Blog Archives

Bike Weight

10/31/2014

There’s a lot of mystery associated with bike weight in the cycling community and to my mind, a lot of mumbo jumbo. It’s a topic manufacturers don’t really want to discuss. Go to the website of any bike manufacturer and try to get this number from the stats, and you’ll see what I mean.

When I went online to find out how much the Back Roads bikes weighed that I rode in France, I got all kinds of excuses: well, it depends on the transmission, well it depends on the brakes, well it depends on the pedals, the seat…Back Roads knows exactly how much those bikes weigh, they’re just not telling because they know it will prejudice prospective customers who all want a bike that weighs 19 lbs (that’s the cut-off point where carbon fiber bikes enter the equation).

I’ve since met numerous people – and bike store clerks - who all claim their bikes weigh 19 lbs. But I don’t believe them unless I see it on a scale.

And it’s not just road bikes where you’ll find this. I was told for example, that my Brompton Lucille weighed 24 lbs when I bought her. That’s weighty (actually light for a folder), but just to be sure, I took a scale downstairs the other day and put us both on it. That’s the best way to find out.

It took some daring to commit to this, because quite frankly I didn’t want to know either of our weights, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that if push came to shove, I could always lose weight; Lucille on the other hand, is a more of a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of gal. Me? Oh please. That’s not happening. Lucille? 29lbs of joy - GAH! Even I was shocked at that! With 16” wheels, no WONDER I pant up Fiend’s Hill on this bike!

I knew Janet weighed 24lbs when I bought her because in the interest of full disclosure, she was put on a scale in the store. But that’s 5lbs less than Lucille, which to me makes a world of difference. And there are compensating factors: bigger tires, (and better gear ratio), a much smoother ride, sensitive hydraulic brakes; she corners like a dream, she burns up hills and though it doesn’t matter to anyone but me, she’s pretty.

L tells me her carbon fiber bike is 19lbs and I believe her, because L has no agenda.

So why are we (and bike manufacturers) so obsessed with weight? Part of it has to do with bike culture in the US - as opposed to places like The Netherlands, where bikes are a well-accepted form of transportation, and the emphasis on racing is more balanced. Especially since Lance Armstrong, everyone wants to be a (non-doping) Tour de France Champion. And the less their bike weighs the better they’ll look riding it, even if they only ride on the weekends.

If what you are looking for is comfort (and you don’t have to lift your bike much), weight should not be an issue at all.

But even with that, weight doesn’t tell the whole story. My friend, P, just replaced an ancient cruising bike with a snazzy carbon fiber machine that slices through the air and that I hoisted myself with 2 fingers. That bike is 19lbs tops. But Janet and I have been in training; we lapped them both on Fiend’s Hill – twice. (Don’t ask me to play P at tennis – I would get totally trounced.) So it all depends on what you’re going for.

With bikes - with any technology really - the search for the ultimate machine can become a Holy Grail, a search that can easily take on more meaning than the goal itself. That’s great for the manufacturers who want you to keep shopping. But only you know what will work best for your life.

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Marathon!

10/29/2014

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I’m out to dinner with a good friend minding my own business, when he mentions in a casual aside that cycling is a seasonal sport. What?! Like the first time I encountered Fiend’s Hill after the rewarding downhill that precedes it, this comes as a total shock to me. You mean, this will be over??

Anyone else could have seen it coming, of course. Simply put, if this year's winter is anything like the one we had last year, I won't ride either Lucille or Janet from December until late March. But I have been so involved in the glory and discovery of it all, that I haven't thought ahead. I simply cannot imagine that anything so wonderful could be finite. I file his comment away – it will only depress me to think about it. I figure I’ll pedal off that bridge when I come to it.

Well now it’s here. As I ride up the Greenway, the weather is slightly overcast, and the entire city smells like a heliport, a harbinger of the dark days and pollution I associate with Winter. Ugh. I have decided to take Lucille to Central Park and do the Loop a couple of times, even though my heart isn’t in it. I have a ride with L the next day and I need to keep up my stamina. Lucille is good for that because she’s heavier and her 16” wheels require more effort. But something’s up when I get there.

This is a weekday. What's with all the people?

Denial is one of my stronger character traits. Even after the 2nd plane went into the WTC, I was convinced it was a control tower mistake. So I’ve completely spaced on the upcoming New York City Marathon, which happens every year, and pretty much signals the end of Summer (or riding season, as I’ve come to call it). Preparation is in full swing for the event.

I ride cautiously into the Park but find soon enough that we will all be walking our bikes for a stretch.

Sure enough, there's the Finish Line under construction.

As I continue my ride around the Loop, I see a lot of the fences are already up, and some of the infrastructure.

The Loop is mostly clear, but I don’t want to get off and walk Lucille every time I pass the viewing stands, so I decide to use the cut through and do Fiend’s Hill a couple of times as a substitute for the full course. Better tell L about this so she knows what awaits us. I email her as soon as I get home.

