When I Was A Night Messenger (Sort Of)

As I've mentioned in other posts, I was a bicycle messenger in Manhattan for a year. 

I was so, so young then.  I can say that now:  Many more years have passed since I made my last delivery than I had spent in this world before I made it.  Sometimes I wonder, though, if I've really made any progress since then or whether I've simply found jobs and other situations in which my quirks and flaws work for me, or are simply overlooked.

Perhaps the real reason I can say now that I was so young when I did it is that, really, I couldn't do anything else at that time in my life.  Rarely could I spend more than a couple of minutes with another person, or doing nearly anything else besides riding my bike without feeling anger or sadness or both.  In the space of not much more than a year, two people who were very, very dear to me had died--one suddenly, the other mercifully--and another committed suicide.  The only sort of job I could work was one in which I had only momentary interactions with people who could have told me that I was "wasting" my life by doing what I was doing or that, really, it was all I could do, all I could ever do.  I could satisfy people only for moments, episodically, and I simply had to do a job in which I would be remunerated for doing so.

Those--even more than my physical changes--are reasons why I couldn't do that job today, although sometimes I wish I could.  I understand now how it would be too easy for me to continue with a job in which I give and receive momentary satisfactions and rewards, not think about the future and not have to think about whether or not I was at my best because, really, there was no better or worst, only getting that next package, that next document, that next slice of pizza (Yes, I delivered a couple of those!) to the whoever needed it within the next fifteen minutes--and to never, ever think about it again, or at least until someone else--or even the same person--ordered such a delivery later in the day, the following day, the following week. 

In short, there was no future.  And there was no past because, really, no one else cared about anything else, as long as he (most of our customers were men) got a timely delivery. It didn't matter that I was a creative genius who had not been recognized or that I was stupid enough to believe I was one and angry enough to feel that others less deserving (which included just about everybody else) were being recognized and rewarded in ways I wasn't.

If I would have changed anything about my job, I would have wanted to work at night.   There was something I liked about navigating the city's byways in the dark--or by streetlights, anyway, and the shadows they and the nightlights of small offices and furnished rooms cast.  Of course, had I worked at night, I probably would have been making even more of those runs to then-seedy parts of the city (or to more gilded places with their own written codes of omerta) with envelopes and small packages, all the while pretending (or telling myself) I had no idea of what was in them.

There's nothing new about that aspect of being a bicycle messenger, a job that's been around for almost as long as the bicycle itself.  Back in the days of the first Bike Boom in the US (roughly from the mid-1880s until the first years of the 20th Century), night messengers delivered telegrams for telegraph offices.  They also, not surprisingly, ran side errands, such as fetching cigarettes and delivering "notes". I put quotation marks around that word because nightclubs, brothels and other establishments that operated after, say, 10pm sent and received them. So they were "notes" in the same sense as some of those envelopes I found myself delivering to the same addresses over and over again.

Those messengers were, as often as not, pre-teen boys.   In those days, kids were put to work practically the day after they learned how to walk.  But for jobs like those of night messenger and chimney-sweeper, the boys were often recruited out of orphanages or "reform" schools.  In other words, they were the ones "nobody would miss".

Jacob Riis documented them, as well as other children, women and immigrants who worked in squalid and dangerous conditions, in How The Other Half Lives.    His eloquent writing and starkly, beautifully poignant photographs helped people to learn about the conditions in which people like the messenger boys lived and worked.  They also were instrumental in passing legislation such as the New York law--among the first of its kind--prohibiting people under the age of 21 from working as messengers after 10 pm.

A few times I made deliveries after that hour, or before the break of dawn. Somehow I don't imagine they were co-op sales agreements or copies of professionals' credentials.  I know, though, that even though I was old enough to work those hours, I was still very, very young.

A May Ride In December?

I was riding in shorts and a short-sleeved top.

No, I didn't start my holiday visit to my parents in Florida early.  (Actually, in their part of Florida, there is no guarantee I'd have such weather at this time of year.)  Rather, I took a ride which I've ridden (and written about) a number of times:  to Point Lookout and back.

The temperature reached 20C (68F).  For some perspective, the old record for this date was 16C (62F), which was surpassed before 11 am.

Interestingly, it didn't feel as warm as I'd expected.  Some of that had to do with the wind, which, coming from the southeast, I pedaled into most of my way out. Also, riding by the sea, where local water temperatures are around 10C (50C) makes the air seem cooler.  For perspective, in early August, the water temperature reaches 23-24C (72-75F) and in early March falls to 3-5C (37-40F). 

