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The Bleak Mid Winter

1/30/2015

I have a friend who used to cycle in NYC. “You can definitely ride in the Winter in New York,” he says. “The trouble is, it’s just not much fun.”

Through the holidays, through travel to warmer climates, through sheer determination (and doggedly tweaking my attire), I have pushed the limits of my denial about riding in the Winter, but now we’re really in it. We don’t just have cold and darkness. We also have snow. And ice. The jig is up. Am I going to ride?

I look at the street. It does not look inviting.

I don’t feel prepared to ride on ice or slush; I’ve never done it before. My fear once again, is doing a number on my confidence. I can feel its voice getting louder. If I don’t take action, it will win and I’ll spend the rest of the Winter indoors in a rotten mood - and miss some potentially great rides. Meanwhile, I look around and see other intrepid cyclists getting out there.

As a matter of fact, just the other day I came across a fellow in Riverside Park on a road bike. His tires had zero tread. He was riding on packed snow (pretty close to ice), going slowly. Sometimes he had to paddle, or dismount, but mostly he rode. And he made it to the Hudson River Greenway – which was plowed. Well, why can’t I do that?

Janet (my road bike) didn’t sell, and to be honest my heart wasn’t in it. She’s a great ride and the things I loved about her - especially her hydraulic disk brakes - I still love. So a month ago, I had her outfitted with winter tires and fenders hoping I might use her as an all-weather bike. And today’s as good as any to try her out.

We carefully make our way towards 7th Avenue.

I have more traction than I expected, and the bike lane is pretty clear as we head towards the River.

The path at the Greenway isn't perfect.

But it gets better and Janet is steady.

There’s no wind, my extremities and core are toasty. Hooray! A Winter ride - I think I can do this!

The horizon is beautiful, dark and moody.

The few cyclists I see are wearing balaclavas like mine.

Ah, the balaclava. Accessory of bank robbers and cyclists alike. I love my balaclava. It’s a big improvement over the little cap I had and it really protects the face. And just as I’m feeling completely self-satisfied with my new purchase, I stop to blow my nose – and find the one disadvantage of wearing a balaclava. Ewww? I think I’m going to have to work on my technique.

Ah well, it’s washable.

The path to the Lower Promenade is plowed, but the through path isn’t. If I want to make it to the tennis courts, I'll have to retrace my steps, back to the Greenway. There’s some hairy navigating (nothing I haven't seen before but a little scarier downhill).

But the more I do it, the more confident I become. I gradually learn when to paddle, when to dismount, when to just muddle through. And Janet’s brakes and tires perform phenomenally. This was a great decision.

I love going to new places – it’s one of the best things about riding. But no matter where you ride, eventually you know all the paths. And that’s what’s great about riding in New York because not only do we have real seasons which change everything; we also have a constantly shifting landscape of people - and they’re always up to something. Like these kids:

They could easily pummel me with snow, but I am such low-hanging fruit it’s not much of a challenge for them, and they continue to focus on each other.

And then I come upon this. It’s so unlikely, I almost do a double take. Can you see it?

However depressing the Winter season must be for cyclists, for fly fisherpeople it’s got to be hell. In fact, in what season is New York ever a fly fishing town? I’m thinking she must be headed for the Caribbean. And snow is just powdered water after all – as good a place to practice as any. This lady seems determined to be ready.

Up the Promenade we go. The path is clear until we approach the tennis courts.

Where, using my newly-developed muddling through technique, I make two discoveries:

1. No one is playing today – this wasn’t such a surprise (though I wonder whose footprints those are?).

2. My battery-heated insoles conked out somewhere back on the Lower Promenade; my feet are freezing. WTF? I only just got these. I try moving my toes, but with my damaged capillaries everything’s numb; it’s hard to tell if they’re moving at all. Well, there’s nothing to be done. It’s a long ride home but I’ll just have to do it. I’m glad I didn’t find this out on one of the 5BBC “Frost-bite series” rides. Those rides can be far from home, and I’d hate to live the title.

When I get back, I do a search for customer reviews of this product. The news is not good: everyone has had the same experience as I did (and many have worse). Looks like I’ll be going back to those clumsy socks. But they’re reliable and they do work.

Meanwhile, I warm up my toes (no damage) and bask in the glow of a good ride. An exercise bike doesn't come close to giving me this. The breathing isn't the same - and it doesn't take me anywhere.

