The Naked Truth About The Hipster Infantry

They have silly facial hair and ride single-speed bikes.  Who are they?

I wouldn't be surprised if you said "hipsters".  That's probably the answer I would give, too.

Miep von Sydow has another answer:



Perhaps not surprisingly, von Sydow is a Swedish-American military historian.  This photo, on her blog, shows a World War I German bicycle infantry unit on the Western Front in 1914.


Now, I don't think it ever would have occurred to them, or hipsters, to beat swords into plowshares--or paintbrushes or handlebars or anything else. If it had, the result might look something like this:



At least the silly facial hair isn't as noticeable on the Philadelphia Naked Bike Ride!

National Ice Cream Day And My First Century

“Buy one cone, get one free.”

I would’ve stopped for that, except that, these days, I simply can’t eat ice cream—or any other dairy product—while I’m riding. 

 

“Free scoop of any flavor.”

What can they come up with that I haven’t already tried?  Mongolian yak butter with wasabi soy nuts?  

“Buy one sundae.  Get second at half-price.”

What’s with all of those ice-cream sales?, I wondered.  Today brought hotter weather than this part of the world has experienced in nearly two years; I couldn’t imagine how special sales or other incentives were needed to sell ice cream on a day like this.

I didn’t take a long ride today, but I felt as if I saw more promotions for ice cream along the way than I’d normally see in a whole year of riding.  

 

Turns out, my perception might’ve been more accurate than I realized. When I got back to my apartment, I turned on the radio.  After mentioning the President Obama'sdate with his daughters, the newscaster mentioned that today is National IceCream Day.

If it sounds like one of those holidays only Ronald Reagan could have declared, well, there’s a reason:  He actually mandated it in 1984, while he was running for his second term in the White House.  Whether that helped him win the election, we’ll never know:  Even though he was good for business (theirs, anyway), I simply can’t imagine that Ben or Jerry would ever have voted for him.

Anyway, finally learning about this holiday three decades after it was decreed, I recalled a moment from my youth. (You knew that was coming, didn’t you?) It happened around this time of year, in the summer after my sophomore year at Rutgers.  I was working two jobs, taking a class to make up one I’d failed as a freshman and doing lots of bike riding.  All of that while living on pizza and “subs” and cheap alcohol. 

One Sunday in July, I decided to go for a ride.  I had no particular destination in mind, but I soon found myself—as I often did in those days—along the Delaware and Raritan Canal towpath, on my way to Princeton.  Going there and back would have made for a good morning ride.  But once I got to Princeton, I saw a bunch of cyclists signing up for something at a table, and a bunch more cyclists pedaling down Witherspoon Street. 

“Do you want to ride with us?”

Why not?, I thought.  I signed myself up and paid the registration fee--$3, if I remember correctly—and someone handed me a T-shirt.

That ride was one I’d do again a year later:   the Princeton Century.  A few hundred of us, I think, pedaled from the university campus into central New Jersey suburbs, the rolling farmland in the western part of the state, and across the Delaware River into Buck’s County, Pennsylvania.

In the Keystone State, we rode into a town called New Hope.  It’s sort of like Woodstock:  once an artist’s colony, it’s now home to people who pay lots of money to say they live there.  Then, as now, its main street was lined with stores and cafes that are novel or pretentious or simply way too cute, depending on what you’ve experienced before seeing them.

A few of us stopped in one of the too-cute cafes, which turned out to be an ice cream shoppe (yes, with an “e” on the end)—the first such establishment I ever visited that wasn’t a Carvel, Baskin Robbins,  Friendly’s or an imitation of one of them. 

That shop—I can’t remember its name and, silly me, I didn’t write it in my journal—claimed to make its own ice cream from fresh ingredients.  I didn’t doubt it, as its menu featured all sorts of flavors I never could have imagined.  When I go to a restaurant or café and there’s something on the menu I’ve never eaten or drank before, that’s what I order.  In that ice cream shop, there were at least twenty such flavors.  I picked one of them at random:  Ukraninan Rose Petal.

It was the worst thing I’d ever tasted.  

But all was not lost. I finished the century--my very first--and rode back to New Brunswick.  In all, I rode 137 miles: up to that point in my life, the most I'd ridden in one day.