On such a pleasant Sunday, I wasn't surprised to see more people than one would normally expect to see at the beaches.  They weren't swimming, but I noticed that some people weren't wearing much more than I was.  Also, a pretty fair number of young men (mostly) clad in wetsuits rode the waves.

I don't mean to boast when I say that even though I was pedaling into winds of 8 to 12KPH (14 to 20 MPH) most of the way out, I was pedaling rather effortlessly in my big chainring and on the sixth and seventh gears of my nine-speed cassette.  Am I starting to regain some of my old strength?  Or was it because I just felt so good to be on my bike on such a beautiful day?  I would be happy to accept either explanation, or no explanation at all.

Everything was so lovely that even seeing brown and yellow stems and leaves didn't seem so discordant with the spring-like warmth. 

Nor did the almost-winter light or the shortness of the day.

And I was riding Arielle.  Even a name like that is enough to make me feel as if I'm flying.  But, she's a great ride and, of course, the wind into which I rode on my way out pushed at my back and carried me home.

I really should have been grading papers.  Oh, well.



 

A Couple Of Views From The Saddle

Is a ride ever defined by what you see on the horizon?

During the past week, I pedaled into two very different, yet distinctly of-this-season-vistas.

As I pedaled north on the Hudson River Greenway, the sun--invisible even in the cloudless sky--refracted off the dull metallic surface of the river and shrouded the towers of the George Washington Bridge about three miles in front of me.

The other day, I was rolling down 38th Street in Astoria, just a few blocks from my apartment.  There sun, again invisible, would make its presence known only through the bare branches of the tree a mile or so down the street.


Are these the dying embers of a season, of a year?

All I Want For Christmas....

I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I got a bicycle for Christmas.

It's not that I didn't like the bike.  If anything, getting it made me like it even better--and made me more anxious and sadder.  Why?  Well, it was way too big for me.  Like most kids, I wanted to be like grown-ups--or, at least, kids who were older than I was.  The prospect of being able to ride my new Royce Union three-speed (with 26" wheels) tantalized me as much the dream of ascending Mount Everest intrigues and excites mountaineers.

All right... The fact that I got a bike I couldn't ride didn't make me doubt the existence of Santa Claus in the way I would later doubt the existence of God because I have the kind of mind and spirit I have in the kind of body I have.  Rather, I found my faith in Jolly Old Saint Nick dashed a couple of years earlier, when I was walking down Fifth Avenue (in Brooklyn) and saw four Santas--one black, another Puerto Rican--on the same block.

Anyway...I'm sure many of you got bikes that didn't fit, or weren't right for you in some other way, for Christmas.  I'm also certain that many of you found, under your family's tree, a two-wheeler you could hop on and ride immediately.   (Of course, if you lived in one of those places that typically were blanketed with snow during the holiday season, you had to wait a few weeks or months to ride.)  That, I imagine, is still--what with all of the electronic toys available--many a kid's fantasy.

I also imagine that some of you, when you were wee lads or lasses, found three-wheelers under your family's tinsel-wreathed evergreen boughs.  I have vague memories of riding a trike but, as best as I can remember, it wasn't a Christmas present.  In fact, given my family's circumstances at the time, it might have been a hand-me-down from a cousin or neighbor, not that I would have known the difference.

Somehow I don't imagine that as many kids dreamed of getting trikes as getting bikes.  But, if any kid had such fantasies, somehow I don't think it would run to something like this:




If anything, I'd bet that some parents with deep purses or pockets fantasize about buying something like the Vanilla Trike because, well, they could. And I suppose that even the best-heeled (best-tired?) of them wouldn't let their kids ride it.  First of all, it's an object d'art--or, at least, a piece de l'artisanat.  It belongs in a curio cabinet or on a coffee table, not on a sidewalk or in a park.  Second, what kid would know or care that he or she is riding a bike with a hand-brazed Chromoly frame, Brooks saddle, Campagnolo headset and Phil Wood hubs?




Not exactly your typical doormat, is it?

Of course, it's beyond a mere indulgence.  Still, I don't want to seem as if I'm mocking it or resenting anyone who can afford it.  Hey, if I could spend $10,000 without blinking an eye, I'd buy one, too.  Even if I never could ride it.  Even if it's not something I fantasized about when I was a kid.

Deck The Halls With...

Two weeks from today is Christmas Day.

