I ordered some ball bearings from an eBay seller; they came today. Soon I'll start putting the Schwinn back together.
I'm trying to keep as many of the original parts on it as I can. However, I'm not at all interested in historical authenticity, as I plan to use the bike for errands and such, and it will spend a lot of time parked on streets. Plus, the paint is in such rough shape that re-painting it would mean that it's not period-correct, anyway.
Of course, I'm replacing the things that should be replaced: brake cables and pads, and tires. And I'm changing the handlebars to the Milan bars I got from Velo Orange.
Probably my biggest indulgence on the bike will be the Velo Orange fenders. Actually, they're not expensive--maybe five dollars or so more than plastic fenders. But they look like a luxury. At least I can justify them: Metal fenders have always lasted longer than plastic ones for me.
As I talk about rebuilding a bike, I am still thinking about what I noticed the other day: the absence of female cyclists in some parts of this city. Even in neighborhoods like mine, or Park Slope or Williamsburg or any other neighborhood where one is likely to find women on bikes, there aren't many my age. And, I suspect, there are even fewer women of my age, or any age, who are tearing apart and rebuilding a bike, as I am.
For that matter, there aren't very many women who've taken the sorts of bike tours that I've taken, or had the amount and breadth of cycling experience I have.
I can't help but to wonder: Had I been born with XX chromosomes and raised as a female, would I be reconstructing the Schwinn? Would I have been able to specify how I wanted my Mercians to be built? And, would I have--a week after getting my undergraduate degree--gotten on a plane to London with my bike, a couple of changes of clothes, my camera, a couple of notebooks and a few packs of condoms?
If I hadn't taken that trip, would I have taken the others? Would I be cycling today?
16 June 2010
14 June 2010
Where Are The Women?
I don't know whether it's possible to be an urban cyclist without having or developing some sort of interest in architecture. One of the wonderful things about New York and some other cities is that you can find a gem where you weren't expecting it.
I hadn't been in that part of town in a long time, so I don't know whether or how recently the building was renovated. I suspect that it was fixed up as the new stadium was built, but I also suspect that it hadn't deteriorated very much, as so much of the neighborhood around the old stadium (which was next to where the current stadium stands) had for so long.
If people couldn't tell that I hadn't spent much time in the neighborhood just by looking at me, they had to have known once I started taking photos. Then again, maybe some architecture lovers have trekked up that way.
Wouldn't you love to live in a building with this over the entrance?:
Or this by your window?
For a moment, I wondered whether someone might get upset with me for pointing my camera at his or her window. But building residents may be used to that sort of thing.
So, how did I end up there? Well, I just hopped on Tosca (my Mercian fixie) and pedalled across the Queensboro (a.k.a. 59th Street) Bridge. After descending the ramp on the Manhattan side, I found myself riding past Sloan Kettering, Rockefeller University and lots of dimpled blonde toddlers escorted by nannies or au pairs who are much darker than they are. As I rode further uptown, the kids got darker and didn't have au pairs or nannies. None of it was new to me, but something would be after I passed the building in the photos.
In Manhattan, almost everything above Columbia University is commonly referred to as "Harlem," and in the Bronx, almost everything below Fordham Road is called "The South Bronx". As it happened, I pedalled through the places that are, technically, Harlem and the South Bronx. But I also passed through a number of other neighborhoods that consist almost entirely of people of color, most of whom are poor, and whose neighborhoods are lumped in with Harlem and the South Bronx.
I ride in those places because there are some interesting sights and good cycling. But today I noticed something in those neighborhoods that, I now realize, makes them not only different neighborhoods, but different worlds, from Astoria, where I now live and Park Slope, where I lived before moving here--not to mention neighborhoods like the Upper East Side and Yorkville, which I also rode through today.
In neighborhoods like Harlem and the ones I saw in the Bronx, one generally doesn't see as many adults, especially young ones, cycling. And, as one might expect, the bikes one sees are likely to have been cobbled together. I'm not talking about the kinds of bikes one can buy used from any number of bike shops or the ones available from Recycle-a-Bicycle and other places like it. Rather, I'm talking about bikes that look like the riders themselves spliced them together from bits and pieces that were tossed into the trash or found lying abandoned somewhere or another.
As often as not, the bikes and parts don't go together. I'm not talking only about aesthetics: Sometimes parts that aren't made to fit each other are jammed together and held together by little more than the rider's lack of knowledge about the issue.
