Hasidim and Hipster Fixies

Today I took one of those "no destination" rides.  Helene and I just sort of wandered from one place to another, doing about 30 or 35 miles in total without getting more than a few miles from my apartment.  Such is an enjoyable way--for me, anyway--to spend a warm, humid afternoon after waking up late.  


Along the way, I stopped in an Old Navy store. (They didn't stop me from bringing my bike in.)  I was looking for at least one nautical-stripe T-shirt.  For the longest time, I wore one that I bought in France. You've probably seen them:  the kind worn by Breton fishermen and Marseille dock workers and, for a long time, by sailors in the French Navy.  They are white, with horizontal navy stripes.  For a long time, it was the only white article of clothing I owned.  


I also used to have a wool sweater that was the inverse of the T-shirt:  navy with cream stripes.  It was one of those sweaters with buttons on the left shoulder.  I actually wore it on many a cold-weather ride, as the wool was of a very nice grade and tightly woven, and the sweater was of just the right weight and thickness for a variety of conditions.


There are imitations of them available in this country.  For all I know, they're not even being made in France anymore.  In any event, as I expected, Old Navy didn't have the originals.  But they didn't have any imitations, either.  On the other hand, I found interesting tank top with a tied back in a kind of "fade" from blue to green to purple.  And the green and purple just happen to be the shades, more or less, of Helene as well as Arielle and Tosca, my other Mercians.  So of course I couldn't pass it up.  One of these days, I'll post a picture in which I wear it--and, of course, I'm riding one of my Mercians.


I also rode to someplace I haven't been in quite a while.  It's one of the neighborhoods in which I spent my childhood:  Borough Park, in Brooklyn.  This is the church in which I was an altar server:

And, diagonally across the street is the school I attended. Here is a section of it:

They are the Holy Spirit parish and school.  Between them, I saw this:

Even if I hadn't seen that, I would have been surprised that the school, and even the church, were still open.  Even though the temperature rose to just above 90F, all of the females I saw on the streets were wearing thick hosiery (some with seams running down the rear) and long skirts, while all of the males were wearing even longer coats.  If they noticed me, I can only imagine what they might have been thinking.  For one thing, I was alone and riding a better bicycle than most of them even know exists. Plus, I was the only one riding a bike who was more than about ten years old.   And I was wearing a short (by their standards, anyway) denim skirt and a tank top.


I know, from an earlier experience, that the Hasidim don't like to be photographed. Of course, I respect that.  But at the same time, I wasn't about to ask any of them to take a photo of me with my bike!


You've seen Hasidim if you've been Williamsburg, another Brooklyn neighborhood. (In fact, shuttle buses run between the two neighborhoods.)  What's ironic is that they're in the hipster-fixie capitol of the universe. That makes for some very interesting visual contrasts.  One is between the black of the males' coats and hats and the females' skirts, and the day-glo or neon colors of the bikes rolling down the Kent Avenue bike lane or parked in front of the book and music stores, "retro" boutiques and self-consciously funky coffee shops and restaurants of Bedford Avenue.  The other contrast, of course, is between the presence of hipsters and their fixed-gear bikes in Williamsburg and the absence of same in Borough Park.


If I could have found a way to photograph what I've just described while respecting the wishes of the Hasidim, I would have done so.  All I can do is hope that I've described it enough for you to visualize, at least somewhat.

A Looker On Lookout At The Beach

In another two months or so, a day like today will be considered perfect, or nearly so.  As it was, it was very nice:  about ten degrees F warmer than normal for this time of year, and almost preternaturally bright and sunny.  I used a lot of sunscreen today!


And there was a slight breeze.  It was just enough to billow the tank top I was wearing.  I swear, that's what the "bulge" in my midsection. 

All right, I admit:  I'm not skinny.  At least not now.  But I can also assure you that I'm not pregnant and have been riding.

Arielle felt like a veritable rocket underneath me today.  And I had the wind at my back from about twenty miles to about five miles from home.   So she certainly deserves to have a couple of "beach babe" photos here.

The Gates To The Concrete Plant Park

My ride today was positively perilous.  I had to wade through raging streams.  Worse, I had to fight off the dreaded Randall's Island Salamander.

Here, it (Now that I'm at a safe distance, I don't have to worry about riling it up, so I can refer to it as "it" and avoid all sexism!) is, underneath the Bronx spur of the Robert F Kennedy Memorial (nee Triboro) Bridge.  I guess now that Randall's Island's been getting fixed up, the Salamander can't afford to live there anymore.  The Bronx is still relatively affordable.

And I blame the Parks Department for everything.  They're rehabbing the island, and their work forced me to detour. 

I've taken a couple of photos underneath that trestle.  You've passed over it if you've ever taken Amtrak or Acela (Amtrak Customers Expect Late Arrivals) trains between New York and Boston.  It's called the Hell Gate Bridge.  I guess I should be grateful to the Parks Department for thinking of the well-being of my soul, and those of other cyclists, and preventing us from passing under the Gates of Hell.

Actually, the cost of travel might prevent me from seeing that Gate of Hell this year.  But the Gate under which I couldn't pass is, while not quite as breathtaking as Rodin's Porte de l'Enfer, actually lovely:

At least, I like it.  I also like something else I saw while riding through the Bronx on my way back from Westchester County:

Have you ever, in your wildest dreams or worst nightmares, ever imagined you would ride to a place called Concrete Plant Park? 

