10 November 2016

What Happened To 708?

How can you tell the best bikes from the rest?

For about half a century, the answer was simple:  Look for Reynolds 531 stickers on the frame and fork.  Just about everyone who built frames by hand in the English-speaking world used it. So did the top bikes from the leading manufacturers in those countries, as well as in Continental Europe and Japan.  Even some Cinellis were made from "five-three-one" in the main triangle (and Columbus SP forks and stays) until the mid-1960s.


The reason for this was simple:   Reynolds 531 offered, by far, the best weight-to-strength ratio of any bicycle building material available. Its strength, said to be the result of its composition (made with maganese and molybdenum) allowed it to be drawn paper-thin midway through the length of the tube. That made significantly lighter bikes possible, and the fact that it was "butted" at the ends and seamless meant that it didn't compromise strength.  While other companies made seamless double-butted tubing (which Reynolds first developed), none seemed to achieve quite the balance of responsiveness and comfort of Reynolds 531. Also, it was offered in a dizzying array of configurations to suit just about every kind of rider and riding.


While nearly all of the British builders and manufacturers, and some in France, continued to build mainly or exclusively with Reynolds 531, some in other European countries, as well as the US, shifted to Columbus tubing--or offered bikes made from each brand.  While some claimed that Columbus made for a "stiffer" bike, I think that perception came from the fact it was used mainly to build criterium and track frames, which were the mainstays of high-end Italian bike production.  In contrast, Reynolds 531 was used on a wider variety of bikes, including the touring, audax and randonneuring machines made mainly by British and French builders, but far less often by their Italian counterparts.


In part to compete with Columbus and other tubing companies, and in part as a response to changes in bike-building techniques, Reynolds created new tubing sets, starting with their "753", introduced in 1975.  (See Retrogrouch's excellent article about it.)  Other tube sets followed.  Some, such as the 631 (said to be the successor of 531) and 853, have become mainstays (pun intended) of the bike world.  Others, like the 501, a seamed chrome-molybdenum tubing, were widely used for a number of years on mid- to upper-mid level bikes, including some from Peugeot, Motobecane and Trek as well as British makers like Raleigh and Dawes.  


Then there were other Reynolds products that seemed to come and go pretty quickly.  One example is their "708".



  

I could find very little information about it.  Apparently, it was made for a few years during the 1980s, and it seems not to have been used much, if at all, outside of England.  I could find no reference to it in any American frame builder's or bike manufacturer's literature of that period, and I saw references to just two French bikes--one from Peugeot, the other from Motobecane.  Neither of them, nor any of the British models made from 708, seems to have been exported to the US.  


This tubing differed from others made by Reynolds, as well as other high-quality tube sets from Columbus, Tange, Ishiwata and Vitus, in that it wasn't internally butted at the ends.  Instead, the tubes were made with eight internal ribs running lengthwise inside the tubes, rather like the rifling in a gun barrel. (I know, that's not the most politically-correct analogy to use, especially after the latest election, but it will be useful later.) This was supposed to increase strength and lateral stiffness over butted or straight-gauge tubes.  Reynolds intended for it to be used on touring and other heavy-use bikes,  and the few bikes made from it were of those types.  



Raleigh Randonneur, a bike made from Reynolds 708 tubing. From Retrobike UK.


The few testimonies I've found about bikes made from Reynolds 708 were positive. So why did it come and go as quickly as it did?  One the reasons was brand loyalty--or, more specifically, a product loyalty.  At that time, it seemed, dyed-in-the-wool 531 riders didn't want to try anything else, whether or not it came from Reynolds.  And those who were inclined to try something new were switching over to Columbus or the then-new aluminum bikes.


I can think of one other possible reason why, not only did so few people buy bikes made from 708, but why, apparently, so few (comparatively, anyway) bikes were made from it.  A butted frame tube has the same thickness through the circumference of the tube.  This means that whether the builder or manufacturer brazes or welds the frame tubes together, and whether or not lugs are used, a consistent level of heat can be maintained around the circumference. In contrast, ribbed frame tubes have thick and thin sections, which makes it more difficult to maintain consistent heat levels.  An area that is heated more loses more strength that is heated less.  Thus, I imagine that it would be more difficult to make a strong joint with ribbed than with butted tubes.


