I Rode That Way Then Because This Is How I Ride Now

"Velouria" wrote about me and this blog on her "Lovely Bicycle!" blog.  


She made me blush.  I may not know much, but I know this:  The only thing better than a man who can make a woman blush is another woman who can make another woman blush!


Part of me wonders whether I deserve such a wonderful write-up. First of all, look at the photo at the top of her blog and the one at the top of this one.  Not only is she (or whoever took that photo) a better photographer than I'll ever be, she's also more beautiful and stylish.   Take a look another look at that photo:  Do you really think I can compete with that?


Also, look at the layout and design of Lovely Bicycle!  I wouldn't have a clue as to how to do anything like that. And, finally, read her writing and compare it to my ragged prose.


But, hey, what can I say?  I'll take the compliments.  Besides, she's right definitely right about the fact that I've experienced two completely different aspects of cycling, and I'm one of the very few people who's experienced both of them.  


The funny thing is that I was the "lycra-wearing, hard-training, fast-spinning, Alps-conquering roadie...named Nick" precisely because I wanted to be "the woman who cycles to work in a skirt and heels."  Or, more precisely, I was the hard-riding guy precisely because I always knew that, deep down, I was, and was meant to be, that woman cycling to work, to the marketplace and down a country lane to the sea.


So why did I live and cycle as I did?  Well, I have to admit, I enjoyed competitive riding, whether or not it was sanctioned in a race, and the camaraderie that accompanied and followed it.  But I now realize that I wanted to ride as hard and as long as I did because I had so much anger in me.  By now, you probably realize what forged much of that anger:  the cauldron of rage that roiled from the fires of my unfulfilled desire--to live as the woman that I always knew myself to be.


Some guys' worst nightmare is finding out that the girl for whom they've fallen was once a guy--and probably even more of a guy than any of them ever were!  Of course, I don't mean to make light of that:  Too many of us have been killed over that. But, it's hard not to see the irony in it, and to apply it to my cycling life:  What if some of those guys I used to ride with and against were to meet me today?  

Actually, one of those guys has.  And he's taken it very well.  He has an even stronger sense of himself than I ever imagined he did.  What am I saying?  Back in the day, I wasn't even thinking about whether he or anyone else was secure within his own skin.  There was simply no way I--as I was in those days-- could have thought about that. 


But as for the other guys...well, I'll tell you about one of them.  He would have utterly despised me, as I am now.  Or, at least, he would not have been seen with me, whether or not either of us was on a bike.  But I know for a fact that if no one else were watching, I am the very first person he would have come to, for love, advice or just about anything else.  He would have--if he were honest with himself--spent the night with me rather than with his wife or any girlfriend he ever had--or, for that matter, almost any other woman and absolutely any man.  He would have gone for rides with me for the same reasons he would have gone to museums, poetry readings and stores, and walked the streets of Paris, San Francisco, Rome and Boston with me.  


Actually, he wouldn't have done any of those things with me.  He did those things with me.  What's more, he did them with me, and in the presence of his wife and girlfriends.


By now, you've probably figured out who that man was.  Yes, he was me.  And he was who he was--including that "lycra-wearing, hard-training, fast-spinning, Alps-conquering roadie"--because he was me:  the "woman who cycles to work in skirts and heels."

"New" Bike

So far, you may have noticed two things:  my favorite colors (purple, green, pink and blue) and my favorite bike maker (Merican).

Well, the bike I bought the other night is neither of those things.  That's probably a good thing--or, at least, it's a good thing that it's not a Mercian.  That's because I plan to park it on the streets.

It's a Schwinn LeTour III from 1978 or thereabouts.  I bought the bike because the frame is bigger than most step-through frames made today.  I'm amazed that most stop at about 20 inches (50 cm):  If anything, there are more women of my size (horizontally as well as vertically) than there were thirty years ago.

Also, I decided to buy it because it's a solid bike.  It's not light or fancy, but it will, I think, do the job I want it to do.  

Schwinn's LeTour series bikes were made in Japan by Panasonic.  Most of you associate Panasonic with electrical appliances and electronic goods.  But they made some very fine bikes, including the ones they made for PDM, one of the most prominent cycling teams of the 1980's.

