Downhill With Animals

Auburndale, in Queens, is one of those neighborhoods you've never heard of unless you've lived in it.  It's also the sort of neighborhood people don't normally associate with New York City:  Along its quiet, leafy streets, late-model sedans are parked in front of detached houses not unlike those found in suburban Long Island.

One thing that makes it even more unusual for a New York City neighborhood is that people actually let their cats roam free in their yards.  As sometimes happens, one scampered across my path.  However, this time I very nearly had black and white fur entangled in my spokes.  I don't recall the last time a cat came so close to my wheel.


It got me to thinking about other "near misses" involving animals I've had on my bike. 

Two of the scariest such incidents, as you might imagine, happened along mountain roads.  In the first, Jonathan, with whom I took a lot of rides during my college years, and I had just crossed back into New Jersey, near Flemington, from Pennsylvania.  


According to the US Geological Survey, there are no mountains in New Jersey:  High Point, near the point where New Jersey, Pennsylvania and New York State meet, misses that designation by something like ten feet.  Even so, in that part of New Jersey, there are some steep climbs--and descents.  The reason for that, as I understand, is that many of the roads in those hills were built during the American Revolution and were simply paved over in macadam and, later, asphalt.  Because roadbuilding techniques weren't as advanced, and because roadbuilders didn't have dynamite or modern machinery, in those days, they usually followed the path of least resistance when building roads.


Jonathan and I weren't feeling much resistance as we barreled down those old roads.  As we were about to begin one descent, we saw a "Deer Crossing" sign.  One of us--I forget which--said something like, "Wouldn't that be some shit if a deer crossed in front of us?"


Well, you can guess what happened.  Worse, that deer crossed near the bottom of the hill--after we, of course, had built up speed.  We must have been riding 50 MPH (80 KPH), or close to it:  That was the speed limit and we passed two cars that were at, or possibly above, the limit.


That deer bolted a hair or two in front of the tip of my nose, or so it seemed.  Those of you who are physicists can calculate the damage that would have ensued had a cyclist travelling at 50 MPH crashed into an animal that weighed a few hundred pounds more than my bike and I weighed.  You don't have to be a physicist to know which party would incur the damage.


The next time I had such a close encounter on a downhill, it was a bit more exotic, and dangerous, to say the least.  Earlier that day, I'd crossed the border from France, just southeast of Pontarlier, into Switzerland.  It seemed that for the previous couple of days, I'd been pedaling up and down inclines, so I wasn't surprised when I did both immediately after crossing the border.  And, because my bike was laden with full panniers and a handlebar bag--and I was a mile or so above sea level-- you can imagine how fast my wheels were spinning.


Well, about two-thirds of the way down, I flatted--on the front tire, naturally.  Imagine your bike going "thump, thump, thump" at what seems to be twice the speed of sound. All you can really do is to continue riding in a straight line, as any sudden stop or sideways movement will send you into a nasty tumble!


And, as I'm trying to keep my bike in a straight line and my shoulders from flying apart with the vibration, what should cross my path but one of the world's rarest species:  an Alpine Ibex.  At least, I'm very sure that's what it was. That night, I described it to the hostel-keeper, who said it most likely was.  Still, she was as surprised as I was:  An ibex, from what she said, very rarely goes near a roadway because he or she usually sticks to the steepest rocks, which is where they find the herbs on which they subsist.


Somehow, I always imagined that Ibex going back to his Ibex  buddies that night and having a good laugh:  "Those silly humans think they're such good climbers."  On the other hand, I don't think deer have such a sense of humor.  In any event, I didn't hit either one--or the cat that crossed my path today.

Say Hello To Marley

Did a little bit more riding than I did the other day, without pain.  I think I'll be ready to resume regular riding soon.


Yesterday, though, I didn't ride.  I was welcoming the newest "addition" to my family.

Stephanie, who rescued Marley, brought him to my place yesterday.  So, naturally, I spent the day home so I could welcome him and ease the "transition."  Actually, Max is taking it pretty well.

