Leaving Perfection Behind

I hold an advanced degree.  My professional life brings me into contact with some very intelligent people.  And according to the standardized tests, I am of above-average intelligence.

Now I will give you an opportunity to question the validity of standardized tests.

If you've been reading for the past week, you know that I've been in Florida and, for most of that time, have had nearly perfect cycling weather.

Well, I'm leaving it all behind me.  Yes, I'm going back to New York in January.  Flying into JFK, no less.

A Painterly Ride

I am going to write something that might cause envy or resentment in some, especially those of you who are reading behind sleet-streaked windows.

Yes, today's weather was once again glorious.  Actually, it was a bit warmer than the past few days:  During the return part of my ride, the temperature rose to 82F (28C), according to the sign on the Buddy Taylor Middle School.  And the sun shone through puffy cumulus clouds that drifted across the sky.

So I rode up to Bings Landing, the site of the Mala Compra ("bad bargain" or "bad buy") plantation, and back down Route A1A, including one of my favorite stretches.

I wish my photos could do justice to the light that flickered with the dance of the waves and reeds.  At the observation stand from which I took those pictures, I chatted with a retired couple from North Carolina who commented on the light, and the view.  "Now you know why it's called Painters Hill," I explained.

As the saying goes, a lovely time was had by all--especially the ones who came dressed for the occasion:

With their fashion sense, how could I not share my nuts, seeds and granola bars with them?  And, even in such finery, they were not too haughty to refuse!

I was not surprised to see people walking through the sand or fishing. A few even tried to ride the waves, such as they were.  But I didn't see anyone swimming.  Yesterday, I was tempted to dip myself in the water, but after taking off my sneakers and socks, and letting a few waves lap up to my calves, I realized that the water was a bit on the cool side.

Normally, on such a day, people would line the pier at Flagler Beach, whether to fish, watch birds (or wait in the hope of sighting a dolphin, whale or shark) or simply pass enjoy the view and pass the time.  But I noticed that the pier was empty, as it was yesterday and the other day.  

I also couldn't help but to think that the pier looked smaller than it was last year.  Sure enough, it is:  Hurricane Matthew washed away part of it and, according to the gate keeper, it might be closed for another year because the insurance company doesn't want people there until repairs are made and the pier passes inspection.

Still, it was a wonderful day and ride. With the kind of light I had, how could anything have been otherwise?

After Speed And Flight: A Free Lunch (Or Dinner)?

I don't remember the last time I've had such luck with weather!

Once again, the day began sunny, with a temperature of 60F (15C) on my parents' porch, and quickly climbed over 70F (21C).  By late afternoon, after thick cumulus clouds passed over, it was 77F (25C).  Although the clouds muted the sun and had dark undersides, there was never any real threat of rain.  Such clouds are not unusual on warm days in coastal areas.

Yes, I rode along the ocean again--along Route A1A, to be exact.  Today I would follow it from the Flagler Beach Pier, along dunes and beaches of hard-packed sand to the beach that bills itself as the World's Most Famous.

Although I have been there a number of times before, I am always a little surprised at what I find in Daytona Beach.  It's not like any other beach town or resort--at least, not like any other I've ever seen.  Driving is actually permitted on some parts of the beach, as it is in other nearby beach communities like Ormond Beach.  But that beach--which is often called "the birthplace of speed", where several land speed records were set--today has a speed limit of 10MPH.

  And, it also has an important place in early aviation history, where several speed and altitude records were set.  Not surprisingly, the nation's premiere aviation college, Embry-Riddle, is located nearby.

It has its share of beach-town cliches, including the taffy stands and tacky souvenir shops.  But it also manages to combine, in a few blocks near Main Street, everyone's idea of Haight-Ashbury in 1967, Woodstock in 1969, the East Village of those years and a current NASCAR rally all in one.  Oh, and there are religious folks and some genderqueers that would make most drag queens seem like suburban housewives.

And there are residents who are, or seem, completely oblivious to--or just don't care--about it all:  

They probably follow this bit of advice:

and don't even pay for it!  Of course, they might not get the best seats in the house.  But, hey, if you were eating stuff that people pay real money for, and it didn't cost you anything, you wouldn't complain, right?

Then again, there are some folks who, one hopes, won't follow that advice:

Actually, I'd worry about them eating Joe himself--except, of course, that alligators don't go into the ocean.  (Then again, there is the occasional shark!)  But I love the warning, "When fed, the alligator loses its fear of humans and becomes accustomed to handouts."  Hmm...Is there a political philosophy expressed in that?

