This Journey (With Apologies to James Wright)

Whenever I ride a long road or path along an ocean--or just about any other body of water, for that matter--I can't help but to think about some of the earliest long rides I took, as a teenager in New Jersey.

Some said I was a lonely kid. Truth was, I simply wasn't thinking about the things most other kids my age were.  Truth was, I couldn't.  Oh, I worried about which college, if any, would accept me and ran different career paths through my mind.  Truth was, I was doing those things because other people said I should.

Truth is, I was on a journey on which no one could accompany, let alone guide, me.  I wanted to ride my bike across counties and countries when my peers wanted to get their licenses and pick up dates who would be impressed by such things--or being picked up by one of those new drivers.

And that was just one way in which I wasn't on the same road or path as my peers.  If you've been reading my other blog--or even some posts on this one--you know another one of the ways in which my life--or, more precisely, the way in which I saw my identity, my self--differed from almost anybody else I knew.  And I would not learn a language to express it for a long time.

But cycling was, and remains, a means of communication between my body, my spirit and all that is essential to them.  That is the reason why, even when I have ridden by myself, I have never felt lonely while on two wheels.  Some might have said I rode because of alienation.  When I didn't know any better--in other words, when I didn't know how to express otherwise--I believed something like that in the same way people believe the most plausible-sounding explanation for just about anything because they don't know anything else.

Perhaps that is the reason why I am drawn to the ocean, or to any other large body of water, when I'm on my bike.  It was while pedaling along the Atlantic Ocean between Sandy Hook and Island Beach--and along the bodies of water that led to the ocean--that I first realized that I would often ride alone, but I would not lack for companionship.  I had my self, I had my bike and at times I would have a riding partners who understood, or who at least simply wanted to ride with me. Or, perhaps, I would simply want to ride with them. 

P.S.  On a somewhat related topic, please check out my latest on Huffington Post!

Flora And Fauna And Time

When you live in a big city, you can tell what part of the day it is by the light in which you're seeing whatever's in front of you.  In other words, buildings or streets or other structures reflect morning, noon or night by dawn, daylight, dusk, shadows or artificial light.

Here in small-town and rural Florida, flora and fauna show varying sides of themselves through the different facets of the day.  So, bush that might bud at one time of the day could bloom a couple of hours later and denude itself by nightfall.

And so it was this morning, when I rode from my parents' house.  The street on which they live ends in a wider street that edges a wooded area.  That street, in turn, leads to a four-line parkway that cuts through a swamp. 

Alongside the parkway I saw these tiny flowers colored like pale lilacs waving in the breeze as I pedaled away.  When I returned in the afternoon, they were gone.  They were repeating the "hello" and "goodbye" they bade me yesterday and the day before as I began and ended those days' rides.

Tomorrow I will bid them farewell until another day, another season--and more important, another hour, another time of day.

Portrait Of A Chance Encounter On My Way To Painters Hill

Yesterday I did a shorter ride (about 50 km) than I did the other day (Daytona Beach) or Saturday (St. Augustine).  But I planned it that way so I could linger along one of my favorite stretches of Route A1A, in the very aptly named Painters Hill:

Well, all right, the Painters part is apt.  The hill, not so much.  But it's a feast for the senses.  And, oh yeah, I went swimming.  You could tell I--and the other swimmers--aren't from around here.  Natives wondered how we could "stand" water that's "so cold".  I'd guess that the temperature was somewhere around 13 to 15 C (55 to 60F).  At Rockaway Beach or Coney Island, it's probably not much higher than 5C (40F) right now.

Perhaps the best part of the ride is that I might have made a new friend and riding partner for future trips down here (or perhaps even for later this week!)  I met her at a convenience store-gas station just west of the bridge from Palm Coast Parkway to Route A-1A.  The bichon frise in the front basket of her Diamond Back cruiser gave that ever-so-friendly look bichon frises give and, of course, I stroked his head.  If dogs are a reflection of their owners, that bichon frise perfectly mirrored her personality.  

Before I crossed the bridge into A1A, we rode trails that crossed ponds, cut through swamps and rimmed the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway.  She apologized--though she had no reason to--for her riding:  It was her first time out this year, she said.  I didn't feel that she was slowing me down, as she feared.  I must say, though, that I astounded her when I said that I rode the borrowed clunker to and from St. Augustine and Daytona Beach.  "Just thinking about it gets me tired," she exclaimed.

After about two hours, she had to go back to her house to meet a client.  I thanked her:  Even if I hadn't continued down to Painters Hill and Flagler Beach, I would have felt I'd had a good ride.  After all, encounters like that remind me of some of the reasons I ride.

Another Day At The Races--Sort Of

Yesterday I was off to the races.

No, I wasn't in the peloton or even at the starting line.  But I was in the vicinity of a track.

