The 'Slideways' Dismount

In the past I've been asked to demonstrate my quirky bicycle dismount, so here it is! Over the course of riding step-through city bikes, I've gravitated toward the sideways dismount: swinging my right leg over the frame while the bike is still in motion and then jumping off the saddle to the left as I come to a stop. It'sreally more like a "slideways" dismount, because what I am doing is leaning the bike and sort of dumping myself off the saddle. I've tried to recreate it here in slow motion while testing my camera'sremote control feature (the remote is in my hand - can you tell?).



I know others who dismount their bicycles in this manner, and, like me, they find it completely natural and intuitive. But I've also been criticised for this move. A couple of people have told me that doing this to the bike repeatedly might distort the frame. Others have expressed concern that one of these times I am bound to get "tangled in the bike" while swinging my leg over. The latter does not really worry me; my body seems to have an inherent awareness of where the top tube is in relation to my foot. The frame distortion idea is intriguing, but seems far fetched: Can the sideways jump really exert sufficient force to twist these tank-like frames?

I never set off to adopt this style of dismount; it just sort of happened. As I kept raising the saddles on my city bikes higher and higher, eventually I could no longer reach the ground without leaning the bike to the side. The "slideways" move was the natural outgrowth of that: Somehow I find jumping off in this manner easier and more natural than the typical method of standing up on the pedals and then stepping down. At this point I've been doing it this way for over two years, and it would be a difficult habit to break!

Cycling in a Coastal Downpour

On the second morning of our trip I awoke to the sound of vigorous drums, which I soon realised was pelting rain. Outside, the line between sky and ocean was blurred and the patch of rocky beach we occupied was flooded. Inside, everything was damp from humidity - our clothing, the bedding, our faces. We had known that the forecast promised intermittent rain, so this was not a surprise and we didn't despair. We were not planning to cycle every day; we had loads of other things to do. We would see.



But as we drank coffee, the rain appeared to let up. Things were looking good - picturesquely stormy, but calm. It looked as if the downpour had exhausted itself in the course of the night and we decided to set off on our bikes after all, going along the coast for a manageable distance.



The ride started out fine. We made our way up a winding hill, past ominously abandoned beaches. Moody skies hung low over a dark gray ocean. The empty roads were promising. There was only a mild drizzle and we agreed that if things stayed like this, it would be even better than sunny weather - cooler, and less crowded. After cycling for a bit it grew humid and I removed my rain jacket, stashing it inside the handlebar bag. Two minutes later, the skies opened up. There was no build-up; it was as if someone opened a floodgate.



Instead of turning back we persisted, hoping the rain would eventually ease up again. But it only intensified. The amount of water was unbelievable, even compared to the many other times I've cycled in the rain. Visibility became non-existent, with everything turning gray and liquidy. The roads became flooded and soon I was cycling with my wheels partly submerged in water. Roads are terrible in this area, and even on a dry day it is a task to navigate around potholes. Now that they were invisible underwater, I could neither anticipate nor avoid them. My bike bounced violently over ditches at high speeds. This felt distinctly unsafe, especially on curvy descents. On a bike with narrow tires, the ride would have been simply impossible for me.



The coastal road was narrow and winding. As I tried to maintain a consistent line of travel, motorists sped past us, well over the posted speed limit, sending sprays of yet more water in our direction. I had my lights on and could only hope I was visible to them. My jersey - which had started out a bright crimson - was now a dark, dull brown. There are a few tricky spots on this route, where several roads merge on a twisty downhill - so that one must resist picking up speed and be prepared to brake instead. At these instances it became frighteningly apparent that my brakes did not work well under such conditions. I suspended disbelief and did my best, feathering the brakes and trying not to have a panic attack. Climbing up a flooded road while bouncing over potholes was horrifying as well.



