Miyata 912

Today I saw one of my bikes parked on the street.  Well, sort of.

As I was on my bike, and in a hurry, I didn’t get a chance to take a photo.  However, I did find an old photo of a bike just like it. 

I rode this Miyata 912 for a couple of years.  At the time, it was Miyata’s second- or third-line racing bike.  It came with Shimano 600 components, or as a frame—which is how I got mine.

As you can see from the photo, I set it up as a sort of daytripping/light touring bike, with wide-range gearing, a rack and wider tires than would normally be ridden on such a bike.

The lugged frame was constructed from chrome-moly steel tubing which Miyata claimed was “triple butted”.  I wasn’t quite sure of what that meant.  All I knew that the bike gave a pretty stiff and stable ride.   I took it on a few overnight and weekend trips, with a light load in the rear and a handlebar bag on the front.  The bike handled smoothly, but I’m not sure I would have wanted to load it for a long tour, or with camping equipment.

I knew a few racers and other cyclists who rode the Miyata “Team Pro,” which was the company’s top-of-the-line racing bike.  At least two claimed it was the stiffest and quickest road bike they ever mounted.  Mind you, they were riding Italian bikes before they got hold of their Team Pros.

While the 912 was not quite in the same class, more than a few were raced.  I had the feeling that the differences between it and the Team Pro had more to do with geometry than materials or workmanship: The Team Pro didn’t even pretend to versatility, while the 912 had slightly longer clearances that probably could have taken fenders (albeit narrow ones) if I’d wanted them. 

The 912, as you can see, was also very striking, visually—especially, if I do say so myself, with the yellow cable housings I installed on it.

For me, there was just one problem:  The top tube was a bit long for me.  As a result, I rode it with a stem that had a rather short extension, which blunted some of its handling qualities, at least somewhat.

I finally sold the 912 to someone whose torso was longer than mine.  He was grateful.

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.

Getting Badged

Now I'm going to repeat a shocking confession I made in one of my earliest posts on this blog:  I was a Scout.

Actually, they're called "Scouts" today.  But back when I was in uniform, they were "Boy Scouts".  So, you might ask, if I was dealing with a gender-identity conflict, why did I join the Boy Scouts--especially when neither of my parents, nor any other adult in my life, nudged me into it?

You might have guessed at least part of the answer:  I was trying to fit in.  But I also got to spend time away from home and school on camping trips and such.

I mention my Scouting because, believe it or not, the Boy Scouts had a merit badge for bicycling.  (They still have it.) I was the first in my troop to earn the badge; if that troop still exists, I'm guessing that others have earned it.

For most merit badges, the scoutmaster or some other adult approved by him was supposed to supervise whatever work you did for the badge.  At that time, there still weren't very many adult cyclists--at least not in the part of New Jersey to which my family had moved me.  So, my scoutmaster, Mr. Kroner (who was also a county judge) basically took my word that I did the rides of fifteen, twenty-five and fifty miles.  Being the good Scout that I was, I kept my Scout's honor and did those rides.

As I remember, I had to show that I could fix a flat tire and do a couple of other basic repairs.  I demonstrated those to Judge Kroner.  He quizzed me on the rules of the road and hand signals, and He signed off on the badge.

Actually,  Cycling wasn't the only merit badge I earned for doing things I would have done anyway. As I recall, there was a merit badge for Scholarship, which required, as I remember, a "B" average and to do some sort of research project or paper.   There was also one for Reading:  I think I had to read twelve books and write brief reports or summaries. Mrs. McKenna, my English teacher, signed off on both of those merit badges.

Perhaps the strangest merit badge I earned was for Fingerprinting.  At that time, a show called "The FBI", starring Efram Zimbalist Jr. as Agent Erskine, aired every Sunday night. My father never missed an episode. I often watched it and actually found myself fascinated with how fingerprinting and other techniques were used to solve crimes. I asked Judge Kroner about the badge; he arranged a visit to the forensics lab for me, where one of the officers showed me how fingerprints were made and what made each one different.  All I did was listen to the guy and I had another badge.

But I digress.  Today I take issue with the Scouts' ban policies on gays (and, to my knowledge, trans boys).  But I also do not forget that they were the first group  of people to reward me for cycling!