Post #1500: Does Midlife Have To End?

This is post #1500 of Midlife Cycling.  

When I started this blog, I had no idea of how long it would run or how many posts I’d write—or, for that matter, on which aspects of cycling and my experiences as a cyclist I would focus.

I’m not sure that I’ve focused anything in particular, save for cycling.  I’ve written about whatever strikes my fancy.  In a few cases, it didn’t have much to do with bicycles or bicycling.  Nobody’s complained about anything I’ve done, so I guess I shouldn’t worry.

(Speaking of which:  I’ve published all of the comments I’ve received, except for the ones that are obviously spam or that were filtered and I somehow managed to miss.)

Last month, this blog had another milestone:  five years online.  Time really does march—or roll, or spin—onward.  That fact has made me think about the title of this blog:  Midlife Cycling.  When I posted for the first time, I was what most people would consider “middle-aged”.   I would not resist such a label:  Because of changes in myself, and the world around me, I knew I was past my youth, at least in some senses. And, a few days ago, I was reminded that I am getting closer to what the US and most Western (or Westernized) cultures consider a “senior citizen”.

 On the other hand, because of those changes in myself, I was beginning some aspects of my life all over again.  That was as true of my cycling as anything else:  I knew that I wasn’t going to be the lycra-clad racer (or wannabe) I was earlier in my life.  Then again, I knew that, in some way, I never was that person, at least in spirit.  Sure, I trained and gained the admiration and respect of some of my old riding partners—and a few racing rivals.  But, as much as I love cycling, it was never the only thing in my life.  When I did Tour de France climbs in the Alps and Pyrenees, I was as proud of my ability to talk to local people in their language as I was of making the climbs.

Also, I tried to maintain a classic aesthetic—or a modern adaptation of it—as bicycle technology evolved.  I am not a pedant who wants her bikes to look just like the ones made in 1950 or some other time before she was born.  At the same time, I always wanted my bikes to be pretty—and I don’t consider the Darth Vader shapes or cartoonish graphics of too many parts and bikes made today.  

In other words, I have always been in the process of becoming, as a cyclist and in other areas of my life.  I guess that’s as it should be in the middle of one’s life:  Contrary to received wisdom, I don’t think “middle age” is a time for settling or an interlude between youth and old age.  I think that if you’re in the middle of anything, something is rubbing off on you or you are rubbing it off.  You are then not in a cycle of decay or decline.

That makes me think of something someone—a psychologist, I think—said:  You’re always middle-aged because, as long as you don’t know when your life is going to end, you’re in the middle of it.  So, perhaps, as long as I’m riding or writing, I will reach other milestones on this blog, and in my life, without having to change the title of this blog. 

La Fete, Le Tour

Today is la Fete Nationale.

In France, there are lots of fetes.  But today is "La Fete".  Yes, La Fete.  In much the same way that people in other countries say "The Holidays" for the season of Christmas and New Year's Day, in France the holiday is today, Bastille Day.

Everything in the country is closed.  And, it seems, everyone watches the sporting event most associated with France:  Le Tour.

In much the same way that Bastille Day is La Fete, the Tour de France is Le Tour, or the race.





And, every year on this date, every French (and Francophile) fan hopes to see a Gallic cyclist win the day's stage. This has been especially true in recent years, as even stage victories have become less frequent for riders from the land of the Tricolore.

Helas, there would be no French victory today.  Chris Froome, favored to win the Tour, took Stage 10, the first in the mountains.  Froome certainly has the talent and skills to win; perhaps more important, he has teammates like Richie Porte.

And one of France's best hopes--Warren Barguil--crashed.

Alberto Contador and Vicenzo Nabali lost ground to Froome and Porte.  Still, their finishes were more than respectable, as the Pyrenees, while not as high as the Alps, include some very steep climbs. I know:  I've ridden there! I wouldn't mind being there again for La Fete.

 

To Join, Or Not

Yesterday, I encountered a roadblock about 8 km (5 miles) into my ride.

Just east of LaGuardia Airport, a long line of cyclists streamed down the avenue in the opposite direction from the one I was pedaling.  They were riding every kind of bike imaginable, from “stealth” carbon fiber frames that looked like they were designed by Salvador Dali to department-store machines of the kind that drove me and fellow bike shop employees to drink (and other things) when I was in college.  Some riders—mostly males==were clad in lycra kit, while others wore what one might see on just about anyone else on a summer day:  shorts, T-shirts and the like.  One young woman even rode in a glittery dress one might see on a performer in a Broadway musical, with glittery high heels protecting her feet from the pedals she was pushing.

It didn’t look like a club ride; I wasn't sure of whether or not the Tour of Queens had already taken place.  So, I guessed, the ride might have been for some cause or another, although I didn’t see any T-shirts, banners or other signs of such a gathering.

 

I followed the street to the next major intersection, just to the west of Citi Field.  The police and marshals held motor traffic, which was backed up for a few blocks.  As you can imagine, some drivers were annoyed, but they didn’t honk mainly because there is a regulation (sporadically-enforced) mandating fines for unnecessary horn-honking. 

I must admit, I was starting to share their exasperation.  I hadn’t started my ride with any particular plan, but once I got on the road, I decided to ride along the World’s Fair Promenade and cross the bridge into eastern Queens and, ultimately, the North Shore of Long Island.

It actually wasn’t such a big deal:  I would take a detour that would add about ten kilometers to my ride. Before I made my turn, I watched some cyclists rolling through the intersection and saw there were many more behind them.  In fact, I couldn’t see the end of that line. 

While deciding what to do, two cyclists beckoned me to join them.  I politely declined; I really wasn’t in the mood to ride with such a large crowd.  More waved their hands and yelled, “Ride with us!”.  I shook my head and thanked them.  One of them actually looked upset, even offended.