Despite my best efforts I found this type of cycling too stressful to enjoy. I couldn't see where I was going, let alone anything resembling scenery, and frankly I had nothing to prove. This was meant to be a pleasant trip and not an endurance contest. I signaled to the Co-Habitant that I wanted to turn around, and we did - making our way back through the unrelenting downpour the same way we came. Before returning home, we took a detour and stopped at a hardware store to pick up oil for the bikes - later spending a great deal of time wiping sand and debris off of them and treating the components to prevent rust - which can form alarmingly quickly in a coastal environment. My wool cycling clothing took a day to air-dry, and my shoes are still soaking wet.



Though I know others enjoy the challenge of riding in this kind of weather, this is not an experience I care to repeat unless absolutely necessary. It is one thing to cycle in the rain, but a trip along the coast in a continuous and forceful downpour - with the roads flooded, visibility poor, and the wind assaulting my face, body and bike with sandy salt water - is not something I can justify, both in terms of safety and in terms of its detrimental effect on equipment. Hopefully there will be better weather ahead... though the forecast remains ominous!

Crater Lake Addendum

The third day at Crater lake wasn't quite as nice as the previous two days. More clouds but there was still sunshine! And lots more wind that, in some areas, was whipping up the surface of the lake.

With the back-lighting of the sunshine and the wind blowing the water, the surface mimicked ocean waves.


While in other areas of the lake, the water was calm and smooth.
A rock formation called “The Phantom Ship” which it resembles under certain lighting conditions.

One of the many little critters that roamed the overlook areas on the rim road.
The first three photos were taken on Sunday September 26, .. while the latter three were taken on Saturday September 25th.

Beartooth Highway

Yesterday I took a break from sorting and deleting photos from my hard drive and decided to follow U.S. Highway 212 from Red Lodge, Montana south into northern Wyoming. This route is also known as the Beartooth Scenic Byway or the Beartooth All-American Road, and, according to an acquaintance, Charles Kuralt put this highway on his list of the top 10 spectacular drives in America. It is also the highest elevation highway in the Northern Rockies. And, it definitely lives up to its reputation!

Looking northeast from Rock Creek Vista Point (elevation 9,190 feet) in the Custer National Forest, Montana. The highway is that ribbon of white way down in the valley.

Looking northwest from Rock Creek Vista Point. The speed limit was 25 mph along this stretch of winding switchbacks that traveled up the south side of the mountains.

The view to the north, a short distance from Rock Creek Vista.

From Rock Creek Vista, the road continued upward and into Wyoming where the peaks were viewed from across wide-open meadows.

Stopping at almost every overlook along the way, I was taken by surprise when I saw this view as the lake was not visible from the road. The wind was quite strong and several times I had to brace myself when a big gust came along.

Taken from near the summit (elevation 10,947 feet at Beartooth Pass) in Wyoming, looking towards the north. It was windy and cold, and the short walk to get this picture was quite exhilarating.

Still in Virginia – but not for long!

After determining the location of Hawksbill Church (which was named after a small river rather than the mountain peak) I headed back into Shenandoah National Park on November 3rd. Two days later (and as many very cold nights) I was at the southern terminus of Skyline Drive. The weather had been rather dreary and the color was gone from the few leaves remaining on the trees. But it was still a very pleasant drive. I didn't hike as much as I would have liked though because it was just too windy and too cold.

I wanted to get out of the mountains and back to the coast. But there were a few stops along the way and Mother Nature would have some say in the matter.

Two main stops were at the Walton's Mountain Museum in Schuyler, Virginia – hometown of Earl Hamner, Jr. and Appomattox Court House. Both sites were interesting in their own way. I was a fan of “The Waltons” from the time it first aired. The exhibits were informative and they had a lot of pictures. At Appomattox, I sat in on a chat with one of the volunteer Rangers and was reminded of bits that I had forgotten and learned a few new things as well. It was the highlight of my visit there.

For the next few days I stayed at two Virginia State Parks – Holliday Lake (near Appomattox) and Staunton River (near South Boston and about 25 miles from the North Carolina Border). On Monday (November 6th), I checked into a motel and learned that Tropical Storm Ida was due to go ashore near Mobile Bay. The wind and rain would be into the Carolinas the next day with the possiblity of 4-6” of rain. I had waited a bit too long before heading south, so I decided to go back north towards Richmond, partially to meet up with my friend TJ (who also happens to be a distant cousin) and then visit Williamsburg and Jamestown, eventually going down the coast of the Carolinas, specifically Cape Hatteras National Seashore.