I'll admit, I don't do much holiday decorating.  Part of it has to do with time constraints:  The holiday season coincides with the end of the semester. So, while other people are stringing lights and hanging globes and stars and such from trees, I'm grading papers, reading exams and explaining to students why they're not getting credit for a course in which they didn't attend half of the sessions and turned in the whole semester's work on the last day of class.

All right, I'll stop whining.  I didn't do a lot of decorating even when I wasn't teaching.  When I do have time, I'd rather ride, read, write or see people than to spend hours putting up things I'll have to take down a couple of weeks later.

Still, I sometimes like looking at other people's work and even admire some of those really over-the-top displays you can see in those New-York-City-in-name-only neighborhoods.

Then, of course, there are ornaments related to bicycles. Basically, they fall into two categories:  those that are made to look like bicycles and those that are made from parts of actual bicycles.  The latter category includes the sub-genre that might be called 1001 Uses For Bicycle Chains:

When ordering, be sure to specify 12, 11, 10, 9, 8/7/6/5 speed or 1/8".

In the category of ornaments that look like bikes (and riders), here are some interesting ones:

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Now, this one isn't specifically a Christmas ornament:

but I believe it conveys the sentiment of this season:

Cycling And Recycling

Whenever I can, I volunteer with, donate to and buy from Recycle-A-Bicycle.  They, like similar programs in other places, re-use old bikes and parts that might otherwise have ended up in landfills. 

In my mind, bicycles and recycling are always linked.  Perhaps that's because the time when I first became a dedicated cyclist--the 1970s Bike Boom--also witnessed the first attempts to make recycling a mainstream idea. The first Earth Day several years earlier got people (some, anyway) to thinking about the environment.   People started using words like "ecology" and "pollution" in everyday conversations and started to see the value of things like emissions standards.

The problem was that both cycling and recycling became popular mainly among the young, the highly-educated and the upper-middle-class (or what someone I used to know called "The Volvo Set").  Blue-collar families and communities almost never included cyclists who were old enough to have drivers' licenses.  Also, they, like many whose lives were day-to-day struggles to survive, saw recycling and environmentalism as trifles of the elite. So, when the oil-price shocks of the mid and late '70s sent gas prices to levels Americans had never before imagined, instead of cycling or walking to work or for errands, working-class people clung ever more tightly to their automobiles, and saw environmentalism and recycling as threats to their ever-more-precarious job security.

Ronald Reagan and his conservative allies played on those fears and overlaid them with the notion that conservation was inherently un-Christian. Also, during that time, the price of petroleum and other commodities dropped or remained the same (so that they essentially became less expensive to those whose incomes were rising).  That further eroded whatever incentive people might have had to conserve and re-use.  In fact, because the cost of finding new petroleum and other natural resources had declined, it was actually much cheaper to manufacture new plastic, glass and other materials than it was to recycle them.  

It was also during that time that the number of adult cyclists, and the bike market, stagnated or even declined.  Sure, some of us were still riding for fun and transportation.  But, for years, we rarely saw new faces among those who were pedaling to work or the park.

During the past decade or so, the number of people choosing bikes instead of cars or even mass transportation has increased, at least in large urban areas.  Paris and other cities began their bike share programs, and new bike shops opened with a (and some established bike shops shifted their) focus on "city" bikes and other utilitarian bicycles.  At the same time, people started to take environmental concerns seriously in the wake of unusual weather and natural (as well as manmade) disasters.  Cities and towns began mandatory recycling programs, and increasing numbers of people have begun to make (or try to make) more environmentally-conscious choices in the ways they live, work, shop and get around.

It will be interesting to see whether the current interest in cycling and recycling continues if prices of petrol or other commodities continue to fall, or if we manage to halt or reverse environmental degradation.

Santa Claus Is Coming To Town--Without Dasher, Danner, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Dunder and Vixem--Or Rudolph

Nearly two years ago, Bill de Blasio became the Mayor of New York City.  Practically from the moment he assumed the office (or so it seems), he promised to ban horse carriages like the ones that carry tourists through and around Central Park.

He's faced a lot of opposition.  About two weeks ago it was revealed that he's backing down and seeking only a partial ban, whatever that may mean.

As you can imagine, animal rights activists aren't happy.  I can't blame them:  After all, horses simply weren't meant to walk on asphalt or concrete or to breathe smog.  (The streets around Central Park have some of the heaviest vehicular traffic in New York.)  They are used to help perpetuate a romantic fantasy about New York:  In the days when people rode carriages because there weren't other means of transportation (except, perhaps, for the horses themselves), this city was a darker, more dangerous and more squalid than it is now--unless you were very, very wealthy.

