Veteran of four wars, four enlistments, four branches: Air Force, Army, Army Reserve, Army National Guard. I am both an AF (Air Force) veteran and as Veteran AF (As Fuck)
Showing posts with label bicycle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bicycle. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 30, 2019
Paris Training Race and West Along the Seine
Today I am back in Paris and riding longer distances getting ready for Israel. I rode 42 miles from the south side of Paris to the daily training race at l'hippodrome in the southwest of corner of Paris.
After an 8-mile warmup ride, I joined the with a small group going about 18mph. A half-lap later a faster group went by so I sped up and joined. At the end of that lap, six guys went by going even faster, so I sprinted onto the end of that group that was averaging 22mph.
I stayed with them for three laps. I was using Strava so riding with this fast group meant I set a half dozen personal records, and I moved up to 9,500th of 19,500 riders who set times on the two-mile oval. I also moved up to 43rd among the 140 riders who set times in the 65-69 age group.
After five laps I turned off and made a tour of my favorite towns west of Paris. I rode up and over Mont Valerian through the town of Suresne. I used to stay there when I was in Paris on business 20 years ago because I could wake up early, roll down the hill and ride the daily training race.
After Suresne, I rolled down the long hill into Rueil-Malmaison. The company I worked for had an office there. It's a lovely town on a bend in the Seine. After that I rode west along the Seine to Saint Germain-en-Laye. This town has an amazing park and Hotel d'Ville and is the setting for the novel Paris in the Present Tense by Mark Helprin--my favorite book by one of my favorite authors.
I rode back through Chatou and stopped for lunch a Maison Fournaise. I'll write a separate post about that. Paris is a lovely pace to ride.
Saturday, June 8, 2019
Nuts About Cycling: The Next Call After a Broken Collarbone
My collarbone after I crashed
Twenty-five years ago, in 1994, I decided to get a
vasectomy, but it was spring and I knew it would mean a week or more off the
bike. I thought I would wait till cold
weather in the fall.
One Saturday in April of that year, I was riding rolling
hills. I went down a mile-long hill in an aero tuck until I could feel the bike
losing momentum.
I stood up to crank hard on the pedals and attack the
hill.
Then I was in the ditch on the side of the road. When I stood, my right crank snapped in the
middle. I flipped over the handlebars
and landed on my shoulder.
In the ditch I tried to get up, but when I moved my right
arm, I heard crunching coming from my collarbone—like potato chips were being
stepped on.
I had smashed my collarbone.
A nice person with one of those big early cell phones came by and called
me an ambulance.
At the hospital, the emergency room doctor stuck his finger
in my shoulder at the site of the break. I groaned in pain. He smiled.
“You smashed the collarbone,” he said. “It will heal up great with no surgery if you
don’t move it too much.”
They strapped my right arm to my side and sent me home. For the next three weeks I heard a lot of
crunching if I moved the wrong way.
Then I realized this cloud had a silver lining. Monday morning, first thing, I called the
urologist and said, “Can you get me in this week?” They had an opening on Thursday.
When I showed up the nurse and then the doctor asked if I wanted
to let the collarbone heal up before the surgery. “No,” I said. “I’m in pain
anyway. Let’s go.”
The collarbone healed, the surgery was successful and if
someone asks how much I love cycling, I can say, “I’m nuts about it.”
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
Riding 400 Miles to a Picnic, Part 2: The Picnic
Charles River Bike Path
I rolled up to the Ig Nobel Prize picnic after a seven-mile
ride from the east side of Cambridge.
Part of the ride was on the wide, paved bike path that follows the south
bank of the Charles River. On the short
ride, I travelled on Route 28, Beacon Street, a scenic bike path and a quiet
residential neighborhood. Boston beauty.
Maria Ferrante, director of "The Broken Heart Opera," on the Snders Theater stage.
When I arrived, most of the people at the picnic were
gathered around the piano in the basement.