It was usually poor men of a certain age who were riding the kinds of bikes I've described. Younger men might ride them, too, but they are more likely to be found on cheap mountain bikes, some of which came from department stores. A few are the lower-end or, more rarely, mid-range models of brands that are sold in bicycle shops. Those bikes were probably acquired in one degree or another of having been used; none of them looked as if they were purchased new.
But the most striking thing I noticed is this: I did not see a single female of any age on a bike in those neighborhoods. It make me think back to other times I've been in those parts of town and I realized --if my memory was serving me well--that I never saw a woman, or even a girl, on a bike.
I started to have those realizations after I stopped at an intersection a few blocks north of the stadium. A very thin black man was crossing the street. He approached me and, in a tone of consternation, said, "You're riding a bike?" For a split-second--until I realized why he was asking the question--I thought it was strange and ignored him. But he persisted: "You ride a lot?"
I nodded.
"Be safe. I don't want a nice lady like you to get hurt."
"I will. Thank you. Have a nice day."
I realized that I may well have been the first woman he, or many other people in that neighborhood, had seen on a bike.
How would his life be different if he saw more women on bikes? And, even more to the point, how might the lives of some of those women be different if they rode bikes? And, finally, I wondered, how might those neighborhoods be different?
This beauty is right across the street from the new Yankee Stadium:
I hadn't been in that part of town in a long time, so I don't know whether or how recently the building was renovated. I suspect that it was fixed up as the new stadium was built, but I also suspect that it hadn't deteriorated very much, as so much of the neighborhood around the old stadium (which was next to where the current stadium stands) had for so long.
If people couldn't tell that I hadn't spent much time in the neighborhood just by looking at me, they had to have known once I started taking photos. Then again, maybe some architecture lovers have trekked up that way.
Wouldn't you love to live in a building with this over the entrance?:
Or this by your window?
For a moment, I wondered whether someone might get upset with me for pointing my camera at his or her window. But building residents may be used to that sort of thing.
So, how did I end up there? Well, I just hopped on Tosca (my Mercian fixie) and pedalled across the Queensboro (a.k.a. 59th Street) Bridge. After descending the ramp on the Manhattan side, I found myself riding past Sloan Kettering, Rockefeller University and lots of dimpled blonde toddlers escorted by nannies or au pairs who are much darker than they are. As I rode further uptown, the kids got darker and didn't have au pairs or nannies. None of it was new to me, but something would be after I passed the building in the photos.
In Manhattan, almost everything above Columbia University is commonly referred to as "Harlem," and in the Bronx, almost everything below Fordham Road is called "The South Bronx". As it happened, I pedalled through the places that are, technically, Harlem and the South Bronx. But I also passed through a number of other neighborhoods that consist almost entirely of people of color, most of whom are poor, and whose neighborhoods are lumped in with Harlem and the South Bronx.
I ride in those places because there are some interesting sights and good cycling. But today I noticed something in those neighborhoods that, I now realize, makes them not only different neighborhoods, but different worlds, from Astoria, where I now live and Park Slope, where I lived before moving here--not to mention neighborhoods like the Upper East Side and Yorkville, which I also rode through today.
In neighborhoods like Harlem and the ones I saw in the Bronx, one generally doesn't see as many adults, especially young ones, cycling. And, as one might expect, the bikes one sees are likely to have been cobbled together. I'm not talking about the kinds of bikes one can buy used from any number of bike shops or the ones available from Recycle-a-Bicycle and other places like it. Rather, I'm talking about bikes that look like the riders themselves spliced them together from bits and pieces that were tossed into the trash or found lying abandoned somewhere or another.
As often as not, the bikes and parts don't go together. I'm not talking only about aesthetics: Sometimes parts that aren't made to fit each other are jammed together and held together by little more than the rider's lack of knowledge about the issue.
It was usually poor men of a certain age who were riding the kinds of bikes I've described. Younger men might ride them, too, but they are more likely to be found on cheap mountain bikes, some of which came from department stores. A few are the lower-end or, more rarely, mid-range models of brands that are sold in bicycle shops. Those bikes were probably acquired in one degree or another of having been used; none of them looked as if they were purchased new.
But the most striking thing I noticed is this: I did not see a single female of any age on a bike in those neighborhoods. It make me think back to other times I've been in those parts of town and I realized --if my memory was serving me well--that I never saw a woman, or even a girl, on a bike.
I started to have those realizations after I stopped at an intersection a few blocks north of the stadium. A very thin black man was crossing the street. He approached me and, in a tone of consternation, said, "You're riding a bike?" For a split-second--until I realized why he was asking the question--I thought it was strange and ignored him. But he persisted: "You ride a lot?"
