Bike Year Begins with a Great Week!

Times Square at Rush Hour

I love to ride.  This past week I had had the chance to ride in some of my favorite places--places that are almost completely opposite in terrain and character:

--An isolated hill in rural Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

--Three boroughs and 30 miles in New York City: rain in the day and clear skies at night 

--Skyline Drive in northern New Jersey: 51 mph on the descent.

Last Sunday, I ended the week for the first time this year with more than 100 riding miles, 110 to be exact.  The ride that brought me to the three-digit distance was up the gentle three-mile climb of Snyder Hollow Road in southern Lancaster County.  This beautiful, narrow, winding road follows a stream most of the way up. Trees line the road from bottom to top.  In the summer it is several degrees cooler than any other road in the area.  

On Wednesday I rode from Woodside, Queens, NYC, to Manhattan then north almost 200 blocks to the Bronx. I started in mid afternoon. An hour into the ride in Harlem, the skies opened and the wind howled in my face out of the north. I went down into a subway station and rode the train 28 blocks from 135th to 163rd. When I emerged the rain let up so I rode the rest ofthe way in scattered showers. I had coffee at 239th Street, then rode back to Woodside, mostly in the dark.  

The lights are synchronized on avenues, so although I passed through more than 450 traffic lights, they were mostly green when my speed was good.  

The next day I rode from Woodside to Penn Station with a 25-pound pack. That was six slow miles.  I drove to Skyline Drive in Ringwood, New Jersey then rode up and down the steep 2.5-mile hill. I turned around at the top and rode the first mile of level or gentle hills before the steep drop the last mile and a half. Just as I went over the crest, a flat-bed truck went past carrying four gray Port-a-Potties. 

The descent is winding. He went far ahead, but at first hard-right bend he slowed and I caught up. On the straight section he sped away, but as the road bent left he braked and I was back to about 20 meters behind.  We were an accordion until the very bottom of the hill when he turned left and I continued straight.   

Strava told me I went 51mph (82.1kmh) in the middle of the hill. It was the Port-A-Potty draft for sure! 

Three hours later I turned off the PA Turnpike at Morgantown.I was going to ride up and down the 1.5-mile hill on Route 10.  But when I got halfway upthe hill there was a line of stopped vehicles. I rode up along the right shoulder to see an overturned truck halfway down. I turned around and drove home. 

Today I rode 15 miles and brought my miles for the week to 115.  

I rode as much in the last two weeks as in both January and February. So far in March I am close to 300 miles.  My bicycle year starts now. 

Rode Alpine Climbs Near Grenoble

In 2014, a 197.5km stage of the Tour de France ended with 

the climb from Grenoble to Chamrousse  

This weekend, I achieved one of my bicycle travel goals. It happened at the last minute, without a plan, in a series of delightful discoveries. 

That goal was to ride Tour de France climbs in the Alps or the Pyrenees before I am too old to finish a seven-to-twenty-mile climb and then ride back down. 

The view from Acrobastille, Grenoble

On Friday evening, I rode up a short, steep climb to a Acrobastille park just north of Grenoble. The steepest grade was 22%, the average grade, according to Strava was 15.6%. The road was three meters wide, less in some places, with tight switchbacks every few hundred meters. 

Cars were speeding up and down the hill toward restaurant at the park at the top of the road. A few of the hairpins were so tight that larger cars stopped and backed up a little in an effort not to hit the barriers at the edge of the road. Here is the climb on the ClimbFinder website.  

The road was painted with names of riders for most of the mid-hill steepest section. I was moving at barely over walking speed. I imagined Tour de France riders zooming past me at more than 20kmh. At the top I turned around and headed back right away. Sundown was in 15 minutes. I was glad the carbon bike I rented had disc brakes. I used them hard going into the turns on the way down. 

When I got back to the hotel room I started searching for destinations for the next day’s ride. I looked further north. I knew there was a long easy climb to the south on the long road to Alpe d’Huez, but the fabled mountain was too far for me to ride there—150km from Grenoble. (I rode Alpe d'Huez in 2000 and 2005. It was as tough as advertised.)

I decided to ride east to the ski resort at Chamrousse. It would be a five-mile ride through the city of Grenoble then a 20-mile climb: a six-mile climb on a five-percent grade, followed by a flat mile through a resort town then an eleven-mile eight-percent grade to the summit: almost 1800 meters of climb, more than a mile vertical. Chamrousse was a Tour de France climb in 2001 (time trial), 2014, and 2017.  

