R.I.P. Robin Williams

Of  the celebrities who have been cyclists, my favorite is Robin Williams.

Now I am heartbroken:  He is gone.   

Here he is, sneaking out of his Midtown Manhattan hotel for a spin on 8 September 2008:

Time to ride, cry--and watch one of his films again.  Good Morning, Vietnam and Good Will Hunting, perhaps.

On Dawn And Mother-Daughter Realationships

Another dawn ride in the Sunshine State.  Really, given the heat and humidity, it really is the best time to pedal.  Plus, my parents live just far enough from the ocean that I can start just before sunrise and, within a few minutes, be treated to scenes like this:

That, from a place called Hammock.  And this from, appropriately, Painter's Hill:

At that time of morning, one finds more surfers or fishers than swimmers.  (Leave it to me to be, as always, a minority--both as a swimmer and cyclist!)  When you're up before most other people and throw yourself at a great expanse that seems like infinity, it's hard not to wonder about the meaning of it all:

As it turns out, the woman in the second photo was watching her daughter:

As my mother is not, and never has been, a cyclist, surfer, swimmer or fisher, we have a different mother-daughter relationship.  It was still more than welcome at the end of today's ride, in which I managed to beat the midday heat and afternoon rain.

Fred And Ginger In The Swamp

During yesterday's ride, I stopped at the site of the Mala Compra plantation.  The name means "bad bargain" in Spanish.  

As you can imagine, the place was so named because it turned out not to be as suitable for agriculture as was hoped.  However, there are some strange and interesting sights, including this:

At first, I thought it might be one of those "only in Florida" species.  But a second look reveals otherwise:

They are actually two different trees, one dancing around the other:

It seems that the curvy, languorous one wants to be closer to the upright citizen:

What is it like to be locked in a dance for centuries?

Three-Wheeled Thrills

After bumping along some trails and a "nature walk" that seemed to be a boardwalk above a swamp, I rolled along the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway and up the bridge to Flagler Beach.  While parking a bike that I call "mine" only while riding it, a man on an adult tricycle struck up a conversation with me.  "Keep on riding," he exhorted.  "If you'll do, you'll always be a fine-looking young lady."

If he weren't so sweet, I'd've suggested he schedule an appointment with his ophthalmologist, if not a psychotherapist. Instead, I thanked him and, I think, blushed a bit.  I also realized that he was the fourth adult tricyclist I'd seen this morning. 

Of course, that last fact did not surprise me:  Florida must be the adult trike capital of North America, if not the world.  While I hope that I can continue riding on two wheels until the end, whenever that comes for me, I know there's one thing to look forward to if I ever find myself on three wheels, whether by choice or not:  The folks I've seen on three wheels have been, invariably, friendly.

Also, I might take up something that, had someone told me of its existence just a few years ago, I might have asked that person to share whatever was intoxicating him or her with me:  tricycle racing.

Yes, such a sport actually exists.  I learned of it only recently.  As far as I can tell, there isn't much, if any, of it here in the US.  However, there was a very active three-wheeled racing scene in the UK about thirty years ago and, according to the author of the Roadworks Reparto Corse blog, the sport remains popular there.

Englishman John Read in a tricycles-only (!) time trial, 1984.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised.  After all, a few of the classic British builders created trikes with the same attention to design, detail and construction as their more famous bicycles and tandems.  And a few manufacturers offered tricycles that were more performance-oriented than the clunky ones often found in these parts.

The RRC author says that a shop that employed him as a mechanic stocked a conversion kit consisting of a long strutted axle, cogs and two wheels that could replace the rear wheel of your road bike.  I also recall seeing such a kit in one of the shops in which I worked, and I remember several mail-order firms advertising it in Bicycling! magazine when I first started reading it about four decades ago.  I wonder whether that kit, or anything like it, is still being made. A lot of them could be sold here, in Florida.

 

By The Dunes

Took another early morning ride today.  This time, I pedaled up to Marineland.  It sits just south of the St. John's County line.  When you cross into the county from Marineland, Old Route A1A branches off, to the right, from the current A1A.

I suspect that Old A1A was an unpaved road.  It becomes one within a kilometer or so of the county line.  For once, I was actually glad to be riding a beach cruiser made from gaspipe tubing (on which I've replaced the original rotted-out tires with some decent mountain bike rubber) instead of one of my lightweights.

This was my reward for all of my skidding and sliding:

Call me selfish or greedy, but I was happy to have it all to myself!

