Saturday Silly: The Fliz

What, exactly, is the point of this?


I mean, it combines the disadvantages of walking with the disadvantages of cycling. 


If you're going to be bent forward, you should be riding a real bicycle with drop bars, or with flat/porteur/moustache/tourist/commuter bars set below your saddle height.  If you want to walk, why should you have a frame slung over your shoulders if its only purpose is to connect two wheels that won't to help you move.  And, finally, if you have a wheel in front of, and another behind you, you should have a pair of pedals or something to propel them.


I'm guessing the inventor of this device--called the Fliz--was playing a joke.  On whom or what, I don't know.  But it is funny to look at, so I guess his/her efforts weren't for naught.


Who says Germans don't know how to have fun?

Now I'm The "Older Woman" Riding A Bike

Time was (How many posts have I started with that phrase?) back in the day (Or that?) when I could develop love interests only with people who were older than me.  Or, at least, I couldn’t get involved with people who were younger than I was.

Anyway, I was describing my old dilemma, if you will, to a friend.  She sighed knowingly.  “I understand how you feel,” she said.  “The young ones look good.  But finding one with whom you have much in common is difficult.”

“Forget that,” I retorted.  “I’m getting to an age where there are fewer and fewer people who are older than I am.”

She laughed.  “And, you know, when you look for men who are available and don’t have baggage, the pool shrinks even more,” she added.

I didn’t tell her that I wouldn’t limit my prospects to men.  If I can find a woman close to my age with whom I’m compatible, I could make the rest of it work, I think.

Why am I talking about these things?  Well, I found myself thinking about my concept of “older” the other day while riding home.  What triggered such a rumination?  

While riding to work, I saw two women who, from all appearances, were in the later stages of middle age. (No, they're not the ones in the photo!) One rode a Cannondale road bike with dropped bars; the other pushed pedals on a Specialized hybrid or flat-bar road bike.  Both looked as if they were dressed from the Terry catalogue.  

 Then, during my bike ride home, I saw a woman who seemed a few years older than the two women I encountered earlier.  She could have been a poster child for the AARP.  Her scarf very stylishly swirled a pastel paisley between her neck and breasts; her pants and blouse were tailored but un-self-conscious.  She was navigating the streets on what looked like a French mixte of some sort:  I couldn’t see the brand, but I knew it wasn’t Peugeot, Motobecane, Gitane, Ficelle or any of the other Gallic marques I know.

Later, as I dismounted my bike in front of my place, I saw a woman riding an English three-speed down my street.  That itself was not as remarkable as that she was, apparently, older than the other women I saw by at least a decade.  What’s more, she looked as if she’d been living in the neighborhood all of her life.  If that is part of her story, she is probably Greek or Italian (She looked the part) and, most likely, the wife of a blue-collar or middle-class worker.

Time was  (There’s that phrase again!), not so long ago, when a woman like her would not have been on a bicycle.  Nor would her husband or any other member of her family old enough to drive.  For that matter, I would not have seen women like the others I mentioned.  

As I’ve mentioned in other posts, when I was in my late twenties and thirties, I could ride the whole length of Vernon Boulevard, near where I live now, cross the Pulaski Bridge and ride down Kent Avenue and further along the Brooklyn side of the East River and New York Bay without seeing another cyclist.  Back then, most of the neighborhoods were blue-collar or lower middle-class, except for some then-low-income areas of Williamsburg and Sunset Park.  The culture of those places was much like that of the neighborhoods in which I grew up:  You simply didn’t ride a bicycle if you were old enough to drive a car, whether or not you actually drove one.

 

Furthermore, those rare adult cyclists I encountered were all male.  Most were close to my age; occasionally, I’d pass one who were older than my parents.  Usually, such an older male cyclist was an immigrant who never gave up the habit, so to speak, after settling in the New World.  But I never saw a female cyclist unless I rode into a neighborhood like Brooklyn Heights or the Upper East Side or out of the city into a suburban enclave.  The few I saw weren’t commuting or running errands; perhaps they were riding for fitness, but most likely, just to decompress.  

