I Wasn't Expecting A "Beach Day"

This weekend began quite lovely, if rather chilly.  Now, if that sentence sounds impossibly Victorian, or at least British, so be it.  There is something languorous, in a pre-war sort of way, about Memorial Day weekend, which many in the US regard as the beginning of summer.

The sky has been almost preternaturally bright, as if breezes were brushing away every trace of clouds.  It also pushed away heat, which I don’t mind in the least.  Temperatures of 15 to 20 C (60 to 68 F) are, to me, all but ideal for cycling.  But it’s not exactly beach weather—at least to most people—and the water temperatures are around 13C (55F).  

So, I figured that people wouldn’t go to the beach—which meant it would be a good day to ride to Point Lookout.  Or so I thought.

The ride itself was pleasant enough.  I encountered a bit more traffic than I anticipated, and on summer days—in fact or in name only—it’s never too early in the day for drunks to spill out of the Long Beach bars.  If anything, I saw a few more inebriates than usual, for the college students had just come home.  A group of them played “chicken” with me, thrusting their faces into my path to see how close they could come to getting smacked by my helmet.

The beaches and boardwalks were full of people.  A few dipped themselves in the water; a few donned wetsuits and surfed.  At Point Lookout, as you see in the photo, people propped themselves on the cinderblocks or on beach chairs to watch airplanes make squiggles and bows with their vapor trails.  

Shows like that aren’t my kind of thing.  My father loved them, so I saw lots of them when I was growing up.  So, while I respect the skills the pilots of those planes have, I’m not enraptured by frivolous displays of bravado.  More important, though, I don’t like the message behind those shows.  Most people—at least, the ones I saw at the show-- seem to believe it’s “Support Our Troops”.  Having a brother in the Armed Forces, I’m all for “supporting” them.  However, I don’t want to throw them in harm’s way for no good reason—or, worse, for them to be used to celebrate our ability to make war.

After two of the planes made a heart or something with the vapor trails, I hopped back on my bike.  The wind blew off the ocean and at my left side until I got to Rockaway Beach, where I turned right.  From there, the wind carried me home under blue skies, away from the vapor trails.

How To Ride Like A Lady

Historian Laurel Thatcher Ulrich has written, "Well-behaved women seldom make history".

She, of course, is correct.  However, when women are entering previously-unchartered territory, we sometimes have to behave in accordance with accepted gender norms in order to hold onto our places in those worlds.  In other words, we can't be perceived as a threat to men.  On the other hand, we also have to do whatever we're doing in our own way--and, indeed, we often have to figure out what that way is--in order not to be seen as inferior to the men who are doing whatever it is we're doing.

I know from whence I speak: In my transition from living as a man to my life as a woman, I have been criticized for being too much like a man and too much like a woman--sometimes by the very same people.  The same people who told me I was too aggressive on the job told me, in the next breath, that I was too submissive--"like a woman."  It's a bit like telling a woman she throws too hard for a girl but that she "throws like a girl".

I thought about that when I came across this list of "don'ts" for female cyclists that was published in the New York World in 1895:

Don’t be a fright.

Don’t faint on the road.

Don’t wear a man’s cap.

Don’t wear tight garters.

Don’t forget your toolbag

Don’t attempt a “century.”

Don’t coast. It is dangerous.

Don’t boast of your long rides.

Don’t criticize people’s “legs.”

Don’t wear loud hued leggings.

Don’t cultivate a “bicycle face.”

Don’t refuse assistance up a hill.

Don’t wear clothes that don’t fit.

Don’t neglect a “light’s out” cry.

Don’t wear jewelry while on a tour.

Don’t race. Leave that to the scorchers.

Don’t wear laced boots. They are tiresome.

Don’t imagine everybody is looking at you.

Don’t go to church in your bicycle costume.

Don’t wear a garden party hat with bloomers.

Don’t contest the right of way with cable cars.

Don’t chew gum. Exercise your jaws in private.

Don’t wear white kid gloves. Silk is the thing.

Don’t ask, “What do you think of my bloomers?”

Don’t use bicycle slang. Leave that to the boys.

Don’t go out after dark without a male escort.

Don’t go without a needle, thread and thimble.

Don’t try to have every article of your attire “match.”

Don’t let your golden hair be hanging down your back.