Aside from my desire not to ride with so many others, I had another rationale for not joining them:  If they were riding for a cause, my joining them would do nothing to help with their fundraising.  At least, that’s what I figured:  I’ve participated in bike rides to raise funds for diabetes research, suicide prevention as well as other causes.  In every one of them, I had to enlist people to sponsor me:  They would pledge to donate a certain amount of money for each mile I rode, or a lump sum for my having done the ride.  I assumed that the ride streaming before me worked in the same way.

This may seem strange to some of you, but I really have no problem--assuming, of course, I’m in the mood for a large-group ride-- in “crashing” (hmm…that’s not such a great word choice, is it?) the Five Boro Bike Tour or other large organized rides that have no purpose but cycling or, perhaps, celebrating cycling or solidarity among cyclists.  On the other hand, I really don’t want to join a fundraising ride unless I’m helping to raise funds.

Turns out, they were riding the Tour of Queens.  Had I known that, I might've joined them. Just might've.

A police officer saw me turn down the riders’ invitations to join.  “Why don’t you ride with them?”

“Maybe another time.”

What We Really Go For

From the saddle, you can learn all sorts of interesting things.

For example, I never knew it was possible to camouflage a McDonald’s until I rode on Long Island today.  

It looks more like one of those steakhouses-with-a-view one might find in Roslyn or Sea Cliff or someplace else on the North Shore (a.k.a. Gatsby Country).  Maybe that was the intent of whoever decided to put a fast-food franchise in that house.

When I stopped to take the photo (with my cell phone), I got to talking with a woman who was doing the same thing.  She was visiting relatives, she said, when she noticed it, as I did, in passing.  Her relatives never knew a McDonald’s was there; when her young niece saw it, she exclaimed, “Ooh!  The Ronald Mc Donald House!”

According to the woman, there is upstairs “dining” (Can anything at McDonald’s be so named?) in the upstairs room.  I suppose that it makes sense when you realize that when people go to a restaurant for the view, they’re probably not going for the food anyway.

About those North Shore restaurants:  I didn’t eat (or take in the view) in any of them.  But I rode by some of them.  Roslyn’s downtown, on a cove of the Sound, is particularly lovely.  However, all of those nice old houses (built between 1690 and 1865) are centered around this clock tower:

I actually like the tower, except for one thing:  None of the clocks on any of the tower’s four sides tell the same time.  And none of the times they give are the right time. 

Maybe I shouldn't criticize that.  After all, does anybody look at such a tower (at least these days) to find out what time it is? 

During A Perfect Ride, I Drank More Than Usual

This morning, the weather forecasters said it would be a “perfect” beach day.  And it was:  The temperature reached 31C (88F) and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky.  The latter meant that humidity was low.

So, of course, I decided I didn’t want to ride to the beach.  I figured at least half of the world would be doing that, which meant that traffic along streets that lead to Coney Island, Rockaway or Jones Beaches, or just about any along the Jersey shore, would resemble downtown Manhattan on a business day.  I actually don’t mind riding in traffic—most of the time.  Today didn’t fit “most”.

I decided, therefore, to head north—to Westchester County and Connecticut.  That turned out to be a good decision:  the ride was delightful, even though—or, perhaps, because—I decided to try new routes in northeastern Bronx and in the part of Westchester County between Rye and the state line.  In each of those areas, I managed to ride in a complete circle (or square or oval—I’m not sure of which) that added distance to my ride.  That also wasn’t a bad thing:  I didn’t have a deadline and, because it’s early summer, lots of daylight to work with. 

Not that I was worried about getting back before dark:  I could have ridden even more than I did and made it home in time to light shabbos candles (not that I would have done such a thing).  I also could have spent even more time than I did at my “turnaround” point.  The only reason I didn’t is that, ironically, I encountered as much traffic as I’d anticipated in the beach areas as I crossed from the Empire State into the Nutmeg State.

The reason soon became clear:  Greenwich was having street fairs on, it seemed, all of its commercial thoroughfares.  What that meant is that people drove into the town—in particular, the strip with designer boutiques—to shop.  I actually had to walk my bike for a couple of blocks, as cycling even the sidewalks (which is probably illegal), let alone the streets, was all but impossible.  To their credit, many people actually stepped aside as I approached, even though I was ready to maneuver around them.

(I guess they still teach good manners in Swiss boarding schools!)

Anyway, having to walk those couple of blocks didn’t take any pleasure out of the ride.  I don’t think anything could have, really.  The weather was great, I was feeling good and Arielle, my Mercian Audax, performed flawlessly.

One thing I did notice, though, is that I drank quite a bit more than I normally do.  Other people with whom I ride have called me a “camel”, as I can pedal a good while before I reach for my water bottle.  But on today’s ride, I managed to consume two water bottles.  In addition, I stopped for an iced tea (at a service-station vending machine about halfway home) and a small Dunkin’ Donuts Coolata (mango-passion fruit)in Connecticut.  I think my consumption had to do with the low humidity and constant sun.  Plus, I added cheese—something I don’t normally consume before or during a ride—to the eggless Eggs Benedict I made myself for breakfast.  It was good cheese, but I think dairy products of any kind before and during a ride make me thirsty.

Even my thirst, though, didn’t detract from my ride.  I don’t think anything could have.

(In case you want to know about my eggless Eggs Benedict:  I chopped a garlic clove, a mushroom, a couple of sundried tomatoes and some kale and sautéed them.  Then I put them—and the cheese (Cabot’sVermont Sharp) on top of a Vermont Bread whole wheat English muffin.  Yummy, if I do say so myself!)