It was rarer yet to see “older” women ride.  Of course, at that time, my elders were in their late thirties or older.  I recall two simply because they were so unusual:  One, who was probably in her forties, wore a Chanel suit and slingbacks while riding a women’s Colnago--to this day, the only one of those bikes I've ever seen.  The other rode with my bike club; she was about the same age I am now.  Even more interestingly, her husband didn’t ride.

I’m her now, minus the husband.  That is to say, I’m an “older” woman, at least in the way I used to define it.  Although I like it, I often wish I could have begun my gender transition at an earlier age so I could have lived more of my life as a woman.  Then again, given the conditions of the time, would I have grown up to be that woman I so admired on our club rides?  Or the one I saw on the Colnago?  Or one of those women “of a certain age” I used to see riding to marketplaces, to parks, to stores and offices—sometimes to their jobs—when I was living in Europe?

A World Cup Tournament Of Cycling Nations

In an earlier post, I briefly described an interesting paradox:  Some of the nations that have dominated bicycle racing are also among those that have been among the world's elite in football (what we Americans call "soccer"). Yet, the wheel and the ball rarely, if ever, cross each other's paths.

I was thinking about this again, today, as the World Cup football tournament opened with host nation Brazil's team beating its counterpart from Croatia.  Brazil perennially fields one of the world's strongest sides and, playing in its home country, is expected to win the tournament.

I couldn't help but to notice that the teams that have the best chance of keeping the Brazilians from winning it all come from Argentina, Germany and Spain. Other teams believed to have at least an outside chance are those of Portugal, France, Belgium, Italy, England and Uruguay.

Now, I don't have to tell you about the cycling traditions of France, Belgium, Italy, England, Spain, Germany or even Portugal:  Each has produced a disproportionate share of winners of the world's top bicycle races.  Cycling is also a popular form of recreation in those countries, and using bicycles for transportation is making a resurgence in them. And all of them, with the possible exception of Portugal, have their share of notable bike builders.

Of the three South American soccer powerhouses in the tournament, Argentina seems to have more of a racing tradition and culture than the others.  In its relatively brief history, the six-stage Tour de San Luis has become an important part of the UCI Americas Tour, one of the Continental Circuits sanctioned by l'Union Cycliste Internationale.  Levi Leipheimer won the TdeSL in 2012, one of the last triumphs of his career.

Argentina was also home, for many years, to Spanish-born Francisco Cuevas, considered one of the most meticulous craftsmen among frame-builders.  He would later emigrate to the US and set up shop in Queens, a stone's throw from where I live now and even closer to the Kissena Velodrome.
Some other fine builders practiced their trade in the home of the tango, and a company called Saavedra produced some rather nice components, most of which were Campagnolo knockoffs.  One of their most interesting pieces was a headset that looked like a cross between a Campy Super Record and a Stronglight Delta.  But, at heart, it was more like the Delta with its roller bearings.  But perhaps their best-known product was their Turbo rim, which became popular among time trialists because it was the lightest--although far from the most durable--available.

Perhaps one reason why Argentina had a relatively strong bicycle culture and industry is that so many Europeans--particularly Italians-- emigrated to it. Indeed, it's often been called the most European of Latin American countries.

Uruguay doesn't seem to have the kind of cycling history Argentina can claim.  But, to be fair, it's a much smaller country, only about the size of Connecticut. On the other hand, a Google search of "bicycling in Uruguay" seems to turn up nothing but rave reviews in which two-wheeled tourists rave about the good roads, spectacular scenery, rich history and friendly local people they encounter.

That leaves us with Brazil.  It doesn't seem to have much of a history of road racing, but there seem to be a lot of downhill races in various parts of the country.  And, as some have noted, the popularity of cycling for transportation and recreation declined as the bicycle was increasingly seen as a "poor man's" vehicle.  But that image is starting to change, and a bicycle culture is developing in Sao Paolo and other cities.  

The only Brazilian bicycles I've ever seen were made by Caloi.  They make a variety of bikes, but all the Calois I've seen were mountain bikes.  I first started noticing them in the early '90's, around the time I took up off-road riding. Their aluminum bikes seemed like lower-rent versions of Cannondales.  I haven't seen any lately; then again, I haven't been a mountain biker in some time.