And today, yes, I gave in to the marketing hype and celebrated National Ice Cream Day.  I didn't try anything exotic:  I went to the Baskin-Robbins around the corner from my apartment and ordered a scoop of each of my favorite flavors:  Cherries Jubilee and Pistachio Almond--on a waffle cone, which was free with the two scoops.

I'm happy.

My Kingdom For A Horse, Or Ten Kowalits For A Pair Of Wheels

I remember getting my first Campagnolo component:  a pair of Nuovo Tipo hubs.  My first nice pair of clincher wheels—Super Champion 58 rims laced to those hubs with Robergel Sport spokes—cost the princely (for a poor college student like me) sum of $100.  The man who built them seemed like a magician to me at the time:  I simply could not fathom what sorcery or alchemy turned all of those parts into a pair of wheels that would take the length and breadth of state of New Jersey, on two of the early Five Boro Bike Tours and on my first European bike tour.

It wasn’t just the parts and the build that made them seem almost otherworldly at that time.  Most clincher tires and wheels in the US at the time were 27” and the tubes had Schraeder (the kind found on car tires) valves.  Mine were 700C and drilled for Presta valves.  That was intentional:  I used the wheels on my Peugeot PX-10, which came with 700C tubular wheels and tires—and, of course Presta valves.  I’ve never seen a tubular tire with Schrader valves and the only non-700C tubulars I’ve come across were the ones made for junior racers.

Those new wheels meant that I could switch back and forth between tubulars and clinchers without having to re-adjust the brake blocks.  (I used to tighten the cable adjuster a bit for the tubular rims, which were narrower and loosen them for the clinchers.)  They also would fit on other good bikes, including a couple I would acquire later—and which would, at one time or another, be equipped with those wheels.  Also, I could use the same pump on all of my tires without having to use an adapter.

Today, those wheels would seem dated to anyone not riding a “classic” bike.  The parts were all of fine quality and lasted many rides for me.  But using those Tipo hubs would limit gear selection to whatever five- and six-speed freewheels could be found in swap meets, on eBay or in some “accidentally” discovered stash. And, as good as those rims were, the Mavic MA series rims, with their double-wall construction and hooked tire beads, introduced in the early 1980s, were lighter and allowed cyclists to use a wider variety of tires. 

But even after the MA rims—and newer hub offerings from Campagnolo, Shimano, Mavic and other companies—were introduced, there were places where cyclists would have done almost anything to have wheels like my first good clinchers.  One of those places was the German Democratic Republic, a.k.a. East Germany.  In fact, they probably would have done illegal or simply un-approved-of things to get a bike like mine—especially its Stronglight crank.  Only Campagnolo’s Record crankset was more prized.

That is the situation Gerolf Meyer describes in the latest edition of BicycleQuarterly. 

Like other athletes from his country, cyclists wanted to prove themselves against the best from the West.  As talented as some East German riders were, their equipment was stuck in the 1950’s.  There were shops that took “room dividers”—Diamant “sport” bicycles with impossibly long wheelbases—and shortened chain stays and top tubes, lowered brake bridges and did other things to make those machines ride something like racing bikes.  Engineers and technicians in factories and medical supply cooperatives made cable tunnel guides and other frame fittings and bike parts on the side. 

There were even mechanics and builders who could take the crudely-machined and –finished East German components and make them look—and even, to a degree, function—like “Campag”.  In one of the most extreme examples, Hans-Christian Smolik took a Tectoron rear derailleur—which borrowed its shape and basic function from the Campagnolo Record but and had lettering that faced upside down—and made it all but indistinguishable from the Real McCoy. 

Tectoron Rear Derailleur.  Photo from Disraeligears

 

In the 1980s, the East German sanctioned the development of the Tectoron derailleur and other parts in an attempt to catch up with the technology of Western bikes and equipment.  One of the ironies is that Campagnolo, Shimano, Mavic and other Western manufacturers were innovating in ways that would render obsolete (at least for those who simply had to have the newest and latest) the stuff the East Germans were imitiating.

Campagnolo Super Record, 1979.  Photo from Disraeligears

A fortunate few were able to obtain Western components through connections—a relative who’d retired to the West (Apparently,the East German government didn’t mind letting retirees leave, probably figuring that it would save the state on pension costs.), a partially-subterranean “supply chain” or Western racers the East Germans met at events like the Peace Race.