I nodded.
"Be safe. I don't want a nice lady like you to get hurt."
"I will. Thank you. Have a nice day."
I realized that I may well have been the first woman he, or many other people in that neighborhood, had seen on a bike.
How would his life be different if he saw more women on bikes? And, even more to the point, how might the lives of some of those women be different if they rode bikes? And, finally, I wondered, how might those neighborhoods be different?
13 June 2010
Your Grandmother's Skort
I stopped wearing lycra a couple of years ago. For years, I wore skintight jerseys and shorts made from that fabric. So did the guys I rode with. However, none of us would have worn anything so thin and stretchy if we weren't on our bikes.
The truth is that I never really liked the way lycra felt on my skin. Yes, it is light and moves with you. But it can also feel clammy when you're sweating.
After getting to a certain age (and gaining weight), I just felt silly wearing it. It was like hanging a sign on myself that said, "I am an overaged wannabe." For me, cycling has always been, in some way, an expression of my individuality: When other people cramped themselves into gas-guzzling smog-belchers, I could stretch my legs and spread my wings. And I have always wanted to do so with style as well as dignity.
When I started to transition, I also was asserting my femaleness in any way that I could. Perhaps I engaged in some of that exaggerated femininity of which our detractors accuse us. But cycling to work in a skirt and heels wasn't just a matter of trying to be, or be perceived as, a girl on a bike: It was, it turns out, something I needed to do in order to integrate cycling with my new life and my identities as a woman and a cyclist.
It's certainly easier to ride for more than an hour or so--especially on a diamond frame--in pants, shorts or tights than it is in a skirt. Still, on a mild day, I enjoy the sensation of the breeze lapping around the hem of my skirt and rippling a strand of my scarf as I pedal. As I'm weaving through traffic and around potholes, I can still imagine myself pedalling to a marketplace in Provence or Tuscany.
But even the most restrictive clothing I've ever worn isn't as constraining as anything female cyclists were expected to wear a hundred years ago. It's amazing to think that the garment shown in this illustration was actually an improvement in comfort and freedom of movement over what women had been wearing:
The skirt was divided and each part could be buckled around the ankles. When the cyclist dismounted, she unbuckled them and was, by the standards of her time, attired like a proper lady.
It is one of those things I'd like to try just once.
The truth is that I never really liked the way lycra felt on my skin. Yes, it is light and moves with you. But it can also feel clammy when you're sweating.
After getting to a certain age (and gaining weight), I just felt silly wearing it. It was like hanging a sign on myself that said, "I am an overaged wannabe." For me, cycling has always been, in some way, an expression of my individuality: When other people cramped themselves into gas-guzzling smog-belchers, I could stretch my legs and spread my wings. And I have always wanted to do so with style as well as dignity.
When I started to transition, I also was asserting my femaleness in any way that I could. Perhaps I engaged in some of that exaggerated femininity of which our detractors accuse us. But cycling to work in a skirt and heels wasn't just a matter of trying to be, or be perceived as, a girl on a bike: It was, it turns out, something I needed to do in order to integrate cycling with my new life and my identities as a woman and a cyclist.
It's certainly easier to ride for more than an hour or so--especially on a diamond frame--in pants, shorts or tights than it is in a skirt. Still, on a mild day, I enjoy the sensation of the breeze lapping around the hem of my skirt and rippling a strand of my scarf as I pedal. As I'm weaving through traffic and around potholes, I can still imagine myself pedalling to a marketplace in Provence or Tuscany.
But even the most restrictive clothing I've ever worn isn't as constraining as anything female cyclists were expected to wear a hundred years ago. It's amazing to think that the garment shown in this illustration was actually an improvement in comfort and freedom of movement over what women had been wearing:
The skirt was divided and each part could be buckled around the ankles. When the cyclist dismounted, she unbuckled them and was, by the standards of her time, attired like a proper lady.
It is one of those things I'd like to try just once.
12 June 2010
Flaneurs, And A Project Or A Patient
Here is what I am greeted with at the end of my rides:
OK, so that's what they're made to do: taking it easy. Can't fault their fashion sense, either. The smug-looking guy on his side is Max; the one with the "You talkin' to me?" pose is Charlie.
Here are Arielle and Tosca resting for the night.