This photo shows the roughest part of the paint job and an interesting feature this bike shared with some other women's and mixte frames of that era.  

Notice how the rear center-pull brake is mounted, and the long straddle cable.  This eliminates the need for routing the cable up the seat tube and back down again into a stop.  It's not only an aesthetic consideration:  The up-and-down cable configuration is one of the reasons why the rear brakes on so many women's and mixte frames didn't work very well.  I guess the bike builders figured that a good rear brake wasn't necessary, for they probably believed there weren't very many fast women (on bikes, anyway!).

The Schwinn Aprroved-branded brake is a standard Dia Compe centerpull, which is a Japanese-made clone of the Swiss Weinmann centerpull, which was found on Motobecanes, Raleighs and countless other European bikes of that time.

Even though I'm not going to paint the bike, I plan to modify it considerably.  I'm getting a pair of Milan bars and city brake levers, as well as a pair of fenders, from Velo Orange. (I highly recommend VO:  They have excellent products at fair prices, and Chris is a very nice guy.) I placed the order today:  Actually, I returned a seatpost I bought from them but didn't use.  (It's a good seatpost; it just has more setback than I needed.)  And, I also plan to turn the bike into a single-speed.  But it won't be a "fixie"; rather, it will have a single freewheel.  I have used them on commuter and "beater" bikes before, and I like them because they're simple and, most of the time, I don't need anything more for quick local rides.  

I also plan to add a rear rack and front basket. 

The Almost Unbearable Lightness of a Late-Day Ride

Gunnar and Velouria may not have ever met.  But they have created a monster.


You see, they both used the word "pretty" in talking about the photo someone took of me the other day.  So, when I stopped during my ride today, I asked random strangers to take photos of me.  


Here's the first one, taken by a young Japanese woman on the George Washington Bridge:

OK, so it's not going to get me an endorsement deal, much less a modeling contract.  But at that moment, I understood what Salvatore Quasimodo meant by writing the shortest poem I know of: 


M'illumno
D'immenso.


That I was riding over the bridge at the beginning of rush hour but not dealing with the rush hour traffic was, in and of itself, pretty exhilarating.  But it was an utterly glorious day:  Yesterday's heat and humidity were nothing but memories (or bad dreams).   Pedalling across the bridge felt like flight.


On the Jersey side, I turned left and pedalled down the road that winds a descent from the top of the Palisades to the shelves of rock that line the Hudson, which looked like the sun-filled atrium of one of those very peaceful houses in which  everyone would like spent his or her childhood-- and some can visit in their dreams.  


I spun the cranks of Arielle, my Mercian road bike, as I descended layers of sunlight to the ferry piers at Port Imperial.  Then I followed the riverside road to Hoboken, where young people who work in downtown Manhattan were ascending from the PATH station.  A day like this really feels like an ascent when you're coming from the grimy subterranean depths, and when you feel a cool if strong breeze before the sun begins to set.  

In back of me is the old Erie Lackawana railroad terminal on the Hoboken waterfront.  At times like that, I wish the government hadn't taken over the still-existing railroads after the Penn Central bankruptcy of 1970.  After all, what use will anyone have again for such a beautiful word as "Lackawana?"


I continued down Washington and Jersey Avenues to the Jersey City waterfront.  Marlon Brando's character certainly wouldn't recognize the place now.  He might, however, recognize Richmond Terrace and the views from it:

I stopped in a nearby deli for something to drink during the boat ride.  That, ironically, caused me to miss a boat, with the next one half an hour later.   I had to spend that time in a penned-up "secure" area.  Staten Island's terminal of its eponymous ferry feels more like a series of airport security checkpoints.  A TSA employee even brings in a dog to sniff the bicycles.


Anyway, here I am in their version of Checkpoint Charlie:

Still, as you can see, I was in a great mood.


You may have noticed something pink attached to the saddle of this bike, and my fixed-gear.  It's one of the more interesting products I've tried lately:  a Bike Burrito.  It's so named for the way it folds (or rolls) up.  Inside it are a few small tools and a spare inner tube.