Right now, my new family member seems to have two speeds:  sleep and "charge!"  As soon as we released him from his carrier, Max tried to play with him.  And, all through the day, Max tried to make friends with him.  It's been a bit more than a month since Charlie died, and Max seems to have been starved for feline attention ever since.


As my new friend is a "rescue" kitten, I can understand the nervousness and skittishness he felt yesterday.  I can also understand his need for sleep.

When Stephanie kept him in her apartment, she called him "Charlie."  Not only is that the name of my recently departed; it is also the name of a cat--also gray and white!--I had before him. So, I think I'm going to rename him.  For now, I'm calling him Marley.  I've read and seen "Marley and Me," but more important, I have recordings of just about everything Bob ever did.  My new friend doesn't particularly remind me of him, but I figure neither of us can go wrong with that name. Plus, I like the sound of it.


Speaking of sound:  I thought I heard a mouse squeak.  Turns out, it was Marley crying.  I've raised only one other cat from kittenhood--my first Charlie--and remember him crying that way, too.  What do they say? Big boys cry because they are always, at heart, little boys.

I don't know whether I'll ever try to carry Marley in a basket.  I never tried that with Max or my second Charlie  because they were big when I adopted them.  However, I took my first Charlie on a couple of rides when he was still small.  When he got bigger, he wasn't too keen on riding in a basket.  But, his being home was one more thing for me to look forward to at the end of every ride!  That's how I see Max's presence now, and how I will most likely see Marley's.

In The Saddle Again, With Or Without Yogurt

Oddly, I think that might have been the reason why I didn't feel any pain in my knee.  Riding fixed forces you to spin at a more or less even pace; sudden power surges are difficult and even dangerous, especially in traffic.  Now, my ride was flat, but still, I felt good about it.

Perhaps even odder, the pain I felt was around my lower back.  I'd been doing some excercises the physical therapist recommended for loosening up the muscles in my leg and hip.   Then again, those exercises had been about the extent of my physical activity until today's ride.  So, perhaps, my body still has to re-adjust to normal activity.

Well, I'm glad I got out, anyway:  It was a mild day for this time of year.  So my ride was pleasant, even under a threat of rain that didn't materialize until I got home.

However, there was one disappointment.  Along the way, I hoped to pick up some fresh Greek-style yogurt from Kesso Foods, which makes the stuff.  Alas, they were closed by the time I got there.  I knew they closed earlier on Saturday, but I didn't know how much earlier.  Oh, well.

 Fage yogurt is nice, but Kesso's stuff is like creme fraiche by comparison.  Even people who dislike yogurt will eat Kesso's:  I think yogurt-haters dislike the slimy texture of other kinds of yogurts sold in stores.  Kesso's sells the stuff plain, or with various toppings.  (My favorite is their sour cherry with almond slivers or crushed walnuts.)  They also sell various Greek and other Mediterranean foods that you won't find in your local Pathmark or Safeway.

All right..enough about culture for now.  I did, as a celebration, treat myself to one of my favorite takeouts:  The King of Falafel and Shawarma.  Life is good, again.

P.S.  I'll soon have more posts about the bikes of  my past!

Today I took my first ride since going down last Thursday.  It was a short ride--only about seven miles.  But I did it on Tosca, my fixed-gear bike.  

Before Martina, There Was Nancy

Every once in a while, an athlete comes along who completely dominates his or her sport, at least during his or her career.  I'd say that in my lifetime, there were four such athletes:  Eddy Mercx, Martina Navratilova, Wayne Gretzky and Michael Jordan. 


(With all due respect to Lance, I think Eddy was the most dominant cyclist because he won every type of race that existed while he was competing.  Like Mercx, Bernard Hinault and Miguel Indurain also won the Tour de France and a variety of other races.  However, they never seemed to have the same aura of invincibility Mercx had in his prime.)