This sign was on the lower slop. When I saw it, I thought, 

'No chance I am violating that speed limit.'

The first climb was fine, but the second climb went from slow to slower. The long climb was in forest so I could never see more than a few hundred meters ahead. I would ride through a switchback then a kilometer of winding road, then another switchback. I was moving faster than the previous day but only just. I mostly rode 4-5mph with occasional short bursts of speed standing on the pedals going 7-8mph! 

Early on the long climb, 800 meters of altitude to go

Three miles from the top I was out of water and thinking about turning around. But I kept going and made it to the largely deserted resort at the top. I got water and a Coke and a sandwich. I was going to take pictures at the top, but I got on the bike, and it felt so good to be rolling on a flat road near the top. I was speeding along at 10mph! Then I took the downward turn toward the intersection at the top of the climb. I leaned down, shifted to the highest gear, and flew down the winding road into the forest. 

For the next 11 miles, more than 20 minutes, I sped down the eight-percent grade, braking just before the switchbacks then pedaling out. By the time I was in the village at the bottom of the first climb, my arms were aching from leaning into the handlebars while braking. The road was mostly smooth so I could swing wide going into turns and lean deeply without getting bounced by bad pavement. 

Even with 40mph wind in my ears, I could hear cars coming up and could definitely hear the motorcycles using the mountain for a high-speed thrill ride. Going into a hairpin on the way up a Suzuki FZR flew past me. The ride-white-and-blue-leather-clad rider leaned so far in the turn I heard the hockey puck on his left knee scrape the pavement for a second. He was followed by three other touring motorcycles that went progressively slower through the turn. 

Since I was going 5mph, I could judge their style as the flew past me. I saw no motorcycles on the way down. I saw several bicycle riders making their slow way up the mountain. I also saw a few cars coming up, but only once did we pass by each other in a turn. European drivers hold their lane in hairpins, and I was tight on the inside of the turn. 

At the bottom of the steep hill in the village I rolled slowly through the tourist traffic, then started down the shallower six-mile descent onto the city. The road was smooth and straight with few turns. I rode back to the Natura Velo bike shop and returned the bike. They charged me for one 24-hour day from Friday at 6:30pm to Saturday at 5pm. The guy renting the bikes was friendly and helpful. 

As I walked out of the shop, I ended the Strava trip down the mountain. I walked to a coffee shop and sipped a cappuccino while I looked at what Strava said about my trip. On both rides it is clear I am among the worst riders going uphill and the best descending. 

Of the 2,800 riders who climbed the short, steep hill to Acrobastille, I was in 2,551st place. I was second of two in my age group, 70-74. Going down the hill, I was 772nd of 2,700 riders of all ages and 1st of five riders in my age group by more than a minute. 

On the climb to Chamrousse, I was 4,467th of 4,562 riders going up. On the steep 11-mile descent that begins the road back to Grenoble I was 1,178th of 3,556 riders but #1 of 22 riders in my age group. I was a half-minute ahead of second place. The other guys on the leaderboard live in the area so it was fun to think I could compete with guys who have made many trips up and down the mountain—at least on the descent. 

Both the climb and the descent give me joy in very different ways. The climbs were so difficult I thought about quitting both. On the first I told myself it was getting dark soon and I did not want to descend after sundown. Near the top of the climb to Chamrousse I was moving so slowly that even the 5km to go sign meant I had almost an hour to ride. But I couldn’t (wouldn’t let myself) stop in either case. The 5km sign gave me some inspiration; I went just a little faster.

The last time I rode in the Alps and the Pyrenees was in 2005.  I am not sure I will ride the great climbs of France again, but I am beyond happy that I was able to ride Acrobastille and Chamrousse.

Life-Long Bike Obsession Began with a Trike Trip

"Suicide Cycling Around the World"

That's the title a former co-worker said I should use for a memoir.  Another friend was encouraging me to write about deploying to Iraq for a year, landing in country on my 56th birthday. 

But Daria was sure the better book would be about biking.

I love bikes of all kinds: bicycles, motorcycles, scooters, and the various three-wheeled varieties.  I love the sensation of speed, especially leaning into corners.

My first bike was a red tricycle.  I mostly rode it in the driveway and on the sidewalk on the fairly busy street we lived on I was four--when we moved to an even busier street in another part of Stoneham, Massachusetts.  