Don’t allow dear little Fido to accompany you

Don’t scratch a match on the seat of your bloomers.

Don’t discuss bloomers with every man you know.

Don’t appear in public until you have learned to ride well.

Don’t overdo things. Let cycling be a recreation, not a labor.

Don’t ignore the laws of the road because you are a woman.

Don’t try to ride in your brother’s clothes “to see how it feels.”

Don’t scream if you meet a cow. If she sees you first, she will run.

Don’t cultivate everything that is up to date because yon ride a wheel.

Don’t emulate your brother’s attitude if he rides parallel with the ground.

Don’t undertake a long ride if you are not confident of performing it easily.

Don’t appear to be up on “records” and “record smashing.” That is sporty.

Some of these "don'ts" made me cringe.  But I had to get a laugh out of "Don't try to ride in your brother's clothes 'to see how it feels'!"

Kurt Mc Robert's New York Cyclists

Sometimes it seems that--here in NYC, anyway--there are two kinds of cyclists:  the ones everyone hates and the ones other cyclists hate.

In the first category are, of course, hipsters with fixies and delivery cyclists riding against the traffic on city streets--and, worse, in bike lanes.  The second group consists of tourists on rented bikes and hedge-fund managers on bikes that cost more than their secretaries make in a year, with lycra outfits to match.

Back in the '80's, the cyclists everybody loved to hate were the messengers.  (I know: I was one.) And the ones who ticked off other cyclists were the Chinese (and, later, Mexican) delivery guys, who invariably were riding the wrong way just when you were flying down the street and couldn't steer out of their path. 

And there was another category, of which I was a part:  The ones fishermen hated.  Now you might be wondering why a fisherman would hate a cyclist.  Well, it has nothing to do with, "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle."  Instead, it had to do with the fact that very often, as we rode across the narrow pedestrian lanes like the ones on the Marine Park-Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge, men (almost always men) were casting their lines off, or had propped their fishing rods on, it. Sometimes they came close to snagging us, or we got a little too close to them (as if there were any choice!) and they claimed we were scaring fish away. 

Perhaps the hate stemmed from resentment:  Most of the anglers were poor or working-class, many of whom were immigrants.  They saw us, on our expensive bikes, much as those who participated in Occupy Wall Street see bankers and the like.

Anyway, there are categories of cyclist--and haters--that didn't exist back then.  Illustrator Kurt McRobert has catalogued them on his site.


(All images are from Kurt McRobert's site.)

The BMX Ballerina

One of the few genres of cycling I have never tried is BMX.  Part of the reason for that, I think, is that when it was first becoming popular--in the late 1970's-- I was a bit older than most of its participants, who were in their mid-teens.  Also, by that time  I had become so accustomed to riding 27 inch--and, a little later, 700C--wheels that I simply couldn't see how I could ride the smaller-wheeled BMX bike.  Moreover, I became more interested in speed and distance--and, later, longevity--than in fancy maneuvers.  (That's one of the reasons I was a mountain biker for only a few years.)  Finally, I'll admit that by that time I was on the cusp of early adulthood and thought of anything with small wheels as a kid's bike.

I probably won't ever be a BMXer because, at my age, I don't think I any longer have the reflexes or flexibility for the kinds of maneuvers BMX riders routinely do.  But that doesn't mean I don't admire the really skilled riders:  In fact, their feats are among the few things I watch on TV or video anymore.  Even the less-skilled riders interest me in much the same way skaters and dancers do:  As something of a performer, athlete and artist myself, I can appreciate their intricate moves--and, most important, the talents those riders possess, and the drive and discipline it takes for them to turn their visions of themselves into reality.

Funny that I should mention skaters and dancers: Some of the earliest--and, even today, best--BMX moves were done by someone who never claimed to be a BMX rider.  In fact, this person was, by training and profession, a ballerina.  And she didn't cut her teeth (or gears) in the sandlots of Southern California.  Rather, she got her training on the other side of the United States--in New York, where she was born to parents who came from Japan, on the other side of the Pacific from California.

And, because there wasn't a BMX circuit in her time, she performed most of her acrobatics in circuses or on other stages of one kind or another.  She once even performed on The Ed Sullivan Show.

Who is this amazing performer to whom I am referring?  She is none other than Lilly Yokoi, who was dubbed "the world's greatest bicycle acrobat" during the 1960's and '70's.