Interesting that it should be posted at the entrance to the Lehigh Greenway Rail Trail,near the end of my ride.  Is there some kind of cosmology here:  Humans spend their Hamiltons and Jacksons (soon to be Tubmans) on stuff sea birds eat, and said humans can become an alligator's free meal by feeding them what those birds eat?

How does it all end?

I tried to find out whether that was Flagler Beach's version of Stonehenge.  But nobody seemed to know what it was.  I did see a sign nearby that exclaimed "No seawall!"  

For me, it's hard not to agree.  Then again, I just visit once or twice a year.  I don't know how I'd feel if I lived there and my house was inundated by a storm.

Thankfully, I don't have to answer that question.  I didn't have to do anything; I just rode.  

And what a lovely ride I had.  At the end of it, I didn't eat at Joe's:  I ate at Mom's.  And I didn't have to pay for it.

Who's Going To Make What Great Again?

Today I took two short rides: before and after having lunch with my mother and a friend of hers, of whom I am fond.

My rides took me through alongside creeks, swamps and woods, as well as through small-town streets lined with shabby houses and suburban subdivisions full of houses that are imitations or parodies, depending on your point of view, of structures built by Spanish, French and English settlers to this area.

Once again, the weather was delightful.  At one point, I even saw two frolicking fawns just yards away from me, and white herons that ambled even closer.  People seemed relaxed, even if they were doing home repairs or yardwork.  The kids were happy, of course:  They had the day off from school.

The reason is that today is the holiday to commemorate Martin Luther King Jr., who would have turned 88 yesterday.  He didn't live to see his 40th birthday, and many of the people for whom he fought had even shorter lives that ended as tragically as his.  A few years ago, a student of mine who is about a decade older than I am, and grew up in Jacksonville--about 105 kilometers (65 miles) from where I am now--told me about one of those victims: a relative whose flaming body dangled from a tree in Mississippi.  As a little girl, she saw that.

It probably wouldn't surprise you to learn that from 1882 until 1968, more black people were lynched in Mississippi than in any other state in the Union.  I don't think it would cause much consternation to say that the next states on the list were Georgia, Texas, Alabama and Arkansas.

Florida is right behind them.  The "Sunshine State", however, had the highest per-capita rate of lynchings among the states from 1880 through 1940.  In fact, Florida's lynch rate, in proportion to the population, was more than double that of Alabama and nearly four times that of Texas!

Today, as I rode through the subdivisions, and the ramshackle houses, I saw many "Trump:  Make America Great Again" campaign signs.  In fact, I even saw a couple in a trailer park.  I don't recall seeing so many campaign signs for any candidate still standing on lawns, or tied to signposts or windows, so long after an election as I saw today.  

Now, I am sure that some of those who voted for Trump--and, perhaps, a few who didn't--are resentful that King gets "his own" holiday: something no other individual  in the US has.  Or, to be precise, no other white individual has.

I can understand, even if I don't condone, what they feel:  that they are losing "their" place in society to "privileged" minorities (which, of course, can include LGBT people as well as any number of racial and ethnic identities--as well as "the 51 percent minority"). One thing my own experience has taught me is that privilege is something you don't know you have until you lose it, and the process of losing it is painful and can cause intense anger and resentment.

What are students learning these days?

What I can't understand, though, is something I saw on a news program this morning: People who claim that if King were alive today, he would have supported Donald Trump's election to the Presidency.  I tried to understand their arguments, but those of the Flat Earth Society  actually make more sense to me.

Of course, cycling and writing have made more sense to me than all of those things ever could.  So did those fawns and herons I saw.

A Quick Ride, The Race And A Race To The Bottom

Today I had breakfast with my mother and a friend of hers who's of a generation that didn't, and still doesn't, do brunch.  Later, I went to see La-La Land (nothing deep, but not bad)and went out to dinner with my mother and father.

In between breakfast and the movie, I squeezed in a bike ride. I just made enough turns to ride in circles (and sometimes squares and triangles and other geometric figures) that brought me back to where I started.  

Along the way, I visited an old friend:

Well, OK, I first encountered "The Race" two years ago.  Its creator, Wes Cackler, actually seemed to understand cycling.  Perhaps he is a cyclist?