Brazil has won more World Cup football titles than any other nations.  How soon before a cyclist from that country wins Le Tour, Il Giro or La Vuelta? 

Across The Bridges

On this blog, I have posted many images--and many more words--about cycling across bridges, mainly in New York City.

Even before I became a dedicated cyclist, I was fascinated by bridges.  Perhaps it has to do with seeing, in my childhood, the construction of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.  I was living in Brooklyn, not far from one end of the span.  I had no idea of what lay on the opposite shore, at the end of the long cables that were descending like steel cocoons woven from arches that rose like slender, elegant apparitions from the metallic ripples of the bay.  I didn't even know that the place was called Staten Island.

It just amazed me, to no end, that something could be built over a body of water to allow people to move from one place--sometimes, one world--to another.  Bridges like the Verrazano (When are they going to add a bike lane to it?) and the Brooklyn, with their long approaches to their towering arches, dramatically convey the sense of such a journey:

Then there are those bridges--like the Bayonne and Marine Parkway Bridges--on which you feel everything opening around you and there seems to be nothing but water around you.  Those bridges are usually not suspension bridges and thus do not have webs of supporting cables surrounding you:  Such spans are flat or have a single arch in spanning the length, rather than several stretching across the width, of the bridge.  If you're agoraphobic, you don't want to ride across them.

On the other hand, some bridges enclose you.  In parts of the Williamsburg Bridge, these "walls" of girders are rather elegant:

But, at other times, you can feel as if you're cycling in a cage.

Perhaps the strangest sensation I ever experienced in crossing a bridge (apart from the time lightning flashed around me on the Brooklyn Bridge) came from underneath me, when I crossed the Pont Jacques Cartier in Montreal.  The bike/pedestrian path was not paved.  Rather, it was an open metal grid deck.  You've probably driven over it:  Sometimes it's used on bridge road surfaces because puddles can't form on it as they can on asphalt or other surfaces. 

While it made for a surface that wouldn't be slippery on a wet day, it also exposed the St. Lawrence River, churning more than 100 meters (about 30 stories) below.  Also, at the time, the arced fence that now encloses the pedestrian/bicycle lane had not been constructed. 

I can hardly recall any other time when I rode with so little separating me and my bike from a large body of water with a strong current.  It was quite the crossing, quite the journey.

Cycling With Moliere

What was the last movie (film, if you're a snotty intellectual like me) you saw about cycling?  

They don't come around very often, do they?  It's a bit surprising, given that there are so many photographic images and a pretty fair amount of art of or about bicycles or bicycling.

A few weeks ago, Alceste a Bicyclette (Cycling with Moliere) was released in the USA, after first being screened in France late last year. 

In the film, soap opera star Gauthier Valence (played by Lambert Wilson) travels to the wet, windswept Ile de Re to convince his friend, reclusive actor  Serge Tanneur (Fabrice Luchini) to star in a production of Moliere's comedy of manners.

But Tanneur has exiled himself to a family manor that's seen better days after suffering a nervous breakdown some three years earlier.  Tanneur is as misanthropic and dismissive of society's conventions as Moliere's character. But can Valence induce Tanneur's love of Moliere overcome his reclusiveness?  Or will Valence's vision fall to Tanneur's refusal to re-engage with the world--or in some clash between his and Valence's egos?  (That's what actors do when they get together. Trust me; I know.)

The reviews of the film are mixed.  But I'm tempted to check it out just because it's about cycling and Moliere--and because I've heard Luchini give some beautiful readings of Baudelaire and other French writers.  

A Pre-Ride Checklist

Some of you may be experienced cyclists or mechanics. So the information in this post may not be new to you.

However, for those of you who haven't been cycling for very long, or are afraid to adjust anything on your bike (When I first started cycling, someone told me "derailleur" is French for "don't try to fix this!") I found this handy little infographic. It shows you what to check before you embark on a ride.

Even if the information is "old hat" to you, I thought you might enjoy the infographic just because it's nicely done:

From BicyclingHub.com

Never Again--Until Now, Of Course

In an earlier post, I talked about the futility (for me, anyway) of saying “Never again!”

I built up a Trek hybrid frame from about 1990 and used it as an errand/”beater” bike for a few weeks before deciding it was just a little too big for me and giving it away.  I said I wasn’t going to do anything like that again.

