Abandoned In The Big City

About a year ago, I wrote about the "pretzels" that can be found along the streets of New York.  They're not sold from hot dog carts or in delis.  Instead, they're the twisted wheels--and, sometimes, bikes--one finds parked along the Big Apple's byways.

Then there are those bikes that, even if they don't become twisted wrecks, are relegated to lives of rust and misery.  I'm referring to the bikes that are abandoned, or that seem to have been.

I always find myself wondering how they got that way. Did their owners lose their keys or forget the combinations to their locks?  Did some sudden emergency take them away from New York, never to return?  Perhaps they witnessed some terrible crime and had to enter the Witness Protection Program.

Or, could it be that they simply forgot they owned their bicycles?  I don't understand how one can do that, but I also understand it's a possibility.

Anyway, I've found out I'm not the only one who's pondered such questions.  None other than Joe Schumacher, a photographer, has had similar thoughts, which led to a series of photos on a website.

Yearning For A New Journey

I am itching to go to France, to Europe, again.  Actually, I really want to do what I did as recently as 2001, just before 9/11:  Buy the cheapest round-trip ticket to Paris I can find, bring my bike with me and decide where I’m going to ride once I get there.

The first time I did that, I didn’t come back for a long, long time.  (Actually, I bought an open-ended round-trip ticket to London.  Are such things still available?) I rode through the English countryside to Dover and took the ferry to Calais, from which I rode through Belgium, the Netherlands and back into France, where I stayed for as long as I could.  Other times, I pedaled to Italy, Spain, Germany, Switzerland or the Netherlands and back. 

When I took such trips—even the first, my first outside North America—I never felt like a tourist.  Even though my French—or, for that matter, English-- wasn’t nearly as good as I thought it was after the classes I took, I felt (with much justification, I believe) I was experiencing the countries, the cultures and all of the architecture and art I’d seen in books and classrooms in ways that those who followed trails emblazoned with American Express signs never could.

On the other hand, when I went to Prague three years ago, I knew I was a tourist.  It didn’t have anything to do with the way people treated me; for that matter, it didn’t even have to do with the fact that I knew nothing of the Czech language.  Many residents of Prague speak German—of which I know a little-- nearly as well as they speak their own language, which is not a surprise when you consider that the area’s history.  And I found it surprisingly easy to find people who spoke English, or even French.  But I stayed in a hotel and rented a bike which while, enjoyable enough to ride, was nothing like the ones I brought with me on previous trips.  In contrast, in all of my other trips, I usually stayed in hostels.  Sometimes I’d camp, and once in a while I’d stay in a pension or inexpensive hotel if the other options weren’t available or I was too tired or lost to find them—or I simply wanted to treat myself.

During the first years of my gender transition, I wasn’t thinking about taking a trip like the ones I took every other year or so.  Then, for a few years, I told myself I didn’t want to take such trips—or so I told myself—because I saw them as part of my life as a male being, which I was leaving in my past.  I also figured that I couldn’t take such trips, which I usually did alone, because I believed that travelling solo as a woman would not be safe.

But I realize that other women have taken bike or other trips by themselves.  More important, I think I still have the same ability to function on my own that I had when I was younger, and male. If anything, I can function better on my own, in part because I have a better sense of when I need to ask for help, or when I want to do things with other people.

Now I see two barriers to doing a trip like the ones I did in my youth.  One is cost.  The past few years have been more difficult for me, financially, than those years of my 20’s, 30’s and early 40’s.   Even if my income were keeping pace with the kind of money I made in those days—or if I came upon the serendipities that sometimes came my way—it would be harder to take such a trip because it’s much more expensive.  Back in the day, my biggest expense was the plane fare:  Once I got to Europe, I could live cheaply and relatively well, even when exchange rates weren’t so favorable to the dollar.  But, since the introduction of the Euro, everything has gotten much more expensive.  Europeans I know say as much.

The other is that I wasn’t in the kind of physical condition I was in those days.  Some people have told me it’s to be expected, simply because my age.  Also, more than a decade of taking hormones and my surgery left me with less physical strength and endurance than I had in those days.  Plus, as much as I love cycling, I don’t do as much of it as I did in those days. That, of course, may have something to do with my physical changes.

Still, I would love to take the sort of trip I used to take, and to experience it as the person I am now.  Some might say that’s an unrealistic hope.  But, until someone can show me that it’s empirically impossible, I’ll continue to hold out such a hope—and to do what I can to prepare for such a trip.

Into The Season, Late: Into The Wind

In this part of the world, winter has been longer, colder and grayer than in recent years past.

That means, among other things, that the transition to Spring has been later--by about a month--than it normally is.  So, we've been getting the proverbial March winds in April.