Dawn In The Sunshine State

You haven't heard from me in a couple of days. No, I haven't dropped off the face of the Earth.  I'm visiting my parents, in Florida.

So why did I pick the sultriest time of year to visit the Sunshine State?  Well, for one thing, it's the first time in months I've had enough free days in a row to make the trip one in which I don't get back on the plane after having lunch with Mom.  For another, the fares are cheap now.  And, finally, speaking of Mom:  It's her birthday today!

I've been down here enough times that I know a thing or two about "going native".  Since arriving the other day, I've gone on two rides, both of them in the morning.  In fact, yesterday I started before dawn and so was treated to this:

and this:

and a painterly scene from Painter's Hill:

Fall--to the extent they have it here--doesn't begin for another three months or so.  But the dawn in Palm Coast tinges the trees and mosses with an odd foreshadowing of it:

As the sun rose higher, those leaves and mosses turned green, like everything else hanging from those branches.

I rode down A1A--the road that wends along the Atlantic Coast--through Flagler Beach and Gamble Rogers State Park to Ormond by the Sea, where I espied an interesting bit of landscape design:

Where else but in Florida can someone get away with a color like that on the exterior of a house?  Even in the Easter Egg Victorian areas of San Francisco, I don't think I ever saw a color like that.

Then, after lounging on the sand of Ormond Beach, I started back.  I noticed that A1A Beachside Bicycles had just opened for the day, so I stopped in to say hello to owners Ron and Diane.

There's absolutely nothing made from carbon-fiber in their shop. In fact, there are only a few new bikes.  Mostly, they do repairs, restorations and re-purposing.  As an example of the latter, a '70's Schwinn LeTour was being turned into a kind of Florida cruiser.

One of the repair jobs in the shop was this tandem sold by Sears and Roebuck during the 1960's, I think:

It's like other American bikes of the period from makers like Rollfast, Murray and Columbia that were constructed of spot-welded gaspipe tubing.  But this particular tandem is interesting because it has the twin lateral tubes normally associated with French (and, sometimes, British and Japanese) "mixte" frames:

Also noteworthy are the tires, which I believe are originals:

Those of you who are a decade or more younger than I am might find it difficult to believe that bicycle tires were made in the USA by companies like Firestone and Goodyear. Of course, none of them were lightweights.  But they made those whitewalls--like the one in this photo--you see on baloon-tired bikes of the period.

I stop at Ron's and Diane's shop because they were very friendly to me when I stopped in with a flat a few years ago.  They, like many people here, are a couple of honest folks trying to make a living in a difficult economy.  They--and their dog--remember me whenever I walk in.

Today I woke up a little later and managed not to ride quite as much. But I still enjoyed the calm of the streets and the air, so I plan to take a (possibly pre-) dawn ride tomorrow.  Some would argue it's the only way to ride here at this time of year!

Do They Ride Brooks Saddles?

I guess being "down under" explains why an Australian would use bottoms-up to advertise the top bike:

Fighting The Great War On Two Wheels

As you no doubt learned in your history classes, the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the presumptive heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, triggered the events that led to World War I.

He was killed on 28 June 1914.  Other countries made promises and issued ultimatums to each other, based on the sorts of relationships they had with the Austro-Hungarian Empire and its allies--or enemies.  

Everything came to a head in the first days of August in that year.  On the first, Germany declared war on Russia.  And, on this date 100 years ago, Germany declared war on France and invaded Belgium.  Then, on the following day, Great Britain declared war on Germany.

 

The Great War, as it came to be called, was the first international armed conflict in which aircraft--and one of the first in which motorized vehicles--were deployed. Bicycle battalions were also deployed in an attempt to mobilize fighting forces that could move more swiftly than regular infantry units.  Aircraft were invented barely a decade earlier, and motorized vehicles weren't around for much longer.  So they didn't have the range or maneuverability later versions of those vehicles would have.  Also, a single plane, motorcar or tank would need several soldiers to operate and maintain it, and at least one more to scout out and shoot (or bomb or gas) enemy combatants.

 

On the other hand, on a bicycle, a single soldier or other individual person could travel as a self-contained one-man fighting unit, as Hilary Searle of CycleSeven points out.  For example, members of the British Army Cyclist Corps were issued bicycles that held kit bags in the rear, under the seat.  Rations and personal items were stowed in those bags; from the frame's top crossbar hung an emergency toolkit.  Groundsheets were rolled up and suspended from the handlebars; even rifles could be carried on soldiers' bikes.