But Ida changed directions and stalled out and, in the last two days, has dumped 6 inches of rain, more in some places, in southeastern Virginia! Currently (the morning of Friday the 13th) it is still windy in Richmond but the rain has pretty much stopped. Now is probably not the time to take the route I had initially planned so I'll be going back west, towards the mountains and then south, avoiding the flooded areas along the coast.

First Group Ride!

Yesterday, I went on my first group ride. Yes, there were only three of us and we're all friends. But those who were reading this blog last summer understand what an accomplishment this is for me.



Ever since I began to ride a roadbike, I've been whining about wanting to learn how to ride in a group... yet refusing to go on group rides. Yes, it was paradoxical. But you see, I wanted to learn theskillsof riding in a group, while at the same time being afraid of it - convinced that I would perish in a high speed crash, images of the most gruesome bicycle race pile-ups flashing through my mind. I toyed with the idea of joining the women's training rides offered by a local cycling team, but ultimately the entire summer passed and I did not do it - opting for solitary rides and occasional rides with the Co-Habitant instead. I had to be coaxed into joining yesterday's ride, and I did try to back out as usual... but in the end something just clicked in my head and I went. And I'm very glad. Yes, I know you told me so!



My cycling partners were the Co-Habitant on his nearly-finished Surly Cross-Check (notice the fenders!) and our neighbour Somervillain on his vintage 650B conversion.



I was on my Rivendell Sam Hillborne. How happy he was to be out amidst the cherry blossoms!



Though we were riding different bikes, the aesthetic was amusingly similar. We all had candy-coloured frames with fat tires, cantilever brakes, aluminumfenders, leather saddles, classic bar wrap, and even twined water bottles. All three of us were also wearing wool. We looked like a team of eccentric bicycle obsessionists. The plan was to go on a roughly 40 mile loop - starting on the Minuteman Trail, then going through the hilly parts of Lexington, and arriving in Concord, MA - where we would stop before returning along a similar route.



Any nervousness I had about the ride dissipated as soon as the three of us set off in city traffic on the way to the Minuteman Trail. I expected this to be stressful - keeping pace with the others while paying attention to cars and negotiating treacherous intersections - but instead it was easy. Easier than cycling in traffic alone andeasier than cycling in traffic with just the Co-Habitant.I still need to think this through in order to understand why, but possibly because three cyclists really do constitute a group in the eyes of motorists and are thus given more space. Maybe. Whatever the reason, it was great.



For the first part of our ride, we went in an unchanging single file procession - with the Co-Habitant first, Somervillain second, and me last. We cycled fairly closely behind one another, which I did not find problematic. It took me some time to get used to the rhythm with which Somervillain started from a stop, and to time my own starts the same way so that I wouldn't run into him. But otherwise, it was all very intuitive. I did not have trouble pacing myself to maintain the same speed consistently. And I also liked it that they hand-signaled every move they would make on the road. When we cycle alone, the Co-Habitant and I don't do this - which sometimes results in miscommunication.



We went along the Minuteman Trail at 14-16mph, then headed for the hills in Lexington. We've had an especially long winter and rainy spring this year, and I had not done major hills like this since last Fall. I was physically unprepared for them. I also forgot how steep and long this one particular hill was. We began climbing it, and almost immediately I was spinning in a low gear and my speed dropped to 7mph. I just couldn't do any better. It was at this point that we dispersed, so that the stronger riders would not lose momentum. Somervillain took off uphill and the Co-Habitant followed him at a slower pace, but still faster than me. I eventually made it, but the climb was such a huge shock to my system that even the downhill decent that followed made me unable to catch up with them. As soon as the distance between us decreased, came another uphill and I would lose them again. While I found this frustrating, I also appreciated having a true sense of the differences in our abilities. And I certainly preferred them going ahead to slowing down for me - that would have made me feel excruciatingly self-conscious. We cycled over a series of hills in a similar style - the distance between us decreasing on the descent, then increasing again on the ascent - until finally the elevation changes lessened and we were able to cycle in a single file again. I did not have trouble keeping up on flats and mild hills, so that was a relief. The day had been beautiful and sunny up until then, but now it started to rain, which was a relief as well. The raindrops cooled me down.