Look at some of the moves she was doing years before Dave Mirra and Ryan Nyquist were even born:




The show was The Hollywood Palace.  That particular episode aired on 9 October 1965.  And, yes, that was Joan Crawford hosting.

I can't find any current information about Ms. Yokoi.  In 2009, her daughter let it be known that Lilly, then in her eighties, was retired and living in Japan.

 

The Mysterious Syntax Of A Road Sign

Some people seem to believe that writing or speaking grammatically is elitist or simply fussy.  Then there are those who are convinced that those of us who do are conspiring against them in some way or another.

Now, I don't pretend to speak (or write) with perfect grammar all of the time. I think I do it often enough to be understood, at least most of the time. If nothing else, I know how poorly constructed sentences with unclear phrasing can lead to misunderstandings--and keep lawyers busy.

Hey, proper punctuation can save a person's life. If you don't believe me, look at this:

Rescind order to execute prisoner.

Now, tell me:  Does the prisoner live or die in that sentence?

If we add a comma, the intent is clearer:

Rescind order, to execute prisoner.

If that sentence was in the governor's memo, the inmate in question would be choosing his or her last meal.  However, another kind of punctuation, placed in another part of the sentence, gives us an entirely different outcome:

Rescind:  Order to execute prisoner.

Now, there aren't such drastic examples (to my knowledge, anyway) in the world of cycling. However, in an earlier post, I showed how a poorly-phrased sign can say something different from--even the exact opposite of--what was intended.

Today I saw another sign--on the RFK/Triborough Bridge--that doesn't convey what I believe the Department of Transportation is trying to tell us:

So, the graphic part of the sign is saying that graffiti isn't allowed.  Then the first four words of the text say it's a crime.  So far, it makes sense.

But what does "camera enforced" mean?  Is crime "camera enforced"?  Perhaps the person who wrote the sign speaks another language and, while composing the sign, his or her brain flipped from English to whatever, causing a change in syntax. A "camera enforced crime" would be a "crime camera enforced" in French, Spanish, Italian or a lot of other languages.

Hmm...Maybe the city didn't want to spend the money to print the sign in both English and Spanish.  

Or is the sign trying to tell us that graffiti is camera enforced?  Now that would be interesting, if in an Orwellian sort of way. 
 

Misty Morning Ride

The last couple of mornings, heavy fogs have shrouded the Queensborough Bridge towers.  

The cyclist you see in this photo soon disappeared as he descended through the fog on the Manhattan side of the bridge.

The Upper East Side, Long Island City, Astoria, Roosevelt Island and the the southern tip of the Bronx all seemed to dissolve into a soup of steel pores and ashen light that the East River had become.  

I actually enjoy riding on a misty morning.  Perhaps it's because I have no choice but to focus on what's around, rather than ahead of, me.  

Unstealable Bikes And "Smart" Locks

Why is it that "smart" things are always invented for dumb people?

That question is the premise behind today's post in "The Retrogrouch."  Its author seems to have some sort of radar that finds all of the most ridiculous and useless "innovations" in cycling.  The latest is the Noke U-Lock, which promises to "eliminate the hassle and frustration of lost keys and forgotten combinations".

Just as there are people who know how to communicate only on Facebook and Twitter, there are those who can't do anything without a smartphone app.  (Actually, they're the same people. Or so I assume.  I don't have a smartphone, or a Facebook or Twitter account!)  The Noke U-Lock is apparently made for such people. 

In reading about it, I had the same question "Retrogrouch" asked:  If people can't be bothered to use a key, or can't remember a combination or where they parked their bike, how in the world can they ride a bike--or function in this world?

Ironically, just before I read "Retrogrouch's" post, I came across something almost as ridiculous.  What's even more ironic is that it's something that, while just as pointless as the Noke U-Lock, will probably never be used by someone who'd use a Noke. 

The Yerka "unstealable" bike

The Yerka is an "unstealable" bike?  Oh, please.  What I find really funny is that the promo video starts off with someone cutting a bike lock. If a thief can do that, what's to say that he or she can't cut the downtube or seatpost that makes the bike "unstealable"?