I have to wonder, though, how the animal rights activists (with whom I am in sympathy most of the time) would react to Santa and his reindeer.  Now, because Donner, Blitzen, et al, fly through the air, their hooves aren't subjected to the impact that horses experience on Gotham streets.  On the other hand, they are flying (I assume) at high altitudes. That means there would be less oxygen for them to breathe.  Also, the effects of pollutants are magnified--which, in turn, could initiate or magnify respiratory conditions.

I think I might have found a solution for Santa--and Bill de Blasio--that just might make the animal rights activists happy:

From Bing images.

Imagine!

Who said this?:

 "As a kid I had a dream – I wanted to own my own bicycle. When I got the bike I must have been the happiest boy in Liverpool, maybe the world. I lived for that bike. Most kids left their bike in the backyard at night. Not me. I insisted on taking mine indoors and the first night I even kept it in my bed."

One clue might be "Liverpool".  I mean the one in England, not the one in upstate New York (where the locals joke that their town is so named because it has the same kind of weather as the British port city).  When you think of people from Liverpool, who comes to mind first?

OK, you can be forgiven for saying "William Gladstone" or "Clive Barker"--or, for that matter, Kate Sheppard or Peter Shaffer.  But if you're of my generation and know even less than I do about British or women's history, there is only one answer you can give.

That answer is, of course, The Beatles.  And who was the most literate and articulate of the "Fab Four".  You guessed it:  John Lennon.

 

Somehow it's not a surprise that he had such a dream, or was so happy that it was realized.  He had his flaws, but in the end, I think he really meant what he wrote in "Imagine". 



Ironically and tragically, a deranged man with a gun ended his life, thirty-five years ago today.  

The ensuing years have not lessened the shock of his murder.  I often find myself playing his songs in my mind--or even humming or singing them--as I ride and do other things.  It's appropriate, I think:  If more people, especially in developed countries, rode bikes to work, school, shop, or simply for fun, we might come closer to having the sort of world he envisioned. 

The Attack That Deflated Balloon Tires

Seventy-four years ago today, the Japanese Imperial Navy launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor.  Well, it was a surprise to most people, but some who were "in the know" saw the United States and Japan edging toward war for months before the attack.

Winston Churchill could barely conceal his glee:  At last the Americans would join his fight against Japan's nominal allies, Germany and Italy.  Never before, and never since, have Americans been so willing to go to war against another country.

It's almost a cliché to say that the attack, and US involvement in the World War, would change almost everything about American society and culture.  As an example, it could be argued that the War had as much of a role as any other event in bringing about the Civil Rights movements of the 1950s and 1960s.  Black American soldiers could sit at any café or pub table in Europe, but were separated from fellow citizens lighter than themselves within their own armed forces, not to mention in schools and other public places in their home towns, cities and states. 

Also, the war turned the wave of blacks migrating from the south to the north into a tidal wave, changing the face of numerous communities all over the United States. Having large numbers of African Americans concentrated in urban neighborhoods would make it easier for leaders to organize marches and other kinds of protests than it had been when the same people were dispersed over miles of southern countryside.  (Remember, this was decades before the Internet and Facebook!)

Now, since this is a bike blog, I have to tell you how the attack on Pearl Harbor--and the War--changed cycling, at least in this country.  At the time, the average adult bicyle weighed 57 pounds (about 26 kilos).  The government decreed that those bikes would be made ten pounds lighter, and that production of children's bicycles would cease altogether for the duration.

The reason for this change was that bicycles were being used in the military, and a lighter bike is easier to transport and maneuver.  Also, it used less of the materials that were rationed during wartime.   Those restrictions, of course, made fewer bicycles available for civilians to buy, but those who were able to get them discovered that they liked the lighter bikes.  Manufacturers took notice and started to make bikes lighter still.

Further accelerating the change in American bicycles were the machines service members saw--and sometimes brought back from--the places in which they fought.  The majority of the bikes to come to our shores came from England, but a few others came from Continental European countries.  Those bikes--yes, even the English three-speed and French "ballon" bikes--were lighter than the "lightweight" models American manufacturers were making during the war.

Could it be that if Pearl Harbor hadn't been attacked, we might still be riding on those balloon-tired Schwinns, Columbias and Huffys?  Hmm....

(Note:  I mean no offense to any of you who still remember--or experienced--the tragedies of that day that "will live on in infamy"!)

 

I Should Feel Guilty About This, But...