About the latter:  There developed a barter system not unlike the ones soldiers develop with those fighting alongside, as well as on the other side, of them, complete with its own "exchange rates". (During the first Gulf War, one French K-ration was worth five of its American counterparts.)  Sometimes  the East Germans—as well as Soviet bloc riders—would trade jerseys, pins or other souvenirs, or local delicacies. But the East Germans—and Czechs—actually made one bicycle component that was superior to anything in the West: tubular tires.  Kowalit tubular were the stuff of legend:  a light, supple tire that wore like iron.  I never rode any myself, but I did have a pair of Czech-made “Barum” tires that I rode, literally, to the tubes:  Not even the best stuff from Clement, Vittoria, Wolber, Michelin, Continental or Soyo (Yes, I rode tires from every one of those companies!) was anywhere near as good.  Ten Kowalits --or, I presume, Barums-- could fetch a good wheelset.

Of course, such deals had to be made “in the shadows”, and certainly not after the race.  Can you imagine what some East German would have offered (if indeed he or she had anything to offer) for my old Colnago?

Two Stops, Two Conundrums

Today I rode to Point Lookout again.  It was not a perfect day, by most people’s definitions, but more than good enough for me:  clouds moved across a sunny sky, seemingly carried by the wind that I rode into on my way out to the Rockaways.  The temperature didn’t seem to rise above 25C anywhere I rode—the ocean water was only a couple of degrees cooler.  That might be the reason why I didn’t see very many people on the beaches or boardwalks, and the Point, like Jones Beach, across the cove, was deserted.  

The ride made me happy, even if it didn’t include any great developments or epiphanies.  I felt as if I got into a good rhythm while riding Arielle, my fixed-gear Mercian.  Most important of all, I didn’t feel achy or fatigued at the end of my ride:  I just felt as if I’d gotten a good workout and had a good time.  I really don’t ask for anything else.

Probably the most unusual things about this ride happened at two traffic stops—one in Atlantic Beach on my way out and the other in Sunnyside on my way back.

At the first stop, the light had just turned red.  I had about another half an hour—maybe forty minutes, given that I was riding into the wind—of riding to get to the Point.  Not that I was in a hurry:  I wasn’t worried about any commitments or even about the coming of night.  But I had, as I mentioned earlier, gotten into a good rhythm, and was trying not to stop. 

The light had just turned red and a man who looked like he had a decade or two on me was crossing the street.  Some guy in a Lexus tore through the intersection, against the red light.  Fortunately, the old man hadn’t gotten very far into the street, so he was in no danger of being struck.

What I found strange about the encounter, though, was the man kept on staring at me.  I wasn’t sure of whether he was surprised that I, and not the driver, stopped for the light. Or, perhaps he’d been directing stored-up anger over other cyclists who’d ignored traffic signals—or, maybe just stories he’d heard about them.  Whatever his motivations, he kept his head turned toward me until he stepped onto the curb on the other side of the street.

At the other stop, I was about two kilometers from my apartment.  Sunnyside is, like Astoria, an old blue collar-to-middle class neighborhood that never really deteriorated and is becoming home to increasing numbers of young professionals and creative people who work in Manhattan.  It’s also one of those neighborhoods where, at one time, I wouldn’t see anyone else on a bike but, over the past few years, I have been seeing more and more cyclists every time I ride through it.

Anyway, I stopped at an intersection of 48^th Steet, one of the neighborhood’s main arteries.  Trucks often come barreling down 48^th, coming from or going to the factories and rail yard that separate the neighborhood from Long Island City, so I don’t take chances when crossing it.  Neither do most people who live in the neighborhood.

A woman who looked like she was thirty, at most, crossed in front of me, with her son and daughter—neither of whom looked more than four years old—in tow.  She seemed like a nice person; we exchanged smiles.  “I’m sorry,” she simpered.

“For what?”

“For stopping you.”

“You didn’t stop me.  The light did.”  I pointed to the signal; it was turning yellow. She and her kids scampered to the curb.  “Have a nice day,” she shouted.

“You do the same.”

As pleasant as she was, I am still as puzzled by her reaction to my stopping for a light as I am to the man for his.

Photo by Darryl Kotyk