Six Years With Max

Six years ago today, I took Max into my home.

A few months earlier, my friend Millie rescued him from a street that divides a shop in which metal is cut, bent and welded from another in which auto bodies are painted, sometimes in bizarre schemes.  Just down the block from it is a commercial bakery that supplies restaurants in Manhattan as well as in Queens:  the place from which Marley was rescued.

Millie kept Max in her house for a time.  But she already had other cats, and a guy who briefly moved into the neighborhood took him in.  He disappeared, as he was wont to do, for two weeks.  A neighbor heard Max’s cries.  Fortunately, the guy returned a day later, and Millie took Max from him.

I offered to take Max home—when I was ready.  You see, during that time, Candice, who had been in my life for twelve years, died.

I jokingly referred to her as my “ballerina”:  She was pretty and thin even though I fed her what I fed Charlie.  And she always seemed to be walking en pointe.


In some ways, Marley reminds me of her. She liked to jump into my lap, cuddle and curl, as he does.  Also,  she was a bit skittish, though very gentle, as Marley is. While Max always seems ready to greet anyone I bring into my apartment, Marley is more cautious:  It takes him some time to work up the nerve (or whatever cats have) to meet my guests.  However, once he “comes out”, he rubs himself against my guest and licks his or her hand.  Candice was like that, too.

She died  a little more than a year after my first Charlie.  They were about the same age (15 years), though Candice spent a little less time in my life because I adopted her when she was three years old, while Charlie came home with me only a few weeks after he was born.   But both he and Candice shared some important times in my life, including the early and middle parts of my transition.  And I owned about a dozen bikes (though not all at the same time) and rode about a dozen more during that time!

Then Max came along.  I’ve gone through some more changes (and bikes) and he has just loved, and loved some more.  He doesn’t have to do anything else.

The End Of A Day At The Beginning Of A Season

During my ride home, I stopped at the Long Island City piers just in time for this:

And, in one sign that Spring is finally springing on us, I saw a willow just beginning to open itself to the sun that's finally warming it:

A Thread Or A Loaf Of Bread?

It seems that every time I take Arielle out for a ride, I see other pretty bikes.

Today's trek was no exception.  On my way to Point Lookout, I wasn't even a mile from my apartment when I saw this gem locked to a signpost:

At first glance, it might seem like just another bike-boom era French mixte bike.  But, as I passed it, the white pinstriping on the lovely blue fork caught my eye.  When I turned did an about-face to get a look at it, I noticed some nicer detailing than one usually finds on such a bike:

If those aren't Nervex lugs--which they probably aren't, given that the frame is built of regular carbon-steel tubing rather than, say, Reynolds 531 or Vitus 888--they are a reasonable facsimile.  More to the point, some care seems to have been taken in joining and finishing them.

Also, you might be able to see the brazed-on pump peg and shift levers.  The components were typical of bikes from that era:  steel cottered crank, Huret Luxe derailleurs, Normandy hubs and RIgida steel rims.  Everything, it seemed, was original equipment except for the tires and the brakes.  The latter component had a label that read "centerpull," but no brand name.  Bikes like these usually came with Mafac or Weinmann centerpulls; I am guessing that this bike came with the former, as the bars sported Mafac levers.

The steel "rat trap" pedals are also, I suspect, original equipment.  They are a variation I've seen only on a few bikes:

It looks like a cross between a cage and a platform. I've never tried such a pedal, but I suspect it would be more comfortable with soft-soled shoes than the steel cages on pedals found on similar bikes.

Even with such lovely details, I couldn't help but to chuckle at the bike's brand name:

If you've ever been in a boulangerie, you know that a ficelle is a long, skinny loaf of bread. (Not all French breads are baguettes!)  Actually, "ficelle" means "thread" or "string"; it's the diminutive of "fiche", or strand.

I've seen only a few of these bikes, even in France:  They seem to have been a small regional manufacturer.  I can't find any recent information about them, so I don't know whether or not they're still in business.  Perhaps they were taken over by a batard like Peugeot.