Each Ig Nobel Prize ceremony since 1996 includes a comic opera that
starts and stops and starts again between the awarding of the prizes. This year will be the premiere of “The Broken
Heart Opera.” Leading the practice for this year’s opera was Maria Ferrante, the director, and an
accomplished soprano who has performed in Grand Operas. Maria had to leave early, so practice was
already in progress.
At the piano were two young
players, Ivan Gusev from Kazakstan and Yulia Yun from Uzbekistan. They sat together, one playing, then the
other, and sometimes they played four handed.
They were fun to watch, both as brilliant musicians and the way they
interacted as they played. At one point
they played “Sheikh of Araby” . Ivan and Yulia played their parts sometimes
reaching across each other. At one point Ivan reached too far and Yulia pushed
him off the left side of the bench. Ivan rolled onto the floor, and quickly got
back onto the piano bench.
Ivan Gusev |
Yulia Yun |
Marc Abrahams, the emcee of the Ig Nobel Ceremony, stepped to the side of the piano as Ivan resumed his seat. Marc said, “If that should happen during the performance, just keeping playing.”
Marc Abrahams, Emcee, Impresario of the Ig Nobel Prize ceremony, with an actual Ig Nobel Prize
Practice continued another 15 minutes, then Maria was off to
her next event. After the practice Marc suggested that Ivan and Yulia watch the
video of Stephanie Trick and her husband Paolo Alderighi playing “Sheikh of
Araby.” It’s really good. The four-handed playing begins at 3:30.
Next we moved to the patio, where I met John Barrett. He has
been the referee of the Ig Nobel Prize Ceremony for more than twenty years. John keeps time, making sure the 24/7
Lectures, 24-second talk followed by a 7-second summary, do not go over
time. John is a veteran. He enlisted in the
Army Reserve in the 1950s at age 17, then went to Harvard after he came home
from Basic and Advanced training. He
told funny stories about being in the band during his brief time in the Army.
John Barrett, referee, action shot |
After talking Army with John Barrett, I talked about Gilbert
and Sullivan, serious and comic operas, and life in Massachusetts with John
Jarcho and Jean Cummings. They are both singers in the opera. John went to
medical school at the University of Utah around the same time I was stationed
in Utah on Hill Air Force Base. John and Jean and I were joined by others in a
discussion of whether Utah street addresses were the best or the worst
addresses in the country. If you have never lived there, I once lived at 2321
West 5900 South. There are no street
names, just numbers on a grid. In Salt Lake City, the addresses run into the
ten thousands radiating out from the Mormon Temple. John likes Utah addresses,
Jean and I like streets with names. Then Jean and I talked about how crazy it
is that people can misspell four-letter names like Neil and Jean.
I have been a volunteer at the Ig Nobel Prize Ceremony since
2010, but this is the first year I was able to attend one of the picnics. On
the day of the event, there are so many things going on that I see people but
never get a chance to talk with them, especially about important matters like
Utah addresses, or misspelling names. I will definitely try to get back next
year.
Volunteering at the
Ig Nobel Prize Ceremony
In the middle of every Ig Nobel Prize Ceremony the audience
launches hundreds of paper airplanes toward the stage.
The Ig Nobel Prize ceremony is held every year in Sanders
Theater on the campus of Harvard University.
This year’s ceremony will be held at 6 p.m. September 13, and webcast live. Since the
first ceremony in 1991, the event always occurs before the awarding of the
Nobel Prizes. The ceremony gets press coverage in countries around the world,
especially those that are home to Ig Nobel (and Nobel) Prize winners.
Channel 1, Russian Federation
Every year one or more US-based TV crews from Japanese TV
stations show up. Crews from France and
Russia are also annual attendees. One of
my volunteer jobs for the past seven years has been to keep the Russian crew
from Первый Канал (Channel
One) within the limits for press people. The names of the prize winners are
embargoed, and the rules of Sanders Тheater mean the crews have to share the
platform where cameras are allowed, so they can only film during specific parts
of the ceremony.
The Russian crew is not very good at obeying the rules. Since I am the only press volunteer who is
also ex-military, I volunteered to escort the Russians. It will be fun to meet up with Channel One
cameraman Boris again (that really is his name).