And here is my latest patient, I mean, project:
This is the Schwinn I bought from that charming young couple last week. As I do whenever I buy a used bike, I'm taking everything apart. I opened up the headset, which, I believe, has never been cleaned. What I didn't realize is that it has loose bearings rather than ring-shaped retainers with bearings. So the bearings scattered to the four corners of the floor. (How is it that you can completely lose something inside a 12X 12 room?) I'll find them some day. But the ones I have look like Ignaz Schwinn installed them himself.
The only problem is that I don't have any 5/32" bearings in the house. My other bikes have sealed cartridge bearings, so I haven't used loose ball bearings in a while. And the shop in which I stopped during my ride didn't have them, either.
Like the truth in The X Files, they're out there. I just have to find the right shop. I'm sure Bicycle Habitat has them. If I don't find them elsewhere, I'll go to Habitat next time I'm in Soho--which should be soon.
Speaking of which...They got word that my Miss Mercian frame has been built. Now it has to be painted. That actually is a fairly long process. But, hopefully, I'll have it by the end of next month.
OK, so that's what they're made to do: taking it easy. Can't fault their fashion sense, either. The smug-looking guy on his side is Max; the one with the "You talkin' to me?" pose is Charlie.
Here are Arielle and Tosca resting for the night.
And here is my latest patient, I mean, project:
This is the Schwinn I bought from that charming young couple last week. As I do whenever I buy a used bike, I'm taking everything apart. I opened up the headset, which, I believe, has never been cleaned. What I didn't realize is that it has loose bearings rather than ring-shaped retainers with bearings. So the bearings scattered to the four corners of the floor. (How is it that you can completely lose something inside a 12X 12 room?) I'll find them some day. But the ones I have look like Ignaz Schwinn installed them himself.
The only problem is that I don't have any 5/32" bearings in the house. My other bikes have sealed cartridge bearings, so I haven't used loose ball bearings in a while. And the shop in which I stopped during my ride didn't have them, either.
Like the truth in The X Files, they're out there. I just have to find the right shop. I'm sure Bicycle Habitat has them. If I don't find them elsewhere, I'll go to Habitat next time I'm in Soho--which should be soon.
Speaking of which...They got word that my Miss Mercian frame has been built. Now it has to be painted. That actually is a fairly long process. But, hopefully, I'll have it by the end of next month.
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.
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:
II 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.
10 June 2010
Dreaming of A Bridge To The Next Journey
It's a little odd to write in a cycling blog when you haven't ridden in a couple of days. We've had some rain, and I feel like I have a chest cold. I think it may have developed when I fell asleep the other night in front of my open window with neither a blanket nor very much clothing on me. And the temperature dropped steeply.
Anyway, the parts I ordered from Velo Orange came today: handlebars, brake levers, fenders and a bell. They're all going on the Schwinn I bought over the weekend. I guess it's appropriate that I ordered Velo Orange parts to go on the orange bike. But I also have Velo Orange stuff on my Mercians, and my Miss Mercian will also have some of their parts and accessories. Sometimes I think a velo orange is a state of mind--even if the bike is "flip-flop purple/green," a.k.a. Number 57 on Mercian's colour chart.
Now that I haven't ridden in a couple of days, I've found myself thinking about someplace where I'd like to ride again, but can't. Actually, one can ride there only once a year: during the Five Boro Bike Tour. I've done that ride a number of times, including a few of the early editions. Those were the best because it wasn't quite as big as it is now. Although I'm happy to see more people cycling, I get wistful sometimes about the days when we were the fringe.
But I digress. There's one part of the ride that can be done only on the day of the ride, for it is off-limits to bicycles at any other time. Here it is:
I took this photo from the deck of the Staten Island Ferry, on my way home from my ride in Jersey. Even though I have seen this image--or some reflection of it--thousands of times, I still get woozy with deja vu, as Kurt Vonnegut said in Breakfast of Champions.
I saw an image very much like the one you see here from the window of my room on Dahill Road in Brooklyn when I was a child. It was like a neon sign in a window of my dreams. And, of course, when I woke from the dream, I saw the bridge and wanted to cross it, wherever it went.
The bridge in the photo is the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. There is a promenade that winds under it as curls around the rocks and flotsam on the Brooklyn shore, from Coney Island to near the old Brooklyn Army Terminal. If you're ever down that way, take the ride: The bridge, the rocky shores and the wide expanse of the bay could make you think, if only for a moment, that you're in San Francisco.
Even though I know exactly where the bridge goes, it still is the symbol for every crossing, if you will, I encounter.
And I think of it when I get on a bike, wherever I am and wherever I'm going--especially if I still haven't decided on my destination when I start to pedal.
09 June 2010
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."
07 June 2010
"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.
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