Unfortunately, nobody in the city or county seems to understand that pubilc sculptures require maintenance as much as buildings or other structures do.  Well, to be precise, while there was grant money (apparently from outside sources) for the sculpture, no money was budgeted for its upkeep.  To be fair, the city's and county's arts budget is all but non-existent.

Enough about politics and philistinism.  The ride was pleasant, with early afternoon weather much like yesterday's.  I did something, however, that I regret--at least a little:  I stopped at "Wally World".

It was the same branch of Walmart in which I bought a tire and two tubes during a visit here a few years ago because I flatted, it was Easter Sunday and no place else was open.  Today, I had no such excuse.

You see, we don't have a Walmart anywhere in New York City and, to my knowledge, the nearest one is at least 100 km away.  The only department stores in the Big Apple that rival Wally's in size are those of Macy's.  But Macy's, shall we say, caters to a different clientele, and doesn't offer building tools and supplies or sporting goods, among other things.  And the other department stores, such as Kohl's or Target, can fit into one or two floors of Macy's.

The day I bought the tire and tubes, I took a quick glance at what was offered in the bicycle section and was neither pleased nor surprised.  Today, I wasn't looking for anything bike-related, but I decided to check out their bike section anyway.  

Now, it was sad enough to see brands I once respected, such as Schwinn, Mongoose, affixed to bikes that were, frankly, junk.  And it was rather disheartening to see Bell--the creators of the first bike helmet that offered both protection and performance--on generic bike parts and accessories to make them seem, well, less generic, as well as useless plastic "baskets" for the handlebars of toddlers' trikes.

Today, though, one of the mighty really had fallen, at least in my estimation.  A company that has a long history in cycling, and whose products I've used for almost the entire time I've been a serious cyclist, are now embossed on emissions from Chinese factories:

I can't believe the company that made the first really good frame pump for clincher tires--as well as other fine accessories--in France, for decades, is now on the shelves of stores owned by a company that has done more than most to enable child labor and other kinds of worker exploitation in developing countries.

I doubt that Walmart has ever sold anything made in France (except perhaps for some cheese) or any other European country, or the British Isles.  I don't think much, or perhaps anything, at all the store sells today was produced in Japan.  None of that, however, is as galling as the fact that the company continues to label merchandise "Made in USA" when, in fact, it is made in China  or other low-wage companies, or is made from components manufactured in those countries and assembled or merely finished in the 'States.

Zefal products, made in China, on Walmart shelves:  How the mighty have fallen!

Sunshine, Waves And Coquina Stone

I've waited on some long lines.  And I've seen people take some extreme measures to keep their place in line.  

As I've mentioned in other posts, it's much easier to acquire a gun in the Sunshine State than it is in the Empire State, or almost any other north of the Potomac River.  And, five years ago, this state gained fame or infamy, depending on one's views, for its "stand your ground" law--or, more precisely, the way it was used.

I could have told that guy that the place would be open for another five hours, which would be plenty of time to make the $10 admission price worthwhile.  But I didn't, not because I was afraid of his weapon, but because I knew he wasn't going to use it.  If he did, as the saying goes, he'll never work in this town again.

What town is that?  St. Augustine, Florida.  I rode there today, on the beach cruiser, from my parents' house a couple of counties away.  According to my calculations, I pedaled 65 miles,  a little more than a metric century.  And I did it the "ideal" way:  I pedaled into the wind to get there and allowed it to blow me back.  I don't know exactly how strong the wind was, but it took me a little more than half an hour less to get back than it did for me to ride into St. Augustine.

It was one of those days everyone hopes to have, weather-wise, when coming to Florida at this time of year:  The temperature rose to 75F (24C) and, after a brief but intense rain this morning, the sun shone brightly.  I haven't used as much sunscreen--and still gotten as much sunburn--in the past three months as I did today.

Sunshine and warmth and the ocean:  Those are the reasons (besides visiting family members) one comes to Florida, right?  And, in my case, to do some bike-riding.  But there are, believe it or not, other things to see and do here.

One thing about being rich:  You can have whatever you want wherever you want it.  Of course, if you're really rich, you can go to wherever your favorite buildings, foods or whatever any time the mood strikes you.  To be fair, however, it wasn't so easy to do such things a century ago when, no matter how rich you were, it took days or weeks to cross oceans or continents.