Then again, I didn't see any references to collapses or other failures of 708 frames.  That may be a result of the relatively small number that were produced, or of that those few tended to be relatively high-level bikes which were made by more skilled hands than mass-market bikes.


Whether or not 708 had the possible problems I mentioned, it didn't seem to influence bike-making very much.  The only other internally-ribbed frame tubes of which I'm aware were Columbus SLX and the tubing that Miyata made for some of their own bikes. Both were manufactured around the same time as 708 was produced.  I don't know whether either was inspired by 708.  Miyata, though, may have had the idea stored in their institutional memory, if you will:  Before they started making bikes, they made rifles.


09 November 2016

It's Not My Fault, I Think

Confession:  For a brief time in my life, I worked in market research.  

In those days, we didn't have what are now called "social media".  And only the computer geeks were using the computer networks that would later help to form the basis of the Internet.

So we did our work with paper and telephone surveys. The former were mailed or given to people, while the latter--then as now--reached people while they were eating dinner, or at some equally inconvenient time.

The money was decent.  So why did I leave it?  No, I didn't have any sort of existential crisis or moral pangs.  And I didn't get bored:  After all, in what other kind of work can you learn such interesting and useful facts as people's consumption habits?  At the time, interestingly, people in Puerto Rico bought more Cheez-Whiz and Hawaiians purchased more Spam per capita than anyone else in America.  And the average New Yorker--surprise, surprise--bought more Wonder bread than anyone else.

Egad!  Had I known that such data would be stuck in my cranium all of these years later, I would have quit even sooner than I did.  But I left market research, in part because I went and did other things that, I thought, were closer to my own talents (such as they are) and passions. The biggest reason, however, for moving on to other things was that I realized my MR job was the most profound waste of time in my life.  I still feel that way about it.

On that job, I learned that simply asking people questions wasn't the surest, best way to get accurate, much less truthful, information about people.  We all know that there are those loves, those passions, that dare not speak their names.  To this day, I don't know what led me--or anyone else with whom I worked--to believe that people would always tell us what they wanted, liked or felt.  Sometimes they wouldn't.  Sometimes they couldn't.

I found myself thinking about my MR experience after I heard the election results and the disbelief of the pollsters and pundits.  Surely, they told us, Trump hadn't a chance:  He was too vulgar, too sexist, too fill-in-the-blank.  He had no government experience; running a company or hosting a reality TV show isn't like presiding over a country.  As if people were thinking in such terms!

Their surveys and algorithms (Was that the theme music for a certain campaign in 2000?)  couldn't detect something I've noticed while riding my bike.  

From Regated


I wish I'd photographed the lines of "Trump" signs posted on front lawns along the Connecticut, Westchester and New Jersey streets I rode last Friday and Saturday.  Some of them stood next to signs calling for Hillary's incarceration.  

Through the past spring and summer, such signs sprouted, like fungi after a rainstorm, with increasing and alarming frequency, along my bike routes on Long Island and even in parts of this city, the bluest of the blue.   

Of course, being on the road, I saw plenty of "Trump/ Pence--Make America Great Again" bumper stickers.   And, let me tell you, they weren't all on pickup trucks:  I even saw one on a Prius, of all cars!   

But what if I'd presented some pollster or talking head with photos of Trump signs and bumper stickers, or other evidence of Trumpmania I observed?  Would they have paid any attention to me?  Somehow, I think they wouldn't have, any more than the market researcher I was would have listened to someone who actually spent time in clubs, dance halls and the like in order to determine what music people were listening to.  Or the store manager who can tell you what is selling and what isn't.  

So, even though I didn't take those photos or otherwise record the evidence of Trumpophilia I saw from my saddle, I guess I'm not responsible, after all, for his election.  Or so I'd like to believe.



08 November 2016

Vote Bike!

Today is Election Day here in the US.

I believe I have heard, "Did you vote?" and "Who did you vote for?" (or "Who are you going to vote for?") more often today than I heard during the last few elections combined. 

The talking heads are right when they describe this year's election as an "enigma" or "paradox":  It's been a long time since so many people have paid attention, even though this year's major party candidates for the Presidency are the least-liked, and possibly the worst, in the history of this country.