Back in the day, when I was poor, I used to roll up my repair kit inside a bandana and strap it to my saddle rails.  The Bike Burrito is basically the same idea, except that it has pockets inside and is made of very sturdy duck cloth, much like Carradice bags.    That canvas comes in various colors as well as a few prints as Jayme, who sews the Bike Burritos herself, finds them.  I ordered the two pink ones with black interiors.  They are "negatives" of a combination she offers regularly:  black outside, pink inside.  (That might be more anatomically correct, but what the heck.)  I also bought another, in a multi-colored paisley, which will go on my Miss Mercian.  That bike, because I'm building it with the Velo Orange "Porteur" bars, won't have the tape you see on my fixed and road Mercians.


Anyway...I recommend the Bike Burritos, which are available in three sizes.  Jayme is very sweet and accomodating, in addition to being a talented designer and crafts person.  And, her creations are compatible with Shimano, Campagnolo and SRAM shifting systems, as well as all other current and vintage components and bicycles.


And I recommend late afternoon-early evening rides along the Hudson that culminate in ferry rides back to the city!

Serendipities

I got up late today because last night, after riding, I stayed out until the wee hours of the morning. Then I couldn't sleep when I got home.

After showering and having a sort-of-vegetarian supper, I went to Columbus Circle  to meet Joe.  He lives in New Jersey and advertised a bike on Craig's List.  Last week, I sold my three-speed because it was small for me.  I liked the ride and look of it, but even with a long seatpost and stem, it never felt quite right.  Plus, I would have had to change saddles, as I did with my Mercians.  And that Raleigh three-speed, which was painted a bronze-greeen colour, simply would not have looked right with a new saddle.  (I had a brown Brooks--a very traditional leather saddle--on it.)

Anyway, Joe had some car troubles but finally made it to Columbus Circle.   His fiance, Deanna, accompanied him.  When they had just entered Manhattan, she called me.  "It's been a day from hell," she sighed.  I thought she said "date." 

"This is his idea of a date?," I wondered. 

She defended him; I laughed.   It wouldn't be the first time any of us laughed.

At any rate, the bike is what I'd anticipated:  It's a larger ladies' Scwhwinn Le Tour III, from around 1978.  The finish, once a rather nice pearlescent orange, is chipped, cracked and marred in all sorts of ways. But everything worked, and the price was right. 

I'm going to work on it.  I'll probably change the handlebars and seat, and I'm going to add  a rear rack and  fenders.  So it'll be a commuter/beater bike.

After I bought the bike, Joe and Deanna said they were heading downtown and invited me to accompany them to the Cafe Esperanto.  When we got there, we found that it had closed for good.  Instead, we went to Cafe Reggio, which I hadn't gone to in years.  It's not that I dislike the place:  They always have my respect for looking and acting like, rather than merely caricaturing, a funky bohemian cafe from back in the day.  Reggio served esperesso and cappucino before most Americans knew what they are; today Reggio's versions are still among the best.


But the best part was staying up half the night and talking about theatre (Joe is a sound engineer), art, politics and thinking generally.  He asked what I thought of Obama; after I explained why I've never been crazy about him, we got into a long conversation about foreign relations, conspiracy theories and such.  


It made me think of what my youth ight have been like if a few things had been different. It  was exhilarating to be on Macdougal Street, one of my old haunts, even if it was almost wall-to-wall people.  And there I was--the clean, sober woman I carried within me during those days of drunken bitterness.  Best of all--though it makes me a little sad now that it's the day after--is the way the conversation and their company stimulated me.  I almost never feel that way after spending time on campus, among some of my so-called educated coworkers and acquaintances.  That's one of the reasons why being at the college has been so dreadful lately:  In addition to all the pettiness, there is a severe lack of intellectual stimulation.


Ironic, isn't it, that I find mental stimulation on a Saturday night from a guy  who got a two-year degree and a woman who got her certification in cosmetology?  Also strange, n'est-ce pas, that in middle age, I'm finding the sorts of excitement I wanted in my youth, and that I found it when buying a used bike?


I guess that even when I find order in my life when I ride my bike, cycling also makes it--some way or another--unpredictable and serendipitous.