Franklin Smith could have been just another Boston millionaire (Hmm...I never thought I'd write a phrase like that!) who took a trip to Europe had it not been for this:

He was so impressed by the Alhambra Palace in Grenada, Spain, that he--an amateur architect--decided to model his new home after it.  More precisely, he built a 1/10 scale replica of a wing of the palace.  He used a then-new construction technique: poured concrete reinforced with crushed coquina stone, which abundant in Florida.  Some of the finishing materials, on the other hand, were imported from Spain.

Coquina stone has been used for centuries, particularly here in Florida, because of its unusual qualities.  It's actually soft when it first comes out of the ground, which makes it easy to quarry.  Even so, it is very strong when it is built, and can withstand the elements of the Florida climate.  Most important--at least in the view of the early Spanish settlers who built Fort San Marcos from it--walls built from it can absorb cannon balls fired into it in much the same way that jabbing a knife or other tool into styrofoam will make a hole in, but not break, it.

Across the street from Smith's house, known as Villa Zorayda or Zorayda Castle, is the main building of Flagler College.  Its namesake built it, but not as a college buildings.  Rather, it was one of the first luxury resorts on the Florida coast:  the Hotel Ponce de Leon.

Henry Flagler, for whom the county in which my parents live is named, was a Gilded Age entrepreneur who also built the Florida East Coast Railway and partnered with John D. Rockefeller to start Standard Oil. 

The Hotel Ponce de Leon has windows designed by Louis Tiffany and was one of the nation's first electrified buildings.  It was designed by two architects who had just graduated college:  John Carrere and Thomas Hastings.  If their names are familiar to you, it's because you've read about this nation's architectural history--or read a lot of plaques on buildings.  Their later works included the New York Public Library (the one guarded by Patience and Fortitude) and the House and Senate office bulidings adjacent to the Capitol in Washington, DC.

I had a great ride today--and, if you'll indulge me in a cliche, a bit of a journey.  And Mom's cooking.

Friday The 13th.

Today is Friday the 13th.  

I am not superstitious about that, or much else. The only reason why I am thinking about the fact that it's Friday the 13th is something that happened the last time Friday the 13th came in January.

The year was 2012:  five years ago.  I was pedaling home from work when, all of a sudden, I burst into tears.  I was crying so hard that I could barely see in front of me or control my bike.  I stopped in an ATM vestibule and let it all out.  Or so I thought.  I got back on my bike, but only for a couple of blocks before I saw a cat in a store window.   Then the tears streamed out even more and I could barely stand, let alone pedal.

I am almost entirely sure that some time during my crying fits, Charlie died.  When I got home, I found him lying stiff on the floor, his hind legs crossed.  

Max and Marlee, the cats who currently reside with me, are sweet and loving.  In fact, I adopted Marlee just a few weeks after I lost Charlie.  But I will never forget Charlie:  He came into my life as I was undergoing fundamental and sometimes dramatic (and traumatic!) changes.  He was with me through some very happy and very intense times, including my gender reassignment.  And, of course, he was reading over my shoulder (!) as I typed the early entries of this blog.

When anyone, human or otherwise, shows you nothing but love of the kind that renders you incapable of feeling anything but love for him or her, you don't "get over" losing him or her.  And you shouldn't:  That love becomes a part of you, along with all sorts of memories.  It becomes, perhaps paradoxically, why you find new friends or companions after such a loss:  They are a testament to what you have shared with the one who has departed.

Max and Marlee greet me when I come back from a bike ride.  So did Charlie.  So does he.

P.S.  The "Charlie" to whom I am referring was the second cat I lived with who was named Charlie.  So in earlier posts, I referred to him as Charlie II and the first as Charlie I.

Out Of Season, Again

Earlier today, I wrote about a "winter" ride in a place that doesn't have winter--at least, not in any way people in my part of the world--let alone places like Minnesota and Canada and Scotland and Finland--experience it.  In other words, I was writing about a warm-weather ride in January.

Well, I had the opportunity to experience such a thing.  If you've been reading this blog for a while, you might have guessed where I am.  

Yes, that is the ocean on the horizon.  Of course, there are places not far from my apartment where I can ride up the slope of a bridge and, at its apex, gaze out into an expanse of sea and sky:  the Veterans' Memorial Bridge from Broad Channel to Rockaway Beach, for example.  But yesterday I rode in a place where I could do it in shorts, sans jacket.