One afternoon, I was, according to a story my parents told for years after, riding in the driveway on a Saturday. I was three years old. Dad was at work. Mom went in the house with my then one-year-old sister.  While speeding up and down the driveway on Hancock Street, I decided I could ride to the bakery in Stoneham Square.  

They had jelly doughnuts!  

All of my life, I have been able to see a route in my head that I traveled only once or twice.  In this case, my mother had walked with me to the doughnut shop just a half mile away. Our house on Hancock Street was on the east side of Route 28. The doughnut shop was on the west side.

In the 1950s, Route 28 was the main road north from Boston to central New Hampshire including the state capital, Concord.  I had to ride four blocks to Route 28, cross the four-lane highway and ride past the library and up the hill past the fish store to the middle of Stoneham Square.  

Somehow I did it.

I got my doughnut.  The baker told the owner of the drugstore next door about the little boy on the tricycle. Al Pullo, the owner of the drugstore, called my mom. She came to get me and was not pleased about my trip.  

The next year we moved to Oak Street in Stoneham. At some point I got a Columbia 24-inch 2-wheel bicycle and was riding much further. At eight years old, I rode from Stoneham to Sullivan Square on Route 28 and took a subway to Boston and back. I hid the bike behind a dumpster and, surprisingly, it was there when I returned.

In the six decades since, I have ridden a bicycle in 41 countries and ridden roughly 200,000 miles. I did not ride bicycles between ages 13 and 36, but owned a dozen motorcycles.  

Daria was right. Now I have to actually write it.

Walking My Bike in a Grocery Store

 

Bike path??

Yesterday I stopped at the grocery store on the way home from the afternoon ride. I was on my racing bike so I did not have a lock and was not going to leave a bike with $2,000 wheels outside a store, so I walked my bike through the store.

As I walked to the back, a woman said, "I've never seen that before."

I remembered I needed coffee cream so I walked over to the dairy section. After I picked up the carton, a man in his mid-40s looking at the milk display said, "You look like someone who stayed trim later in.....as you got older. What kind of milk do you drink? I could slim down some. Do you drink almond milk?"

When he took a breath I said, "I drink Lactaid. I tried almond milk. I don't like it. But you could try it."

He thanked me and said he should exercise more. I waved and clicked away (bike cleats) toward the cash register.

Only once did I have someone tell me I could not walk my bike in a grocery store. I pointed out that my bike took up less space than a shopping cart.

Have you ever walked a bike through a store?

May 9: Victory Day for Russia, Crash Day for Me

 

In Russia, May 9 is Victory Day, the annual celebration of defeating the Nazis in World  War II.  I am happy to celebrate dead and defeated Nazis any time.  But May 9 has a new significance for me.

Sunday, May 9, will be the 1-year anniversary of my 40th broken bone. I smashed my left (dominant arm) elbow in a low-speed (10mph) crash.

On May 9, 2007, I broken ten bones including C7 in a high-speed (50mph).

I realized this morning that all of the bones I have broken this century were on May 9--about 1/3rd of all the bones I broke in my life.

Also, in this century, the only bones I have broken have been from bicycle accidents. In the rest of my life, motorcycles, missile explosions, football, car accidents, along with bicycle accidents were the causes of broken bones.

I was thinking of wearing bubble wrap on Sunday. Especially if I ride.

Returning from Ukraine with Canadian Cyclists Going to Auschwitz

Ride for the Living, Auschwitz 

In June of 2017, I rode from Belgrade, Serbia, to Lviv, Ukraine. Along the way, I rode in Bosnia, Croatia, Hungary, Slovakia, The Czech Republic and Poland. I rode through beautiful country, up and down long hills and through the home country of my favorite pro cyclist Peter Sagan.

Peter Sagan, World Champion

After crossing into Poland, I rode to Auschwitz and spent a day there wandering through a place of terror I cannot fathom. I wrote about the visit here. 

After leaving Auschwitz, I was glad to be riding alone to think and to process what I saw. I had no problems until the border crossing into Ukraine from Poland. Usually at the borders, I rode past the long lines of cars and trucks waiting to cross and up to a checkpoint with a guard outside the booth. Once there, I point at the bike and ask where I should go. At most border crossings the guard sends me through the next open lane. They don’t get a lot of bikes.

Ukraine-Poland border crossing The Polish guards stopped me and sent me to the pedestrian line. It took more than three hours to get through the long line of people walking from Poland back home with all kinds of consumer electronics and other goods. When I left Lviv, I decided to take a train to the other side of the border rather than struggle with customs on foot pushing a bike. 