Members of the Army Cyclist Corps were specially trained as mechanics.  Hmm...I wonder what my life would be like if I'd learned how to fix in the Army rather than from the first edition of Anybody's Bike Book. 

As Ms. Searle points out, His Majesty's Army had to draw up regulations for using the bicycle, not only in the battlefield, but in drilling and ceremonial occasions.  The rulebook, first drawn up in 1907 and revised in 1911, contains such pearls as this:


'A cyclist standing with his cycle, with rifle attached to it, will salute with the right hand, as laid down in Section 19, returning the hand to the point of the saddle on the completion of the salute. When at ease, a cyclist, whether mounted or leading his bicycle, will salute by coming to attention, and turning his head to the officer he salutes. A party of cyclists on the march will salute on the command Eyes Right, which will be followed by Eyes Front, from the officer or NCO in charge.'


I would've loved for the cadet commanders to teach us that in our ROTC program!  Better yet, this:

'The position of the cyclist at attention is the same as that of the dismounted soldier, except that he will grasp the left steering handle with his left hand, and place the right hand at the point of the saddle, elbow to the rear.'

All right.  I'll stop being snide and cynical long enough to show that, every once in a while, the term "military intelligence" is not an oxymoron:

'Bicycle tyres should be wiped with a damp cloth after a march, so that all grit, which if left might cause a puncture, may be removed.'

'The rate of marching, excluding halts, will generally vary from 8 to 10 miles per hour, according to the weather, the nature of the country, and the state of the roads. A column of battalion size should not be expected to cover more than 50 miles in a day under favourable conditions.'

"Favourable conditions"?  In World War I?  Did such things exist? Some terrain on the Western Front proved too much even for cyclists (as tough a bunch as we are), as the heavy iron bikes got bogged down in mud or simply were unrideable on rough terrain.  (They were fine on tarmac.) For that reason, the military brass decided that cyclists had little tactical value and disbanded the Corps after the War.

 

When The Rain Held Out For Time

I am not a shadow; I am not cycling among shadows. There are no shadows:  A couple crosses from a dark canyon of shutters and silence into a delta spreading from the streaming white current of the streetlight and sprayed by a flashing traffic signal.  

The couple crosses the intersection, their bodies making slight bobs with each step.  They look younger, much younger, than I am, but carry with them ages of stone, ages of fire, far older than the bricks and shingles and window panes that line these streets.  

Perhaps they will live the rest of their lives, and their children theirs, on these streets in which the flow of time stops for their history, their eternity, every Friday night.  Or, perhaps, when the streams of sodium vapor light and steel will swell, or the glow of neon will turn the brick houses into the walls of an inferno, and they will leave as, perhaps, their grandparents did from some other place where a cyclist who wasn’t one of them rode through a deserted intersection—or stopped—as they crossed.

They have, probably, another block or two to walk before they reach they reach their parents’ or grandparents’ or friends’ homes—or shul.  I have about another hour of riding ahead of me before I come to my apartment, and Max and Marley.  I hope the rain will hold out until then; it has for most of the afternoon and evening, and this night, for which it was promised.  Even if it doesn’t, I wouldn’t care; in fact, I might even wend my way through more of these streets.

********************************************************************** 

 

 

As it happened, I did ride up one of those one-way street, turned at an avenue, descended another one=way street, and continued along that self-imposed maze for a couple more kilometers than I would’ve ridden otherwise.  Although the night was humid, the air felt more like the kind of pleasant spray you feel on your skin when you stand by the ocean: It was somewhat cool for this time of year.  

I arrived at my apartment dry.  The rain held out, not only for my ride home, but for the ballgame—the Brooklyn Cyclones vs. the Auburn Doubledays—to which I rode, in Coney Island.  Thirty-some-odd kilometers there, a few more than that back.  The Cyclones, in spite of making four errors, won the game in the last at-bat.  As the saying goes, a good time was had by all.

Going Bananas

Back in the day, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and we raced on bare rims, shoeless, in three feet of snow, we didn't have energy bars.  Therefore, most of us carried things now relegated to the shelves of your local Whole Foods (a.k.a. the store with the most unhealthy-looking healthy customers).  I'm talking about things like granola--and bananas.

Bananas are still one of the best foods for cycling.  But on warm days, they ripen.  So, when you pull one out of your bag--or, worse, your jersey pocket--you're liable to have a mushy mess squooshing through your fingers and, possibly, oozing through the seams of your bag or jersey.  

It seems that a San Francisco company called Biken has come up with a solution to the problem:

Will the Banana Holder become this year's must-have accessory?