Nailing Down The Perception

Sometimes I wonder whether my life would have been free of irony had I not undergone the changes I've experienced.  But then I realize that if you've lived any kind of a life at all, a certain amount of irony comes simply with aging.

However, today I felt that I experienced a particular aspect of karma, or whatever you want to call it, that would not have been possible in any life but mine.  Or so it seemed.

To wit:  Today, before riding into work, I rode (admittedly, only two and a half blocks) to Hannah and Her Sisters. That's where I get my nails done.  


If you can't stand to look at the hands of a middle aged woman, then skip over the following photo.  In fact, you might want to skip over the rest of this post.

So I got to ride to work in freshly-painted nails. And Hannah herself recorded the occasion:

The irony in this is that I stopped reading Bicycling! magazine thirty years ago because a model on the cover of one issue had much longer and more heavily lacquered nails and a ring with a much larger stone than I had ever seen on any cyclist.  I decided that nobody could possibly ride with such nails or a ring.  And I couched my indignation--over the fact that the model on that cover wasn't me--in some pseudo-feminist rant about how the magazine was reinforcing gender stereotypes.


The fact is that I was ready to stop reading Bicycling! because most of its content was, by that time, "old hat" for me.  Plus, I saw that it was turning into more of a lifestyle magazine than a publication about cycling.  Most likely, it had already reached that point and I had just noticed.


I looked for the cover of that issue of Bicycling!, to no avail.  Now I wonder whether anyone was as appalled as I pretended to be over a woman cycling with long painted nails.

Getting It All Back

Today I saw something I haven't seen since before Christmas:

Yes, this is the same bike rack that just two weeks ago looked like this:

I didn't see the Pinarello or my colleague's bike (or said colleague, for that matter).  However, I saw something that I wouldn't have noticed had I not parked next to it:

It's a 1970's Campagnolo Nuovo Record crankset, set up with a single chainring.  It was arguably the nicest crankset in its day.  What struck me, though, is that it was on a bike with this: 

Yes, it's a basket attached with two improvised clamps and a toe strap.  The basket looked like one of the nice  ones that might be used on a Porteur-type rack.  


Underneath that stem is a Chris King headset.

But the bike on which I saw that basket, King headset and the Campy crankset was utterly nondescript:  A hipster-fixie frame with welded joints and black paint flaked and pockmarked like an old smokestack.  


There are all sorts of possible stories as to how great parts end up on not-so-great bikes.  Whoever put it together might've simply using what was at hand. Or, the rider might be one of those mashers who actually bends and breaks cranksets.   Or he or she may have just liked the look of those parts.  I guess they stand out all the more on such an unremarkable bike.


Anyway, the wind was starting to bring in the night's chill and the evening colors as I left the campus:

And I cut through Kissena Park for this:

I'm starting to get it all back now.

Left In Their Tracks

Some time during my school years, I went with one of my science classes on a field trip to the hills of northwestern New Jersey.  There, we went to a quarry and looked at the rock formations that seemed to rise and fall with the colors of the sky and water.


Somewhere along the way, someone noticed what turned out to be a dinosaur footprint. At least, that's what our guide told us.  I have never had any reason not to believe him.  Still, I wonder how a print could be preserved for millions of years while the tracks we make with our tires are washed away with the next rain, or are blown away when the ground in which they were formed turns to dust.


I was thinking about that yesterday after I saw this:

I made those tracks.  All right, I take that back.  Even when I was most serious about off-road riding, I don't think I rode anything more than 1.95 inches wide.  


But I wonder now what some future researcher would think about us from the tracks we leave behind.  Would they be able to tell a tourist from a randonneur, a criterium bike from a regular road racer or a track bike from a hipster fixie?  Would they know whether I was riding Michelin, Continental or Panaracer tires?


I'm not being frivolous now.  As a writer and educator, I have to think about my effect on future generations.  What will I leave behind with my tracks?