In the station I met a group of Canadian cyclists who were in Ukraine for the same reason I was: to visit Holocaust sites. They were on the way to the annual Ride for the Living at Auschwitz. They had done the 100 km ride before, but this was the first time they had visited Ukraine. I had ridden from Auschwitz a few days before. 

We talked about how the Lviv and Auschwitz were among the worst site of the Holocaust, but very different. About half the Jews murdered by the Nazis were already dead when Auschwitz went into full operation in 1942. Most had been murdered by shooting over pits as in Lviv and Kiev. German police were sent to conquered lands to murder Jews with rifles and pistols. In Auschwitz Jews were gassed and the burnt in ovens. 

Then we talked about bicycles, riding in Europe and even about motorcycles. One of the Canadian riders had ridden sport bikes in the 1980s. We both had ridden Honda 500 Interceptors and talked for half the train ride about our former bikes. The rest of the group left us alone.

Honda 500 Interceptor 

At the border station, the Canadians stayed on the train and continued to Krakow. I left the train and started riding. The customs check on the train took an hour, but it was a comfortable hour in a train seat instead of in a pedestrian line. I was happy.

The Physics of Descending on a Bicycle

When a solo rider or a group of riders descend any hill, particularly a steep hill, why are some of the riders so much faster than others? 

The fastest descenders, whether by experience or instinct or learning, are the ones that sense or know the laws of physics and do everything they can to use them. 

When a rider descends, the motion of the bike is governed by a series of variables: 

--The grade of the hill 

--The total frontal area of the bicycle and rider 

--The air speed of the bike 

--The total mass of the bike and rider 

--Momentum: the combination of ground speed and mass 

--Spoke count of the wheels 

--Rolling resistance 

The grade of the hill is the most important variable. I have descended eight percent grades in the Alps and in the eastern US and never hit 50 mph, even after two or three miles. But I have gone 55 to 59 mph on half-mile hills with 15-20 percent grades. 

 

The frontal area of the bike and rider determines the top speed on any given grade. Wind resistance increases by the square of the speed. Double the speed, quadruple the wind resistance. At 11mph a rider is mostly pedaling to move the mass of bike and rider. To maintain 22mph, the same rider is putting 80% effort into moving air. The riders who descend the fastest, especially above 40mph put their crotch on the top tube and their sternum on the handlebars and pull their elbows and knees in. 

Related to wind resistance is air speed. I worked seventy miles east of my home for many years. I would ride to work once a month between April and September. I would wait for a day with a 20mph west wind and ride that 70 miles in under four hours, under 3.5 hours on the best days. When the wind was exactly behind me there were times it was quiet. I was going 22mph in a 20mph tail wind. My air speed was 2 mph. I was flying. 

I am the wrong size to be a bicycle racer. At nearly six feet and 185 pounds, I am 20 pounds heavier and several inches taller than many top racers. But descending, every pound is to the good, because… 

Mass plus ground speed makes momentum. The higher the speed and the greater the mass, the more force pushes the bike down the hill. When I pull out of the draft and sail past a 160-pound rider, momentum is my friend. 

One variable every rider can control is spoke count. Every revolution of the wheel, from the perspective of the wind, whips the spoke from no speed to twice the speed of the bike and back to zero. Low-spoke-count wheels with thin or bladed spokes reduce the wind resistance and the turbulence of spokes. The faster we ride, the more wind we whip through the spokes in our wheels. 

On a road bike with fully inflated 23 or 25mm tires, rolling resistance is negligible, but not zero. 

In summary, to go really fast downhill, find a steep grade, make yourself as small and narrow as you can, ride low-spoke-count wheels with fully inflated tires and hope the wind is behind you. I love going fast. My Strava KOMs are downhill, not up.

Rural Drivers Hating Bicyclists is Nothing New

In 2004, a bicycle hater with the unlikely name John F. Kennedy threw tacks on the road when he knew bicyclists would run over them and get flats and possibly crash. 

He did it twice. The second time, I saw him do it. I got his license number and harassed the local police until they arrested and charged him. Here’s the story: 

From the mid-1990s until March of this year, I rode two or three times a week with a daily training ride group led by a former National Champion named Scott. Monday through Thursday at 4pm and Friday at 1pm, riders join the group from the west side Lancaster, Pa., and follow an unvarying route of 35 miles by the time the riders return to the city two hours later. 