Under normal circumstances, riding in it would be invigorating, even bracing. But since I've done less cycling than I normally do, riding into the wind has been arduous.

 But at least we had blue skies and sunshine yesterday.  Life is good, cycling is great.

Quelle Coincidence!

Wouldn't you know it?  The other day I wrote, among other things, about aluminum frames of the recent and distant past.  So, on my way out of work last night, what should I chance to see but this?:

It is, of course, one of the most iconic aluminum frames of all:  the Vitus 979, from France.

Vitus aluminum frames were somewhat-more-refined versions of what is commonly regarded as the first modern aluminum frame:  the ALAN, from Italy.  (Alan is short for "alluminio anodizzato," Italian for "anodized aluminum.) 

While the ALAN consisted of aluminum alloy tubes bolted and bonded into thicker aluminum lugs, Vitus skipped the bolting and simply glued the frame together.  Company engineers claimed--with justification, I believe--that the bonding material Vitus used was stronger than what was found in Alan frames.  Whatever the case, I have never heard of either frame coming apart at the joints.

The ALAN was introduced in 1972; the Vitus came seven years later.  While the Italian frame gained a small if loyal following among time trialists and others who wanted to build the lightest possible bike, its French counterpart was ridden by club cyclists as well as racers.  Also, being one of the most expensive frames available at the time, it had a certain amount of snob appeal in the '80's, when it reached its peak of popularity.

Like the ALAN, the Vitus was often kitted out with the lightest or most "trick" componentry available.  For the ALAN, that meant Campagnolo Super Record gear with titanium bits.  On the other hand, Vituses were often seen with Mavic hubs and GEL-280 rims (Mavic had yet to produce a pre-built wheelset), Stronglight 106 cranks with the company's titanium bottom bracket, CLB or Speidel brakes and Huret Jubilee derailleurs.  

The Vitus set-up I described is what Jeannie Longo, whom many regard as the greatest female racer of all time, rode to victory in the Tour de France Feminin and her first Olympic win.  

The example I saw parked on the street looks like a model from around that time.  When new, the top and down tubes were anodized in a magenta-ish shade of pink, while the seat tube had more of a purplish hue.  Anodizing, especially in brighter and bolder colors, tends to fade over time; the bike in the photos doesn't have much of its original tint left.

When I see bikes like that--or a classic steel frame--I always wonder whether it's being ridden by the original owner, or whether it was inherited.  (A young man I met on the Staten Island Ferry about a year ago told me his father raced the Simoncini he was riding.)  In the case of the Vitus, or an Alan, I also wonder how much it was ridden over the years.  You see, those frames had aluminum tubes in the same diameter as Reynolds, Columbus or other steel tubes including the ones Vitus were still making at the time they produced their aluminum frames. That made for a very light, though flexy bike.  (On the other hand, it also made for a very comfortable ride over long distances and hours.)  Those factors probably explain why Longo and other female--as well as smaller male--racers rode them.

In 1992, Vitus superceded the 979 with a new model, the 992.  It featured ovoid aluminum tubes in an attempt to make the bike stiffer without resorting to large-diameter tubing, as Klein and Cannondale were employing.  Even so, the 992 was never as popular as the 979, in part because it came along just as titanium frames were becoming popular. And, of course, within a few years carbon--which Vitus helped to re-introduce during the 1980's--would take much of the market share enjoyed by tituanium and Vitus aluminum frames.

Still, whoever rides the bike I saw last night is enjoying an interesting bit of cycling history.  Somehow it's nice to know that Vitus is still making aluminum and carbon frames though, apparently, it's discontinued its maganese-molybdenum steel tubing.  However, I couldn't find information on whether or not the frames were still being made in France.  After all, Look and Time, the most venerable French carbon-fiber bikes, are now being manufactured in Asia.

A Year In Martin Luther King Jr.'s Life

I know it's Spring.  And it's time to ride. But I think there's something else that bears mentioning.

On this date in 1968, Martin Luther King Jr. was assasinated in Memphis.  I was a child at the time and, until that day, knew nothing about him. However, I think I understood, for the first time, what the word "tragedy" means and that it isn't the same as mere sadness or grief.

He was cut down one year to the day after making what might have been the most important speech of his life--and one of the most important in American history.

Before an audience of 3000 in New York's Riverside Memorial Church, the greatest leader this country has ever had declared, "My conscience leaves me no other choice."  Then he described the terrible effects of the Vietnam War on this country's poor as well as Vietnamese peasants.  Thus, he concluded, he could not continue to fight for civil rights and address the myriad injustices--all of which had to do with race, class and gender--that existed (and still exist) in the United States without opposing the war his country was waging in the former French Indochina.

Here is a video of that speech: