And They Used To Say I Was An Animal On My Bike...

Every once in a while, I see someone "walking" his or her dog while riding a bicycle.  I have probably seen it most often on or around beaches, especially in Florida.  However, I've also seen it in parks and even on streets here in NYC.

"A Dog's Pace" by Carolee Clark.

Sometimes I wish I could do the same with Max and Marlee. I could carry them in the baskets on my LeTour, I guess.  The only problem is that I don't know how I would get Max into a basket, as he doesn't like to be picked up and is no longer the climber he was in his youth, and that Marlee would never sit in a basket long enough for me to start riding.

I once rode about two kilometers carrying a little Yorkie in my cocked left arm and my right hand on my handlebar.  I'd found her wandering through a busy intersection where she was in imminent danger of becoming roadkill. No one seemed to know where she came from and I rode, hoping to find a shelter or a vet's office.  Finding neither, I took her to a precinct house, where a burly sergeant fell in love with her.

Max would never stand--or, more precisely, sit or curl up--for such a ride.  Marlee might, for a couple of minutes.  Then her nervousness would get the best of her and she'd wriggle her way into a fall onto the pavement.

I find it ironic that in other parts of the world, people on bikes carry all kinds of other animals.  I saw a man ride with a monkey on his shoulder in Marseille, France and another man with a lizard standing guard on his sternum as he navigated the alleyways of Rome.

But they had nothing on this guy, with a goat along for the ride, in Uganda.  I just hope the passenger gave him a hefty tip:

From Art Propelled

  

Some Repair Techniques Never Change

The blue Schwinn Varsity, circa 1976, looked like others I'd seen.  That is, until I turned the corner. 

When I worked in bike shops, I saw some strange, interesting and unusual "repairs" customers had done themselves.  Most of the time, I could see what they were trying to fix.

But on the blue Varsity I saw today, I had to wonder.  At first, I thought the tape was an attempt to repair a flat. That's what it probably was indeed.  

However, I also couldn't help but to ask myself, rhetorically, whether the person actually rode the bike with the tape wrapped around the rim.  After all, I could only imagine what that tape did to the braking.

Also, I found myself thinking about the time a customer brought in a bike because the front wheel was "bumping" as he rode.  I realized that he meant "thumping" after I saw the tape wrapped around his tire and rim, much as it was on the Varsity I saw today.

The man begged me not to unwrap the tape--duct tape, to be exact.  I explained that I couldn't replace his tube--which he almost certainly needed--or his tire (probably needed) unless I could remove them.

"But that'll ruin the wheel!", he exclaimed.

Of course, I removed the tape and saw a crack along the surface of the rim, nearly from one tire bead to the next.  Probably the only reason the rim hadn't broken was that the cracks didn't begin or end at a spoke hole:  It'd cracked along the smooth, solid area of the rim.

Before that day, I knew that all sorts of things could be held together with duct tape.  But, until that moment, I'd never seen a bicycle rim fixed that way.

At that moment, Frank, the owner of Highland Park Cyclery walked by and made it clear to the man that if we could not replace his wheel (It wouldn't have been worth rebuilding with a new rim), tire and tube, we would not work on his bike.  

The man grabbed his bike and, with a huff, pushed it out of the shop.

You guessed what he did when he got out onto the sidewalk:  He wrapped duct tape (He'd had a roll in his bag!) around the cracked rim and tire.  



 

Well, It's Better Than A Ticket, Anyway...

If you park your bike has a basket on it, and you park on the street, you might find that your vehicle has been turned into a recptacle.

I've found all sorts of things in my wicker and wire porters:  beer bottles, wrappers for every kind of food you can imagine, chicken bones, pizza crusts--and for a device that's named for a citizen of an ancient Greek city but won't infect your computer--as well as books and newspapers.  I've even encountered articles of clothing and, yes, bike parts, most of which were unwearable or unusable.   

Most of the time, it's an annoyance (except, of course, when I find a book or a newspaper), but I guess it's better than having a saddle or pedals stolen, or tires slashed.  Yes, those things have also happened when I've parked my bike.

But I don't think I've ever encountered anything quite like what was deposited in the Wald front basket on my LeTour:

CDs?  Hmm....Maybe it's some rare recording:  Something I'd keep--or sell on eBay.

Closer inspection revealed something entirely different:

I wonder if the person who left those Yoga CDs knows me, or has seen me ride.  Could there be a message?

Smart Dumbbells And Other Tools

Recently, I saw this tool in a bike shop:



 The mechanic referred to it as a "smart dumbbell wrench".  

My first reaction is, of course, that a "smart dumbbell" is an oxymoron.  Then I remembered a tool I carried on bike rides--and sometimes even when I was off the bike--not so long ago.

 

This is the not-smart dumbbell wrench.  Actually, given the time it was invented, it was a smart tool, as recessed allen-bolt fittings were still uncommon.  As recently as the 1980's, Campagnolo's Gran Sport derailleur attached to the dropout with a hex-head bolt.

The tool was also called a "dog bone" wrench.  A smart--or, at least, a modern-- dog bone wrench might be this:

 

I'm sure you've seen it before.  I've mentioned it on this blog: the Park Tool MT-1.  It now serves the purpose my old dumbbell wrench did back in the day:  I even have one on my keyring.  

It really is a smart tool in all sorts of ways, not the least of which are its shape and style, which makes it sleeker and much easier to carry than the old dog bone or dumbbell wrench.

Speaking of old-style wrenches:  How many of you still have one of these?

 

 If you bought a Raleigh three-speed in the 1970s or earlier, you more than likely got one of these with it.  The smaller "tombstone"-shaped opening was, if I'm not mistaken, intended for installing or removing pedals, though you can't get as much leverage as I think you need, especially if you're removing a pedal that's been in the crank for a while.

Back in the day, we didn't use the term "multi-tool".  Nobody believed that  a spanner (or wrench to you Yanks) could be made to handle everything short of a full bike assembly, contrary to what some multi-tool designers of today seem to think.  We usually carried a small adjustable wrench or a small spanner with 8 and 10 millimeter heads, 6 and 7mm allen keys and a few other things, depending on how long we intended to ride and how far we planned to be from our favorite bike shops.

That way of thinking, I believe, gave rise to mini toolkits, like this one:

 

If you bought a Peugeot before the late 1970s, you got one of these Mafac tool kits with it.  They were pretty smart, actually, given the bikes and components of the time.  About ten years ago, you could get one for practically nothing.  Today, with all the collectors and others who are doing "period" restorations, and those who are building nouveau retro, if you will, bikes, those kits are fetching decent money.  Just recently, someone sold eight new-old-stock kits with the brown pouch (instead of the black one shown) for $39.00 each.

Are they smarter than the dumbbell wrench?  That depends...

Note:  Some Gitane bikes came with the Mafac kit in a bag shaped like the Mafac but with softer material and printed with Gitane's logo:

Would You Park Here?

The bicycle has often been called the father of the automobile.  Now, I guess, we'd say it's the parent or the progenitor, so as not to be sexist.

However you say it, it makes sense:  Some of the pioneers of the automotive world--including none other than Henry Ford himself--started off as bicycle mechanics or builders.  And, of course, the very thing that made cars faster and more versatile than carriages--the pneumatic tire--was invented for bicycles.

But, like any other parent-child relationship, the one between cars and bikes is often uneasy.  That's the reason why I'm not so sure of how I feel about this bike parking rack:



From London Cycling Campaign

Je Suis Charlie, Nous Sommes Charlie

For today, I am going to forget what I normally write about on this and my other blog--sort of.

In terms of content, this post will not resemble others I've written.  However, It will express concern for everything that makes this blog, and others, possible.  In fact, some of those things even make it possible for me to do the very thing I write about on this blog:  ride a bike.

You see, in some cultures, women aren't allowed to ride bicycles--or go to school, read, write, teach or do much of anything besides bear a man's children and submit to his demands.  In such places, someone like me doesn't have the right to be a woman--let alone a cyclist--at all.

That is the reason why I am writing today to express my solidarity with all of those people who rallied in my home town as well as London, Tokyo, Istanbul, Montreal, Berlin and many other cities around the world--and, of course, in France, most prominently in Paris.

I have lived in the City of LIght.  So have some people I've loved and with whom I've worked.  They've been native-born French people--some of ancient Gallic and Frankish heritage, others born to families who emigrated to France from other places in this world.  They've been Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists and people who didn't adhere to any formal religion or philosophy, or who believed in nothing at all beyond this life.  They've been wealthy, poor and, mainly, in-between.  

The thing is, they all knew that their right to be any, all  or none of the things I've mentioned was protected under the laws of their country.  And, while some expressed resentment or condescension toward America--or, more precisely, toward our misconceptions or simple unawareness of our position in the world, they all have expressed respect, admiration and sometimes even wistfulness for the openness of our society and the generous spirit of Americans they've met. 

Demonstrators hold up pencils to express ther support for freedom of expression.

The rallies, like funerals and memorial services, are about grieving those who died in the attacks on the Chrlie Hebdo offices and the kosher supermarket in Paris.  But, just as important, they are a reminded of what we--I, the people I've mentioned, and everyone else--need to do:  to live, as the people we are, free to pursue our dreams, honor or values, to love those we love--and, always, to speak the truth, whether through simple facts, irony, images, humor or in some other way.  We can't let those who murdered seventeen Parisians during the past week take that liberty, that right, away from us.

Je suis Charlie.  Nous sommes Charlie. 

Aren't You Glad He Didn't Call It "Dagny Taggart"?

There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old’s life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves Orcs. --John Rogers

It’s been a while since I’ve read either of the books Rogers mentions. I know I read both—at what age, I don’t remember, but I’m sure at a time before my cerebral cortex was fully formed. Actually, now that I think of it, I read them about the same time I started taking bike rides of more than a few miles, which fits into Rogers’ timeline.

To tell you the truth, I don’t think either changed my life significantly. The funny thing is that, even at the tender age I was when I read it, I thought The Lord of the Rings had more developed, more believable characters than Atlas Shrugged.  Saying that J.R.R. Tolkien was a better writer than Ayn Rand is a bit like saying that a Mercian is better than a Murray:  In other words, it almost doesn’t need to be said.  But I simply never have been able to get myself terribly interested in fantasy or science fiction.  It’s not snobbery on my part, as an old partner of mine (whom I accompanied to see a film version of Rings) alleged.  I’m just not interested in science fiction or fantasy in much the same way that I’m not interested in, say, skateboarding: I don’t look down on anyone who loves it, but have no wish to participate in it myself.

On the other hand, for a time in my life, I considered myself a Libertarian. Actually, I still do, at least my opposition to the death penalty and wars other than those purely for defensive purposes—and in my beliefs about individual liberty.  As an example of the latter, while I urge cyclists to wear helmets, I oppose laws mandating the practice.  But I never became one of those people who participated in “Who is John Galt?” discussions because, frankly, I always thought Atlas was a book of shallow thinking and shoddy writing, not worthy of discussion.

I would guess that if a cyclist were to be influenced by—or simply enjoy—either book, it would most likely be Tolkien’s.  One of the best things about his writing is the “journey” aspect:  It’s found, not only in the narrative arc of the story, but in the cadences of the language itself.  Even though I have never developed a taste for the type of stories he wrote, I can imagine reading Rings or The Hobbit again for the writing.  Plus, somehow, I can imagine sharing a cup of tea or even an evening with Tolkien:  He seems like that learned, urbane and friendly prof you liked in college.  Judging from her writings and comments—and some things I’ve learned about her life—I can’t imagine spending such time with Ms. Rand.

I don’t know whether Grant Petersen, the founder of Rivendell Bicycle Works, ever read Atlas or anything else Ayn Rand wrote.  But, of course, we all know he has long been a fan of Tolkien’s tales.  I don’t know when in his life he first read them, but I would guess it was, if not in high school, then in college, especially considering that Tolkien first gained his readership in the US with college students during the 1960s.  Anyway, whatever else I’ve said about him or the stuff his company sells, I’m glad he was influenced by the Oxford oracle.  Think about it:  Wouldn’t you rather ride a bike called “Bombadil” than “Galt”?

Aren't you glad this isn't called a "Dagny Taggart"?

Also, I’ve noticed that fans of Tolkien tend to be more interested than Rand acolytes in literature generally.  Petersen, apparently, as also read, in addition to Tolkien, some of my favorite poets, such as William Wordsworth.  I’m glad:  After all, even though I probably won’t buy one, I’m happy to see one of his bikes named for Betty Foy rather than Dagny Taggart!    

Look How Many Teeth You Have, Grandma!

Some of us pine for our youth---or at least some parts of it.  

Me, I wouldn't want to have to live it again as someone for whom the "M" box was checked off on her birth certificate.  But I wouldn't mind doing, again, some of the things I did in those times.  And I certainly would be happy to be in the kind of physical shape I was in for the fifteen or so years before my gender transition.

At age 40, I was something of a hero to the guys with whom I used to ride, some of whom were about half my age.  For a time, I was riding my Land Shark with 56-42 chainrings and an 11-21 nine-speed cassette.  And my knees never hurt. Nothing ever felt stiff, either.

But I had nothing on whoever rode this bike:

From DoobyBrain.com

 Now, whoever that person is, his or her mechanical skills didn't match his or her riding abilities-- or that person had a terrible mechanic:  The front fork is on backward.

Then again, perhaps it was meant to be.  After all, someone would ride with such a big chainring only for a motor-paced record attempt.  For such a ride, the cyclist would want the shortest wheelbase possible and the lowest possible amount of air resistance.

I don't know who might have ridden this bike or what record he or she might have broken.  But, from what I can see, the chainring has 124 teeth!

That Bike Ride Was A Real "Trip"

If I were to offer advice to the young, one thing I'd tell is that they should look forward to getting older because the statute of limitations runs out.


Thus, I can admit to having done some riding in my youth after intaking substances that may or may not be banned by the UCI and WADA, if not Federal and  State authorities. 


Thankfully, there are many more substances with influences under which I never rode.  For that matter, I never took any of those drugs.  I have to wonder, though, what it was like to ride under the influence of what Albert Hofmann took before his ride home on 19 April 1943.


Herr Hofmann had synthesized several derivatives of ergot, a fungus found on rye, in search of a new stimulant drug to induce childbirth.  He accidentally ingested a small amount of his 25th derivative while synthesizing it, and recorded the effects thusly:




“… affected by a remarkable restlessness, combined with a slight dizziness. At home I lay down and sank into a not unpleasant intoxicated-like condition, characterized by an extremely stimulated imagination. In a dreamlike state, with eyes closed (I found the daylight to be unpleasantly glaring), I perceived an uninterrupted stream of fantastic pictures, extraordinary shapes with intense, kaleidoscopic play of colors. After some two hours this condition faded away.”


Three days later, on the 19th, he intentionally took 0.25 milligrams--what he believed to be the "threshold dose"--of his new drug.  However, he soon realized that he had greatly underestimated its potency.  Within an hour, he was experiencing vast shifts in his mental perceptions.  Because of wartime vehicular restrictions, he asked his lab assistant to escort him home by bicycle. 


After he awoke on his couch and his physician assured him that he indeed had not been poisoned, he recorded his "trip":


 “… little by little I could begin to enjoy the unprecedented colors and plays of shapes that persisted behind my closed eyes. Kaleidoscopic, fantastic images surged in on me, alternating, variegated, opening and then closing themselves in circles and spirals, exploding in colored fountains, rearranging and hybridizing themselves in constant flux…”


By now, you probably realize that what Hofmann made and ingested was not one of today's energy bars or Red Bull.  It was Lysergic Acid Diethylamide-25, or what we now call LSD or "Acid".

Trippers and stoners today refer to 19 April as Bicycle Day, in honor of the world's first "acid trip".  (I would argue that the first trip was actually experienced, and recorded, by the author(s) of the Book of Revelations.)  Hofmann had never dreamed of such a thing, or the late 1960s Haight-Ashbury scene, for he had envisioned his drug as an aid to psychotherapy:  Its "intense and introspective nature", as he described it, would limit its popular appeal.


Note:  In writing this I am not endorsing the use of LSD-25 or any other hallucinogen or banned substance, whether or not I used them in my long-ago youth!

High Wheels, High Heels And Snow

"I have great respect for you, ma'am.  Anyone who rides today deserves 'props'!"

A security guard said that as I was locking up my bike at work.  The flurries that fluttered onto my helmet about five minutes into my commute had turned into harder, though not driving, snow.  Some of it was starting to accumulate, but I wasn't worried because the forecasts called for no more than an inch.  Plus, I knew that even if there were more on my way home, some of the streets would be plowed by that time.

It's funny that our first snowfall of the season came just days after I put a pair of Panaracer Tour tires, with thick but not knobby treads, on the LeTour.  In case you were wondering:  Yes, I rode to work in a skirt. But I was wearing fairly thick black tights under it.  On my feet, I wore my black LL Bean duck boots and carried my heels in a bag.

It wasn't an exceptional winter ride or commute, really, although I enjoyed it.  Still, whatever "props" that security guard gave me, I have nothing on these guys:

Now there's something I probably will  never do:  ride a penny-farthing in the snow.  But I guess the guys in that photo didn't have a choice, as the "safety" bicycle hadn't been invented yet.  And they were in Montreal.  If you're can't or won't ride in the snow, it essentially means that you're not going to ride in The City Of A Hundred Steeples (as Mark Twain called it) during the winter.