Of the four, perhaps Navratilova's timing was the most fortuitous.  She came along during the 1970's, when women's sports first started to achieve anything like a wide audience, and was at her peak during the early and mid 1980's.  


Recently, I learned of another great athlete who may have been on the other side of the mirror from Navratilova.

Nancy Burghart accepting the trophy for her 1964 National Championship from USI President Otto Eisele Jr.

Nancy Burghart (now Nancy Burghart-Haviland) won eight US National Championships during the 1960's.  She was one of the most versatile riders of her time, as she also won pursuit and sprint championships.  Nearly any time she mounted a bicycle, people expected her to win, much as they did when Navratilova entered a tennis court.


Some would say that Burghart had the misfortune of racing at a time when relatively little attention was paid to cycling, and to women's sports, in the US.  However, she garnered great respect from both the men and women in her sport, and even got some overseas press, which was no small feat in the conditions I've described, and in the absence of the Internet and 24-hour news cycles. 


During Burghart's career, the traditional cycling powers of Europe and Japan did not take American racing very seriously.  However, one could argue that, even then, American female cyclists were among the world's best.  In countries like France, Italy and Japan, bicycle racing, and the media that covered it, were focused almost entirely on male racers.  This could only have stunted the development in women's racing in those countries.  On the other hand, bicycle racing in the US during the three decades after World War II was entirely an amateur affair.   Some have argued that this is a reason why male and female racers were on more or less equal footing, and may have been what allowed women's cycling to gain more prominence in the years before Greg LeMond won the Tour de France.


In my research, I found another interesting detail about Ms. Burghart:  She was born and raised in the Jackson Heights section of Queens, barely a couple hundred pedal spins from the Kissena track--or my apartment.  That track, of course, is where any number of American racers have trained as well as raced.  And it's also where the trials were held for the 1964 Olympic team.


In 1957, when she was 12 years old, she won the Girls' Midget title.  Her twin sister Melissa also competed in the race, and others Nancy rode and won.  It would have taken plenty of determination for an American boy to pursue a bicycle-racing dream at that time:  Imagine what it must have taken for two girls!


From what I've gathered, Burghart-Haviland now lives in Maine.  Given her role in cycling, and American sports generally, I am surprised she isn't better-known.

Times Square For Two

Today I went to my physical therapist.  It was strange, in a way:  I had gone to him in the summer and early fall of 2007 for another, non-bike related, injury.  But, it seems, a whole lifetime has passed for me since then!


Anyway, he did a few tests, had me do some stretching exercises (My pelvis has become rigid during my inactivity), iced my knee and gave me a printout of the exercises I should do at home.  


I could actually feel my knee getting better--or at least giving me less pain--through the course of the session.  I've scheduled another session for last week, and he believes I may not need another after that.


His practice is literally around the corner from Grand Central Station.  So, after the session, I went for a walk through the area:  by the Chrysler Building and New York Public Library (two of my favorite buildings in this city) and into Times Square, the theatre district and Restaurant Row. Along the latter, I saw this curiosity locked to a parking meter.

It reminded me of the difference between a tandem and a two-seater.  People often use the terms interchangeably.  But this bike shows me that they're two different animals, so to speak.  To me, the bike I saw today is a two-seater.  It's not a bike built for two, which is more or less how I would define a tandem.  Also, the rear rider is a passenger, not a "stoker," or someone who pedals along with the "captain," or rider in front.


That said, I don't mean to denigrate the bike.  It's a rather nice Marin mountain bike from, I'm guessing, some time in the early '90's.  I feel confident that my guess is educated, for I had a Marin mountain bike around that time.

Anyway, the way rear setup is interesting:  A threadless stem is clamped around the seatpost, and there is a "platform"  on top of the Blackburn-style rack in the rear, as well as "guards" along its sides.  I suspect that the usual passenger is a small child.


Interesting as it is, I'm not sure I'd want to ride the rear or have anyone else ride it if I were pedaling.