Cycling Le Quatorze

Today is Bastille Day, the most quintessentially French holiday. 


When I first started to do long rides, I thought of cycling as the most quintessentially French activity--or, at least, of France as the quintessential cycling nation.


Even though no French rider has won le quatorze stage of the Tour de France--and a win for a team in tricolore seems unlikely this year--it's still hard not to think of cycling and, of course, the Tour itself, on this date.


I notice that a number of clubs and less-formal groups are holding rides today.  I wonder if any of them will storm a replica of the Bastille and free the Marquis de Sade.


Anyway, I'm wondering:  What is your idea of a Bastille Day ride?  Is it something like this?:










Or this?:








Or something else altogether?:

"Where Are You Riding Today?"

Sometimes, when I’m about to mount my bike, someone—almost invariably, someone who doesn’t ride—will spot me and ask, “Where are you going to ride?”

Sometimes I have a specific destination in mind.  But, as often as not, I have no particular itinerary, let a landmark toward which my trek will be directed—when I lift my leg over my saddle.

Sometimes I lie:  “I’m going to the park.”  Or the beach.  Or some other seemingly-plausible terminal or turnaround for an hour or two or more on my bike. But, other times, I tell state the undeniable fact: “Oh, I don’t know.  I’m just going to ride for a bit.”

Perhaps paradoxically, I am most likely to take a “pointless” ride when I have a set amount of time—say, an hour or two—to ride.  At such times, I simply want to use my legs as something more than props for keeping me upright on a chair or standing in front of a classroom.  Or I simply want to experience sun, wind, clouds, heat or cold, or the sounds of leaves opening themselves or tires hissing on pavement without the filter of a window or the barrier of walls.

 

Sometimes I have a vague idea of where I’m going to ride—say, a general direction.  But my ride is just as likely to be directed by things that have absolutely nothing to do with my conscious mind. 

Sometimes my itinerary has to do with the day’s weather or season.  It could also be determined by the day of the week or the time of year:  I might decide to ride, or not, toward the ocean because a lot of other people might decide, or not, that it’s the perfect day to drive that way.  Or I might ride in a loop that will take me into lightly-trafficked or well-lit areas because there isn’t much daylight left.  I have lights for my bikes, but I still prefer to ride in daylight whenever possible—unless the night is lit by a bright moon or is simply more pleasant than the sweltering summer day.

But there are times when my ride is determined by things even less concrete or more intuitive, depending on your point of view, than anything I’ve mentioned so far.  Sometimes it seems as if my bike, or the ride itself, is determining my route.  It’s hard to explain to people who don’t ride, unless they’re writers or artists or other creative people.  Then, I can draw on my own experience of writing: My poem or essay or whatever I’m writing might start off as a work that’s ostensibly about some subject or topic or another.  But, as I immerse myself in writing, the piece I’m writing takes on a life of its own and develops, if you will, its own will, its own wants and needs. An image or even the sound of a word—or the rhythm or syntax of a line or sentence—can take my work in a direction I hadn’t envisioned, let alone imagined.

Sometimes I write, or ride, simply because it’s what I want to do, and nothing else will do.  The destination and scenery don’t matter, only the journey does.

The Bridge, When We Come To It: A Shuttle

A couple of years before I started this blog, the walkway of the Veterans’ Memorial Bridge, which connects Rockaway Beach with the Queens “mainland”, closed for repairs.  The Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, which controls the bridge and most others (as well as tunnels, the PATH trains and the Port itself) in this area, provided a shuttle van across the bridge during the “cycling season”, which PATH deemed to run from May to October. 

Of course, it wasn’t as convenient as riding across the bridge walkway.  And, of course, it stranded those of us who ride year-round.  But at least the service was reliable and the drivers courteous and helpful.  

 

I can say the same things about the driver I encountered today on the shuttle across the Bayonne Bridge.  He is a Port Authority contractor, as were the drivers who ferried us across the Veterans Memorial Bridge.  I don’t know whether he’s a cyclist or not, but he said there needs to be more bike access on bridges and other byways.  “Cycling and walking have to be encouraged,” he said.  “There’s just too much traffic.”

As courteous and helpful as he was to me, I didn’t get the sense he was parroting some party line or simply what he thought I wanted to hear.  If anything, I had the sense he’s the sort of person who doesn’t do—or, perhaps, is incapable—of such things.  So, when he unloaded my bike on the Staten Island side of the bridge, I thanked him profusely.  “I’m just doing my job,” he demurred.

But that, of course, wasn’t the only reason I was expressing gratitude.  As I get older, I am more grateful for my opportunities to ride as well as for the great and small ways in which people are helpful or simply hospitable—and, of course, for a gorgeous day like today.

Reflections On, And Memories Of, Stage 7

I caught some of Stage 7 of the Tour de France.  The course followed roads and flew by (The riders do seem to go faster every year!) sites that formed parts of two bicycle tours I've taken.

The stage began in Epernay and ended in Nancy.  I'm not going to talk about leaders or jersey-wearers because, really, I'm not rooting for anyone in particular.  (These days, that's how I often feel when I watch sporting events.)  Rather, I'm more interested in the route itself and how the riders approach it.

The stage is listed as a flat stage, which it mostly is.  However, I know that the particular parts of France through which the peloton coursed--some of the Marne, Champagne , Aube and Alsace-Lorraine regions of the country.  If you watched the stage (or, better yet, if you've seen the region), you realize that it's an area of picturesque towns and lovely countryside.  In fact, the Champagne countryside is a UNESCO World Heritage site.  Not surprisingly, many of the homes are used by Parisians, and wealthy people from other parts of France and the rest of the world, as weekend or vacation retreats.

More to the point, watching the peloton reminded me of something that surprised me about the area.  In spite of its flatness  many of the roads feature the sorts of virages (sharp turns) one would expect to find in mountainous areas lke the Alps and Pyrenees.

What that means is that someone who isn't familiar with those roads and is pedaling (or driving) at high speeds has to be careful!  On my loaded touring bike, I was probably riding at about half the speed of the racers in Stage 7.  That's probably the reason why I didn't meet the same fate as Darwin Atapuma, who had to abandon the Tour after a nasty crash.  It also seems to have taken its toll on the rest of his BMC team and on Simon Yeats, who also went down in the collision.

The reason for the twisty roads, I think, is that most of them were first laid out long before the invention of dynamite.  In fact, some of those byways were originally built by Romans and later paved over.  Although most of the terrain is flat, there are some rolling hills which of course, couldn't be blasted or burrowed through.  And, near Nancy are the Vosges, a range similar in elevation and other features (like the rounded peaks of the ballons) to some parts of the Appalachains.

In case you didn't already know,  Matteo Trentin won the stage with a last-minute push to beat Peter Sagan who, for much of the stage, looked as if he would take the day's honors.

Bespoken: The Sound Of Gears Turning And Spokes Spinning

Yesterday I wrote about a piece of bicycle art.  I've also written posts about drawings, paintings and other objets inspired by bicycles and bicycling.


We don't read as much about bicycle music.  And, it seems that whatever is written about it discusses songs that mention bikes or riding, even if only in passing.


What we never seem to hear about (or simply hear) is music made from the bicycle itself.  Steven Baber, who designs music from all sorts of objects you won't find on the stages of the world's concert halls, has created a unique series of sounds from the movements of bicycle parts.





He says he's wanted to do such a thing since he heard the sound coming from his bicycle spokes when he was a kid.  "Oh, I wish I could play that like I could play these other instruments," he mused.


You can find a selection of his "Bespoken" series here.