The following morning, I’m up at 5.

There is nothing like the thrill of leaving the house on a bike at 6:15 in the morning. The quiet of the City, the excitement of the ride ahead, witnessing the dawning of the day (which I only ever used to witness in a state of hangover and personal remorse from the vantage point of my 20s, if I remember right), catching the city unawares, in a slightly altered, transitional state - it is one of the most riveting and magical things I’ve ever done in my life, and I never tire of it.

The Greenway is well enough lit, but still mysterious at that hour.

I take a cut-through at 59th St, riding 58th to Central Park which beckons like something out of a CS Lewis novel (well, minus the snow of course):

Soon enough, L emerges sylph-like from traffic. She’s received my email and knows the Loop will be inconvenient. As we start our ride, she says, “Six Repeat Hills, right?

Translate: Fiend’s Hill 6 times in a row. (You can't be serious?? I say this to myself, of course). But yes, she means it. “Sure,” I say as we take off at the usual break-neck speed. I always say yes to L. She has revolutionized my biking, and opened up my concept of what is possible. But I can’t actually imagine doing Fiend’s Hill that many times consecutively (In my fourth blog post, I couldn’t even make it up once).

To be honest, it’s paid off. My trip to Annandale was great because I was ready for it. And now that I have begun to access (and build) reserves I never knew I had, few hills hold terrors for me, which is freeing. Off we go.

Fiend's Hill One

The cut through:

Fiend's Hill Two:

Well, you get the idea.

As we ride, we are passed from time to time by other bikers – talking a mile a minute (as L and I do) about bikes and biking (what a great subject!).

Although frankly, I don’t see any of them doing the same rigorous course we are. We finally ascend a 6th time.

Just a year ago, I subscribed to the Woody Allen approach to exercise (lie down until the feeling goes away). Breast cancer, my mother’s death and the liberation of Lucille changed all of that. L and I agree, weather permitting, to meet in two days to do it again - before the Marathon takes over the Park completely.

As I ride home, I reflect on how The NYC Marathon means different things to so many different people. Runners who’ve posted on the Marathon website talk about the challenge to their lives that the Marathon represents, what running in New York means to them, what it means to be part of the community of runners.

I couldn’t be a runner if my life depended on it. I have a gait like a kangaroo and while I marvel at people who can do it, everything about the sport is personally incompatible with this body.

I am part of another community however: that of cyclists, and the Marathon applies to us too. We can relate to it - many runners eventually morph into cyclists I'm told - and it takes place on territory we share with runners. Though I will not be running the course itself, I appreciate what it takes to do it. And it's forcing me to up my game, which is good on general principle.

I always like to think there will be no marathons in my future. In spite of having been proven wrong on every occasion, my denial remains a habit that's hard to break. But the truth is, marathons appear all the time, whether we are ready or not: unexpected deadlines, protracted times of mental or physical stress - they're all part of life; the stronger we are, the better we will do. And there's a physical cross-over: there's strength in knowing that if you did in one place, you can do it in another. It doesn't matter how you train really, but it helps to enjoy the process. Swimmers choose swimming. Runners choose running. I've chosen cycling. It's the first sport that ever got to me in my bones, and like any runner I've known, I can’t explain it better than that. But I know this: one day I'll be glad for this training. When my next marathon does come, I will be ready.

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Theft

10/27/2014

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One of the great reasons not to have a bike in NYC is the prospect of thievery. Whether it occurs or not, once you own a bike that needs to be secured, it's always on your mind. Because bikes get stolen in New York. They get stolen if you lock them up outside. They get stolen from dedicated bike rooms in co-ops. That was one of the great attractions of Lucille; she was in no danger of being stolen, because she would always be with me

And I lived worry-free until Janet came into the house. Janet's a full-figured gal and a full-sized bike. So she lives unsecured in the front hall. She's the first thing you see when you come in. You couldn't miss her even if you wanted to.

I knew the dangers when I brought her home. I guess I just didn't think through the cumulative effect that worry would have on my serenity. Because now I live in constant fear. I check for her when Lucille and I come back from errands. I look for her every morning as I descend the stairs. I worry every time I leave the house.

I also have a new neighbor, and he orders take-out. Lots of it. And he buzzes the delivery guys in to meet him on the 3rd floor. I've spoken to him about not letting them in, but he seems to think meeting them on the stairs is improvement enough.

Like all New Yorkers, I have a love-hate relationship with these delivery guys. On the one hand, they offer a convenience for which New York City is known - delivery of almost anything around the clock. As a cyclist (and pedestrian) I consider them a menace: they ride on the sidewalk, on the wrong side of the street; they ride fast at night with no lights. They take terrible chances, and yes they do get injured. But they also do injury - a lot. And they don't stop for anybody.

They are hard working though, no question about that. And here's something else I've learned from being in a bike store when they came in: they know everything there is to know about bikes. Bikes are their livelihood (and many of them have cast wistful glances at Lucille and offered admiring compliments; they know a Brompton when they see one). They know bike components, they know bike brands. And for sure they know street value.