We stopped in the Concord town center to have lunch and coffee. The sun came out again by then, and the small town looked ridiculously picturesque - blue skies, green grass and cherry blossoms everywhere.



We filled up our water bottles.



And Somervillain showed us his clever iphone-charging system.



The socket is built into the light mount and derives its power from the dynamo hub. He made it himself. I don't own an iphone, but still want this on my bike!



At some point in the course of the ride, the Co-Habitant's brakes suddenly became stronger, solving his brake dilema. Looks like they just needed to wear in.



My writing skills are not strong enough to make the canti-comparison conversation that followed sound interesting, but I'll show you Somervillain's Mafac brakes.



And myTektrobrakes. After a thorough examination of my bike, wemay now have a diagnosis for my complaint about the drivetrain fussiness: bent derailleur hanger, possibly. So I will have to take care of that.



After the town center, we cycled a bit further and stopped by Walden Pond.



Even with lots of people there on a Sunday, it is still such a quiet, meditative place.



We chose a slightly less hilly route home, and the return part of our loop was more casual. We switched places in line frequently, and at times cycled in a cluster instead of a procession - all of which I was fine with. I got a sudden burst of energy on the way back and did not feel tired.



It is fair to conclude that my first group ride was a success. I enjoyed cycling in a procession at a controlled speed, and I did not have problems riding in close proximity to the others. I guess my sense of incompetence in this respect was exaggerated. The losing them on hills aspect I will have to work on, but I think it is to be expected given the differences in physical strength between us.



I looked up the schedule for the women's training rides this summer, and the first one of the season is this Tuesday - tomorrow! Before I lose my nerve, I think I need to just force myself to show up. Will make my best effort - now off to shop for a certain required accessory!

Car Talk... Recollections of a Wilted Romance

Here is a confession: I feel guilty about my car - or rather, what used to be my car.My poor car, once so beloved! I received it as a gift from my family six years ago, after I earned my doctorate and was about to start a new job in a mountainous region of Northern New England. It was the most lavish gift I have received in my life by far, either before or since, and I was filled with gratitude and disbelief. The car was beautiful and impeccably tasteful and rugged, and my excitement knew no bounds. The exterior was a lovely shade of dark gray and the interior was beige suede (I still remember the texture and smell of the seats when the car was new). The 4WD, the optional manual mode, and the myriad of safety features would keep me protected on the treacherous terrain of the place I was to live (and commute for over 20 miles to work). I named the car, and loved it as if it were a puppy. And I delighted in my long commutes - through the valleys past idyllic farm scenes and along dangerous mountain cliffs through the clouds of thick fog that would rise in the mornings.




Everybody was relieved at my reaction to the car, because I had never been an enthusiastic driver in my previous attempts at car ownership. By my early twenties I had dispensed with cars altogether, living in urban areas where they weren't necessary. Interestingly, this was viewed by many as a lack of self-sufficiency on my part: By living in cities, not practicing driving, and allowing my already questionable motoring skills to deteriorate, I was making myself dependent on urban comforts and public transportation. This new job in a rural area demanded a re-adjustment.





My romance with the new car lasted into winter... until I got into a horrifying accident involving darkness, black ice,fresh snow,a cliff and a railing - into which I crashed head-on after losing control on a turn. Miraculously, I emerged unscathed. And though the front end of the car was totaled, my insurance company came through wonderfully and soon the car was good as new. According to the policemen on the scene, that stretch of the road was so bad that night, that "there was nothing anyone could have done different, except not be out on the road". Not an option of course, when commuting home from a long workday.