The ride is so predictable, that I and other riders would join the ride at several different points knowing within two minutes when the riders would pass a given intersection or landmark. The ride goes southwest of Lancaster to Safe Harbor Park near the Susquehanna River, then turns north toward Columbia, and back to Lancaster through Millersville. 

Just before Safe Harbor Park is Conestoga Boulevard, the place where pickup trucks are most likely to pass too close, blow their horns or occasionally yell their displeasure at sharing the road—a nearly empty road. One day in 2004 passing over the crest of a half-mile hill, several riders got flats. 

There were tacks on the road. Recently a man in an old red pickup truck had yelled at us several times as he passed. The ride crests the hill at 4:40pm and that was when he was headed home to the apartment where he lived south of Safe Harbor Park. Apparently, he got ahead of us, threw tacks on the road and drove away. I thought it was him. 

Two weeks later he passed us yelling as we neared the top of the hill. I sprinted as hard as I could down the hill wanting to see where he went at the next intersection. As I neared the bottom of the hill, I saw him on the side of the road throwing tacks. He saw me, got in his truck and took off. I got his license number. It was a level road and he was speeding so he was gone in moments, but I did see that he went south. 

Two other riders had followed me and seen what happened. Now we had witnesses and actual tacks. I called the Conestoga Police Department and got little cooperation, but I insisted, and they relented. John F. Kennedy was charged two misdemeanors. I told the officers that I had witnesses and we would all be happy to testify. 

On the day of the trial, Kennedy arrived in the pickup truck I had identified. We learned later he had another vehicle. It turns out he did not have an attorney. Criminals, when you get to know them, are stupid. Those of us who were witnesses showed up at trial in suits and ties. 

Kennedy wore work clothes and had his sunglasses on top of his head. If he had a lawyer, the lawyer would have known that the judge had a son who was a Lancaster City police officer, a member of the bicycle patrol. The lawyer also would have known that one of the witnesses was a bicycle patrol officer and a veteran. But Kennedy was too arrogant to think he needed a lawyer. 

The judge presented the evidence. The witnesses said what they saw. Kennedy spoke in his own defense saying he did not throw the tacks on the road, but bicyclists should not be blocking the roads and we deserved what happened. After the testimony, the judge gave a summary of the evidence and the defense. He was so calm and impassive, I thought Kennedy would get the case dismissed. The police officer who rides with us and was a witness knew better but said nothing. 

When the summary was complete, the judge told Kennedy to stand to receive the verdict. He stood and smirked, also thinking he would get off. The judge exploded. Kennedy stood straight. All of us sat up straight. The judge lectured Kennedy for ten minutes, gave him the maximum fine of $880 dollars and said he would be in jail if every penny was not paid on time. 

Four of my kids were at the trial. They all rode bicycles and they knew all of the riders who were endangered by Kennedy. Like us riders, they sat very straight and still when the judge charged Kennedy. I was glad they could see justice served. 

Kennedy never bothered us again. I never saw him again.

Amtrak Finally Allows Bikes--And Charges More for Them Than for Passengers

 

For 25 years I have ridden the Amtrak's Keystone trains between Lancaster and Philadelphia, as well as regional trains between Washington DC and Boston.  Several times in those 25 years I have written to Amtrak to ask that bicycles be allowed on the trains. 

Amtrak refused.  Sure, they allowed bikes on a few regional trains with baggage cars, but No! was the main answer to "Can I take my bike."

Today, Amtrak began allowing bikes on the train: for a price.

In my case, the price for taking my bike with me on a train to Philadelphia from Lancaster is double the price for me!  My ticket, with the senior discount is $10.40. The bike cost is $20!  

That means I can visit Philadelphia for $20.80 round trip or I can bring my bike at a total cost of $60.80.  A bike with a normal adult fare makes the round trip $82.  

That's crazy.  Why should the bike cost $20 each way? Weight? My bikes weight 17 and 19 pounds each. A five-car passenger train with an electric locomotive weighs 2 million pounds.  Is the addition of 19 pounds a problem?

Space? Keystone trains have seats for 400 passengers and lately have had 20 or 30 passengers per train.  If one or two people per train take a bike, will it cause overcrowding? 

If I take a bike on New Jersey Transit, the Long Island Railroad, SEPTA, the Boston MTA, the Baltimore DC MARC system or any other regional train the cost for a bike is ZERO.  

Why is it $20 per trip on Amtrak?