I'm not sure that choosing one candidate over the other will make much difference for cycling in this country, so I suspect most cyclists will vote by the same criteria other voters use.  Perhaps Hillary Clinton will be somewhat better, simply because she is somewhat better on environmental issues, which is a bit like saying that any given country is a little better than Saudi Arabia on women's rights.  At least one can hope that Hillary's attention to issues such as greenhouse gases and mass transit might translate into policies, or even infrastructure, that will benefit cyclists.  On the other hand, you can pretty much bet that a man who thinks global warming is a hoax perpetrated by the Chinese will do nothing favorable to cyclists.

That is not to say that there's nothing at stake for cyclists or cycling in this election.  The biggest differences that voters can make in creating bicycle policy and infrastructure are found at the local level. So, elections for city councils, county and state legislatures as well as other local offices, some of which are being held today, can be a key to creating more "bike friendly" areas in the US.

Flag of the Samajwadi Party, India


To my knowledge, though, no major US media outlet has done anything like the "scorecard" The Guardian did in advance of last year's general election in Great Britain.  In it, each of the major parties is rated on a scale from one to ten in terms of its attention, or lack thereof, to cycling-related issues.  Perhaps not surprisingly, the UK Independence Party (the one that led the "Brexit"vote) scored zero, while the Greens scored ten. 

Can you imagine the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post or other newspapers rating the Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians, Greens or other parties--or, better yet, each of the candidates, especially during the Primaries.  Hmm...How would Jill Stein or Bernie Sanders compare to Ted Cruz or Donald Trump?


07 November 2016

Old Whitewalls Turn New Wheels (Antifreeze) Green With Envy!

I still remember when a bike with "antifreeze green" Velocity rims or neon orange or pink parts could get my attention.  These days, I see so many bikes, components and accessories in such a riot of colors that I don't notice the loud and shocking colors--or, in some cases, cartoonish graphics--on them.  


From the images I've seen, and from what I've read, I imagine that a century ago, the color palette for what people pedaled wasn't quite as extensive as it is today.  I'm guessing it didn't include the loud, sometimes garish, hues that scream out in the tumult of tones we see today.



That leads me to wonder how these bikes might have looked to people in Peoria, Illinois in 1920:

The Voss Brothers' bicycle shop in Peoria, Illinois, 1920.  From the Peoria Historical Society Image Collection at Bradley University.



In that photo, the tires look like fluorescent rings around the wheels.  I couldn't help but to wonder whether someone got really creative in the darkroom--or whether whitewall tires of that time were really as white as they look in that image.  

I also wonder whether they captured people's attention at first--and whether those same people got used, even jaded, to them.

Can you imagine those tires on antifreeze green rims?

From Superb Bicycle Boston blog.

06 November 2016

Bike Theft Really Stinks--Especially With This Lock!

That stinks!

I've uttered those words--and worse--when cycling buddies' and acquaintances' bikes were stolen.  And we've probably heard those same words from those who were sympathetic with our plight when we didn't find our bikes where we left them.

(Those who hate cyclists probably say, "Serves you right!")

Now, if losing your bike stinks, it's fair to say that bike thieves stink (or worse).  I almost wish that it were literally true:  Think of how many fewer bikes we'd lose if we could smell a bike thief in our vicinity. How might American history be different if Patrick Henry had proclaimed, "I smell a bike thief!"

Well, if engineer Yves Perrenoud and San Francisco-based entrepreneur Daniel Idzkowski have their way, we may be one step closer to tagging cycle crooks with an olfactory "scarlet letter".  Their invention will, at least, expose them in another way that is no less obvious.

Perrenoud and Idzkowski's "Skunk Lock" looks, apart from its graphics, just like any number of U-Locks available today.  Nearly all such locks are invulnerable for a year or two, until some thief figures out a way to foil it. 

These days, the preferred method seems to be cutting the lock with an angle grinder.  If a perp tries that on the Skunk Lock, it will emit a potent scent that will cause him or her to vomit--which, according to the inventors, would make it more difficult to flee unnoticed.



The nausea-inducing substance is based on the fatty acids found in foods like rancid butter and parmesan cheese.  While it smells "completely unpleasant", according to Perrenoud and Idzkowski, and can stain clothes and cause vision impairment and breathing difficulties--even if the would-be thief is wearing a gas mask--it will not cause permanent harm and is considered "food grade", they claim.

What really stinks about the Skunk Lock, though, is that its pressurized gas component, called The Shackle, can be used only once.  If there is an attempted break in the lock, a new Shackle can be purchased.