This plant operated from some time during World War II until the late 1980's.  It drew its water and power from the Bronx River, which parallels the path you see.  The path is not yet complete, though it is open.  

Those of you who live in New England might see something familiar in that park.  On the other side of the Bronx River are other plants and warehouses, some of which are still operating.  Their red bricks have absorbed decades, or even a century or more, of soot and rain and wind.  They, the the red-rust structures like those of the cement plant, and the river itself are bound by a number of bridges and other spans made from various combinations of steel and concrete.  I imagine it all would be even more attractive in October or November.

Quite a few people, including a number of families, were there today.  A couple of kids climbed the chicken-wire fence surrounding the old plant fixtures; you might have been able to see one of them in my photo. 

Speaking of boys at play, here's one, albeit a good bit older, flying his kite by Throgs Neck, where the East River meets the Long Island Sound:

Why American Bike Designers Should Spend A Year In The Netherlands

The other day, for a change, my bike wasn't the only one parked at my main job.


Two of them were the kinds of bikes you buy in Costco.  The other was a current Schwinn hybrid.  Seeing it made me happy that I essentially turned Marianela into a hybrid-cum-city bike when I could've bought a new bike.


Aside from the workmanship, which is better even on the fairly low-end LeTour that became Marianela, there were a number of other things that reminded me that change isn't always progress, and progress isn't always for the better.  

Now what, pray tell, is a low spoke-count wheel in an impractical pattern doing on a hybrid bike?  The people who buy those bikes aren't racer wannabes, so there's really no "cool" factor in having such a wheel. 


(I admit I've fallen for a fad or two in my time.  But I never went for anything like these wheels.) 


Bike-industry types--and cyclists who don't recall a world without clipless pedals, STI or Ergo--often say that today's rims, especially ones with a "Deep V" section, are stiffer (and so, they believe, stronger), than older rims and therefore require fewer spokes.


I'm not an engineer, so please forgive (and correct) me if I misuse any terminology.  I'm going to explain my reasons for disliking lower spoke-count wheels in terms of more than three decades of cycling and about seven years of working in bike shops.


A strong or stiff rim will give a wheel lateral strength or stiffness.  So, yes, it will need less to support it in order to carry a given amount of weight.  However, this is not the only factor in the reliability of a wheel.


For one thing, fewer spokes means less bracing for the hub and rim.  This is particularly important to consider if you're riding a fixed gear, especially if you are riding with fewer than two brakes, as the hub flange and spokes are torqued more than on a bike with a freewheel.


That means, among other things, that it is easier to break a spoke because each spoke has to take more weight, tension and shock than it would if it were sharing those stresses with a greater number of spokes.  


It also means that there is more space on the rim between each spoke.  Even with a very strong or stiff rim, that means the rim is more likely to flex between spokes.  I especially noticed what I'm describing when I borrowed a pair of tri-spoke wheels like the ones pictured in the above link.  And, when I rode those wheels, I was younger and a good bit lighter than I am now!


Finally, the more spokes you have on your wheel, the more likely you (or your mechanic) will be able to repair them, if need be.  If you have 36 spokes and one of them breaks, for whatever reason, it will not cause as much of a problem as it would if that spoke were one of 24 or 18 or 3.  Actually, the spokes of tri-spoke wheels can't be repaired at all.  And, yes, they did fail on occasion.  What's more, the fewer spokes your wheel has, the more likely those spokes are to be of some proprietary design or another.  So are the other parts of the wheel.


All of my rear wheels have 36 spokes.  I've been advised that I could ride fewer spokes and, indeed, I have.  But for the extra twenty grams or whatever those additional spokes weigh, I like the more solid, secure feel they offer.  

When I first started cycling, nearly all bikes had 36 spoke wheels.  Some bikes had 36 in the rear and 32 on the front; Arielle, Tosca and Helene, my three Mercians, all have wheels so configured.  Many English three-speeds had Sturmey-Archer rear hubs with 40 spokes and front hubs with 32; others had 36 and 28.   


The cynic in me says that manufacturers started to equip mid- and lower-priced bikes with low spoke-count wheels because they're less expensive to make.  More than one "in the know" person has confirmed my belief.  


I guess I should be thankful for small things.  After all, the rims on that Schwinn weren't in some "hipster fixie" neon hue!

Basket Case

Nearly two weeks ago, "Velouria" of Lovely Bicycle! wrote about parking her Gazelle commuter bike outdoors.


Well, I've been keeping Marianela (a 1979 Schwinn LeTour III turned into a "fixie" with a fixed/free "flip-flop" rear hub) outside for about a month, after keeping it indoors during one of the snowiest winters this area has ever had.  While Marianela is probably not as heavy as "Velouria"'s Dutch bike, and therefore not as difficult to maneuver in and out of my apartment, it's still more convenient to have the bike waiting outside for me, especially if I'm taking it on a short errand.


I've kept bikes outdoors before.  But, today, I was reminded of one of the consequences of doing so:

Now, I've had all sorts of things left in my front basket or on my rear rack:  beverage bottles, fast-food bags and containers, condom wrappers and things even less mentionable.  But nothing so far has been quite as interesting as this Lincoln hubcap.


One man who chanced by as I unlocked the bike stopped and looked.  We both had a good laugh.  I mean, what else could we do?  


I left the cap on a nearby fire hydrant.  When I returned tonight, it was gone.