I know I should be worried about climate change. After all, so much of the world's economy, agricultural and otherwise, as well as much in our cultures, depends on the weather patterns we've had during the past few milennia.  If we in Western countries think we're having a "refugee crisis" now, to paraphrase Al Jolson, "We ain't seen nothin' yet."  We're just another drought or monsoon away from a veritable tidal wave of people with nothing. And, to quote the immortal Bob Dylan, "When you ain't got nothing, you've got nothing to lose".

But it's hard not to enjoy some things about climate change.  As an example, this fall has been warmer than normal in this part of the world. It seems that, for the past couple of decades or so, just about every season has been significantly warmer or colder or wetter or drier than normal.  This fall, so far, has been warmer and, I think, drier.  If I didn't see the wreaths and lights and decorations people have hung in their windows and doors and from lampposts during the past week or so, I would have a hard time telling that we're less than three weeks from Christmas.

Maybe it has to do with the way the leaves, which cover everything but the trees they fell from, flicker in the sun. Or with the fact that even the coldest night we've had so far didn't even give a hint of impending winter storms.  

It was another nice day to ride.  And I did. How could I not?  I tried to worry more about climate change.  Really, I did.

What Holiday Is It Today?

Surely you've heard someone say, "You learn something new every day". 

What, exactly, does anyone learn on any given day?  It may be a bit of information or a new skill.  Or, perhaps, a new way of doing, expressing or simply looking at, something one has always known.  For better or worse, we might learn something about our selves or someone else.

Sometimes it seems that I learn every day is a holiday or feast day I've never heard  of before.  Maybe it has to do with my Catholic upbringing:  I don't think any religion has more feast days or saints' days.  It wouldn't surprise me to know that I never even knew about most of them!

Just for the heck of it,  I checked to see whether there's a
"Saint Justine Day".  Sure enough, the 7th of October is the day on which Santa Giustina di Padova is commemorated.  Like many other saints, Giustina was canonized for converting someone prominent  (Cyprian, the pagan magician of Antioch) and her martyrdom.  Hmm...I'm not sure I want to martyr myself for anything.  As for conversions...well, I converted myself:  I used to be a guy named Nicholas.  I know, that's not the kind of conversion the College of Cardinals has in mind. 

(By the way, St. Nicholas Day is tomorrow. Yes, it's the 6th, not the 25th, of this month!)

So, is there a holiday today?

Turns out, there is, in the cycling world--at least a part of it.  If you're not part of it, that's not the only reason you haven't heard of this holiday:  After all, Global Fat Bike Day was proclaimed for the first time only three years ago.

A "fatty" on a trail in Killington last year.

Now, while I don't envision myself becoming a Fat Bike rider (as distinguished from a fat bike rider) and thus won't celebrate, I am glad the holiday is being observed as it is.  You see, it hasn't been taken over by any commercial enterprise:  It's a grass-roots day, as Earth Day was in the beginning.  And, unless Fat Bikes become a major part of the bike market, that's probably how the holiday will remain.

Today is Saturday.  So, in two years, this holiday will fall on Tuesday. (Next year is a leap year.)  Will they call it "Fat Bike Tuesday" and ride up and down the streets of New Orleans?  Bon temps rouler, as they say in "The Big Easy".

 

Proof That The Dutch Don't Have Tunnel Vision

Some of us are fortunate enough to cycle to and from work. 

Of course, such an arrangement is not feasible for everyone.  So, some people ride their bikes to another mode of transportation, such as a train or bus, that takes them to their jobs.  It's been a while since I've been that type of commuter.  But my memories of it are not fond, in part because I wasn't crazy about the jobs I was working--but, more important, the companies and agencies that operated the bus and train lines I used didn't make it easy.

Back when I was a multi-mode commuter, the stations I used (on the Long Island Rail Road and New Jersey Transit) had no provisions for cyclists. You found a pole or parking meter to which you locked your bike:  pretty much the same ordeal you faced if you took a bus, as I did for a time when I was living in New Jersey.

Many train stations pose a further inconvenience to cyclists:  If the train line happens to follow a street you want to cross, you have to take a detour if the tracks and platforms are at or near street level.  

If someone had told me that, one day, my local station would be completely navigable by bicyle--yes, that you could pedal to the platforms or under them to go through the station--I would have wanted to inhale whatever that person was smoking.  Even today, I'd wonder whether someone making such a prediction had taken his or her medications beforehand.

Well, it turns out there is such a station.  The tracks and platforms are raised above the street level.  Underneath them, at street level, a tunnel for cyclists and pedestrians passes through--and provides access to the platforms.