Birthday Rides!!! 67km of Fun at 67 Years Old

The Ben Franklin Bridge, connecting Philadelphia and Camden

For my 67th birthday, I rode 67 km in four separate rides, mostly on hills across half of Pennsylvania.  On May 1, I drove to Philadelphia, stopping about halfway on the 80-mile drive, at the intersection of Pa. Routes 23 and 10.  Just south of that crossroad is a 2.5-km hill I really like. Usually when I travel to Philadelphia I am on a train, but since I was driving I could stop, and ride up and down this hill. 

After that ride, I drove to center city Philadelphia, parked on the Delaware Water Front and rode for a few hours.  I rode back on forth across the Ben Franklin Bridge, then across the city to West River Drive. This four-lane road is closed to traffic on weekends from March to October, but now it is closed to cars all the time.  I rode with walkers, runners and other riders with a lot of space to stay far apart.  I went all the way to City Line Avenue before turning around and taking a different way back to the Delaware River, and riding the Ben Franklin Bridge again. 

On the way home I pulled off the Turnpike at Morgantown to ride the Rt. 10 hill again--faster up and down than the morning. 

Today, May 2, I drove to a small town near Gettysburg to visit my son at a job site where he is working. He is part of a crew that is hanging overhead doors on a loading dock.  They were just finishing hanging 60 doors this week.

Then I drove to Fort Loudon and rode up and down Tuscarora Summit.  I rode the five-mile climb faster than I have since before knee replacement in March of last year.

What better way to celebrate my 67th birthday than riding 67 kilometers and climbing 1200 meters? 

Two Rides, Two Days, Same Time of Day, Completely Different Rides

Riding the same route, the exact same roads, every day on a bicycle can be an entirely different ride each time.  This is certainly true of a group ride where who is on the ride dictates the pace.

For the past month I have been riding alone and settled into riding the same 25-mile out-and-back ride four or five days a week.  I ride just a little east of due south out of Lancaster for nine rolling miles, then up a three-mile climb. I turn around in a parking lot at the top, descend a different hill and go back to my home in the city on the same road just west of due north. 

Yesterday, the wind was out of the North NorthWest at 17mph, a perfect tail wind.  I felt good and rode hard out of the city and up the first long climb and all the way to the top of the three-mile climb at the end.  Eight miles into the ride there is a speed indicator telling people to slow down for construction.  It is on the far side of a bridge and slightly uphill.  Yesterday I first lit the sign up at 22mph then was down to 20 as I passed it.  By the time I stopped at the turnaround, I had covered the 12.5 miles in 48 minutes with more than a thousand feet of climbing. The ride back was a slow slog in a headwind. On the steepest part of the 3-mile descent, I only reached 37mph. 

There are 14 Strava segments on the route, seven in each direction. Yesterday, I made five PRs on the ride south. 

Today, the wind was 10mph out of the SouthWest.  It was a grinding headwind. I rode hard up the the big hill, but it was just over an hour when I reached the turnaround point.  On the way back my top speed was 51 mph, but with the wind 45 degrees off of a straight tail wind. I did not have any record segments on the way back. At the construction sign where I went 20mph and 22 yesterday, I first lit the sign at 13 mph, then 12 today.

Same road, consecutive days, about the same temp, but such a different ride.  Using my heart rate as a relative indicator of effort, yesterday I set all those PRs and had a high heart rate of 143. Today my highest heart rate was 155. 

Two Rides in Paris; Two Decades Ago

In September 2000 I made two trips to Europe to attend several business meetings.  Both trips took me to Paris, first for three days, then for two.  Because of where I stayed and my schedule, the rides were very different.

On the first trip, I had meetings only on the west side of Paris so I picked a hotel between the meeting site and the best place in Paris for bicyclists: L’Hippodrome:  the horse-racing track next to the River Seine on the southwest corner of Paris in the huge park called Bois de Boulogne.  There is a two-mile road around horse track that is closed every day, year-round from 10 am to dark for bicyclists.  The road varies from one to three lanes wide and actually has about fifty feet of elevation change—uphill on the east side, downhill on the west.  Every day, local cyclists circle this loop in groups varying in speed from casual commuters taking a lap, to groups of fifty or more averaging 25 to 27 mph. 

The fast group is local racers from teenagers to 50+, but as in America, more old guys than young.   These guys ride very orderly pace lines when the groups are smaller than 20.  Bigger groups tend to have three or four guys up front doing about 90% of the pulls.  Once in a great while, in the off season, a current or recent Tour de France rider who lives in Paris will drop in on the ride and take the pack to some painful speed above 30 mph.  I always ride American-flag jerseys or my team kit.  Parisian bike racers are as friendly as American Cat. 1,2,3 racers so no one talks to you anyway, but with the American-flag stuff on, they know I can’t speak French—especially at 27 mph.  Most bike racers in Paris are blue-collar guys who don’t speak English, so the ride is not a social event for Americans.