So. Was my friend right about Winter riding? At the moment, we’re headed for more snow and a real deep freeze, and I can certainly see his point. But as for me, as long as I'm properly dressed, I think I can actually have a pretty good time in the Winter. I may not ride as often as I’d like - and I certainly won't ride as fast - but I’ll keep riding.

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Red Light

1/21/2015

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When I was 8, I entered The Bully Years. For reasons I will never quite understand, I was bullied everywhere I went for three years straight: the school bus, the class room, the playground (well, most artists will relate to that) – and even in the summers - by a whole otherset of kids. It was as if they all knew each other and signaled ahead of my arrival.

I summered with my Grand Parents who had a house right on the beach in Bay Head NJ. What a great place to spend the summer, right? You would think. I loved the ocean, but all the Summer kids (we never saw the others) were snobby and cliquish. Whatever it was about me, I was different. My uncles introduced me around, but it didn’t take. And although I was used to being an only child, by the time I was 11, I was desperately lonely. With no friends my age, I hung out with the grown ups.

One day, I found myself at a rummage sale with one of my uncles. He pointed out an old beat up bike in a corner, and asked me if I was interested. It cost $25.00. We took it home.

I loved it instantly. I’m not even sure I would have gone near it if it had been brand new. Instead, it was red and rusty. The brakes were a suggestion at best. It rattled. It had some miles on it. Even though I was only 11, I totally related to its tattered state. And best of all: it was a girl’s bike. It felt like it had been made just for me. It had a red reflector in the back (its only accessory), and I named it Red Light. If ever there were a Rosebud in my life, this was it.

We rode everywhere that Summer. I could make up songs (and sappy lyrics) to my heart’s content, sing them to the rooftops and no one would hear me. I could ride right by the kids who shunned me and feel invincible. I had independence for the first time. I had control. My imagination took flight on Red Light. We traveled to imaginary lands, performed heroic deeds and whether I was accepted by the other kids or not didn’t matter anymore, because Red Light and I had each other. Looking back on it, Red Light was my first real friend. And that Summer, I began to heal.

Red Light in fact signaled a sea change in both my mother’s life and my own. Because that was the year I changed schools and went back a grade. Gone were the bullies. And miraculously, I understood everything that was being taught in class. Equally important - New Yorkers will relate to this - my mother and I moved to a bigger apartment.

Did I say bigger? We moved into a Classic Six – just the two of us – and rattled around from one glorious room to another, our voices bouncing off the walls. We didn’t even have enough furniture for the place. From living in a 1-bedroom cracker box on the Upper East Side, we went to the (then) wild and woolly Upper West, where we had our own bedrooms, a dining room, a living room, a maids room (no maid), a pantry for heavens sake – and four open exposures. We could see the sun coming up, we could see it going down – and everything in between.

I continued to ride Red Light in the Summers until one Summer I took off without it to music camp, and in a natural process of release – much as training wheels are supposed to gradually fall away - my life really began.

I wish I knew what happened to Red Light. As good a friend as it had been to me, I didn’t yet know the value of friendships. It took years for me to understand that they don’t just come along anytime (and neither do great bikes). If I could do it all over again, I’d have had it repaired. Found a place for it. Or better yet, found a kid who needed it.

But I will never forget what Red Light gave me. Acceptance, empowerment and reliable friendship at a time in my life when I had so little.

With Winter now upon us, cycling classes have been suggested to me as a way to replace my riding routine. I know people mean well, and I have an exercise bike myself. But it’s not the same. Because I don’t ride to stay in shape. I ride to escape, to imagine, to explore, to dream. I ride for the very same reasons now that I rode then (though I have long since left the bullies behind). And that was the thing about Red Light. We went places. We really went places.

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Simplify

1/20/2015

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As any musician will tell you, the more spare the motion, the greater the efficiency. It’s true of bass playing and guitar playing, it’s true of piano playing. Because the more efficient the motion, the less stands between you and your goal, which is to make music.

Query: How important is it to me to look like I belong on a bike?

Answer: Not very. My main goal right now is to stay warm so that I can keep riding.

It’s bracing out – 23˚ - as I head up to The Promenades. The Hudson is beautiful, though I’m grateful not to be on it.

There's plenty of black ice, but it's easy to spot.

And mostly easy to avoid.

Happily, I make it up to the tennis courts with no ill effects. In fact, I have it better than the tennis players - no volleying on these courts today.

So how did I do it?

Well, if I only have to dress for warmth, why would I need 4-5 layers of bike-related clothing...

When this will actually do the job better?

And those New Balance shoes? Even if I could find booties to cover them, they’re never gonna keep me warm as long as the wind is blowing through the canvas. So, instead of wearing all of this:

I've found I can just wear these (batteries not required).

Yes, they're snow boots (toasty too). Yes, they're heavy. As is the jacket.

But what about speed?

That's a valid objection to be sure. And I admire people who can maintain speed in this weather. But Winter riding for me is not about speed - I'm not taking Lola out in this weather. It's about being able to enjoy a bike ride regardless. The heavier the tire tread, the heavier the weight on the bike, the better (within reason of course). Additionally, the lower the center of gravity, the better. Which is making my Brompton Lucille my go-t0 bike for now. And I am overjoyed to have her.

I've made some other substitutions too.

These

for this.

And these

For these:

Yes, they’re battery-warmed but much quicker to put on and take off. And that matters in aggregate because now I can get dressed in 10 min instead of a half hour. And with the light fading, that’s a real advantage (plus it’s also easier to blow the nose).

On my first or second ride with L, I remember her saying to me, “Every ride is an improvement over the last.” And that too reminds me of music. Because inherent in every practice session is the assumption – the hope at least – that you will be improving; that the next time you play your instrument you will be closer to making music.

This is a great approach to cycling for sure. My Winter prep has taken a major turn for the better. With that out of the way, I can now concentrate on the ride.

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First Bike

1/16/2015

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How do you recognize a best friend? Is it a friendship that grows over time? A magical chemistry you know right away? You can’t always tell. My Brompton Lucille, I loved at first pedal. Janet, my first road bike I loved, then loved less. And Lola my carbon fiber, is a continually unfolding romance. But my first bike almost killed me.

I was 5. It was Christmas and I came downstairs to see a shiny blue bike beside the tree, with streamers coming from the handlebars, and a set of training wheels.

I don’t remember asking for a bike. If I’m not mistaken, that was the Christmas I wanted a hippopotamus. Instead, I got a 45 recording of “I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas,” which even I could see was not the same thing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Dec9Jb_Ac4

We lived in Georgetown where all the sidewalks were brick.

No riding there. But there was an alley out back where the neighborhood kids played. This was to be my training ground.

(Taken from R Street. Unpaved back then).

No sooner was this bike presented to me than the training wheels were removed. In my family we did not believe in a learning curve but were largely expected to know things before we learned them. In accordance with which my father took me out back, settled me on the bike and gave me a shove.

I should mention this: it was a boy’s bike. Way too big for me. With a high horizontal crossbar. My feet could just reach the pedals, but they could not touch the ground - even if I stood on them. So starting or stopping were impossible without assistance (I found this out the hard way). It was like balancing above a knife.

My father ran alongside me in case I needed help, and stopped and steadied the bike so I could dismount before we reached the alley’s end (at R Street),

Why a boy’s bike? Why no training wheels? Oh, right. But why so big?

We can second-guess our parents forever. At a certain point in life (like when we get as old as they were then), we come to understand that they were really just kids themselves; that they were using what to them seemed good judgment. And miraculously, with my father’s assistance, I did learn to ride. I just didn’t learn to stop.

We had a housekeeper back then who doubled as a babysitter, and one day with my parents both gone, I wanted to show off my riding skills. I took her out back, asked her to help get me started – and off I went up the alley. Headed straight for R Street.

Remember, I was 5. I say this by way of asking the reader’s forbearance for what came next.

I saw R Street getting closer and closer. I didn’t know what to do. Up to now, an adult – my father or an uncle – had always been trotting alongside. But now I was on my own. I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t turn. I was mystified that our housekeeper wasn’t beside me. How could she not know she was supposed to be there? Everyone else seemed to know.

“Well stop me, you idiot!” I yelled as I came closer and closer to the speeding traffic.

And there you have it: the moment that freezes in time for me. For what it says about class. About entitlement. About a world view – which I had inherited and was already perpetrating on others at the tender age of 5. I couldn’t ride a bike, but I already knew how to shift the blame onto those less fortunate - perhaps the one area in which I was precocious.