All right, it wasn't a velodrome.  But it's probably the one truly important racing venue outside the world of cycling.  I'm talking, of course about the Daytona Speedway.

To be more precise, I pedaled to Daytona Beach, which meant that I did two 100k rides in three days, which is two more than I'd done in the three previous months.  

I rode up and down the streets, along the boardwalk and, yes, on the beach itself.  I was going to do the latter because, I reasoned, if it was OK for cars and jeeps to drive there, why not bikes?  Plus, I was riding a beach cruiser, and I thought perhaps it should actually be ridden on a beach at least once!

Believe it or not, the car lane on the beach is actually designated as the Daytona Beach Highway, subject to all of the same rules and regulations as other automobile routes.  The difference is, of course, that it's sand instead of asphalt or concrete, and the speed limit is ten miles per hour (16KPH). Hey, you can go faster than that on your bike!

But the best part of going to and from Daytona by bike is the beautiful road--Route A1A--that skirts the coast line.  When you're riding north from Daytona, all you have to do is look--real hard--to your right and, on a clear day, you can see Casablanca.  After all, it's only 6866.9 kilometers (4246 miles) away.

The Burn Without The Climb

Tomorrow or some time after, I'll tell you about the ride I did today.  It's another 100K ride, though to a different destination from the one I did the other day.

So, in three days, I've probably done more riding-for-the-sake-of-riding than I'd done a couple of months.  My legs have been holding up surprisingly well.  Maybe I had more "money in the bank", as an old riding partner used to say, than I realized.  

Whatever fatigue I've felt has come from all of the sun I've absorbed on my skin.  Even though I've used lots of sunscreen, I now see--and feel--redness on skin that had been the color of Wonder bread for weeks.

All right, so that last description was a bit of an exaggeration.  Still, I feel as if the past few days have been a new beginning, at least in terms of my cycling--and writing. Yes, I've been doing some of the latter, and it's not related (at least not obviously so) to this or my other blog.

The only complaint I have is the one I have about cycling here generally:  It's flat.  Now, it's probably the reason I've been able to do the rides I've done with relative ease. But to really get back into shape, I'll have to start going vertical.  And about the only climbs around here are the bridge ramps. Even places with "hill" in their names don't require much more of a change in elevation than the floor of one place in which I lived during my youth.

Speaking of my youth:  Yes, I did a fair amount of climbing on my bike.  In fact, during my last two tours in France, I pedaled up a few of the fabled Tour de France climbs.  One day I will write about them, after I sift through my photos and journals of those rides, the most recent of which I did in 2001.

But for now, I'll share this wry image about the difficulty of such climbs:

From Imgkid

Of the peaks mentioned, I have done all except Port de Bales.  Perhaps one day I will do them again, or find others.

Happy Easter From The Florida "Bunny"

So...Yesterday I was feeling good about doing my first 100K ride of the year and, in the process, getting more sunshine in one day than I'd seen in the previous three months.

Today I rode about half as much.  I probably would have had a shorter ride in any event because I started later and had to get back earlier than I did yesterday.  But today I made a point of not venturing very far because I was riding in and out of showers that threatened to turn into one of those Florida downpours that bears more resemblance to Niagara Falls than to most other storms you've seen.  At least, that's what the weather forecasters promised us.

And we did get one, about an hour after I got back--and just minutes after seeing someone who probably weathered it all quite well:

Can you imagine if we had necks like that?  It would definitely put chiropractors out of business!
 

Actually, he's the Florida Easter Bunny. a.k.a. the Great Egret.

Have a great holiday!

Back In The Sunshine--And Heat

Like everyone else in northeastern US, I've been complaining about The Winter That Won't Go Away.  It hasn't been the snowiest or coldest season, but it's been so gray and dreary, and the snow and ice cover were all but constant from the beginning of the new year until a couple of weeks ago.

Mind you, I don't mind cold or snow.  I like changing seasons.  I don't want endless winter more than I want any other endless season.

So guess where I am now?  You guessed it:  in a place that has a couple fewer seasons than New York.

  

Yes, I'm in Florida again, having come just as the weather was starting to warm up (or, at least,turn more springlike) at home.  

Bicycle tubes at the Trailhead Beach 'n' Bike Gallery, Palm Coast, FL

I'm glad to see Mom and Dad again.  And today I got on the old beach cruiser they keep here for me and kept on pedaling, into the wind, up Route A1A.   I could feel some of the dust flying off and the cobwebs breaking away from my muscles.  And the sun grew warmer--and, I would discover, more intense on my skin.

The result?  I pedaled 51 km (31.5 miles), encountering almost no traffic and, before my destination for the day, my only obstacle--lions .

I had to get past them to enter the historic downtown area of St. Augustine.  Surprisingly, those lions don't chase cyclists.  At least, they didn't chase me.  Maybe they know I love cats.