-->
Sunday, July 29, 2018
Riding 400 Miles to a Picnic
In the second week in July, I took a bike trip to Boston. Actually, it was a trip with a bike more than
a bicycle trip, sort of like the trip I took last year across Eastern Europe. I
rode the bike, rode trains, took a ferry from Orient Point, Long Island, to New
London, Connecticut, and in between met friends and rode in some of my favorite
places.
The reason for the trip was to attend one of the pre-event
Ig Nobel Prize picnics for volunteers. I
have been a volunteer for the Igs since I returned form Iraq in 2010. As it
turns out, I was not the only person to ride to the picnic, but the other guy
rode from across town. I will say more on the Ig Nobel Prize ceremony and the
picnic in the next post.
When I got back from the trip to Europe last year, I continued
to ride long distances. I rode to Philadelphia and New York, but I did not meet
people the way I did in Europe. I wondered why.
The reason became clear when I looked at how I rode: in
America I ride with a goal. When I stop to eat I eat fast then get back on the
bike and ride.
So this trip, I stopped to see friends and I talked to
people when I stopped. On the first day, rode as far as Paoli and got on a
regional train to Philadelphia. I met a
Marine and his grandson and had a real conversation, written here.
On the first day, I left the bike in Philadelphia, went home
for the night and started from Philadelphia the next day. Late in the day, I got on New Jersey Transit
so I could meet up with my racer buddy Jim and ride from Times Square to Fort
Lee, NJ. We rode part of the way on the west side bike path which has new barriers every place that a vehicle could get on the path. Pairs or parallel concrete barriers make sure the path is closed to cars since the terrorist attack in the Spring.
The next day I rode with Jim in
the morning from NJ to Times Square, then met a political activist friend for
lunch in Manhattan. After lunch, I went to the Holocaust Museum in BatteryPark, then rode through Brooklyn and started the ride across Long Island. I was almost halfway up the island when I
stopped.
The next day, I rode to Orient Point. When I stopped to eat, I talked to a couple
who wondered what it was like to ride across Long Island. I could tell them that the east and west sides
were completely different. The east end
in Brooklyn up to 30 miles from NYC is traffic and busy, though not narrow,
roads. Then just about half way, the island becomes rural. Farms, trees, and
fields are the landscape from mid-island to the east extreme at Orient
Point.
When I rolled up to the ferry terminal I saw lines of cars
waiting to board. From my experience with customs in Eastern Europe, I rode
past all the cars right up to the boarding ramp. The guy at the dock told me where to get a
ticket. I rolled onto the boat and went
straight to the other end with the first cars off. When I stopped, a guy with a Battenkill
t-shirt walked up and introduced himself. He had done last year’s Battenkill race,
a classic race in upstate New York. I raced in 2016. We shared stories about 68
miles of pavement, dirt and steep hills up and down.
After the ferry, I rode northeast out of New London. It was almost
5 p.m. when I rolled off the big ferry. I planned to ride till dark and see if
I could get close enough to Providence, Rhode Island to take a train to Boston
that night—or ride the next day.
I made it Wickford Junction, the southernmost train station
on the MBTA Providence line. It was a long ride in sweaty clothes to
Boston. But taking the train tonight
meant I could stay in Cambridge and ride to my home in Stoneham the next day
and still get to the picnic. I got up late, rode to Stoneham and visited my
parents’ grave.
After the visit, I rode through the cemetery to the upper
entrance for pedestrians. Lindenwood
Cemetery is on the side of a hill.
Narrow steep roads curve up and down in serpentine paths from the bottom
to the top of the cemetery. When I was
in the 4th and 5th grade at Robin Hood Elementary School
in Stoneham, one of my friends was Bobby Sweeney. He was fearless on a
bicycle. We would race down those hills
skidding, sliding and occasionally crashing into headstones. Bobby almost
always won the races and he crashed more than any of us.