That station is--where else?--in the Netherlands.



This testament to good planning is in the Den Haag HS railway station, in the Hague.  The tunnel runs between Waldorpstaat and Stationsplen/Parallelweg in the home of the UN's International Court of Justice.

I'd say the tunnel does plenty of justice to cyclists and pedestrians.

Joop Zoetemelk: He Didn't Ride The Tour De France To Work On His Tan

Any New York basketball fan will tell you that Patrick Ewing is the most unlucky player who ever lived.

Why?  His career almost entirely coincided with that of none other than Michael Jordan.  Although Ewing earned many accolades and awards throughout his professional and collegiate careers, one prize eluded him:  the NBA championship.  Jordan retired with six of those.

There are similarly "unlucky" cyclists.  Perhaps the most benighted of all was Raymond Poulidor, "le deuxieme eternel"--the eternal second.  He finished the Tour de France in that position three times, and in third five times in the fourteen Tours he entered (and twelve he completed).   In spite of his consistency, he never even wore the yellow jersey.

What caused "Pou-pou" (With a nickname like that, how could his luck be anything but bad?) such misfortune?  Well, his professional career began in 1960.  Two years later, he entered--and finished third in--the Tour for the first time.  As fate would have it, Jacques Anquetil won his second consecutive (third overall) Yellow Jersey in that year's boucle.  Anquetil won the following two Tours, with Poulidor achieving his first second-place finish in 1964.

Anquetil retired in 1969, but that year another legend won the Tour for the first time. You probably know his name: Eddy Mercx.  Even though Poulidor rode his last Tour in 1976, a year after Mercx completed his last, the "Pou" still could not win the maillot jaune.

After Poulidor, the rider with the worst luck was probably Joop Zoetemelk.  He is one of only two cyclists to enter the Tour more often than Poulidor:  sixteen times, a record George Hincapie later equaled.  In those sixteen tries, he finished second six times.  And he actually won it once, during the unusually cold and rainy 1980.  I was one of the many fans who lined the Champs-Elysees on the day he circled the Arc de Triomphe and ascended to the podium in the Yellow Jersey.

He is the second-unluckiest, not only because he actually won and because he had more second-place finishes than Poulidor (though he was never third), but also because he didn't have to contend with Anquetil.  However, he pedaled through first part of his career --as Poulidor did in the latter part of his--in the shadow of Mercx.  And during his later years, including the year he won the Tour, Bernard Hinault dominated the cycling world.

While nobody can fault the way he rode in 1980, critics often point out that he achieved his victory in the year Hinault withdrew after the twelfth stage, when the weather aggravated the tendinitis in his right knee.  Hinault would win again the following year (when Zoetemelk just missed the podium with a fourth-place finish)  and in 1984 and 1985.  Zoetemelk finished his last Tour in 1986 when Hinault's teammate, Greg LeMond, won for the first time.

Few world-class cyclists have ever had fairer skin than the Dutchman.  That was the basis of a joke that went something like this:  He never tanned because he was always riding in the shadow of Mercx (or, later, Hinault).  However, fans in his home country are not the only ones who don't see him as riding in the shadows of anyone:  On its 75th anniversary, the Royal Dutch Cycling Federation named him the best rider ever to come out of the Netherlands. 


Perhaps most important of all, every cyclist who competed with and against him respected his work ethic as well as his natural talent.  More than one of his fellow riders called him "the perfect teammate".  According to Peter Post, his manager on the TI-Raleigh Team, "He followed the rules.  He got on with people...  He never asked for domestiques.  Joop never demanded anything."   A few observers also saw that as his weakness.  "He could not give instructions...when Zoetemelk won the Tour, the instructions had to come from Gerrie Knetemann and Jan Raas," according to fellow Tour rider Rini Wagtmans.  Still, he made this assessment:  "Joop Zoetemelk is the best rider the Netherlands has ever known."

Today, Mr. Zoetemelk turns 69 years old.  Wherever he spends his day, he will not be in the shadow of Anquetil, Mercx, Hinault or anyone else.

Metamorphosis: NYC Streets

Anybody who's been cycling in New York for a decade or more knows that riding this city's streets is much different now from how it was then. 

The most obvious changes are the bike lanes--which were all but nonexistent in the early 2000s--and, of course, Citibike.  Also, there are purely and simply more people riding--and, as I've recounted in other posts, I encounter other cyclists while riding along streets and in neighborhoods where, not so long ago, I would be the only person on a bike.

