironically, the teams that represented the US in the three prewar World Cup tournametns were primarily blue-collar industrial workers.  They were immigrants, or the children of them, who lived in the sooty enclaves of New Jersey and New England factory towns.  Their last hurrah came in the first postwar tournament when they pulled off one of the biggest upsets in the history of sport:  They beat the mighty British team in the tournament's opening game.