That's not to say any of these guys would walk off with Janet. But they sure as hell would notice her (and notice that she's not secured). And in that community - like all communities - word gets around.

The obvious solution is to find a way to secure her in the hallway. This would not be easy, as there is no readily available place for a lock to attach. It would add time and inconvenience to every ride. And would it even work? If there's anything I know about thievery - the internet being a prime and ever evolving example - it's that as soon as you build a better mouse trap, it's just a matter of time before you get a smarter mouse.

I will have another talk with my neighbor and see if I can press upon him the importance of meeting deliveries at the front door. That would go a long way towards easing my mind. But even with that, I have a feeling worry goes hand in hand with bike ownership here.

I was told by a long-time cyclist when I first began riding, "As long as you own a bike, you will be fixing a bike."

I'm afraid the corollary to this slogan would be, "As long as you have a bike, you will be worrying about a bike."

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50 Miles in Annandale

10/21/2014

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I have been looking forward to this trip for weeks: a 50 mile (or 100 miles if you’re up to it) ride starting in Annandale. It is the last ride of the season for Bicycle Shows Us. I register well ahead of time, but am prepared to lose my money because the meet-time is 4:30 am (yes, you read right). As a reformed musician, my hours have become earlier, but this is pretty crazy (even the event organizer says so). Still, I’m going for it. If I make it, it will be the first real ride with Janet.

I plan well in advance and keep a strict schedule of 5am wake times the week before. The day before is all about the ride: a new bicycle seat*, seat post adjustment, pumping tires, new handle bar stem to bring flat bars closer, shopping for food – I’m celiac so I generally have to take care of myself on these rides – and shopping for clothing, which is in the experimental phase for me as a cold-weather-riding newbie.

At 6pm, I notice my adenoids acting up. Uh-Oh. This is never a good sign. It means a cold or worse is on the way, and I never sleep well the first night of a cold. I gargle, take Emergence C and hope for the best. I can always bail.

By 7:30pm I am packed for the ride. I take a chip of Attavan and get into bed by 8. Two hours later, my eye lids pop open like a flapping shade, and I know my sleep is over. I read till Midnight, text L with regrets and turn off my 3am alarm. Damn!

At 4:15, my eyes open cautiously. I look at the clock and begin to calculate – I’m only 10 blocks away (the meet up point is at 33rd between 11th and 12th Aves). I’m already packed (Will I forgive myself if I miss this?). Did I sleep enough? (I think so). Am I sick or getting better? And what if it’s only allergies? That last thought gets me bounding out of bed. I pill one cat, feed them both, shower, grab my backpack, helmet and Janet and am out the door by 4:30. If I miss the ride it won’t be for lack of trying. Janet and I barrel up 8th Avenue at break neck speed and arrive with time to spare.

Lots of time as it turns out. I could have stayed in bed another two hours. By the time the bikes are all stowed, the caravan doesn’t hit the road till 7.

Ah well. This gives me an opportunity to text L of my arrival, and get to know my seat mates. They are: a group of 4 female Tri-Athletes in their 20s and by coincidence, a woman I had met at Paragon Sports the night before, as we tried to anticipate the correct clothing for the ride. The Tri-Athletes already know each other – one of them is doing the “Iron Man,” training - and immediately resume what seems to be a continuing and involved conversation about fitness, and training. They show no signs of coming up for air.

Ah, to be young and self absorbed. I can’t say I was any different at their age (though not in that kind of shape I can tell you). During the course of their conversation my mind drifts off and I opt to talk to the driver.

We fall into a conversation about 9/11 and he turns out to have been a first responder. He tells me a horrific tale of being both sheltered and trapped under his ambulance as the first tower came down, not freed until rescuers heard his banging 8 hours later. As we talk, the Tri-Athletes have not stopped for breath in their conversation. Unbeknownst to me, My Paragon friend is listening spellbound from the back of the van.

The ride is easy, and we see lots of cars with multiple bike racks en route to join us. We arrive at Bard College. First stop, well you can guess:

It’s never fun being at the back of the line for this…

That said, Bard is the most beautiful college campus I have ever seen.

I meet up with L and her old friend N. As I’ve mentioned. L is an intrepid and tireless cyclist, and I prefer her to lead because she gives me courage. Her friend N is also an experienced rider, whose strength was never speed but rather endurance. This year, N was diagnosed with MS. But exercise is purportedly a good protocol for MS and she is a fighter. We start our ride at the Gehry Building (above), and take off for our 50 mile trek.

We have maps:

Or if there is a turn coming up.

There are signs for our morning ride, for our afternoon ride, for the 70-milers and the 100 milers. What great organization!

As for the weather. You can check it 100 times before leaving, but until you’re in it, you just can’t know what it’s like. The forecast is for a temperature of 55 with a feel of 47. I’m not quite sure what that means, but take my best guess with a wool sweater, light down vest, windbreaker and full-finger gloves. I wear bicycle pants, but they are knickers left over from my Summer Loire Valley trip and only go mid calf. Fortunately, I locate a pair of leg warmers to cover the difference.

