Eight Saturdays 'Til Piermont

Ninth Saturday: Piermont at Last

Sun, 22 May 2011 14:27:00 -0400

To explain how life works actually (as opposed to theoretically), I often quote lines from Stephin Merritt’s song “I Think I Need a New Heart”:

Cause I always say I love you,

When I mean turn out the light

And I say “let’s run away”

When I just mean “stay the night” … .

To conclude this little bloglette, I can now report that on the Ninth (makeup ride) Saturday of the C-SIG training course, I finally reached Piermont. However, it was (technically speaking) not Piermont. It was a village called Nyack.

Apparently Nyack is one of five villages and hamlets known as The Nyacks.

What was I after in wanting to reach Piermont? On Base Level 1, I suppose I thought that I was going to reach the place that my half-friend use to ride to, away from us and into him-dom. I was going to see with my own eyes the place I was not invited to share.

When I reached Piermont last weekend, though, I felt nothing of the kind. I didn’t feel as if I had reached a destination, didn’t feel an iota of quasi-triumphant anything. No satiation whatsoever. I felt that I had arrived with my group at yet another destination on a cue sheet.

But yesterday when we rode—and there were only three of us who continued on from the official Police Station end point—into Nyack, I experienced that kind of “I’ll know it when I see it, and I see it!” feeling. To my surprise, I had arrived at what must be, for lack of better phrasing, My Piermont.

So, then: My Piermont is Nyack, a beautiful, who-would-think-this-exists-so-close-to-New York City? waystation. It’s near the Tappan Zee bridge, and it’s a pleasure to ride through.

(Generally speaking, riding up beautiful hills is much easier for me than riding up ugly ones. [This does not mean I could make it up and over the Corsican hills.] Waterfalls and trees are better forms of encouragement than unsightly suburban houses. Likewise, beautiful homes and gardens—cliché though it may be—speak to the striving cyclist in a way that paltry ones do not.)

One brick house was set high on a cliffy hill, and was like something out of the Arts & Crafts movement. Another house had a waterfall coming down its front steps. There was plenty of stone and brick and thickset trees.

The biggest compliment I can pay Nyack is to say that I saw a house on the water side, with a deep-red picket fence and a brightly painted house, where I could imagine playing house.

I didn’t know that I was after My Piermont, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? My half-friend can have his Piermont. I now have mine.

P.S. I forgot to talk about the mounting of the second water bottle. I bought a super-ecological one at Enoch’s bike shop after a rehearsal of the choral music group I work for. Attached it with Elite ties I’d sent away for. Two bottles of coconut water (with pulp) are much better than one, and same goes for the refilling at the tap for the ride home.

Eighth Saturday

Sun, 22 May 2011 14:03:00 -0400

Going to Piermont was a little like going to any other place, except that it was far prettier than all the previous destinations. We rode along 9W, up hills that were (to me) more palatable than the dreadful Churchill and the semi-dreadful Walnut.

It felt like a bit of an achievement, but not so much. I was glad we arrived.

There was a group photo at the Gazebo; I missed it. I think I was in the bike shop.

The NYCC treated us to ice cream cones. I had a variation on the creamsicle, this one called Orange Blossom.

It was an easy ride home.

I think it’s nicest when there are small rolling hills.

Seventh Saturday

Sat, 07 May 2011 23:33:00 -0400

Another missed Saturday. An injury.

To make up for the disappointment, I went to Sotheby’s to view the contemporary art exhibit that was going up for auction this evening. The exhibit seemed lifted from the Abstract Expressionism one MoMA just dismantled. Bourgeois, Calder, Frankenthaler, Fred Samback, Sam Francis, and a sculpture of a woman c. 1972, by an artist whose name I can’t remember. I took a phone photo of the Francis.

So next Saturday is Piermont.

There’s now a make-up ride the following Saturday, which seems fitting. Clearly there is life after Piermont.

Sixth Saturday

Sun, 01 May 2011 11:55:00 -0400

This was the missed Saturday. I was at a baby shower where I had the opportunity to do an elephant on the tummy of a nine-month old boy.

On my way to the subway, I passed a lot of snazzily outfitted bikers and felt a little wistful.

I missed a ride to a place near Tappan called Pascack Park. For a while, it looked as though everybody was going to Piermont—but no! Piermont is going to be the graduation ride.

Apparently everybody got up Churchill, which is quite a feat. Now that I have the gluteus maximus connection in mind when it comes to hills, the dread factor has decreased significantly. Centerboard strength is a good thing.

Fifth Saturday Turned Sunday

Sun, 01 May 2011 11:43:22 -0400

I’m finding this blog to be boring. Unlike my spirally Y Blog, it’s quite linear—it’s too linear. Today we did this, then we did this, then this. There is a way to write about this in a squiggly way but I’m not captivated enough to do do.

The highpoints of the Sunday ride, for me, were:

1) Biking all the way up Walnut (no walking), a somewhat long hill climb for a beginner, thanks to the guidance of the group leader

2) Being told by the group leader that some people like biking up hills for the gluteus maximus workout (which brought to mind my half-friend, a man who had spoken of biking’s capacity for developing in women a “pear-shaped ass” )

3) The whole wheat pancakes at the (once again) Closter Diner—the perfect sheen on them

4) Beginning to have a kind of broken-in-club chair familiarity with my clips

What I’m finding out, really, is that the success of the day depends in large part on the preparation for the day. This means more than checking the tires. It means getting (having?) the clothes, accessories, foodstuffs. Beyond this, the day depends on the weather.

After the ride, what I knew for certain (especially after buying a bottle of Poland Spring at a West Side bike shop—I was trying to find new gloves—and adding in chemical “recovery” powder was that I need two water bottles. I have been trying to clear the mold from the Camel Bak water pouch tube; not working. Bleach and lemon juice and many squeeze throughs: not working. Until I figure out that problem, I need another bottle.

I sent away for Elite cage ties, the same ones I found at the Giant shop in Shanghai last summer. Ordered them online from a bike shop called Lickton’s. Wish I had another Giant cage. I don’t think it’s easy to find in New York, and I see no good reason to go on a quest. I saw a silver cage with little red gripping lozenges I like…maybe that will be cage number two.

It’s easy to see how biking can become an expensive habit.

Fifth Saturday

Sat, 23 Apr 2011 07:28:00 -0400

It’s raining.

We’re to ride tomorrow. Because tomorrow is Easter Sunday, and because the weather calls for rain again, it’s unlikely it will be much of a group ride. We shall see.

I have to miss Sixth Saturday for a friend’s party, so if there’s no ride tomorrow, I’ll have sustained a bicycling hiatus, which won’t feel good. Practicing rpm on a recumbent bike with a video course just isn’t the same.

Fourth Saturday

Thu, 21 Apr 2011 22:57:50 -0400

It was so windy, I almost blew over, before we reached the bus terminal. Because of this, I opted not to go over (and possibly off) the bridge and continue to Northvale.

So I turned back with three others, and we used the 2011 NYC Cycling Map to navigate our way back to the Park. Unfortunately, the city does not publish a map that also indicates road conditions. An unprotected lane is one thing; an unprotected lane full of rips, seams, and holes is another.

This Saturday, weather permitting, we’ll ride to Piermont. It’s here so soon. I wasn’t ready for it to be here already.

I’ve been practicing on a recumbent bike keeping my rpm in the 80s. It’s a little strange. My computer does not, it seems, display rpm, only mph.

Tonight at Fairway, I found a rival coconut water with pulp, and on Saturday will do a taste test. Also bought some Streit’s macaroons in a canister; no comparison to the superior Whole Foods macaroons (and of course neither compare to Glaser’s macaroons).

Our excellent ride leader has become injured and so we’ll have a mystery leader this Saturday. Major bummer.

Third Saturday: The Switch

Tue, 12 Apr 2011 11:15:00 -0400

I showed up in the Boathouse parking lot on Saturday morning to ride with Group 2. What prompted the switch was a feeling that Group 3 was more athletic- and racing-minded than I, with my Victrola-esque touring mentality.

Before taking off at 9:30 (somewhat late, due to mechanical issues), the leader announced that a member riding the previous weekend had, oh, gone to the hospital in an ambulance after hitting that pothole, and would be recovering until mid-summer or so. Maybe it was his broken spoke, or maybe it was something else.

This was not what I wanted to hear before heading out, especially two days after attending the first aid seminar on the Thursday evening. Indeed, after that presentation, I was not even looking forward to the ride. (If one has children, is one more frightened of getting hurt, less frightened, or simply determined to remain intact no matter what?) Dr. Fishkin showed X-rays of an arm bone that had gone through a shoulder bone, a fractured rib, spiral fractures (from being stuck in the clips), and a cavity filled with blood. He also described how when a raw egg in an egg cup falls head-first, the egg cup (helmet) stops upon impact, but the egg (one’s head) smashes all the way to the rim of the egg cup.

What we learned, mostly, was how to perform group first aid (who directs traffic, who makes a phone call, who stabilizes the rider’s head). We were also told that appearances can be deceiving when a fallen rider rises from the ground and declares everything to be fine. Such seemingly instant recovery doesn’t mean that a serious injury hasn’t been sustained.

I began taking notes in earnest when we arrived at the subject of heat exhaustion and heat stroke because humidity has never been a good friend. I also learned a few things about tending to road rash.

Our ride to Closter saw no troubling excitement, and our leader demonstrated her avid interest in safe cycling. She cued us at various intervals to drink water. She blocked traffic for our line to turn onto a busy road. She rode up and down the line periodically.

In a couple of weeks, we’re boarding Metro North and going up to Westchester, where it might be prettier. I hope so. There was one flowering tree and a spray of yellow.

The biggest difference on this ride, aside from enjoying a high level of leadership and group communication, was my food intake. Being passenger, driver, and fuel tank has its responsibilities.

At Fairway, I had found tall cans of Thai coconut water with coconut pieces. Better than the Vico waters—more flavor. So that was my water on the way to New Jersey.

My food baggies contained apple slices, peanuts, dried cherries, and plain macaroons. By lunchtime, I’d eaten almost everything. At the Closter Diner (good iced tea), I ate a turkey burger but wished I’d ordered two orders of hash browns. Still, in spite of what people say about protein, everything was fine on the way back. If one were following a traditional Japanese diet, I wonder what would the biking fare would look like.

The precision high of the trip came at lunch, when the former coach who is riding with our group gave us the formula for knowing one’s proper bike frame: inseam measurement x .67, when legs are six inches apart.

All told, we rode 22 miles from the Boathouse to the diner and 16 on the return to the Boathouse. A splinter group of us took the Greenway back down—much nicer than the streets. Our average on the flats was 12.5 to 13 m.p.h., fast enough for me.

Second Saturday

Mon, 04 Apr 2011 00:06:00 -0400

When I biked to Montreal that high school summer long ago, we passed so many pretty sights, so many pretty fields and towns. If a landscape is going to be ugly (think of a German Expressionist poster you don’t like), it’s best if it’s interesting. Ugly beautiful is acceptable. What if it’s just plain ugly, or two parts ugly and one part mediocre?

My group rode 35 miles, and between paying attention to the bike clips, traveling unfamiliar terrain, and trying to keep in a tight enough line while biking into the wind, it took more concentration than simply circling Central Park.

There were three main points of interest:

1.) Magnolia Avenue

2.) Crêpes

3.) Churchill Road

Magnolia Avenue was the first streetscape since Morningside Drive to give me the feeling that I was on a bike ride, out of the city and somewhere pretty. It appeared slowly, not like the jagged tear in a Clyfford Still painting. We had been riding in air that was clear, cold, and marred by red brick houses with reflective windows that looked out upon small lawns. Tenafly seemed a ghost town of sorts, though one could sense upholstery life somewhere beyond the ramparts. Then came Magnolia Avenue, with a house that in passing seemed Victorian Gothic or Eastlake. It’s easier to breathe (we rode 14 m.p.h. on the flats and 10 m.p.h. on average) when traveling a pretty street on foot or bicycle.

We broke for lunch two and a half hours from the city at (as predicted) Café L’Amour. I had what turned out to be a perfect cycling lunch for a chilly day: beef stew (served in a variation on the traditional onion soup pot—one person asked if it was French onion soup I was eating) followed by a crêpe with butter and sugar. The place had decent enough batter. (The best batter I ever had was made by a Reuters reporter, many years ago.)

Churchill Road. Churchill Road was so difficult to cycle up—was it the hill, or can I attribute my failed ascent to a 12 speed bicycle which couldn’t downshift to a low enough gear?—it should be called Chirchill Road, since not all of us made it up without dismounting. I made it about a quarter of the way (our leader said it was about a half-mile long), dismounted, walked, and then rode for the last sixteenth or so—for the final rise. Our leader had forewarned us, saying that cyclists who had biked the Rockies would frown at the thought of going up Churchill. So we should do whatever we do, and do it however we do it.

It was quite a hill. It made Heartbreak Hill look seem like a bunny slope hill. Our leader told us that we would have maybe one other like it in the weeks ahead.

After some NYCC cycling exercises in a school parking lot about a mile from the bridge (this included my falling, courtesy of my clips—far less exciting than my close call in traffic at a stoplight back in Washington Heights), some A-SIG riders passed on our left (the Colnago with the Gazzetta among them) as we rode into the parking lot of a popular bike shop called Strictly Bicycles.

There I discovered a stroopwafel mortared with honey. This was a cousin of the organic honey “energy chews” (whose stained glass coloring relies less, I wager, on petroleum than on black carrot juice concentrate and annatto) I’d been chewing on at breaks.

By the time I arrived home, at 4:45 p.m., and began to stretch, I could have eaten two bowls of fettuccine Alfredo and a small mastodon. Instead, I commenced with a creamy herb cheese and crackers and sherry and water, and then moved on to pasta with lamb sausage and a hummus and a little crudité plate. Eventually came milk and butter cookies. Next week I will know to have food prepared ahead of time—perhaps a large potato casserole with ham, mushrooms, and cheese.

One thing is clear: I’m going to be eating a lot more food.

Cold Enough

Sat, 02 Apr 2011 07:56:41 -0400

Temperatures are supposed to reach the low 50s° s by 3 p.m.; for now, it’s 39° with a wind chill factor of 31°.

I actually bought warming cream, which racing athletes use. It does not compare well with the Green Oil products.

Oatmeal with banana and honey, and coffee.

Peru, or Cresskill?

Fri, 01 Apr 2011 21:32:00 -0400

Tomorrow we’re riding to Cresskill, and my guess is that we’ll stop at a café called café L’Amour, just off Piermont Road.

I may be wrong.

Meanwhile, I feel I have piled up enough bike things to justify a trip to Peru. I even bought coconut water with pulp. Everything either wicks, blocks the wind, or provides nourishment.

Will I tire of carrying the little water pack on my back? We’ll just see how it all works out.

I’ll check the wind index in the morning.

Tonight I’ll go to bed and try to forget that Walt Mossberg did not call on me during the audience question period of his interview with the affable Howard Stringer. Mr. Mossberg did, however, call on several men, one after the other.

The question I wanted to ask: “Mr. Stringer, you said earlier that Sony will be producing billions of television sets next year. As more and more people consider the entire life cycle of a product, I’m wondering to what extent you believe that ecological concerns should have a place at the table alongside technological innovation.” Or something like that.

The last question was about what Mr. Stringer thought would happen to Japan given its ageing population and low birthrate. What, the man wanted to know, did Mr. Stringer foresee, for example, in terms of immigration policy?

Mr. Stringer, who in some ways seemed like the businessman’s counterpart to Oliver Sacks, replied, “That’s a real question.” The audience knew as much, and shifted to a Level 3 silence. Mr. Stringer responded fully and thoughtfully (without sweeping pronouncements) to the question, paying tribute to Japan’s insularity and high living standards while hoping aloud for increased public debate on the topic of the ongoing vitality of its population.

Waiting for Saturday

Wed, 30 Mar 2011 22:57:24 -0400

I bought the lobster gloves, three kinds of munchie bar, a pair of thinner wool socks than my current pair (in case the tightness is restricting circulation), and am considering cutting off a pair of jeans to make windbreaker over-pants.

I’ve also signed up for a first aid workshop with a doctor who volunteers his time for this every year, with the A-SIG group. More on that after it takes place.

Cleanliness, Hold the Palm Oil

Mon, 28 Mar 2011 10:35:00 -0400

Yesterday at the Met I viewed a mosaic floor. It was originally laid in the ancient colony or city (I can’t quite tell which) of Lydda, around 300 A.D. As with so many material objects and art works, I wondered how people of the day cleaned the floor. Certainly they cleaned with water, but what did they use for soap?

The mosaic has nothing to do with biking except this: our Saturday bike maintenance lecturer mentioned a few cleaning and lubrication products. Yesterday I searched around for something that I could live with and came up with nothing. I was prepared to live with nothing.

But just now, via Lunar Cycles’ website, I found what I needed: cleaning products that don’t use palm oil, among other ingredients. From there, it was a click and a jump to Cycle Force Group. Originally located in Yaphank, on the North Fork of Long Island, the shop is now based in Ames, Iowa. It is the only United States distributor of Green Oil UK products. I ordered the Clean Chain and Green Oil over the phone. Though I haven’t used them yet, I’m hopeful.

First Sunday after First Saturday

Sun, 27 Mar 2011 21:33:00 -0400

The gear-head trip begins.

Do I have enough … everything?

Should I buy a second water cage (they’re dirt cheap, though Arundel has a new one that is called “a design perfectionist’s dream”), or use the water backpack my half-friend left to me? What about another “base layer” to go underneath my supposedly thermal cycling tights? Should I buy cleaning products, or take the bike in to the shop each week (assuming the bike chain is dirty enough)? The gloves I used were worthless; should I buy the lobster claw ones I originally considered?

The thought of the March winds blowing through the wires of the George Washington Bridge is not a comforting one. Right now in Central Park, says the National Weather Service, a Northwest wind is blowing at 14 mph and gusting to 21 mph. So what it’s like on the bridge?

Meanwhile:

My half-friend had a heart monitor. I don’t think I need one of those. He was very attached to it. Because he had some love life difficulties, his heart-monitor attachment struck me as rather poignant, symbolically speaking.

He was also very attached to a plastic “sports watch,” which he wore even when he was not biking. Possibly he wore it the way people who want to go horseback riding show up at New York City parties wearing jodphurs. I’m not buying a sports watch, either.

I might want to track mileage, though, so there’s a little bike computer to consider.

There’s so much bike stuff out there, it’s mind-boggling. Looking at that Colnago yesterday—did I mention its brass bell, à la old-fashioned doorbell, clamped to the side of the handlebar stem?—was so relaxing, from a consumer standpoint. Simple beauty announces itself, no matter what. I bet that bike could vie with the nicest bespoke out of London.

First Saturday

Sat, 26 Mar 2011 15:10:00 -0400

At 8 a.m., the temperature for pedestrians was 29° and felt like 19°. It was also sunny and beautiful, especially for someone sitting by a wood stove.

A hundred and fifty or so C-SIG members began to gather at 8:30 in the seemingly unheated cafeteria of a public school on the Upper West Side. Over the next three and a half hours—people would be walking around fully balaclava-ed and gloved, some with hands in armpits—the indoor climate brought on sneezes and chills.

A series of NYCC leaders gave short presentations about proper clothing, post-ride nutrition and stretching, how to use verbal signals while riding in a line, the basics of switching gears, the basics of bike maintenance, and why the chains are on the right side (because people used to mount horses from the left).

A leader named Gary said he prefers a versatile pump such as as Topeak’s (with the gauge) because it’s easier on the elbow and on the environment (compared to throwaway carbon cartridges).

For lunch we ate pizza and drank water, and some had homemade granola bars. Despite the presence of water fountains in the school, the NYCC handed out bottles of Poland Spring. Hmmm. Not even coconut water, which had been served at their recent dinner. I also wondered where the apples were. It seemed to me that there should have been apples.

The room was of course a showcase for the 21^st century bicycle. Mine was one of a handful of bikes with gears on the downtubes. A man named Michael, who delivered a spry little lecture about bike trivia through the ages, had a knockout of a bike, a 1977 Colnago. The lozenge on the end of each handlebar displayed what might be known as the Colnago striped colorburst, and buckled to the saddle with a light-colored suede toe strap was a naked tubeless tire swathed in a few pieces of La Gazzetta dello Sport. Michael told me he had replaced the original gears and now had an 18-gear bicycle.

After opting out of the very short noon ride in very cold weather, I took a couple of half-turns around the Park, practicing cadence awareness (new biking word: cadence) and clipping skills, and made it home before my fingers went completely numb, when it was 35° and felt like 29°.

P.S. My group leader had no idea what I was talking about when I told him about the six o’clock and noon feet problem. He did say that I have to ride with either both feet in or both feet out. I should not ride with one foot clipped in. What can I say? The beginner’s mind might try anything.

Anticipation

Fri, 25 Mar 2011 16:56:22 -0400

It’s the Friday afternoon before the Saturday morning. I’ve had air put in the tires and sleeved my handlebars in black neoprene “mitts” the shape of cornucopia baskets. The mitts are the smoother, Veblenesque variation on the windbreaking I Love New York plastic bag “sleeves.” Still need a pair of gloves.

The hologram memory of my half-friend is in the background of the background.

I don’t recall the last time I was looking so forward to waking up early and eating a bowl of oatmeal.

On Falling

Sun, 20 Mar 2011 01:00:05 -0400

Tonight I talked with a fellow biker who’s been biking in clipless pedals for years. He’s fallen twice. He said that when he started on the second descent, he decided to fall differently. To avoid hitting his shoulder, he stuck out his elbows (not straight out) and knees (ditto) and rounded his back, and rolled when he hit the ground.

Clips and the Six o' Clock Foot

Fri, 18 Mar 2011 23:25:00 -0400

I was padding around the shop in winter socks, waiting for Imbert to finish attaching the new pedals. He brought the bike over with my new shoes attached. They looked like plump black fish fins.

A customer called Al offered to hold the bike steady as I tried slipping in and out of the new pedals. Al was wearing a lot of bike clothing.

Another customer hesitated near the front door, watching as I flippered with the pedals. One side is for bike shoes and one side is for street shoes. The man demonstrated a leg movement, saying how I should clip out from my hip, not from my knee. I clipped out, from somewhere between my hip and knee. The man remained to observe me clipping in. “Put your weight on it,” he said. “Don’t look down.”

He was right; I just needed a little more push to fully engage. Turns out he’s a bike coach.

Al added that it doesn’t help to think about my hip or my knee. ”It’s instinctual,” he said. Click in, pull out, and don’t look down. “Nice ‘n’ easy,” he said. “And if you take a little fall, so you do.”

“Fall?” I said. “Fall?” I didn’t believe I was actually going to fall. I suppose it’s helpful to warn people what they might be in for. Al seemed like an experienced biker who knew what he was talking about.

Imbert advised me to stay out of the clips while I was in the streets. This worked out just fine until I left the Park at 90th Street and forgot I was attached.

Between Madison and Park, two construction men watched the reality short “Woman and Bike, Tipping.” I squawked as it was happening. I was actually falling—like a tree—and then: I clipped out. From my knee.

“It’s my first time on new pedals,” I mentioned.

Always good to catch oneself before hitting ground.

At the next light I observed my movements to determine what had gone wrong. It was this: I had been told to unclip and then hold ground with the 6 o’clock foot; but I have always put down the noon foot, usually at some point between noon and 3. It feels strange to put down the six o’clock foot. The six o’clock foot is where my center of gravity is.

Later on I replaced the screws Imbert had used with the screws I’d forgotten had come with my Italian-Romanian shoes.

Grouped

Fri, 18 Mar 2011 22:27:00 -0400

I received my official C-Sig (note the lowercasing) e-welcome this morning. One of the ride leaders informed me that during the self-classification ride, my actual speed ranged from 12.8 to 13.9 mph, which not only translates to a cruising speed of 14 to 15 mph but also suggests that I might consider strapping a 1904 gramophone onto the back rack.

Piermont is about 40 miles roundtrip from West 72nd Street.

The Shoes

Tue, 15 Mar 2011 13:46:00 -0400

How important are stiff-soled biking shoes? Soon I will know.

So far, I know that the technical cycling clothes I’ve purchased, with their thermal this and wicking that and windbreaking magic fibers, have been well worth it. My new bike seat: also well worth it. So maybe the shoes (and clipless pedals) will make a difference.

There is nothing particularly occasional about buying bicycle shoes. After online information searches (would somebody please tell me what’s fun about buying untried-on clothing online?) and trying on various shoes, a downtown shop narrowed things down for me. My feet would be sheathed either in American shoes made in China or Italian ones made in Romania.

(The entertaining part of the shop visit was taking a couple of turns on a lightweight little Pashley.)

I wondered if buying nice bike shoes would tip me into the D space of the Venn diagram, where Need, Desire and Taste overlap in the area called Silly Pretension Factor. I thought of some skiiers I once saw in Telluride, their togs trumpeting their presence. Was this like buying a pair of racing boots, a pair of fantabulous skis, and a white hot (hot white?) Bogner jumpsuit to prepare for tackling the bunny slopes at Windham?

I put this sort of question to the third salesperson who helped me at the shop (visit No. 4). He steered me away from name brand consciousness toward the simple consideration of overall foot health. I think he actually spoke of the health of one’s feet. A persuasive salesman. At a time when vast numbers of men and women wear flip-flops on New York City sidewalks, I appreciate a bike man who speaks of foot health.

The cost of the shoes means that this investment changes everything. I don’t know that they’ll give me as much pleasure as a subscription to the Philharmonic would. We shall see.

It is true that my feet wore them all night and felt good. If they don’t work out on the bicycle, maybe I’ll test-walk them on the hard marble floor of my kitchen.