Thanks to my friend Pearl, who sent me this video: more bike art! And this one's quite gorgeous . . . The artist's idea was to create animation that could be filmed in realtime (for a dissertation project - he's studying animation.) So he turned a bike into a Phantakistoscope (I just learned that word! It's like a zoetrope, but flat.)
While it's also just plain beautiful (and I like things that make art with bicycles; it reminds me of how simple a machine, and how elegant, a bike is) it's also making my brain boggle with the design of it. Apparently you have to film this to be able to see it: the human eye just sees a blurry mess. Once you add the frame rate of the camera (25fps) the separate parts of the image resolve into the animated image. And only (as you can see) when the wheel is rotating at a particular speed.
How cool is that?
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
Boiling a frog
There I was this morning, heading along a slush-filled bike lane on the first properly snowy ride of the year, blinking snowflakes out of my eyes and cursing my steamed-up glasses, with a small fountain of slush being cast up onto my chest, neck, and face by the front wheel (I lost the fender the last time I tried to take the wheel off to put the bike in a car.) And I thought to myself, this is it, finally. Winter cycling. How did I get here again?
I ride year round. This will be my third winter doing it. And I was talking to a friend at lunch today about the mentality. Sure, when people see me and my bike in the elevator of my apartment building and say things like, "Wow, you must be very brave," I do feel a little badass. And when I wheel the bike out, put it on the street, wonder what the hell I think I'm doing, and then find myself warming up a few minutes into the ride, I feel kind of badass. Even when I'm cursing and spitting salty road grit out of my mouth, I'm also thinking, somewhere in my subconscious, that I'm a badass.
But in reality, when it's summer and I'm cruising along the bike paths with my shorts and sandals on, and I even think about winter, I feel something akin to panic. I clench up just thinking about the extra waterproof pants and the hat under the helmet and the cold fingers, wrestling with the handlebars in the snow, the narrow slippery streets, and the grit that gets into everything. I don't like the idea at all. Yet here I am, at the beginning of December, with damp gloves and slush all down my front, and I'm not really all that miserable.
The thing is, riding in the winter is like boiling a frog. No, really. When I said that to my friend at lunch, I swear she nearly dropped her spoon. But here's the idea. They say - because of course I've never tried it - that if you drop a frog into hot or boiling water, it will jump out (or, at least, it'll try... I'm trying not to evoke any really nasty mental images here.) But if you put the frog in cool water, and gradually raise the temperature, it will just swim around, not noticing, until it eventually expires (once again, trying to avoid the mental images.)
It's the same with winter riding. The first year, I just failed to set a date after which I would stop riding. Some people stop when it starts getting dark too early. Some people stop when the snow stays down. I used to stop on November first, when I'd buy my first bus pass of the winter. But once those cut-off times are gone, it's a gradual thing, like the water around the poor doomed frog.
At first, you notice when the shorts are no longer possible, and you have to remember to tuck in or clip your pant legs. And then there's the moment when you find your gloves, and get the windbreaker out. And then there's switching the windbreaker for the winter coat, and then comes the day when you have to find the winter gloves because the fall gloves are too thin. Then you see your breath, and remember to try and breathe in such a way that it doesn't fog up your glasses. And before you know it, you're looking for the hat you wear under the helmet, and stashing the waterproof pants somewhere you can easily get them out, because you're going to need them most days. And by the time you're used to all that, a little extra snow and slush just seems to be business as usual. And voila, poor boiled frog; you're cycling through the winter. All because no single change in the weather was big enough to make you hang the bike up.
I ride year round. This will be my third winter doing it. And I was talking to a friend at lunch today about the mentality. Sure, when people see me and my bike in the elevator of my apartment building and say things like, "Wow, you must be very brave," I do feel a little badass. And when I wheel the bike out, put it on the street, wonder what the hell I think I'm doing, and then find myself warming up a few minutes into the ride, I feel kind of badass. Even when I'm cursing and spitting salty road grit out of my mouth, I'm also thinking, somewhere in my subconscious, that I'm a badass.
But in reality, when it's summer and I'm cruising along the bike paths with my shorts and sandals on, and I even think about winter, I feel something akin to panic. I clench up just thinking about the extra waterproof pants and the hat under the helmet and the cold fingers, wrestling with the handlebars in the snow, the narrow slippery streets, and the grit that gets into everything. I don't like the idea at all. Yet here I am, at the beginning of December, with damp gloves and slush all down my front, and I'm not really all that miserable.