Idzkowski hasn't said how much it would cost to replace the Shackle.  However, a Crowdfunding campaign that has exceeded its target will allow the Skunk Lock to retail for about $40 when it's introduced--in June 2017, he hopes.

Vomiting?  Breathing difficulties?  Stained clothes?  Hmm...Maybe there will be, at last, a real stigma (which, by the way, means "stink") to being a bike thief!


05 November 2016

Colors That Haven't Changed From My Youth

Yesterday's ride was all about color.  So was today's ride.  At least, my ride ended with them, though the hues I saw were very different from the ones I saw in Connecticut and Westchester County and the Bronx--or even in my neighborhood.




Of course, not every vista on today's trip looked like that.  But it's hard to have a better ending, wouldn't you say?




Certainly, it was a reward for pedaling through the industrial and post-industrial badlands of Essex, Union and Middlesex Counties--and, I guess, for something I did about an hour and a half before I saw the sunset.




A cool wind at my back glided me and Vera, my green Mercian mixte, down Route 36, a two-lane valley of asphalt running along the length of an isthmus about 150 meters wide, with the Atlantic Ocean to my left and the confluence of the Navesink and Shrewsbury Rivers on my right.  As I mentioned in other posts, I pedaled this road many times during my teen years, and during visits to my parents' house after I moved out, and before they moved to Florida. 




Tears rolled down my cheeks.  I couldn't blame them on the wind, or even the chill.  I was thinking a bit about some of those past rides, but I was also very, very happy to be riding a road--and through a community--Superstorm Sandy all but submerged four years ago.  




In spite of the beautiful weather, I saw little motor traffic. Of course, even on unseasonably warm days at this time of year, few people go to the beach.  I did see, however, more than a few cyclists--including a twelve-year-old boy crumpled on the side of the road, his bike lying on its side.

Fortunately for him, I wasn't the first person to see him:  A man and woman who were walking by, and a friend who was riding with him, were standing around, talking to and touching him on his shoulder, neck and arms.  

He'd  been riding on the sidewalk and, from what he said, grazed the side of the curb.  When I chanced upon him, he was clutching the right side of his head, which struck the curb when he fell and rendered him unconscious for a few seconds.

The couple had already called the police.  I told his friend to dial the boy's family, who live just over the bridge that crosses the river from Sea Bright, where we were, into Rumson.  Soon the officers, EMS workers and a fire captain arrived; a few minutes later, the boy's father showed up.

In response to the fire captain's questions, the boy gave his name, address, birthdate, parents' names, and telephone numbers--and correctly identified today's date, the town an state in which we found ourselves.  And he named the current President.  He reported no pain anywhere in his body but his head, from which a lump was starting to throb.

The fire captain, police and EMS workers admonished him to wear a helmet the next time he rides, and his father to buy it for him.  As they left, the father thanked me, even though I didn't do much more than stay with the boy and say some reassuring things to him.

It wasn't exactly heroism on my part, but somehow I felt rewarded for it at the end of the day.  If I indeed was, perhaps what I did, however small it was, could have been some sort of atonement for committing one of the worst sins a cyclist can commit.  At least, I would have regarded it as such back when I had pretensions to racing.





I mean, how could I resist the Polar Bear Ice Cream.  Even Bruce Springsteen couldn't have come up with something more old-school, blue-collar Jersey Shore than that place.




It's not one of those places that will dazzle you with exotic flavors or architectural presentations.  Instead,it offers some of the classic flavors and toppings of hard and soft ice cream, home made. They are offering smoothies and other things that none of us could have dreamed of in my youth.  Still, I went with something basic:  a waffle cone with the vanilla-chocolate swirl. (Think of it as the black-and-white cookie of ice cream.)  It was all that I remembered--except, of course, for the price, which was still modest.

I think the young woman who worked the counter wasn't even born the last time I stopped there before today.




Funny, though, I don't remember one of my early mentors (in cycling) telling me, or anyone else, not to eat ice cream while riding.  I don't remember how I got the fear that consuming anything like that cone, or a sundae, during a ride would shut down my digestive system and, possibly, everything else in my body.  But it certainly wasn't from "Ducky" Schiavo, or his son who now runs this shop:




The Peddler, in its first location a few blocks from its present one, was one of the first shops in the area to sell high-performance bikes.  I bought my Nishiki International and Peugeot PX-10 there.  Now Michael, his son--who bears a striking resemblance to him--carries a combination of the ultra-modern and retro stuff.  I learned a few things about cycling culture, to the degree it existed when the Peddler opened, as well as other bits of history.  Perhaps I'll write another post about that.