I cannot say that I began to dislike or fear cars after this event; it was nothing so dramatic or definite. And I continued to drive throughout that winter and the next, in the same dangerous snow and ice, with no further mishaps. But I no longer thought of my car anthropomorphically, no longer considered it cute. It had become just a thing - a necessary thing, but a dangerous one, too, as well as a stuffy and oppressive one at times. Somehow I no longer saw the charm in the beige suede interior or the beauty of the tasteful gray exterior. It was just a car - something that made sense to use only when the necessity outweighed the danger and the feeling of stuffiness, but not otherwise. It was an excellent car, to be sure - useful especially in rural areas, and great for hauling things in its roomy interior. But just a car.





Several years after I got married, we moved to Boston. Within a week, we decided that the Co-Habitant would sell his car and mine would be shared. This was in no way driven by "ideology" on our part; it was simply absurdly inconvenient to have two cars in Boston, and since his was larger than mine, it was the one to go.




When the decision was made to share my car, I hardly suspected that I would never drive it again, but that is exactly what happened. I have not been behind the wheel of it or any other motor vehicle since sometime in 2007, over three years ago now. I have no idea why, and it was never my intention to categorically stop driving. But soon I found that I would rather walk to my destination for an hour than drive there (which was exactly what I did before I started cycling). What used to be my car now pretty much belongs to the Co-Habitant; I experience no feelings of possession when I look at it or sit in the passenger's seat while traveling together.





Will I drive again? Realistically speaking, I probably will, though I don't know when that might be. I am not "anti-car" and consider cars to be useful and necessary in many circumstances. But I cannot imagine wanting to drive just for the sake of it, or loving a car in the same way as I do my bicycles.

Big Bend :: Lost Mine Trail

Last summer, I told my brother that I was in the best physical condition that I'd been in for many years. Like maybe more than 30 years ago when I got out of the Navy! What I didn't say was that I was still in woefully poor shape. Well, if I were really physically fit I could have hiked more trails in the Chisos Mountains but I was happy with what I was able to do.

Once piece of advice: Don't take anyone's word on whether a trail is “easy” or not! Based on the advice of one of the people working in the Visitors Center, the first trail I hiked was the Lost Mine Trail. She said it was relatively easy. Let me just say that her idea of easy and mine certainly don't coincide! It was not easy. I later read a trail guide that described it as “somewhat strenuous” which to me was more accurate, but still not quite right. Let's just say it was challenging.

In shape or out, I huffed and puffed nearly all the way on the outbound stretch. The description that I read later said that the Lost Mine Trail “rises to 1100 feet over 2.4 miles” and “provides excellent views of the surrounding mountains and desert” and what that really means is that it was uphill most of the way! Oh yeah, lots of huffing and puffing! But it was a gorgeous day. Blue skies, sunshine, and warm temperatures. Not hot. Not cold. Comfortable.

Casa Grande Peak, looking back on the trail, about a quarter of the way in. This was one of the easier stretches. Thank goodness it wasn't all uphill all of the time!

From the halfway point, looking south. Views like this is what made the trek worthwhile!

And this! The view from the top! Casa Grande on the left. The “v” shaped area is called the window, for reasons I'll explain later. The Basin is the low area in the center and is where the campground was located. The white ribbon streaking through the center is the road leading to the Basin and the Lodge. The Lost Mine Trail began about where the road disappears in the center going toward the Basin.

A zoomed-in shot of the Basin and campground.

Heading down. Again, this is one of the easier sections of the trail. Lots of switchbacks. Lots of rocks. Going down took almost as long as going up. It was also harder on the legs, but much, much easier on the heart and lungs! After 4.8 miles and 3 hours I felt tired, for sure, but also exhilerated. It was my first “long” hike, and I made it back safe and sound.

Photographs taken February 21, ...

Made in Somerville: The Joys of a Locally Built Bicycle

I tried to hint at this subtly in previous posts, but judging by some recent conversations I was a toosubtle. So it is time to announce this formally: I am getting a custom bicycle from Royal H. Cycles.