And they stood aside as I crossed their bridge to leave the city and pedal another 51 km back to Mom and Dad's house.  The 102 km I covered today made it my longest ride of the year, so far.

After fighting the wind on the way up, my feet were practically pedaling automatically on the way back.  That, in spite of tiring about halfway back. 

In June 1964, Andrew Young, then one of Martin Luther King Jr's senior field organizers, led a march through the old part of St. Augustine. He and the other marchers were beaten as they tried to cross to Plaza de la Constitution. One month later, the Civil Rights Act was passed.

I realized why:  I felt that glow I feel on my skin whenever I've just gotten more sun than I've had in weeks and months.  Not only did I spend a few hours in uninterrupted sunlight (except for a couple of brief incursions into St. Augustine landmarks and shops), I was wearing far less--shorts and a tank top--than I've worn in months.  And, as this ride reminded me, the sun is a good deal more intense here than it is in New York.

But I feel my body, my spirit opened again.  That, and something I wrote on the plane on the way down, help me to feel as if I am returning to normal in the good ways.  I'm ready to say "I'm back", though perhaps without the Austrian accent. 

Will They Still Be Riding When They're 64?

We all get older. Some of us get old.  Of course, when we're young, most of us don't think about that:  We simply cannot imagine ourselves not going on as we are.

I got to thinking about that again, ironically, while riding along the waterfront from my neighborhood into Long Island City, Greenpoint and Williamsburg, a.k.a. Hipster Hook. Hipsters are, of course, young by definition.  At least, that's how I understand them to be.  That begs the question of whether one can "age out" of hipsterdom.  (I recall how the hippies used to say young people shouldn't trust anyone over 30.)  What do hipsters become when they're, say, old enough to be President?  Or do they move to other hipster enclaves and lie about their age?

More important (at least in relation to this blog!), will they continue riding their fixed-gear bicycles?  And, if they do (or if they ride any bikes at all), will they still want "deep V" aerodynamic rims in rainbow colors?

I can just picture some hipster retirement community in 40 years. Maybe residents will be riding machines like this:

From Trikes and (odd) Bikes

To tell you the truth, I like it, though I don't feel ready to ride a trike just yet. (Knock on my Phil Woods!)

Crazy In Chicago

Since I'm posting this on the day after April Fools' Day, This it is not a joke.  But some of the bikes you will see in it will seem like pranks.

As we all know, Schwinn was based in Chicago for a century.  At the time it started building bikes, in the mid-1890s, about six dozen other bicycle manufacturers were making their wares in the Windy City.

Most, of course, did not survive beyond the first decade of the 20th Century.  Still, Schwinn was big enough, and enough smaller companies remained, to ensure that the city on the shore of Lake Michigan would retain its status as one of the centers of the American bicycle industry.

And it's one of the places where adult cycling actually survived, at least to some degree, during the Dark Ages of cycling in the US:  roughly the two decades following World War II.

Maybe it has to do with the water (Lake Michigan?  The Chicago River?  The Canal?):  During the 1940s, a lot of "crazy bikes" were built there by ostensibly sentient grown-ups.  

I don't know whether to have respect or to ridicule Art Rothman, who designed this one:

 

He's riding in the top position. Perhaps not surprisingly, he broke three ribs while learning how to ride it.  Perhaps he recuperated on this Joe Steinlauf-designed bike-bed:

 



Once he got it going, I'm sure he got further on it than anyone who rode this machine:


 

Just in case you run into any gangsters (It's Chicago, after all!), make sure you have this:

 


Thirteen shotguns, two revolvers, six bayonets and a flare gun.  They covered all possibilities, didn't they?


Now here's what we needed this past winter:

 

So You Wanna Have The Lightest Bike On The Block...

So...You missed your opportunity to ride Gunter Mai's 2.96 kilogram Lightbike.  You hadn't heard about it. Or you did,  but couldn't find his website.  Or you did, but can't read German.  Or you couldn't afford it. (I didn't ask.  You know what they say:  If you have to ask, you can't afford it.)  Or you had some other commitment.

Well, don't feel bad.  You didn't miss your opportunity to ride the world's lightest bike after all. As we speak, a new, revolutionary velocipedic machine is being made from the lightest material known to humankind.

 

How light is it?   Try 100 times lighter than Styrofoam (you know, that stuff in your helmet).  And it's stronger than carbon-fiber, beryllium or any other metal that's every been used to make a bike or part on which you've spent your hard-earned money.

What is that wonder metal?, you ask.  It's a nickel-phosphorus alloy.  Even more important, though, it's drawn into tubes one-hundreth the breadth of a human hair and woven into a latticework that can withstand enormous stresses.

No one has said when a bike made from this material will be ready to ride, but here is a prototype.


To learn more about it, click here.