I cannot imagine what was going through her mind in that moment. A mixture of shock, denial and panic I would guess.

Time and shame have obliterated both the name and face of this heroic housekeeper from my memory (though I’m sure I was legendary in hers for years to come). But I can tell you this. Although I don’t remember her being particularly athletic (rather the reverse, actually), she took off like a blue streak up the alley, caught up to me at full speed, grabbed that bike by the handlebars and stopped it seconds before I sailed into traffic.

(current traffic on R Steet, courtesy of Google)

I knew I’d done something wrong, but I didn’t know what. I only knew bike riding seemed somehow beyond me, as were so many things back then.

And the bike? As I recall, we gave it to a boy up the block, a strapping kid who doubtless represented the kind of bulldozer my father would have secretly preferred to a girl. I’m sure he rode it into the ground. I didn’t miss it. If this was friendship - with a bike at least - I wanted no part of it, and for years after that, I preferred to keep my feet well off the pedals.

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LA Wheelmen II

1/8/2015

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As we speed back over familiar streets, I can see we're bound for the canyons - the only question is which one? If it's Benedict, I'll be in luck. But it's not. It's the Cahuenga Pass. Initially (I remember this as a driver) it parallels the 101 Freeway, then it branches off Southwest to Mulholland, which is long and hilly. But I'm not worried because I know every curve is bringing us closer to that comforting stop sign that signals we're at the top - after which it will all be downhill.

And when will that be exactly?

As I grind my way up towards that ever vanishing mirage, self-doubt coupled with physical strain cause me to ask myself more than once if I can even do this. And why did I even start with this cycling business anyway? Was I nuts? THIS wasn't what I had in mind.

By now I have enough experience to recognize this self doubt for what it is: my knee jerk reaction when facing the unknown. My imagination turns on itself. They will find me lost and desiccated years later, having never reached the top, stick me in the ground and mark the spot with a sign that reads, "Failed Cyclist."

Which brings me to an even bigger fear: humiliation. And that's what keeps me going. Because what I've learned about these rides is that endless as the hills seem to be? Regrets last much longer. Oh, and there's one more thing: there are no other options.

There is no stop sign of course. And even if there were, the problem is that Mulholland, even though it traces the spine of the mountains, is often just as hilly as the canyons. And the downhills offer no respite, because the pavement is in such rotten shape, you can't just coast. There are cars, there are potholes and cracks - you have to hang on for dear life, ride the brakes and navigate very carefully.

Which begs the question: just what are the property taxes doing in those hills? And does anybody pay them? Because if so, they sure don't go for public transportation - or for roads.

Meanwhile, it seems another rider, G and I have pulled ahead of the group. From time to time, I see him taking out a handkerchief. I remark to him that I am the only cyclist I know in NY who uses Kleenex. "What do the rest do?" He asks.

I hate to tell him.

We take a couple of breaks at scenic turnouts, waiting for the others to catch up.

But they're a no show. When they fail to turn up, we assume there was a flat somewhere along the line. As long as they're together, they will be OK - Wheelmen don't leave their members behind. We move on, pushing through more hills, West to Franklin Canyon.

Where the descent begins in earnest. This is truly beautiful, and largely downhill. By now I feel I have nothing to prove (and I can find my way home if I have to), so I stop for the occasional photo.

The closer we get to Beverly Hills, the better the pavement becomes. You can practically smell the money. Finally, we coast into the original meeting point - me on my last good nerve. This was my hardest ride by far. I consider it a minor miracle that I finished.

Relieved, I turn to G and say "Wow, that was amazing. Next time though, I'm going to see if I can find a ride with Seniors"

He pauses and looks at me wryly. "We are Seniors," he says.

And so they are. As I say, comparing cycling in NY vs LA? Fuhgeddaboudit.

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LA Wheelmen I

1/7/2015

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You can make all the comparisons you want about the differences between NY and LA. But when it comes to cycling I can tell you this: there is no comparison.

I have planned a ride with the LA Wheelmen. I've chosen them for scheduling reasons, because they meet close to me (at a spot in Beverly Hills), and because they sound a bit like the 5 Borough Bike Club: friendly and easy going. Nice "relaxed" rides. Here's what it says on their website:

"We are bicylists who enjoy riding with friends and seeing Los Angeles and Southern California on two wheels."

