A Short History of Bicycles

A special mid-week post.

Every year, for a few weeks in July, I become something of an insomniac. The reason: Le Tour, live coverage in the middle of the night. Le Tour de France is a beautiful race; it is an epic of simple, pure, grueling, joyful athleticism and I am fascinated with it. There is something hypnotic about the motion of all those bicycles, the passing countryside, which then builds to the adrenaline rush sprint finishes. I love bicycles. I commute to work every day on my bike, go for weekend rides with my family, and use it, in general, to get around. In honor of Le Tour and bicycles, I give you a short history of (my) bicycles (in Australia):

Bicycle #1. When I moved to Australia, I brought with me a beautiful '69 Schwinn beach cruiser. It's candy green, has huge whitewall tires, cruiser-style handlebars, and chrome fenders. I had it shipped by sea because I could not bear to part with it. It sits now in storage – as it has only one gear and weighs about one metric tonne.

Bicycle #2. Upon retiring bike #1 I adopted the bicycle of my wife's former boyfriend, which he had long ago abandoned in her family garage. In need of a fair bit of grease and no small amount of adjusting, I managed to creak to and from work on it for some time.

Bicycle #3. A friend leaving Australia for home in England donated his mountain bike to me, pitying, I am sure, the sorry state of bike #2. I rode his mountain bike for a few months until I was hit by a car on the way to work. Diagnosis: cheaper to buy new than to fix. As a social experiment I later left the totaled bike on a Sydney street corner near my house, to see how long it would last. 20 minuets later, at my first check, it had disappeared. Back to bike #2.

Bicycle #4. Purchased on the cheap from a large department store as a replacement for bike #2, which was still squeaking and grinding and generally not working well. After only a few weeks riding #4 to and from work it was stolen. Someone cut the chain while I was sweating my ass off in the kitchen. Bastards.

Bicycle #5. Unable to face bike #2 again I immediately purchased another department store special. This little wonder kept me going for about half a year and a job change. Armed with a larger lock and a thicker chain I hoped to keep it for some time, but I managed to snap the crankshaft one night on the way home. The part was under warranty, the labor was not. Estimated bill: 150% of the purchase price.

Bicycle #6. A kind coworker sold me a replacement bike for a fraction of what he paid for it. At that point it was the nicest of the bikes I had owned – full suspension, ultralight frame, all shimano parts. It would have, no doubt lasted years had not someone with both access to the building garage and bolt cutters liberated it for themselves.

Bicycle #7. I ordered this one for an amazingly low price from an online discount clearance site. As you can imagine the amazingly low price correlated to the amazingly low quality. The wheels were flimsy – I bent one nearly in half getting nudged by a taxi – the derailleur questionable, and the bottom bracket, well, squishy is what I would call it. It was useless within a month.

Bicycle #8. Frankenbike. Frustrated with the loss of bike and money, I decided to resurrect bike #2. I stripped it down, painted, and rebuilt it using a combination of what I could salvage from the broken bikes and new parts. Lacking only a better set of handlebars, I rode the bike with some level of success for a few months.

Bicycle #9. A friend, upon hearing of Frankenbike's handlebar situation, invited me over to see if the ones he had hanging unused in his garage might work. Instead of just the handlebars, I left with the entire bike they were attached to. The old Trek 21 speed road bike was my most loyal bike. I rode it for three years. On it I had countless altercations with taxi drivers who can't be bothered looking before they enter traffic, dropped both wheels into a drainage grate (replaced them), was run off the road by a woman changing lanes and chatting on her phone, had a tire explode like a gunshot in the summer heat (replaced them), wore out the bottom bracket through constant use (replaced it), and was sideswiped by a bus (doing a fair bit of damage to me and absolutely none to the bike). I had only recently replaced the aging break pads when the bike was stolen at the end of my work night, while someone was watching it for me. Le sigh.

Bike # 10. I've got a new bike. I sleep next to it. It's safer that way.

Viva La Tour, the Greatest Race. And Viva Bicycles too, especially all of my former ones that must still be out there somewhere.

How do I bring this all around to food? Thinking about Le Tour and bikes and my morning commute, I present the only respectable breakfast a cyclist (commuter, racer, sleep-deprived fan, thief, or frenchmen) should eat:

Café et Croissant



No recipe. I've gotta ride.