But it is a great ride—no square turns, and just about any pace you could want will have a group you can ride with.  I was in Paris three days in early September and managed to ride four times.  My hotel was in Suresnes, just across the river from the training ride and half the price of a Paris hotel just because it is outside the city.  From my hotel, I rode down through the center of town, crossed the Suresnes bridge and turned right at the second road to get to the ride site.

On my second trip to Europe in September, I spent two days in Paris and did not ride in the training race.  In fact, I stayed in a hotel near the airport 12 miles northeast of Paris.  One of the days, I had a meeting in the center of Paris and one in a suburb just south of the city.  I rode from the airport to the city center then to the south side and back.  The road to the city is a 4-lane highway.  It was like riding from Paoli to Philadelphia on Route 30—EXCEPT, no one screwed with me at all.  It was flat and dull but not dangerous.  At the city line at the town of Porte de Villette, the way into the city was through a cobblestone traffic circle with 6 intersecting roads and a railroad overpass.  Once through the circle, I rode straight across Paris splitting lanes with the scooters and couriers and having a great time. Again, lots of traffic but no Neanderthals in SUVs trying to kill you.  On the second day, I took a ride through the suburbs of Paris near the airport.

Of course, the best place to ride in Paris is the training race but riding in the city is great if for no other reason than experiencing heavy traffic without the small-minded people with big engines that we put up with on nearly every ride. 

"He Wood Ride Anything with Wheels"--Riding a bike made of ash wood up a 1000-meter climb

This bike is entirely made from ash wood including the seat and handlebars

It's not great for a 1000-meter climb on a switchback road.

Several times during my recent trip in Europe and Asia I switched my plans to avoid the places where the pandemic was currently worst.  I was in Athens when I was supposed to be in Rome.  It was a Sunday. The bike rental shops were closed. The only place I could rent a bike was at an upscale hotel that was connected to a local company that makes bikes from ash trees--fifty bikes per tree and then they plant fifty seedling trees for each tree they use. Here is their website.

The bikes are seven-speed, planetary hub city bikes.  Three miles away from my hotel was a 1000-meter high mountain in the middle of the city with several cell towers at the top. It was 60 degrees, sunny and I wanted to ride!  So I rented the wooden bike, raised the seat as high as I could and rode up the mountain.

At three miles up, the road got really steep and I had to walk a hundred meters, but then it leveled a little and I kept going.  The view was beautiful. Halfway up I looked back at the city and was looking down on the Acropolis.  Further up the road turned south and I was looking at the harbor and the Aegean Sea.  Near the top the switchback interval got shorter and the grade went above ten percent.  I gave up when I was looking at the base of the cell towers knowing I could get a steel bike with a triple crank the next day and ride to the top.

Along with its planetary gearset, the bike had a caliper brake on the front wheel, but a coaster brake in the rear. On the way down the mountain, riding into a couple of switchbacks I slid the rear wheel when I went to backpedal and braked instead. By the bottom I was used to it, but it made me realize that I backpedal on the way into sharp turns--some of the switchbacks were 180 degrees.

The road had few guardrails and many long, sheer drops. I thought if I had really screwed up with the coaster brake my epitaph could be:  "He Wood Ride Anything with Wheels."

Evangelical Escapees Around the World

When I travel, one of the categories of people I meet are Evangelical Escapees. Sam fits in that category.  He grew up in central Ohio in a family that was in Church twice on Sunday, Wednesday, and his teens youth group on Friday put him in Church at least four days per week. Three times a year, the big Church had a weeklong salvation event. In the summer, the whole family traveled around the south. His father was teaching and preaching at Camp Meetings. 

Sam, of course, had no choice about attending any or all of these services. For him, childhood was managing boredom attending events he had no interest in.  He was interested in science. His dad was a high school principal for a day job, but Sam was walled off from advanced studies because he had so many commitments outside school. “I never had time to really do homework. I did okay in school, but I wasn’t like the kids who took advanced classes.”

Sam left home after high school and eventually became a professional mountain bike racer. He married a researcher with a PhD in bioinformatics who got a job at French pharmaceutical company. Sam opened a bike shop in Paris.  He has a clientele of amateur athletes and some professionals on the French national team. He is a perfectionist who does bike fitting for people who want top performance. 