After I left the cemetery, I rode to City Cycle on Main
Street near the corner of Montvale Avenue. The bike shop is in the same
location it was in 1959 when it opened. I talked to the owner, Eric Barras. I
bought the last bike I owned as a kid at City Cycle. It was a green Schwinn
Varsity ten-speed. I bought when I was
12 years old in 1965. I worked full time
in the summer since I was 12, but I had Monday off and would take long rides on
this bike. On summer day in 1966, I rode to New Hampshire and back. The
112-mile round trip was the longest one-day ride until almost 30 years later,
when I got addicted to cycling again.
That Schwinn got stolen not long after my ride to New Hampshire. I gave
up cycling for almost 25 years after losing that bike.
Eric is 79 and still fixing and selling bikes at City Cycle.
He grew up in Lynnefield, but has worked at City Cycle for nearly six
decades.
After City Cycle, I rode through Stoneham Square and back to
Cambridge, then to the Ig Nobel picnic in Brookline. This picnic was my reason for the 400-mile
bike, train, boat ride to Boston. I was
one of two people who ride to the picnic, but the other guy did not ride quite
as far.
Continued in the next post
Friday, May 4, 2018
East German Training Ride Home from Philadelphia
This picture shows just how I felt today riding home from Thorndale
For those of us who waited on the East-West Border in Germany for the Soviet hordes to invade, some of the most fearsome soldiers in that million-man invasion force were the East Germans. They were the descendants of the soldiers that almost conquered Europe and Olympic contenders far above other countries their size.
Beyond their reputation for being the masters of 1980s doping, the East Germans trained hard for everything. Everyone who followed bicycle racing during the 80s knew about East German training rides. As the story goes, the coach of the team would check the wind on long-training-ride days. Once he had the wind direction, he would load the team on a train for a 150km (94-mile) train ride with the wind. Then the cyclists would ride 150km back to the training camp into the wind.
Most of the effort of a fit cyclist is pushing air. At 22mph in a calm wind, 80% of the cyclist's effort is overcoming wind resistance. Headwinds make the ride harder in proportion to wind speed. Although wind is invisible, riding in a 25mph or faster headwind feels to me like I am riding in water.
Today I came back from Philadelphia knowing the wind would be straight in my face as soon as I got off the train. I rode SEPTA from Philadelphia to Thorndale, the end of the local line, and started the 32-mile ride home. Nearly three hours later, I arrived. I averaged 12.5 mph and the 15-20 mph wind never let up.
I have already ridden to Philadelphia twice this year and will go again Saturday. The prevailing west winds make the trip fun. In previous years have covered the 72-mile distance in less than three and a half hours on a really good day. Usually it's four and a half hours, but I won't even start the ride without a tail wind. If the wind is out of the east or straight out of the north or south, I will take the train.
All week the wind was straight out of the west, so I either had to carry the bike home in a car, or train like an East German.
I chose the headwind, but I am looking for a more fun ride tomorrow when the wind will be just 6 mph, but behind me.
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
Riding in Fog: Every Sound Grabs My Ears
On the eve of my bicycle trip across Easter Europe, I was thinking about riding in fog. Of all the places I have ridden in the world, the thickest fog I ever rode through was on Mount Tamalpais, just across the bay from San Francisco in Marin County.
I was at a conference in San Francisco. Every morning for four days, I got up at 0530 and rode to the top of Mt. Tam and back. The 50-mile, 3-hour round trip from downtown to the peak began on city streets, then bayshore, then across the Golden Gate, through Sausalito and Marin, then the 11-mile climb up the mountain.
The third morning the legendary San Francisco fog was everywhere. It was thickest on the slopes of Mt. Tam. By five miles up I was starting to think I could grab the fog. Wisps of clouds clung to me. I was soaked. The air felt weirdly thick. I saw ghosts rush past as the white wisps took shape in the air. But the strangest sensation was sound. Since I could barely see two bike lengths in front of me, I heard everything. A chipmunk ran across the road. I would swear I heard his claws grip the pavement. Was that a pine cone dropping on the road? The climb is not steep so I was not breathing hard enough to wipe out other sounds. I felt water drip down my neck as the fog condensed on me. Did I hear it drip off me?