For now, I'll leave you with the colors that ended my ride, and day.





04 November 2016

Cycling, In Living Color

Time was when I wore nothing but black:  black leather, black lycra, black latex and black everything else.

Yes, I even had an all-black bike outfit before carbon fiber and the "stealth" look became so prevalent!





Now, understand that I was young and had just moved back to New York:  to the East Village, no less.  Even two of the three bikes I owned at that time were black. The Peugeot PX-10 was available only in white the year mine was made. Somehow that was overlooked in the circles in which I found myself.  Actually, I know how:  None of them were cyclists, and I'm not sure that any of them saw me on my bike.  And if they had, I'm not sure they would have noticed or recognized me:  Rare was the occasion on which we saw each other sober or in daylight.


Anyway, in my "black" period I was keeping a terrible, terrible secret.  No, it's not the one that became the subject of my other blog. Well, all right, I was keeping that secret, but that's not the one I meant. Nor was it that I'd voted for Reagan. (I didn't, but I later learned that some of them had, in secret.)  Or that I was having splendid relationships with my family:  My father and I were barely on speaking terms at that time.





My hidden vice, if you will, had to do with my tastes in art. Actually, the fact that I cared about art at all would have enraged some of my not-so-fellow-after-all travelers.   Some of them thought the whole idea of art was inherently bourgeois; at least one wore a T-shirt that read "I Hate Art."  (I thought she was talking about her ex until I learned otherwise.)





My dim, dark perversion was...my weakness for Jean-Honore Fragonard, which I retain to this day.  Yes, he represented every excess of the ancien regime.  When the Reign of Terror descended upon Paris, he fled and died, nearly forgotten, a decade and a half later.  Given the sort of person I was in my faux-punk days, I could have hated him for painting such subjects as the wife of a nobleman on a swing in her garden, much as I once hated writers like Henry James for their focus on high society.  (I've gotten over that!)  





So what attracted me to such paintings as "Blind Man's Bluff" and "The Stolen Kiss"?  All right, the title--and the none-too-thinly-veiled eroticism--of the latter.  But even more important, to me, were those colors.  Oh, those colors!  And the way he used them!  



(Hmm...Maybe I'm really a magpie in a human's body.)





So of course I had to get myself out to ride today.  No classes on a cool, fairly windy day when fall is just starting to tip toward winter.  The sun shining brightly.  And colors everywhere.  





I figured that if the red, orange and yellow leaves were so vibrant in my neighborhood, they must be blazing in other places--like, say, New England.  Or, more specifically, the part of it closest to me:  Connecticut.





So now you know where I rode today.  I pedaled into the wind most of the way up, which sharpened my senses, I think. (That, or the colors were even deeper than I thought they were!)  And Arielle, my Mercian Audax, felt even more lively than she usually does, which is saying something.





Call me shallow or trivial or--if you want to sound like someone who's trying to sound like he or she knows better--a sensualist who has never grown up.  And I won't, as long as I can do rides like the one I did today.  They just might keep me from fading back to black!





03 November 2016

Seeing The Signs

Caterina, Charlie (I), Candice, Charlie (II), Max and Marlee.

I have loved them all.  I miss Caterina, both Charlies and Candice.  At least I have Max and Marlee.

They all did, and gave, everything I ever could have wanted from the likes of them.  Well, all except one thing.

I never could get any of them to do this:





For that matter, I've never been able to persuade any cat to ride with me.  

A few years ago, on New Years' morning, I stopped for a cat I saw and who looked almost pleadingly at me.  As soon as I got off my bike, he darted to my ankles and rubbed himself against me.  I picked him up.  For a moment, he curled on my shoulder and I tried getting on my bike, figuring I could start off the new year by rescuing a feline friend.  But he was having none of it:  As soon as I lifted my leg over the bike, he dropped himself off my chest and landed on his feet.

I tried a similar rescue about a year ago, on another cat who greeted me.  It ended much like the first one I tried:  When I got on the bike, the cat decided to go airborne.

Perhaps those felines--and my own--saw this sign:




Well, now I know what they're doing while I'm riding!  Hmm...Maybe that's the reason they won't ride with me. 