Here is another clue to where I am:

They don't sell fishing equipment in the Key Food or Stop & Shop supermarkets in Rockaway Beach--or, to my knowledge,anyplace else in New York.  For that matter, you can't buy a hunting rifle--or any other kind of firearm--from the Walmart in the Green Acres Shopping Mall, just over the city line in Nassau County. But you can get them in the "Wally World" about two kilometers from where I am now.

Yes, I am in Florida, for my more-or-less annual visit with my parents.  I got here this morning.  After the snow that turned to wind and rain during the past week, it is almost surreal to ride in bright sunlight and into a warm breeze that would later blow at my back as I spun and glided up Route A1A, beside dunes covered with sea oats and cacti that rippled and echoed the rustling hiss of the roiling tides.

Then again, it might be just as strange, or even stranger, to encounter unseasonably warm weather when I return to New York!

Tour De Palm Springs

In places where they don't have winter--or, at least, not anything anyone living north of the Potomac would call "winter"--there are bike rides of the sort we, in the so-called temperate zones, would have in May or June or September.

One such place is Palm Springs, California.  I've never been there, even though I have traveled in that part of California.  I guess I believed the rumors that Versace-uniformed agents at the city limits wouldn't let you in unless you showed your Coutts World Silk Card. (If it's good enough for the Queen of England, it's good enough for me!)  Then again, I once went to the opera wearing the same clothes I wore while helping to paint a friend's house that day.  That's a story for another time.

Anyway, the ride itself sounds interesting.  I wonder how many celebrities ride, or just show up.  

Actually, I wonder about one celebrity in particular:

If he ever rode in that area (if indeed he rode at all), I assume he didn't have to worry about trees.  Now, on the ski slopes....that was another story!

All right.  To be fair, I'll point out that he stood by his child, Chastity, when she "came out".  Of course, Chastity is now a guy named Chaz.  And some folks say he was a good mayor of Palm Springs.

Shorter And Shorter, A Century Apart

The other day, and in a few previous posts, I mentioned the Rigi frame.  It had twin vertical seat stays, like the twin laterals found on the "top tubes" of many classic mixte bikes (and Vera, my green Mercian mixte).  The rear wheel actually ran between those tubes.

The reason for it was to shorten the bike's chainstays and, therefore, wheelbase.  Shorter wheelbases make for quicker acceleration and response, all other things being equal.  Rigi was probably one of the more extreme results of a race, which ran its course during the late 1970s and early 1980s, to create bikes with the shortest possible wheelbases.

That trend resulted in other permutations of bike design, like curved seat tubes.  It seemed to run again, if briefly and less widespread, just before the turn of this century, when KHS and other companies made bikes (mainly track and fixed-gear) with curved seat tubes.

Like other fads, it's not new.  Within a few years of the invention of the "safety" bicycles, designers and builders had essentially figured out what we now know about bicycle geometry.  For the most part, bikes had longer wheelbases and shallower angles than the ones on current bikes because road conditions were worse (when, indeed, there were roads!). Also, few cyclists owned (or even had access) to more than one bike, so their steeds had to be more versatile.  And, I would imagine, the materials available then weren't as strong as what we have now (most bikes were still made of iron or mild steel) and could not withstand the pounding a shorter wheelbase and shallower angles--which absorb less shock than longer wheelbases and shallower angles--would deliver.

Still, there were apparent attempts to make bikes with shorter wheelbases at the turn from the 19th to the 20th Century. (I can still remember when "the turn of the century" meant the period from about 1890 until World War I!)  This one looks particularly interesting:

If you sneeze on this 1890s "Bronco" bike, you just might go backwards!  All right, I'm exaggerating, just a little.  What I find intriguing--almost astounding, really--is that the auction house selling the bike listed it as a "cross" bike.  Did they mean "cyclo-cross"?  If they did, I wonder whether the bike was intended as such when it was made--and, presumably ridden.

The auction house also says the bike has an "axle driven crank".  Today, we call that "fixed gear":  The wheel and pedals cannot turn independently of each other.  High-wheel or "penny farthing" bikes had such a system--on the front wheel.  

That is the reason why those bikes had such large front wheels:  To get what most of us, today, would consider to be a normal riding gear--let alone anything high enough to allow for any speed--a front wheel of at least 1.5 meters (60 inches) in diameter was necessary.

Hmm...That means the gear on the Bronco must be pretty low!

Low gear and short wheelbase:  Could this be a bike intended for uphill time trials?