Then the sun blazed everywhere. One moment I could barely see. The next I was on an arid mountain in hot sun drying as I climbed the long grade. After the next switchback I was facing south, looking where the city should be. San Francisco disappeared under a thick, white quilt of clouds. The piers of the Golden Gate raised their red arms through the fog, as did the radio tower on Mount Bruno. Nothing else was visible.
By the time I got to the top of Mt. Tam, turned around and rode down, the fog was thinner and lower. By the time I was back in the ground-level cloud I could see 100 meters ahead, important at downhill speeds.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
Bullets, Bikes and Rotor Blades: Random Motion, Perfectly Predictable
Bullets rip from the barrel of modern rifles at more than
3000 feet per second. Tanks fire
armor-piercing shells that travel nearly twice that speed, just over a mile a
second. Rotor blades on helicopters
sweep the air at a constant speed, but a small change in the pitch (tilt) of the blades
causes the ‘copter to rise, drop, hover or hurtle through the air at more than
100 knots.
Each of these complex motions is almost perfectly
predictable moving through an utterly random medium: air. The atmosphere, from sea level to
stratosphere, is nothing but randomly moving molecules. The molecules of air are vanishingly small, so each cubic foot of air has about 30 sextillion
molecules (3 with 22 zeroes) of air in it at any moment.
Since air is mostly nitrogen and oxygen, most air molecules
are just under a millionth of a millimeter long. These tiny particles move in
random directions: up, down, left, right and everything in between at speeds
around 1000 miles per hour at room temperature and normal atmospheric
pressure.
And yet.
The collective motion of hundreds of trillions of individual
molecules is so predictable that a 95-pound artillery shell fired from a 155mm
cannon can hit within meters of a target ten miles away. A 105mm tank cannon firing a practice SABOT
round can make will punch a perfect 40mm
hole within inches of the middle of a one-meter circle a full kilometer away.
In 1976, my gunner made a smiley-face triangle with three rounds while we were zeroing
our main gun.
If random motion meant changes in wind resistance, gunners
would never be able to fire with inch-perfect accuracy.
Every week I coast down a ¾-mile-long hill. At the top of
the hill are two big wind-power generators.
A mile away from the hill I check the direction the blades are facing
and their speed. I know before I get to the hill what my speed will be at the
bottom within less than 5mph. The difference comes from how much draft I get
from other cyclists. In the distance
down that hill, my bicycle and I pass through 15 cubic feet of air for every
foot we move down the hill. So from top
to bottom the bike and I pass through 50,000 cubic feet of randomly move
molecules of air, billions of sextillions of molecules of air.
And yet.
The motion is perfectly predictable. Any single molecule of air might be racing
ahead of my bicycle at 1000mph or it might get passed by a bullet or a cannon
shell. But the collective motion of all those molecules is wind resistance. And
wind resistance is as predictable as electrical resistance in a wire fluid
resistance in a pool of water.
The world is full of randomness at every level from atoms to
stars and yet the universe is so stable that the greatest theories of science
are based on permanency across millennia of time and light years of space.
This is beauty we are immersed in every day.
If we could see air molecules move, it would look like the
tracers from a hundred monkeys firing a hundred machine guns while swinging
through trees.
Nature is often this way. A surprise. Not at all what we
expect and somewhere beyond amazing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
On Target Meditation
For several years I have been meditating daily. Briefly. Just for five or ten minutes, but regularly. I have a friend who meditates for ho...
-
Tasks, Conditions and Standards is how we learn to do everything in the Army. If you are assigned to be the machine gunner in a rifle squad...
-
On 10 November 2003 the crew of Chinook helicopter Yankee 2-6 made this landing on a cliff in Afghanistan. Artist Larry Selman i...
-
C.S. Lewis , best known for The Chronicles of Narnia served in World War I in the British Army. He was a citizen of Northern Ireland an...