Ultimately, the three of us have all dressed just right. Which isn’t true for everyone. My Paragon friend is cold (you warm up when you ride at least), but there is another rider who is completely unprepared and has actually shown up in shorts and a T-shirt – which wouldn’t have been adequate back in NYCity for heavens sake. L loans him a shirt which out of desperation, he never even contacts her about returning.

The ride itself is glorious. We ride past towns and beautiful houses.

Through vivid foliage.

And scenes that are reminiscent of completely different parts of the country, like these which remind me of Virginia.

Fruit orchards which remind me of Oregon or California.

And big wide skies which remind me of Wyoming or Montana (minus the mountains, of course).

If you were to substitute sun flowers for corn, you could almost be in the Loire Valley.

OK, maybe that's a stretch.

It's approaching Halloween though, and some of the locals are already in the spirit.

Others seem to come by that haunted look more naturally...

But it is windy. That is the reason (I realize) for the 47 degree “feel.” The wind is so strong I can feel it pummeling Janet’s spokes and sometimes I think we’re going to literally be blown off the road.

During those moments – invariably on a downhill – L fearlessly leads at break-neck speed, becoming a virtual speck on the horizon. I almost can’t believe it.

How does she do it, I wonder – and why? When I ask her later, she explains that her kayaking experience has taught her, when the rapids are rough, go faster. It’s counter-intuitive, but it makes sense: you’re less of a target if you speed up.

The roads are smooth, the colors gorgeous, the hills gentle and rolling. But they would have been neither with Lucille.

Hills like this:

And this.

Or this...

These would have been an increasing struggle for me with Lucille, and would have left me breathless and exhausted – I’m not even sure if I could have finished this ride. As I continue, I have profound gratitude for Janet who burns up those hills. It’s as if she can’t wait to tackle them.

But a confession here: even with the indomitable Janet, I walk part way up the final “killer” hill. After 40 or so miles, I have used up my reserves. If I had met this hill right off, I would have made it. But by now I am running on fumes. I can tell L is surprised (and a little disappointed).

I’m disappointed too for awhile, But later, I think - I can improve in this area! Part of riding endurance (I’ve learned from Fiend’s Hill) is knowing your adversary: what to expect. Becoming familiar with obstacles that may occur. And as much as physical, part of training is mental: widening your approach as to what you may encounter, and gradually allowing it to expand. I bet those Tri-Athletes could have told me plenty about that, if I’d had the sense to ask. Well, you can’t talk to everybody I guess.

There are still some bugs to be worked out with Janet too – that’s what this ride is about really. I’m still getting used to her gearing and to terms like “cross chaining” (which I catch myself doing a few times), not even in Lucille’s vocabulary. I lose my chain once (my fault of course), but now know how to recover it. The flat bars need an angle adjustment, the front derailer gear is increasingly difficult to shift for some reason. But all in all, a great start. And I can’t say enough about the Selle Lady Saddle. By the end of a 50 mile ride, there are sore spots but - ahem - not “there.”

We miss the 3pm return van due to our late start, but a quick dinner is included, after which I hop on the 5pm van, hoping I will be able to sit with the same driver, but he must have driven the earlier route. We cross one last landmark which the 100 milers rode, this amazing bridge.

I would have loved to have ridden this. But even without it, I wouldn’t have missed this ride for anything. For the foliage, the hills, for the chance to meet N and ride with L – and the chance to test Janet’s metal (and my own).

I luck out, and when we arrive back at the starting point, Janet is the first bike off the truck. I’m in no mood for a bike ride at this point, but that’s where Janet is not Lucille - no taxis for us. No complaints however. We hi-tail it home along the greenway and arrive exactly 12 hours after we began our ride at the Gehry building.

Next day, my cold does materialize – it wasn’t allergies after all, I'm rather glad to know - it's a real cold. But after that 50 mile ride in Annandale? It’s nothing.

*Selle SMP Women's TRK Lady Saddle.

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Confessions of a Cheater

10/15/2014

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The first time I cheated on my boyfriend, I felt rotten. There was nothing wrong with my boyfriend really. I was just young and needed to break away, to feel independent. To be honest, the experience wasn’t all that great. I broke away, but the break-away was not based on attraction to someone else; more like a grim determination to grow up even if it hurt. Like a 2-year-old running into the next room before turning around, my intent had never been to really leave. And I returned to my boyfriend feeling guilty as hell, and glad to be back.

For the last month, I have been riding with L, a very experienced cyclist (and former bike messenger) in Central Park. She rides what she has described to me as a “fast and sexy road bike.” I have no idea what she means by that. Nobody could be cuter than Lucille, in my considered opinion. And we are among the faster ones on the Greenway – only passed by true racing bikes (what is a road bike, anyway?).