If that bike were parked in some parts of NYC, the wheels would disappear. Hmm...Maybe the Yerka's owner would need another lock after all. The Noke, perhaps?&lt;/span></div>

A Way I Never Graduated

Today I managed to escape from grading papers for a couple of hours.  I pedaled hard even though, thankfully, I don't have to ride very fast to escape from papers, even the good ones.  It's nice to know that at my age, and after a winter of inactivity, I can still outrun something.

Exams are this week.  Some students will beg and cajole me to accept long-overdue work.  Their stories will get longer and more pitiful by the day.  Then, after I finish reading them and the exams--and dealing with the shock expressed by those students upon seeing the grades they earned for their late work--there will be graduations, where I teach and at other schools.  Some have had them already.

I didn't attend my graduation for my master's degree.  I don't think anybody in my class did.  I walked up to the podium, absurdly overdressed considering how hot it was and the fact that the gown covered what I was wearing, to get my bachelor's degree and high school diploma mainly because my family attended those ceremonies.   

While riding today, I wondered what it would have been like to pedal up to the podium.  Do schools have official policies against such things?  If they do, it's probably because they know people like me would snatch their sheepskins (or whatever those degrees and diplomas are printed on) and ride like hell, as fast and as far away as possible, from the ceremony, the commencement speakers who didn't say anything anyone would remember and all of the people I never wanted to see again. (I've never been to any of my class reunions.  Are you surprised?)

Or maybe I would've had more fun if I could have gotten my degree from the saddle (or ex cathedra).  Maybe if others did the same, we could have made a game of tossing our caps in the air: We could catch our own caps, or someone else's. Or we could dodge them.  Hmm...If you catch someone else's cap, will you end up marrying that person?

All right.  I'm sure that some school has a bike procession up to the podium, but I'm not aware of it.  It wouldn't surprise me to learn that in some college, everyone rode to his or her graduation ceremony and rode out of it.  Now that would make for some interesting group photos.

Turns out, my musings aren't so far-fetched after all.  Last year, some graduates of Liaocheng University in China posed for this:

From China Daily

They were lying on the lawn for this photo, taken in Shandong Province.  Maybe it was their final project for a degree in performing or visual arts.

How Practical Are My Cats? (Apologies to T.S. Eliot)

Rain on and off today.  But it's not the reason I didn't ride.  You see, the semester is drawing to a close.  Exams will be given this coming week.  Meantime, I had a whole bunch of papers to read and grade.  So that's how I spent my day.

Max and Marlee got to spend time with me.  Every once in a while, one of them would climb onto the table and park him or herself on the papers.  They must know that I'd rather play with them than grade students' assignments. (No offense to my students intended!) 

I wonder what they see in those papers.  For that matter, I wonder how my bicycles look to them.  They see me leave with one of them.  Then I'm gone for a while.  When I come back, they want to cuddle.  What do they think I'm doing while I'm gone?  What do they think a bicycle does?

The only time Max and Marlee have actually seen me on one of my bikes is when I'm adjusting it after, say, swapping a handlebar or saddle.  They've seen my bikes hanging from my wall, on the repair stand, leaning against walls and bookshelves and even on the floor.  But they've never seen them quite this way:

From Still Amazed

How Much Are Those Lilacs On The Wall?

One way I know it's really spring is when I'm riding--whether to work or for fun--and my peripheral vision increases.

It seems that as the days grow longer and the air milder, I am less focused on my immediate space than I am when I'm exhaling steam and there's snow and ice around me.  Could it be that I simply have to notice more (ice patches and such) immediately in front of, and around, me during the winter?  Or does my scope increase when I remove hoods, balaclavas and such and have only my helmet on my head?

Maybe I've discovered a corollary to the material world:  Perhaps the human field of vision expands when warmed and contracts when chilled.

Hmm...Could I have made some discovery that, for once and for all, links the physical sciences with what we know about human consciousness?

All right...Before I get all grandiose on you (too late?), I'll show you a couple of things I saw while riding to work this week.  There's nothing profound here:  just a couple of moments I captured on my cell phone.


Make what you will of this, but the things that make me happiest about Spring are cherry blossoms and lilacs.  Both came late this year, which is probably why they seemed all the more vivid to me.  I paid ten bucks for a bouquet of lilacs that's on my table.  Perhaps I could have taken them from here:

With the money I saved, maybe I wouldn't have to ask, "How much is that doggie in the window?" 

 Instead, I'd leave it to Patti Page: