Old and New – Again

A follow-up to last week's post on antique bicycle posters and their related companies: The redoubtable Mrs. V. dug up some great related articles and book chapters this week. You can't beat having a bona fide librarian in the family.
First up, a delightful and engrossing account of the earliest manufacturers of bicycles in Massachusetts (and, by extension, the U.S.). Quite a bit of detail about the illustrious Albert Pope, known to all and sundry by his honorific, "Colonel." Tasty details about how and why he started the Columbia Bicycle Company, and about the roiling market for early bicycles. At one point in the late 19th century, there were over 100 separate bicycle manufacturing companies in Boston alone. I keep telling you people: Cycling was it in those days in this country. All other sports took a back seat. I don't know about you, but when I read stuff like this, I start thinking I was born too late. I particularly enjoy the fact that my adoptive state of Massachusetts was a hot-bed of cycling history. (See earlier post about Major Taylor, "The Worcester Whirlwind" and one of the first African-American sports superstars.)

As for the Northampton Cycle Company, the subject of the second print hanging on our study wall, Mrs V. exhumed a more specific article from an 1898 edition of the New York Times. It seems they were indeed real -- but perhaps short-lived. Now, this might have had something to do with a nefarious bank president from Northampton, who absconded with some of the bike company's funds one fine day. Hm... banks making off with undeserved loot... sounds awfully familiar... let's see...

A sighting of the fleeing bank officer in nearby Westfield is mentioned at the end of that short blurb. The next we hear of him, he is apprehended in Louisville, KY, "posing as a man of some means... on the lookout to invest his capital to advantage." He had $7 in his pocket. You can't make this stuff up.

In a strange way, I find it comforting to be reminded that the news themes that outrage us today -- financial turmoil, shady dealings, outsized egos jostling for worldly position -- are as old as the hills. Perhaps just as comforting, the Columbia company rolls on today, 132 years later, under the same name... and just a few towns away from where I'm living now. Everything old really is new again.

The Velophoric Year

I love this cartoon. The first time I saw it, I was standing in the service area of my former LBS (much lamented), where it was posted on the wall. (Click on the graphic to enlarge it.)

The beauty behind the humor, of course, it's that there's so much truth to it. Cycling can be much, much more unpleasant than work. And I'm not talking about the long hill-climb or final interval unpleasant; we all not-so-secretly love that pain, or we wouldn't train in this crazy sport. I'm talking about frustration... dark nights of soul... cursing the day you first rode a bike... That kind of thing.

Now, Velophoriacs don't come to this blog for sarcasm or hopelessness. I fall into the "What you put your attention on, grows" school of thought, and, being a therapist myself, I try really hard to walk the talk of staying positive. But it's also important to be real, and part of reality is that even the best parts of life have some extremely crappy moments. Sometimes, especially the best parts of life. So, given that New Year's is right around the corner, and in the spirit of making light of the darkness, I'll do a classic "Year in Review" type piece by re-capping some of my low points for the last year.

In the 15 months since I started training again (after decades away), most of my frustration has come from injury, as is well documented here on Velophoria. Maybe four or five of those months, at most, have been free of worries about or pain from recurrent knee problems. And there were far too many rides cut short, the second half of which I usually spent cursing and grinding away in pain, trying to spin and get home with as little further injury as possible. Also, lots and lots of riding hours spent soft-pedaling, wondering when I'd be able to discover my limits again. Better than not riding at all, but pretty gray winter days, nonetheless.

There were sources of frustration beyond injury, too. I haven't had the money to get the equipment that reflects the type and level of riding I do. I also don't have the money to get a proper, full-scale bike fit, which would probably alleviate the recurring injury. There have been repairs during which I have crouched sweating and cursing next to my bike, running through the directions for the fourth time and still not getting the right results. There were the six or eight weeks of barely riding while recovering from classic overtraining (written up here). I was caught in numerous thunderstorms of biblical proportions 20 miles from home (like this one, for example). The one in Acadia National Park was just miserable, though the first half of the ride was blissful.

I was pretty frustrated when I first moved out here to beautiful Western Massachusetts, because the terrain is way more hilly than eastern Mass; my average speed went way down and I felt like a much weaker rider all of a sudden. That's changed a bit since then, and I've become a stronger rider for it, but I'm still adjusting to the hills to some degree.

Finally, there's the frustration that comes from being a fan of the sport and having to constantly adjust one's head to the "new normal," all the doping, the scandals, the politics and idiotic moves from governing bodies. I took that one head-on in June, in one of my favorite posts ever.

Now, I could sit here and spin all these frustrations into positives, and it's no surprise to loyal readers that each of these challenges has produced its own excellent crop of rewards and lessons for me. I won't bore you with that here. I was just looking through old graphics files and came upon an excellent Calvin and Hobbes, and decided we could all use a laugh, before we turn the calendar over and bump up into Base 2. Happy Season!

The Mojo of the Perfect Ride

So, the ride on Sunday, the day I posted that piece about anticipating a terrific spin on a gorgeous spring morning, ended up kind of crappy.

It happens, you know? You get all pscyhed, and maybe you psych yourself out a little. By the time I got out there, I was a little tired and cranky, and my knees hurt (I'm working through a recurring injury) and I worried would they ever fully heal, and blah-blah-blah-I-ruined-my-ride. That's all there is to it.

But yesterday. Oh, yesterday.

Yesterday (Monday) was one of those rides that remind me fully why I push through agonizing injury recoveries, why I rode on rollers in a dim basement all winter, why I struggle with the crazy demands of this sport-hobby. High 70s, mixed clouds and sun -- the kind where the clouds roll away every ten minutes, and you feel like you've been given a new gift of sunshine each time. I rode a new route -- always enlivening. It took me through areas I knew somewhat, but there was that nice challenge of trying to mentally map where I was as I rode. I got a little lost, but I always knew basically where I was -- another wonderful feeling.

Best of all, the scenery. Eastern Mass has some of the loveliest little back roads in all of New England -- you just have to go looking for them. You won't see them from the big routes people use to commute, no matter how wide the shoulder and comfortable the road surface. I found a long, gently rolling street with zero traffic, no stop signs, and the most beautiful land on either side. I found a small pasture with two goats grazing. (I took a cell-phone photo for my wife. She loves goats.)

I happened upon a road I knew well, and decided to change my course spontaneously -- another reliable source of fun. I took an unplanned detour and waded in the icy waters of beautiful Walden Pond, while I snacked on my wife's home-baked bread. When I got back on the bike, my legs were like new.

I rode further than I have for weeks -- the knees were strong and fluid. By some miracle, they seemed to have healed themselves overnight, and I woke up knowing I could go a little long today.

You can't anticipate or create a perfect ride. You can't plan velophoria. You can only listen when the knees whisper, "Go!"