L and I meet at 6th Ave on the edge of Central Park for our first ride, and she takes off like a SHOT. I am in shock. It is all Lucille and I can do to keep up with her at top speed – even on the straight-aways. I make it up Fiend’s hill with my last good nerve, after which L suggests doing the loop once again (wtf?).

Clearly I need to up my game, so the following week, Lucille and I go into training, doing Fiend’s hill twice almost every day.

Next week when I meet up with L, she takes off like a shot – again. I keep up, and we do the loop twice, but it takes all I’ve got. Afterwards, I put Lucille on the subway and crawl into bed for an hour. Then I find out that L rides in from Brooklyn to meet me, and cycles back there after our rides. What kind of super woman is she?

I am flattered when L invites me on a week-long ride in the Spring with a group of her friends on their annual trip. I love the idea, but if I am going to have to work this hard on an all-day ride just to keep up, it won’t be much fun. I decide to rent a road bike to see if that makes any difference. I’m dubious.

Right from the start, Lucille seems to know something’s up, and tries her best to keep me from it. We end up heading to a rental place via 54th Street in the worst traffic, using a bike lane that is decorative at best (to be honest there just isn’t room on the street for it). The entire ride is such a convoluted nightmare, that between the traffic and a medley of cheating songs running through my head (Tempted, He’ll Have To Go, and that universal cheater’s anthem, Your Cheatin’ Heart) I almost turn around and give up.

I know. It’s silly. Bikes aren’t sentient; they can’t feel snubbed or dumped. It’s really all to do with my sense of loyalty as the daughter of a single mother, whose husband was a relentless and cruel womanizer. It’s something I’ve sworn I will never be on any level. It has led me to be intensely loyal, and it’s one of my better characteristics. But sometimes that loyalty gets misplaced.

So I’m almost not surprised when the first road bike I try, I hate. I hate it from the moment I get on it. Like my first forced infidelity, there is nothing lovely about it. It has dropped handle bars – never my style – no bell, no kickstand, and I feel so uncertain riding it, I nearly fall over on the sidewalk. I walk it to Central Park, reluctantly leaving Lucille in the care of the rental guys, and do a modified ride around the Loop, skipping Fiend's Hill. But I finally have to admit that we are completely incompatible. My thumbs are aching, my back is in knots. This was just a bad idea all around. What was I thinking?

I slink back to the shop in defeat. “This is not the bike for me.” I say.

“It’s not for everybody,” says the mechanic (well, why didn’t he say that when he first saw me wobbling out of the store?). Then he hands me this.

It is Red Light. it is Rosebud. It is magic. The handle bars are straight, the balance is perfect, the chemistry is amazing. It is a beat up looking, but sharp and responsive bike with stop-on-a-dime brakes – and it has a bell. I am in love before I have pedaled a block. We ride to the loop and breeze around it, easily mastering Fiend's Hill. This is a home wrecker if ever I met one. And I know the moment I take it home, everything about my relationship with Lucille will be called into question.

L does a complete double-take when she sees me waiting for her without Lucille. Then she takes off. And this time, on Home Wrecker, I take off with her. We sail around the Loop - and then we do it again. For the first time I am able to converse without gasping. L then suggests we repeat Fiend’s Hill. I demure for now, but make it a goal for our next ride. From then on I am, as Jimmy Carter would say, lusting in my heart for a road bike of my own. A fast, sexy one.

I return to the rental place and try to buy Home Wrecker, but am told that fleet bikes aren’t for sale. Well, what did I expect? Home wreckers are never available. They are fantastical creatures designed to ruin your satisfaction with what you have, and leave you longing. I watch with regret as Home Wrecker is returned to the rack.

But at least I have my answer. With great reluctance, I have to admit that Lucille has some limitations. She is fun, she is convenient, she is a real trooper (and inexpressibly cute) – and you can literally take her anywhere. But she does not have the speed of a road bike. And as long as I ride her with other road bikes, I will suffer.

With a mixture of guilt, and anticipation, I go shopping at a local bike store with high Yelp recommendations, promising Lucille that if I do buy a bike, I will at least not dignify my choice by naming it, other than to call it Road Bike.

Because of my insistence on the “flat bar” handle bar style, my choices of road bike are limited, and I am more or less steered to one specific bike in the shop. I take it around the block. It’s not Home Wrecker, but it is light and fast with 20 speeds and hydraulic brakes, threaded internally through the tube. Huh. Powder blue (the only color it comes in). This could work.

One of the less talked about aspects of romantic love is its innate selfishness. It doesn’t matter what has been promised before – everything goes by the board. I know this will be my bike and name it on the spot: Janet (a Rocky Horror reference).

I never intended to have a full sized bike, OK? There are inconveniences. I now have a bike in my hallway, a real adjustment to my interior design aesthetic. I now have to negotiate a full sized bike up and down the stoop – ungainly and a pain in the ass. And I hate locks, so I can never leave it unattended.

On top of that, are my conflicting feelings towards Lucille, First Love, the one who opened up whole new worlds to me; who was instrumental in helping me recover from my mother’s death, from breast procedures and radiation; who reconnected me with my childhood passion, showed me The Promenades, who has enabled me to bike in four boroughs (Staten Island next), and get to know New York from the perspective of a true New Yorker, not just a Manhattanite.

And does a girl like me really need two bikes?

Then I get my answer, and of course Lucille shows the way. Returning from an errand the next day, we pass this:

If you can read it, the T-shirt this guy is wearing says, “You Can Never Have Too Many Guitars.”

One of my dearest friends is a great guitarist, and I have heard him say this on numerous occasions (and he has an apartment full of guitars to prove it). Me, I certainly have more than one camera. And they each serve very different functions: one for stills, one for video; one for on the go, one for locked-down interviews. One for my helmet. And of course the one on my phone.

I hope for the sake of my domestic life, that I won’t be collecting bikes at the same rate – they’re a lot bigger for one thing. But I’m loving that I can now keep up with L. And strangely, my love for Lucille has not changed. She is still a great ride and a great friend with unique qualities no other bike could give me.

I meet L at the Loop for my first ride with Janet. When I introduce the two, L gives a knowing nod, like a good friend who saw it coming but wisely said nothing. We sail around the Loop twice and using a cut-through, climb Fiend’s hill a third time. I am barely winded.

I think back on Home Wrecker and try to compare the two. Home Wrecker was an unforgettable ride, one that will haunt me for years to come, I think. But that's what home wreckers are aren't they? A concept of the unattainable that resonates within us as something we always wanted but only recognized it when it came into our lives.

If I knew more about components, I could probably explain why and maybe even build it. And perhaps one day, I will find a bike with that unique chemistry. But Janet is fast, she is pretty she is responsive (with great brakes). And she is one thing Home Wrecker will never be.

Janet is mine.

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Cool Ride Up The East Side

10/5/2014

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I awake this morning with the heat on for the first time this Fall. As a New Yorker, my first thought is about fuel bills. As a cyclist, it is a signal to pay attention.

I began riding in May, ideal biking weather. I was so glad to have discovered it, it never entered my mind that cycling might be a seasonal sport, that I might ever have to stop. As the summer wore on though, I began to hear people murmur about the confines of Winter, and the closer we got to Winter, the more fearful I became.

My first strategy was to panic (it’s always been a reliable game plan in the past), but gradually as reality set in I have begun to investigate correct attire, and today I’ll need it: silk top, light wool sweater, light down vest and light wool scarf. Still going with the fingerless gloves for now.

And yet, I can tell it’s crisp outside – perfect for a ride.

My approach to cycling is one of exploration. I will do some rides because I need to get from one place to another; a few to stay in shape. But generally, Lucille and I prefer to ride to new places (and we’re willing to take the subway to do it).

I have a friend who cycled in NYC for 10 years. After that, he said he got bored. I think of him a lot, especially as I ride the West Side Greenway. On the one hand, I understand what he’s saying. On the other hand, things are always changing here. And what’s changing most is the people.

Today I decide to repeat a wonderful ride I learned from The Bromptoneers at NYCeWheels (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xosic6OlNqE&feature=youtu.be). Though I’ve ridden it before, it’s full of the unexpected. I’d highly recommend it to anyone who has never done it.

I cross to the East Side via 20th Street, coming across this beautiful bike as I wait for the light:

New York has many beautiful bikes. I’ve always admired this one in my neighborhood, though I never spot it in action.

As I get to the East River, I hear a German band off to my right, playing in the Oomp-Pah tradition but with an Ivesian slant. Octoberfest in full swing.

Whether they are attempting this Ivesian rendition on purpose is not clear - it's wild and loose - but it is haunting enough to make me want to come back and find out.

One thing to note, and I notice it every time I am over by the East River: the Hudson and the East Rivers smell very different. The first time I noticed it, I thought the sensation must be my imagination. Then I wondered if one river were simply more commercial than the other, and what I was smelling was diesel and commercial trade. When I get home to Google however, I discover the reason: the Hudson River flows from north to south. The East River isn’t really a river, but a strait connecting the Sound with the lower Bay. And it’s constantly changing direction (Hell Gate where the two meet and tussle). So the East River is more brackish. It has a flavor all its own which informs every ride I take there.

The views at this point aren’t all that open, but the ride itself is interesting.

On First Avenue, it becomes iconic:

No flags flying today...

What a privilege to live near such a place! Even as a New Yorker, I am in thrall to the charisma of this building, what it took to bring it about, and all the history it has seen.

Up 1st Avenue, east on 54th to the beginnings of East End Avenue, then down a hill to an entry on the right.

Past a piece of art I’ve seen from the Tram, but never had a chance to be close to: an installation by the fabulous sculptor, Alice Aycock*

It's called East River Roundabout, and I never tire of it. It was originally just done in metal

And for a long time it was sort of rusted out, looking less like a piece of art, than an abandoned and mysterious roller coaster. But now it's been refurbished in red and there can be no mistaking that it's a piece of art.