Did some famous person say all resolutions are temporary?  Or is that just some rationale I’ve devised for breaking vows I make?

 

Or, perhaps, I’m just in the habit of making promises to myself that I simply can’t keep.  You know, like the one that I was going to live as a cisgender heterosexual male.  Oh, well.

Anyway…You’ve probably guessed where this is going.  Another bike found its way to me.  Yes, really, it did…just like that kitten I brought home as a kid followed me home.

Actually, I found it at a yard sale in Brooklyn—not far from the neighborhood in which I grew up.  And the owner made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.  Well, I could have, but I don’t have that much resolve.  What can I say?

So for a princely sum of ten bucks I found myself in possession of a Schwinn LeTour manufactured in October 1975.

The frame itself had barely a scratch and seemed to be in perfect alignment. However, the rims and spokes were rusty, perhaps from sitting in a garage or basement.  Those parts, and the others—except for the tires and seat—were original equipment.

I took everything off the bike, as I would have done to overhaul it.  Then I unlaced the wheels, tossed the rims and spokes and gave the tires, seat and handlebars to Recycle-A-Bicycle.

As the bike probably hadn’t been ridden much, the other parts were in very good condition.  So I decided to list them on eBay, figuring that they’d be good for “period” restorations.

In my listings, I made sure to mention that the parts were original equipment on a ’75 LeTour.   A guy in Tennessee bought the derailleurs, shift levers, cranks and bottom bracket; other buyers bought single parts.  The brake levers—complete with the “suicide” extensions—went to a fellow in Switzerland!

While I didn’t make a fortune from those parts, they netted me enough money to buy a pair of wheels.  I know, they’re kind of strange:  the kind of “Deep V” rims you might find on a “hipster fixie”, with a coaster brake on the rear.  But I figure the rims will take a beating and the coaster brake won’t require a lot of maintenance.  Plus, the bike is going to be used for errands and such, and locked in all manner of places, so I wasn’t looking to assemble a technological marvel.

Those wheels were all I’d need to buy. (After assembling the bike, I bought the Wald baskets.)  The other parts came off other bikes or were acquired for projects I never pursued.  And I got the fenders in a swap.  Someone had drilled them for a custom fitting but decided he didn’t want steel fenders.  The way I fitted them to the LeTour is inelegant, but somehow right.  Anyway, it works.

I’m not going to sell or give this one away.  At least, not for a while, anyway. ;-)

A Guest? Or An Alien?

Perhaps you’ve noticed them:  the bikes parked on your block, at your workplace, in front of your favorite bookstore or café, or by any other building or structure that’s part of your everyday environment. They’re there for a couple of days, a week, a month or two, or longer.  Then they’re gone.

They can be any kind of bike, from a Columbia pulled out of a trash heap to a Campagnolo-equipped Colnago, a fixie or a downhill bomber, a classic three-speed or vintage ten-speed.

They’re there, then they’re gone.  Where do they—and, more important, their riders—come from?  Where do they go?  Why are they parked to the parking meters, signposts or fences where you see them?

At different times in my life, one of those bikes has been mine.  I’ve parked in front of campus buildings where I took classes for a few weeks, a few months.  I’ve locked my bike near office buildings where I took workshops or seminars, or worked temporary jobs.  I’ve left my bike chained in front of houses or apartment buildings where I tutored young people who were having difficulties pronouncing Spanish sounds, conjugating French verbs, following the currents of history or constructing a sentence—or simply passing some test or another.  And I’ve had to secure my bike to whatever immobile objects stood around court and precinct houses, sports areanae or performance spaces when I was writing some story or another for a newspaper.

And then, of course, there were the times I parked a couple of times a week, or every day or every night, for a week, a few months, or even a year or two in front of the house or apartment building of someone with whom I had a relationship—or simply some sort of recurring business or errand.

I wonder whether the bike in the photo has a story like any of the ones I’ve mentioned.  I saw it every day for a couple of weeks, then it was gone.  The last time I saw it, I didn’t notice any scratches or marks that weren’t there the first time I saw it.  That’s especially interesting, perhaps even a little disturbing, on such a stark white bike.