Juniper Valley

Today was hot and humid and I woke up late.  So I did a short ride, albeit on my fixed-gear bike.  I had no specific destination; I just knew I wanted to get home about two hours after I started riding.


I sluiced through some of the deserted industrial side streets of Woodside and Maspeth to Ridgewood.  Then I took another ski-slalom route through streets that intersected, at varying angles, Fresh Pond Road, Myrtle Avenue and Cooper Avenue, out to Forest Park.  But I didn't go into the park; instead, I turned around and let my wheels spin my cranks and legs down the gradual slope of 88th Street to St. John's Cemetery, where I turned back on to Cooper Avenue to 80th Street.

Up to that point, it was a pleasant enough ride.  But on 80th Street, one of those black cars that are status symbols to no one but their owners (who regard them as such only because they spent much more than they should have) tailed a van until the driver--a woman of 60 or so who, thirty years ago in my old neighborhood, would have been driving a Lincoln Continental--tried to pass the van, but couldn't.  And she was leaning on her horn.  


At the other end of the cemetery, I stopped for a traffic light.  Her passenger rolled down the window.  The driver yelled, "Waddaya doin?  Ya gonna get killed out here."


"The way you're driving, yeah, I just might."

The light turned and that driver slammed the horn as the van turned in front of her.  Although I had planned to turn in the same direction, I went straight just to avoid her. 

That, actually, was a good turn of events, if you will, for it brought me to Juniper Valley Park.  If Central or Prospect Park had been located amidst suburban developments, it might have been something like Juniper Valley.  Riding in or around that park,  you could forget that you are in New York City, or even Queens:  The  neighborhoods around them are full of houses that have real lawns and backyards where people plant flowers and shrubs.  And, the park itself is pretty in the way a country cottage might be, rather than architecturally stunning as Central and Prospect Parks are. 




 Don't get me wrong:  I love Central and Prospect, having spent many hours walking, cycling and seeing performances of one kind and another in them.  But pedaling or strolling in or around Juniper Valley is somehow a less self-conscious act than cycling or walking in those other parks.  Maybe it has to do with the more suburban character of the neighborhoods around Juniper Valley:  They are full of families with young children, and even the parents who work in the professions or on Wall Street can't properly be called yuppies.  Many who don't have such jobs or careers are union plumbers, electricians and such.  




What that all means is that nobody goes to Juniper Valley to be seen.  They might go to meet friends or aunts and uncles and cousins to whom they might want to show off, but, really, they can't improve their actual or perceived social status in such a meeting.  




It's funny that I used to avoid such people and situations.  I guess, in a way, they were like my family in a parallel universe, and the last thing in the world I wanted was Family:  the institution or my own particular clan.




But now I find that the people I meet there are friendly, or at least obliging.  One of them took the photo of me with my bike.  It's the first photo anyone's taken of me with any of my bikes since my operation. Try not to notice the weight I've gained through months of inactivity--please!  

I hope that by the end of the summer, I'll be in better shape!  But at least I had a pleasant (crazy driver not withstanding) ride today.

The Freedom to Find Order

Today I didn't ride my bike.  Hopefully, I'll get to ride tomorrow.  But I had a good, if not long, ride yesterday.


It was  something I used to do in the old days:  I started with no plan or destination.   I just got on Arielle--my Mercian road bike-- and I could practically hear her asking me, "Where have you been?"


I found myself zigging and zagging between Queens and Brooklyn, mainly on side streets.  Most people wouldn't know whether they were in one or the other, but having lived for so many years in them (I can't believe I've been in Queens for almost eight years already!), I can see and feel the differences when I'm riding.


Back when I was writing for the Ridgewood Times, I routinely rode the five miles or so along Gates Avenue from Vanderbilt Avenue in Brooklyn to Fresh Pond Road in Queens.  From Vanderbilt, the first few blocks of Gates are lined with some lovely brownstones and other graceful old buildings.  But, after one crosses Nostrand Avenue, the condition of the houses begins to deteriorate somewhat.  Then, by the time Gates crosses under the tracks of the "J" train, the street is lined with cheerless tenement buildings on one side and auto body shops on the other.  Then Gates crosses under another set of tracks, for the "M" train.  A couple of blocks later, the small portals of those houses and apartment grow, as if they've been filled with light, and become  tall glass doorways framed in dark wood and etched with gold-gilt numbers.   These are not brownstones, but they are attractive and sturdy in a similar sort of way--and more orderly, as if those houses themselves were arranged by a grid pattern like the one that guides the streets themselves.  