Up the East River Promenade we go, not a cloud in the sky.

The cold which bothered my fingers is entirely gone by now, and I realize that Fall, far from just being a dark harbinger of winter, will also have some of the best riding of the year – I just need to be dressed for it.

Up we go onto the 3rd walkway (no stairs for us!). Emerging on 78th Street, I take a wrong turn and end up walking Lucille up a couple of blocks to correct my course. As I do, I come up behind two men, one with a dog, one elderly and walking with a cane. The dog walker checks that I don’t intend to run them over, but I am going at a respectful pace behind them. When the sidewalk widens to let me pass, I hear a snippet of their conversation and the word, “Spinoza.*”

Spinoza?! How many places in the world do you even hear his name outside a university setting? What are the odds? (When I go home to refresh my memory via Google -ahem - I find the Jews and the Catholics both hated this guy. Serious boyfriend material…).

On a more immediate note, I also notice that the morning coffee in me has nowhere to go. Whenever this happens on a ride, I think of an apocryphal story about Martha Graham. One of her dancers was about to go on and complained to her that he really had to pee. She looked directly at him through those heavy eyelashes. “Absorb it,” she was said to have directed. Not a Starbucks anywhere near me. I reluctantly follow her advice.

Riding east on 84th Street, three different people remark on my helmet camera (known to me affectionately as Helmut, a misspelling by a friend).

It used to be that Lucille grabbed all the attention. And she still does on the subway. More and more however, Helmut is the one people remark on. It happens all over town. And of course he records it.

I never thought I was breaking new ground as a cyclist by wearing a camera. I merely wanted to capture what I saw on my rides. But people seem to think it’s unusual. Most people call out “Go Pro.” Like this guy.

Helmut however is a Sony Exmore.

Smaller and just a little less of a Teletubby profile on the helmet (which was important to me). Also $100 cheaper. If I want, I can monitor what Helmut sees through my phone. Mostly though, I leave it to his judgment and just hope he’s on straight.

No one (except the notoriously shy Bill Cunningham) is bothered by it though. And it strikes me the degree to which all of us now gladly sacrifice our privacy for convenience - even just for pleasure. Everyone has a camera phone. Everyone will photograph, everyone will be photographed. Those who fight it, are photographed anyway. That ship has sailed. I can't think that this will lead to anything good, but for now I'm glad to have Helmut around.

We enter Central Park at 85th Street. For a weekend, it’s quiet.

There’s been a charity ride for MS (I found out too late about it, but will go next year). I’m guessing most of the riders who would be here are either still riding, or close to the finish line on the West Side.

As I round Fiend’s Hill at Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, I wonder what it would be like to live nearby and have your first ride into the Park be such a challenge. My guess is, you would live forever.

But it is exhilarating weather, and Fiend’s Hill, while not all that friendly to me since I haven’t visited for a week (there’s a little Jewish Mother in Fiend’s Hill), is manageable in this low humidity. As we descend, the path becomes more crowded. But all is going well, until this guy.

Who cuts me off and when I nearly topple, yells back at me that I should have used my brakes.

Before running the red light and heading into pedestrians at the crosswalk.

Probably on drugs.

If he had a license plate, Helmut would have caught it (Helmut is a great impartial witness and reporter and that's what he's for). Sigh…

Yes, there are a lot of bad bikers out there. I’ve had far more dangerous brushes with cyclists than with cars.

And now my shoulder hurts. And I am reminded how precarious is my joy in cycling. I cannot afford a fall. I already have a bad shoulder which I cannot afford to let get worse. But my hunch is that my cycling career will end not as a result of a single catastrophic event, but as a series of small cuts. By which time, I hope to be well into my 80s and focused on speed knitting. Or competitive dozing.

Exiting the Park at Columbus Circle (I’ve forgotten my Metro Card), Lucille and I take Broadway to 55th, and over to the Hudson Greenway where the Finish Line of the MS ride is welcoming riders back. For some it’s a 100 mile ride.

Down the Greenway I go. Yes, I know it well by now. Yes, I will ride it many times more. And yes, sometimes I will take the subway instead. But when you’re cycling, your life is in the moment no matter where you are. And in the moment, anything can happen. When you’re in the moment, everything is new.

Alice Aycock: http://www.aaycock.com/peastriver.html
Spinoza: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baruch_Spinoza

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Flaternalia (in which luck plays a part in unexpected events)

10/4/2014

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It’s Fall, and the squirrels are in overdrive. They are focused and just don’t respond to danger. They don’t respond to a bell...

They don’t respond to a whistle.

I've tried barking as a last resort. Other bikers respond to that (I try not to meet their gaze), but squirrels don’t. It’s as if they’re on a quest to find and bury acorns, and nothing else seems to penetrate their consciousness. I’ve recently seen them pay the ultimate price on the bike path for this, and as I marvel at their drive, the chorus of a song by Joe Jackson runs through my head - slightly altered: “Don’t You Know That It’s Different for Squirrels?”