[Customer's bike, detail. Image from Royal H. Cycles]



No, please relax - it is not the track bike mentioned earlier! My Royal H. will be a classic Randonneur-style mixte, inspired by the early French constructeurs: fully lugged, with twin lateral stays and a touring geometry. Even as I write it, I do not really believe it. Yes, it will be utterly glorious, and no, I cannot afford it. But I've been finding some creative ways to scrimp, save, and earn extra cash, and it's all coming together nicely (the deposit system really helps as well!). The frame will be ready in November, and then I will spend the winter fitting it with components. In the springtime, the complete bicycle shall emerge just as the crocuses come into bloom and the swallows sing their song.





However, what I really want to talk about is not the bicycle itself, but the experience of having it custom made by a local framebuilder. As far as "local" goes, you can't really get more local than this: The Royal H. studio (pictured above) is a 5-minute bike ride from my house, so my bicycle is being built in my own neighborhood. There is nothing quite like this.





I met the framebuilder Bryan Hollingsworth through Open Bicycle, after I saw a purple Royal H. bike belonging to one of their customers and was taken with its elegant styling. "Who made that?" I asked. And the rest was history. I met Bryan in person, discussed my ideas with him, and it was immediately clear that he understood exactly what I was talking about and would enjoy making it. It was an exciting, high-energy first meeting and in the end I had no doubt that this person was the right framebuilder for me. This might seem trite, but it can be very helpful for the framebuilder to get a good sense of the customer's individual style by interacting with them. And getting a sense of your individual style will enable them to use their creativity to make a truly personalised bicycle.





The proximity of Royal H. has also allowed me the unique opportunity to visit my frame at various stages of completion, watch it develop, and give Bryan feedback to any questions or new ideas that came up. I have held the different parts of my frame in my hands before it was a frame - the lugs, the tubes, the dropouts, the little braze-ons! - and I watched Bryan arrange them on his drawing-board. This was a thrilling experience, and it has deepened my sense of connectedness to this bicycle. It is definitely my frame, I was there as it evolved! Thanks to Bryan's generous narration about his process, I have also learned a bit about how bicycles are built in the meantime.





To add a few words about Bryan Hollingsworth himself: For the past three years, he has been a framebuilder for Seven Cycles, where, interestingly enough, he specialises in carbon fiber frames. Recently Bryan has branched out into a private frame building practice and started Royal H., with a focus on classic lugged steel bicycles. The art nouveau aesthetic of his work appeals to me very much, and I often find myself admiring his frames even when the bicycle is completely inappropriate for me - like the cream track bike I mentioned earlier.




[Track bike detail. Image from Royal H. Cycles]



And notice how simple everything here is: No over-the-top lugwork, no eccentric curvature, just a classic, minimalist track frame. But to me, it stands out from other track frames.





Of course my mixte will look very different from the cream track bike, but it will have a similar art nouveau aesthetic and, hopefully, the same feel of understated elegance.





My frame is a fairly complicated one, and there are many special things about it that you will not see on any other bicycle (like these custom dropouts!). Bryan has impressed me on more than one occasion with his ability to combine innovative solutions with classic looks, and I will no doubt dedicate several future posts to boring you with the technical details and pornographic close-ups of my bicycle. But not to worry, that won't be for another couple of months.




[Customer's bike, detail. Image from Royal H. Cycles]



In the meanwhile, I encourage you to get to know your local framebuilders, or to find independent framebuilders in an area of the country that has personal meaning for you. Boston, Massachusetts holds a special place in the history of bicycle manufacturing since the late 1800's, and Somerville in particular was home to several legendary builders, including Fat City Cycles and Merlin Metal Works in the 1980s and '90s. In fact, the Union Square neighborhood where Open Bicycle and Royal H. are located was the former home of these manufacturers. Today, the Boston area boasts famed artisanal framebuilders such as Peter Mooney and Mike Flanigan, the internationally renown Seven Cycles and Independent Fabrications, the innovative Geekhouse, and attention-worthy young builders including Icarus and Royal H. When the context and history of your bicycle's production are meaningful to you, owning it will feel truly special. I plan to have future posts dedicated to local framebuilders, to the framebuilding process, and to the history of bicycle manufacturing in Boston, and I hope that these will be of interest.