Sam is in his early fifties, tall, thin and fit. He is a strong rider who is very much part of the cycling community in Paris.  He speaks French with an American accent. He has a strong voice and speaks slowly. When I have heard him speak to clients, I can understand him a lot better than the native French speakers he is interacting with.

Sam says his parents really lived the faith they proclaimed. His problem was with nearly everyone else in his Church life. He learned racial epithets at Church before he heard them in “the world.”  And in the kind of Church he grew up in, Creation Science, the arrogant lunacy of asserting the earth is 6,000 years old was the only science. 

Better than Brainwashing--a convoy leaving Camp Adder, Iraq.

Sam is very far from his childhood: physically, spiritually, culturally, but not as far as a soldier I served with in Iraq. David heard me arguing with some Creationists in the mess hall before we deployed. He came up to me later and asked, “Can you really be a believer and not believe all that [Creationist] shit?” He had been told the opposite all through his childhood. He enlisted because he wanted to get away from home and Church, but he could not to a secular college. So, he turned 18 and headed for Iraq.  War was better than brainwashing. And after deployment he went to college with the GI Bill. 

David went back to his childhood hometown after serving in the Army, but got the secular education he wanted. Sam keeps in touch with his family, but is happily staying quite far from home.

   

First Time in the Republic of Georgia--Riding is Amazing!

Looking up from the center of Tbilisi, Georgia, is a ferris wheel and tower

on top of a ridge.  It's a six-mile climb with switchbacks and some steep sections.

After leaving Israel, I planned to see the Republic of Georgia for the first time.  I was just going to visit. I had no definite plans to ride. I was thinking about also going to Armenia and Azerbijan, the other two countries in this land bridge between Russia to the north, Turkey and Iran to the south, the Black Sea to the west and the Caspian Sea to the east.

Then I looked up the mountain from the center of town. A cable car takes tourists up to a park with a ferris wheel overlooking the city. And there is a six-mile road that loops up around the mountain.  I had to ride that.

It's a beautiful climb. Incredible vistas.  Not too much traffic and 180-degree switchbacks on the steeper sections of the climb.  I arrived on Friday, found a bike Saturday morning and rode up twice.  The first time I messed up Strava, the second, I got the whole trip.  

Today, Sunday, I rode up the hill toward the park then followed a fork that led to villages on the next ridge above the park.  I passed though two villages, Shindisi and Tabakhmala. At one point I was looking down on the tall tower next to the Ferris wheel.  

The bike I rented was a 9-speed cross bike with a single chain ring and fat tires.  With the switchbacks and the fat tires, my descent speeds never got above 35mph, but it was fun to descend for nine miles after the long climb up.  Tomorrow I will ride up to the park again. I fly to Kiev the next day.  

One other fun thing about Georgia was the Strava segments.  On today's climb I was on 20 segments up and down, yesterday it was a dozen.  The number of people recording times on segments was in the hundreds. I was in the top third of times descending, the bottom third climbing, but on every segment, I was the top 65-69 rider.  Several times the only rider in my age group.  I did not see any other bicyclists, but there must not be many old guys.

The view looking down from the ridge above Tbilisi

Above 55mph on a Bike the Spokes Sing

The position for the fastest descent

  

Just above 55 miles per hour the spokes sing.

I hear it with my crotch on the top tube,

My chest on the handlebars, my legs folded,

Pulled in close, the sound of the spokes,

Rises, a wail and a shriek and a whistle, with a

Flutter as each spoke spins up to 110 miles per hour,

Then spins down to zero for a millisecond.

The howl of the wind wraps around me, the

Angular speed of the wheels makes the bike solid,

Straight in a way it never feels at lower speeds,

For a moment I know there are four square inches of

Rubber on the road, ounces of carbon rim holding,

The tire and the tube, and my life straight up, flying

Down the hill, my eyes scanning for holes, stones,

Any danger and yet, I am grinning, singing with the

Spokes, more alive, drinking every vivid color,

Pattern, feeling. Eighty feet every second, then the

Hill levels, the trees stand up straight again, I sit up.

45, 35, 30, 20 up the hill on the other side of the bridge, the

Momentum is gone in three seconds. I spin the pedals to

Climb the hill ahead, three miles, twenty minutes, silent

Spokes now stressed with load as I stand and push the

Pedals. Their moment of weightless delight, gone till the

Next long, steep grade gives them freedom, their moment.

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