As I've also discussed in other posts, I don't think the changes have necessarily made this a better city for cyclists.  Some of the lanes are poorly designed (a few lead to nowhere) and built.  Perhaps even worse is that the building of bike lanes and installation of Citibike ports doesn't seem to have accompanied a reduction in motorized traffic.  Streets can't be made any wider, so the bike lanes that run along major streets and avenues were created by blocking off one of the traffic lanes.  That has led to more traffic congestion and greater tension between motorists and cyclists--and between cyclists themselves. 

Some riders, most of  whom wouldn't have been riding had the bike lanes not been built, are as rude and aggressive as some of the worst drivers I've seen.  Years ago, I knew--at least by sight--most of the cyclists I'd see on a given day.  Even if we didn't know each other by name, we looked out for each other:  We signaled turns.  We didn't cut each other off. We alerted each other to broken glass and other hazards. Today, it seems, a lot of the newbies are riding as if they have blinders on.  And the ones who ride motorized and electric bikes are even worse!

So, even though I enjoyed the film I am including in this post, I do not share the view of filmmaker Clarence Eckerson Jr. that this city is more bike-friendly as a result of the changes it shows.  Still, the film is interesting to watch because it visually chronicles some of the changes in the appearance as well as the rhythms of the Big Apple:

 

This Film Is Rated "T" (For Tweed)

Knickers.  Breeches. Knee socks.  Cardigans.  Blazers.  Rounded collars.  Pleated shorts.  Tweed! 

If you think that sounds like a sartorial portrait of a bunch of English men and women going on a bicycle tour in the country side circa 1955, well, your instincts are spot-on.  Those folks are indeed on their way to a jolly spin along the lanes that traverse  the moors and heaths, and front the castles and barns, in and around Rugby.

Apparently, the cycle-touring culture of London was still strong enough in the 1950s that British Transport commissioned a short film I've embedded here.  It chronicles a "Cyclists' Special" rail excursion from London to Rugby arranged by British Rail and the venerable Cyclists' Touring Club (C.T.C.)

It's interesting to hear discussions of "bonking" and the costliness of  good touring bikes with the then-newfangled ten-speed derailleur gears.  British cyclists only began to embrace derailleurs during the 1950's; until then, most cycle-tourists rode some version or another of Sturmey Archer's internally-geared hubs, even on frames custom-built from Reynolds 531 tubing.

I also love seeing those old wooden rail cars with rubber hooks for bicycles and the cafeteria car.  And tweed!  And some of those men are actually wearing ties.  Oh, my!

 

Cyclists Special, a short film about cycle touring in the UK, 1955 from Morgan Fletcher on Vimeo.

Approaching Weather, Seen Clearly

In Florida--at least the part where my parents live--you can ride under a cloudless, sunny blue sky and see a downpour on the horizon.  That storm might soak you in an hour, or even less.

The reason why oncoming weather (or the weather you're about to ride or drive into) is so visible is that the landscape is flatter than any of my jokes fell the one time I went to an open mike and there are no tall buildings.  That means, of course, that you would never see approaching weather so clearly here in New York, especially in Manhattan.

Or would you?

This morning I took a spin up the Hudson River Greenway up to 125th Street.  The chill in the air turned to outright cold as I approached the river, but I did not mind:  It was invigorating and the surroundings are stimulating.  However, I think I was able to see the rain that local meteorologists are predicting for tonight.  Interestingly, it is supposed to come from the north--the direction in which I was riding when I took the photo (The George Washington Bridge is behind that veil of clouds)--rather than the west, as weather usually does.

August in Florida comes to November in New York. Who'd'a thunk?

The Last Sunday

Americans regard Labor Day as the unofficial end of summer.   If it is, perhaps today--Thanksgiving Sunday, or the last Sunday of November--is the unofficial end of fall or the  beginning of the Christmas season.

Today felt like the end of a season of some sort.  The ride I took today was more than pleasant; the skies cleared of yesterday's rain and the crispness one could feel in the air a couple of days ago has given way to a bracing nip.

I rode to Point Lookout, in part because I hadn't ridden there in a while, but also because I figured that, since my route wouldn't take me anywhere near the malls or any other retail "magnet", I wouldn't encounter much traffic.  

Turns out, I was right.  In fact, the streets of Atlantic and Long Beaches--the first two Nassau County towns I encounter after crossing the bridge from Queens--were deserted.  I sometimes encounter that on Saturdays or High Holy Days, as a large number of observant Jews live in the area.  But to encounter hardly a car, cyclist or pedestrian on a Sunday, even when it isn't beach season, is unusual, to say the least.  