Bicyclists - I like that.

I have three rides to choose from: 32, 50 and 62 mi. Not knowing exactly how rigorous this group is going to be, I decide on the 32mi ride, but am prepared to take the 50 mi in case I'm the only newbie in the crowd (and I know I can do 50 by now). As it turns out, it doesn't matter because beginner or no, every route starts with a ride over Benedict Canyon.

Um, what?

Everyone else has printed out the route map and clipped it efficiently to their handle bars. I didn't print it out because I was hoping the tour would be guided, but I just learned something. So here is the first half.

Here is Benedict Canyon

And here, in broad strokes, is where we are headed (yes, I'll be doing the 50)

The atmosphere is matter of fact as we begin our ride in the flats of Beverly Hills up Rexford.

Which turns in to the canyon. I used to live in LA, so I know these canyons. But driving tells you nothing about how steep the incline really is. I'm prepared for a wicked ascent, and am relieved when Benedict turns out to be a doable one. Not for the first time, I silently thank L for her inspiration in keeping me in shape.

The website lists the ascent for the ride as 2400 ft (I'm assuming that's coming and going?). I notice everyone else has two water bottles (I have one). What does this mean? I begin to wonder if the Wheelmen have as much in common with the 5BBC as I had originally thought. But I'm in it now. Though in the back of my mind I'm already calculating just what kind of route we'll be taking back.

During the climb, I fall into a conversation with a fellow cyclist about century riding (riding 100 miles at one clip) which I can't imagine ever doing. He makes an encouraging observation: cycling is an incremental sport, he says. You start out with 5 miles and never think you can do 10. Then you work your way up to 20, and so on. He's hopeful I may soon progress to being a century rider (there are several among us). I can't envision it now but then again, I'm currently riding with true drop down handle-bars, something I swore I would never do even just a few months ago. (I hope I will continue to carry Kleenex however).

I'm one of the first to arrive at the top of Benedict

Which seems to lend me a measure of acceptance (or maybe Benedict has had a bonding effect on everyone).

Meanwhile, early in the canyon, one of our women riders bows out for a quick DYI pit-stop. Now there's something you couldn't do in NYC - nor have I ever considered it on any ride so far. But as we assemble at the top of Benedict, it occurs to me that it's not a bad idea and throwing modesty aside, I enter the sheltering bushes. This is a first for me (is this one of the increments we were discussing?).

Regardless, it turns out to be a good idea. Because we ride hell bent for leather for the next 30 miles. In fact, en route I receive a text from a friend which I am not even able to respond to for another 45 minutes, we are traveling at such a rate.

We speed by Warner Brothers

Along the LA River (a wash),

North around Griffith Park and deep into Glendale, catching every light.

Oh how I wish I'd brought my helmet camera! We ride without a pause through such beautiful neighborhoods.

And I love some of the Hollywood street names which were adopted for film - "Fredonia" for example - but I don't dare stop for a photo or I'll lose the group. And route map or not, people have been known to disappear in the Valley and never return (at least not without an embarrassing accent). Photos will have to come from Google.

Meanwhile, I've been riding some 20-40 miles a day since I've been in LA but that doesn't seem to matter: even though we're only doing the flats, I begin to flag. I don't want to open my PB&J fearing that may be all I have for lunch. A fellow cyclist takes pity on me and hands me a Power Bar.

Several traffic lights later I finally get the chance to peruse the fine print and make sure it's GF (it is). It gives me just the boost I need to carry on - I truly don't know what I would have done without it. And I think, if this is a relaxed ride, I wouldn't want to be on a challenging one. This is definitely not the 5BBC version.

At 31 mi, the group looks around for a place to eat. I lobby for El Pollo Loco, but am outnumbered by the majority who, as Southern Californians, have more Mexican restaurants per square block than exist in all of Manhattan. Instead, they head for the one place I can eat absolutely nothing: a bakery.

Damn my celiac status! Frantic, I look around and find there is a deli attached. I order the omelet with potatoes. Out of potatoes; my PB&J will have to do. I have enough time to order, and just enough time to get it down (PB&J en route) before we're off again on the return leg of our trip. I grab extra napkins on the way out and pray this fuel will hold me...

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The Bleak Mid Winter

Red Light

Simplify

First Bike

LA Wheelmen II

LA Wheelmen I

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