The original chorus of course, goes “Don’t You Know That It’s Different for Girls?” which is the real issue these days, as I’ve been trying out a new bike saddle. All the ones I’ve tried so far have been for men, sold to me by sincere guys who keep repeating soulfully how well their seat will cushion the sit bones. No amount of pleading on my part for something that accommodates the Lady Parts seems to get through (indicating to me that in the 21st Century, men STILL don’t know where they are located). In desperation, I’ve gone off the grid to my budding network of female cyclists who have raved about this:

And bought it online.

It looks a little gynecological to me, but if it works I’ll get past its appearance. Meanwhile, only distance riding will tell me if it really does the job. I decide to take Lucille up to the George Washington Bridge today (have I mentioned I like to ride in the rain?).

We proceed along the Hudson Greenway passing the beginnings of fall foliage on the path.

And puddles.

And the usual Hobson’s choice left us by the NYPD’s horses, which I'll have to deal with on the way back – either ride through it.

Or risk riding into oncoming traffic in the opposing lane.

The Promenades are always lovely, but we are dissuaded from lingering at the Tennis Courts by the sight of a homeless guy washing up in the bathroom.

Statistically, the greatest homeless population in New York is women and children. But those aren’t the ones you see in the parks. These people are crazy (I’ve learned) so it’s wise to steer clear. We make a quick U-Turn and head further north.

This way lie other obstacles, especially in the rain.

As well as those nicely marked tree roots which bulge the path.

What? They don't think we'll notice them otherwise?

But there are some beautiful parts too.

Ah, Canada Geese. Lazy blighters. They don’t respond to a bell either – heck, from what I know they don’t respond to an Airbus. I try quacking. Nothing.

What’s up with this jaded wildlife?

At last the Bridge comes into view.

And the Little Red Light House, indicating we’ve reached our destination.

The view from here is always dramatic.

You can go much further up of course, to Nyack and even Riverdale. But for today we turn around.

In a mile or so, the sun is coming out.

The ride down the Greenway is uneventful. But as I get I into Midtown, I start to feel really bogged down. Even on the flats, third gear seems a trial. What gives - am I bonking? Have I run out of fuel? I don’t feel that way. At the same time there is this illusion that the bike is getting lower to the ground, the handlebars up around my ears, and I wonder how I’m going to make it home at this rate. Then I start to notice the pavement feels different. Then I hear that familiar flappeta-flappeta. I pull over and check. Yes, Lucille has a flat in her rear tire.

For most biker riders, you could almost hear the record scratch as the needle comes off the LP, signaling the end of a good time. But because of Lucille, I feel a thrill of vindication. We’re right near the Imperial Terminal, where taxis are lined up to meet people coming off the ferries from NJ. And they’re just as happy to see us!

There are times when people have asked me what I consider a very “Foldist” question like: Have you ever ridden a “normal” bike? I’m guessing they mean a road bike of some sort, or maybe a hybrid. Well of course I have, but why would I do that here?

If you’ve never ridden a Brompton, they look like toys. It’s not until you ride one (and pay for it) that you realize they’re brilliant mechanisms specifically designed for convenience and city riding. And one of their best attributes is being able to fit very nicely into the trunk of a taxi.

Lucille promptly shows off the advantages of her tribe. The taxi driver is amazed. And before you know it, we are at our home away from home, BFold.

Where they will fit her out with a new inner tube. I am advised to get something to eat around the corner, rather than stay and watch the procedure. Perhaps it’s not for the squeamish(?). I opt for an early dinner.

(For the foodies out there, that’s grilled salmon with celeriac puree)

I pick up Lucille, and we head for home, encountering only one obstruction in the bike lane.

And the kind of curious conveyance you just won't find anywhere else.

But why?

Meanwhile, the bicycle seat has been a success. For cyclists, the search for the perfect bike saddle equates roughly to the search for the Holy Grail, and that goes double for women. I’ll probably tweak the position over time but for now it’s definitely an improvement over what I had.

You know, when I first came into BFold in search of Lucille, I remember a Brompton rider was there getting a flat repaired. He was discussing the cause with Dave at the shop, and he surmised his problem had come from some broken glass he’d run over. At the time, I thought this was the most romantic remark, so urban and cool. I couldn’t believe I was on the verge of joining such a hip club of cyclists in the City. And now I have joined it – really joined it (yes, it was glass). And Lucille has lived up to every expectation and then some. But for all of her flexibility and swank, I’m just as glad that flat didn’t occur at the Little Red Light House. I carry a repair kit with me (and an extra inner tube), but I’ve never used it. I hate to think what a long walk it would have been to hail a taxi.

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Bike Weight

Marathon!

Theft

50 Miles in Annandale

Confessions of a Cheater

Cool Ride Up The East Side

Flaternalia (in which luck plays a part in unexpected events)

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