I did, however, notice that the bars were full, and it didn't look like the patrons were "doing" brunch.  When I glanced into one of the windows, I saw the reason why:  Most of the patrons, it seemed, were gazing at football (American-style) matches on wide-screen TVs as they munched on chicken wings and quaffed brews.

In fact, the largest congregation of people I saw outdoors were standing on line at an ice cream stand, open for the last time until, probably, March. (A handlettered sign read, "See you in the Spring!:)  Even the sorts of people one encounters along the beaches and Point Lookout in the Fall and Winter--bird watchers, philosophers and poets manques, fisher-men and -women--were gone, with a few exceptions:

It almost seemed as if the tide would have stayed out as long as that man and his dog trotted on the sandbar.  I wonder if these souls felt the same way:

Today I rode alone, by choice.  In other years, I have ridden on the last Sunday in November with people with whom I never rode--or even never saw--again.  Whether or not I continued to ride during the winter (I did in most years, though usually not as much as I rode during the other seasons), I wouldn't see them.   By the time the next cycling season began--in February or March or April, depending on that year's weather--they were gone, to new schools, new jobs, new towns (or even states or countries), new lives.

The mild weather we've enjoyed in this part of the world this fall may well continue through the next few months, and I may not cycle much less than I have ridden during the past few weeks.  Or we may be snow- and ice-bound, as we were for several weeks last winter, and ride very little.  Or there might be some other change in my life, for better or worse, that affects or doesn't affect how much I ride between now and the time lilacs and cherry blossoms start opening themselves to the furtive early-spring sun.

Whatever happens, today, like every last Sunday in November I recall, feels like the unofficial end of cycling season.  Any ride I take after today, and before the beginning of Spring or the new cycling season, will seem like an interlude rather than a normal part of the cycle. 

Somehow it seems fitting that I rode Arielle, my Mercian Audax.  Out of all of my bikes, she seems to most embody the spirit of my riding.  If I could only take one more ride, I'd choose her.  I doubt that today's trek will be my last before Spring.  Still, Arielle seems to be the right bike to ride at the end of the season.

(There isn't much to lean a bike against at Point Lookout!)

We're Not All Surly Scofflaws

When Donald Trump said that Mexico was sending rapists to this country, many people rightly expressed outrage.

Likewise, there would be plenty of righteous umbrage expressed if African-Americans were portrayed as gangsters,  "welfare queens" or even basketball players, just as we would not tolerate a broad-brushed characterization of Jews as money-hungry.

However, I've noticed that--at least here in New York--many people, including news anchors, think it's perfectly all right to characterize all cyclists as surly scofflaws.  I wish I'd recorded the segment in which an announcer on a local all-news station--the one to which most NYC taxi drivers listen--said that cyclists "never" obey the traffic law and that a proposed law would ensure that we do.

By Andreas Kambanis

Granted, there are cyclists who blow through red lights and sideswipe pedestrians and others. I don't have any statistics, but I know they don't constitute "all" cyclists, any more than the attacks in Paris or the World Trade Center are proof that "all" Muslims or Arabs, or people from the Middle East or North Africa, are terrorists.

What people forget is in painting all members of a group with a broad brush, they are further alienating themselves from that group, just as they are alienating members of that group from themselves.  That, in turn, causes some members of the group--whether they're Muslims or black teenagers or cyclists or whatever--to believe that, no matter how well they behave, they are lumped in with the worst members of their group.  So, they figure, there is no point in changing their ways--or they, out of anger, become even bolder or more brazen in their antisocial behavior.

What I heard yesterday on 1010 WINS is not an isolated example, and it is not part of a new trend.  About twenty years ago, a certain local television reporter staged an incident in which he, while crossing a street, was knocked down by a "cyclist".  (I put "cyclist" in quotation marks because, as the incident was fake, I have to wonder whether the person on the bike was actually a cyclist.  Perhaps he was just playing one on TV.)  As we were even more of a minority than we are now, there was even less outcry than there has been over more recent examples of anti-cycling bias.  Then again, the story had a shorter "shelf life" than today's anti-biker screeds.

So, I urge cyclists to be on the lookout for more examples of anti-bike bias in the meida, and to call the television and radio stations, news-papers and -sites, and other media outlets on it.  At the same time, I appeal to my fellow riders to be considerate of pedestrians, especially those who are elderly and disabled--and to obey traffic signs and signals.  After all, cyclists in Montreal and Paris do it, and it doesn't seem to slow them down.