When I saw those houses, I knew I was in Queens. And I was happier to be there than I wanted to admit. All right, I'll admit it:  I really liked seeing those pretty, well-kept houses.  They don't have the cookie-cutter sort of architecture one finds in too many developments today.  They have character; they are interesting and unique.  But they are also very precise and orderly, and--to me, anyway--it's no surprise they were built by German immigrants who settled the neighborhood a century ago.


How is it that whenever I look for freedom, or simply run away from something, I end up finding order and embracing it?  It occurs to me that I experienced exactly that when I took my first bike trip to Europe.  Five days after I graduated from Rutgers, I got on a Laker Skytrain flight to London.  I brought my bike, a pair of panniers, a handlebar bag, a couple of changes of clothes, a sleeping bag, a camera and a bunch of rolls of film, two blank notebooks and a few packets of condoms.  I had no set itinerary, save that I expected to be in France and possibly another European country at some point.  


But I gave my parents, and anyone else who asked, a more detailed itinerary than I actually planned to follow.  The truth was that I was taking that trip because none of them wanted me to take it and, frankly, I didn't know where else to go or what else to do with myself--and I didn't want to find out.  If I wanted to do anything, I wanted to show them that I didn't need a plan and that I would survive in spite of everything everyone tried to scare or warn me about.  I wasn't going to follow the rules and schedules that bound them:  I would have nothing more than myself, my bike, the road and the surprises of the world unfolding before me.


And what did I embrace?  The friendliness and politeness of people I met.  I actually liked that French people addressed each other as "Monsieur," "Madame" or "Mademoiselle" and appended their requests and sentences with "s'il vous plait."  I liked the order of London and Paris streets:  Even the plane trees that lined them seemed to have an erect, dignified bearing to them.  


That trip was not the first or last time I would get on my bike in search of freedom and would find order--and embrace it. That's what I did, again,  late this afternoon, when I steered my bike onto a street lined with neat brick houses trimmed with deep red, violet and yellow flowers.  I opened the door to one of those houses and  wheeled my bike in.  Charlie and Max were waiting for me.

Welcome To Mid-Life Cycling

Hello!


Some of you may have been following my first blog, Transwoman Times.  If you have, you know that one of my greatest passions--and one of the few constants--in my life has been bicycling.  


After a layoff and a couple of false starts, I am starting the first cycling season of my new life.  I have talked to and written to a number of female cyclists, all of whom have given me excellent advice, and encouragement--not only to ride, but to start a blog about my cycling.


I realized that such a blog might well be unique. For one thing, there isn't another blog by, and about the experiences of, a transsexual cyclist.  But, even more important, even with all of the blogs that are now being written by female cyclists (which include Lovely Bicycle, Biking in Heels and Girls and Bicycles), the vast majority of what I've read about cycling has been written by males, and describes their experiences.  I've enjoyed much of that writing, but I guess that my future expereinces as a cyclist will differ, in at least some ways, from theirs.  Also, much of what I've read has been written by and for younger cyclists.  Again, I have no problem with that.  But I also know that there are other cyclists of a certain age, shall we say.  All of you younger cyclists ain't gettin' any younger, as they used to say in my old neighborhood.  So you may be interested to see what it might be like to age "in the saddle."


I still haven't decided what the blog will include.  Of course, I'll talk about rides, past and present.  And I'll probably talk about my cycling equipment, especially as my life changes have caused me to change some of the parts and accessories I use.  I'll most likely ruminate and offer lots of two-bit philosophy, as I am wont to do.  That means I'll probably also talk about what I read, wear and eat--and the things as well as living beings I love.  In my life, they have all been intertwined in one way or another with my cycling--and writing.  So has, in one way or another, everything else I'll talk about in this blog.


So...whatever your age and gender, and however you cycled to them--or if you came to them by other means!--I hope you'll read and enjoy this blog, and bring your friends to it!