02 November 2016

Abigail Dougherty: She "Collided" With A Garbage Truck

Even though it's something I haven't done often, I've done it too frequently.

I am talking about writing posts like this one—in which I describe an encounter between a bicycle and a motor vehicle results in a dead cyclist.  Or dead cyclists, plural.

In too many such incidents, the driver was intoxicated.  Or, worse, the driver simply took off after running down a bike rider.  

From what I've read so far, the tragedy I'm about to relate doesn't fit into either of those categories.  It seems that the driver in question simply didn't see the cyclist:  a plausible scenario, especially given a few factors I'll mention in this post.


Abigail Dougherty, a University of Florida student just a couple of weeks from turning 21, was riding southbound on NW 17th Street in Gainesville and was starting to cross University Avenue.  

A garbage truck was rumbling along the same street, in the same direction at the same moment.  It, however turned right to go west on University.

Abigail Dougherty


A local news report said she "collided" with the garbage truck.  It's difficult to imagine how she could have done such a thing--unless she rode into the intersection as the truck was in the process of turning.

The more likely scenario, it seems, is that she was partway into the intersection when the driver started to round the corner for the turn.  If things transpired that way, it's not difficult to imagine how the driver might have lost sight of her, or never saw her in the first place, especially since garbage truck drivers don't have the best sight lines.

Having cycled for decades in New York, I have had tailed, dodged  and weaved around all manner of vehicles, including garbage trucks.  Probably the only vehicles with worse sight lines are long-haul trucks.  The best chance I have with garbage trucks or long-haul drivers, it seems, is to get them to see me. 

Of course, I do not know how Abigail Dougherty fell victim to a turning garbage truck. An investigation is ongoing, as of now; officials aren't even sure of who had the right-of-way.  According to a local attorney, motorists are expected to yield to cyclists and pedestrians before making a turn.  If footage of the incident can be found, I would think the question of right-of-way would be fairly easy to solve.  

Whatever the answer, we--cyclists and motorists, as well as pedestrians--need to be more cognizant of each other, and how each of us has different needs, but the same responsibilities, on the road.

Now that Ms. Dougherty's death has sparked a conversation about cyclists and drivers on the road, I hope it won't lead to misguided attempts--like bike lanes that, too often, are more dangerous than the streets--to make cycling "safer".

Whatever comes of this tragedy, I hope it helps to prevent more like it.  After all, who wants to hear about another cyclist (or anyone else, for that matter) cut down in the bloom of youth?

01 November 2016

Rides And Memories From The Day Of The Dead

I grew up thinking today was All Saints' Day.

Later, I learned that it was also called All Souls' Day.


Either way, it was the reason Halloween (All Hallows' E'en) existed.

Then I learned that those two days, and the one that follows are celebrated as Dia de Muertos in Mexico, and now in Mexican communities here in the US. 



Actually, only the southern part of Mexico, where Aztec and other indigenous cultures were still strong, celebrated it until the middle of the 20th Century.  Until then, the north--which was almost entirely Roman Catholic and mainly of European ancestry--commemorated All Saints' Day in a fashion similar to the rest of the Catholic world.  What that meant, mainly, was going to Mass and, for some families, a commemorative meal or other event for their dear departed.

I must say, though, that for a time in my life, it didn't seem to have anything to do with death--unless, perhaps, the weather was particularly gloomy.  Catholic schools, including the one I attended, were closed that day.  We were expected to go to church, but other than that, we were free.  At least, I was, because my family didn't do anything special for the day.



I can remember going for bike rides on the first of November, both as a child and as an adult.  According to the calendar, this day is the first day of the year's penultimate month.  Some years, the weather told us that the cycling season was winding down, or even on its last legs.  



Whatever the day was like, the sensual feast of October would soon be over and the more austere beauty of November would lead to rides that shortened with the amount of daylight available but grew in intensity, sometimes physically but more often emotionally.



Today I rode to work and  I might get to sneak out for a "quickie" before riding home.  Whatever I do, I am sure to think about not only my rides past, but also the people who rode (some of) them with me--and the person I was on those rides.  And, of course, about the rides ahead.  


Yes, on the Day of the Dead.

About the Images:  The first is the box from a special edition "Day of the Dead" Bicycle playing card set.  The second, third and fourth are by Heather Calderon and are titled "Hollywood Bicycle Woman," "Hollywood Bicycle Man" and "El Panadero", respectively.