It's the same with winter riding. The first year, I just failed to set a date after which I would stop riding. Some people stop when it starts getting dark too early. Some people stop when the snow stays down. I used to stop on November first, when I'd buy my first bus pass of the winter. But once those cut-off times are gone, it's a gradual thing, like the water around the poor doomed frog.
At first, you notice when the shorts are no longer possible, and you have to remember to tuck in or clip your pant legs. And then there's the moment when you find your gloves, and get the windbreaker out. And then there's switching the windbreaker for the winter coat, and then comes the day when you have to find the winter gloves because the fall gloves are too thin. Then you see your breath, and remember to try and breathe in such a way that it doesn't fog up your glasses. And before you know it, you're looking for the hat you wear under the helmet, and stashing the waterproof pants somewhere you can easily get them out, because you're going to need them most days. And by the time you're used to all that, a little extra snow and slush just seems to be business as usual. And voila, poor boiled frog; you're cycling through the winter. All because no single change in the weather was big enough to make you hang the bike up.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The most annoying comment
I know I shouldn't read the comments. It's the cardinal rule of using the Internet, really: Don't Read The Comments. It's guaranteed to do nothing but annoy or frustrate you, or convince you that really, after all, the species probably isn't worth saving.
But I do read the comments. You probably do too. It's a sick fascination. It's like stopping to watch accidents or couples fighting in public. And then I find bits of those comments - at least, the ones on articles about cycling - circling my brain as I ride along on my bike, in lieu of snatches of music. One of them has been particularly persistent recently, and I feel I have to get this out of my system. You've probably seen something like it posted on some cycling article somewhere:
"Bikes and cars don't belong on the streets together. Physics will win every time."
Okay, I have to ask. What does that even mean? It's trotted out in the comments with odd regularity, with a sense that the author is nodding sagely as he or she types, and it makes about as much sense as "God made Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve." And its sheer meaninglessness has caused it to get stuck in my head worse than the jingliest of tunes.
It feels to me like it's dressing up a hidden sense of superiority - cars are bigger and more powerful and I drive a car therefore I'm bigger and more powerful - in the guise of concern for the cyclists. Because, apparently, Physics Will Always Win.
Well, then, folks, Physics is out to get us, and the human race is screwed. I mean, if Physics Will Always Win, then we have no right to put ourselves inside vehicles that travel in excess of 80 km/h (I'm talking within the city here) because Physics will be a bitch and a half when it catches up with us. Not to mention cars shouldn't be anywhere near large stationary objects like buildings and concrete bollards, because Physics will eat them. Not to mention - since Gravity is probably in league with Physics - we shouldn't have tall buildings with balconies, because if we were to fall off, Gravity - and Physics - would just outright kill us. And then there are airplanes. . . which are sort of like a clever human trap dreamed up over drinks one night by Physics, Gravity and Meteorology.
In fact, Physics is shaping up to be Public Enemy #1. Never mind the cyclists, we're all in the line of fire. Physics is out to exterminate the entire human race. Maybe even all life on Earth. I say we fight back. Down with Physics!
(Seriously? Physics isn't the problem when cyclists and cars share the road. People are.)
But I do read the comments. You probably do too. It's a sick fascination. It's like stopping to watch accidents or couples fighting in public. And then I find bits of those comments - at least, the ones on articles about cycling - circling my brain as I ride along on my bike, in lieu of snatches of music. One of them has been particularly persistent recently, and I feel I have to get this out of my system. You've probably seen something like it posted on some cycling article somewhere:
"Bikes and cars don't belong on the streets together. Physics will win every time."
Okay, I have to ask. What does that even mean? It's trotted out in the comments with odd regularity, with a sense that the author is nodding sagely as he or she types, and it makes about as much sense as "God made Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve." And its sheer meaninglessness has caused it to get stuck in my head worse than the jingliest of tunes.
It feels to me like it's dressing up a hidden sense of superiority - cars are bigger and more powerful and I drive a car therefore I'm bigger and more powerful - in the guise of concern for the cyclists. Because, apparently, Physics Will Always Win.
Well, then, folks, Physics is out to get us, and the human race is screwed. I mean, if Physics Will Always Win, then we have no right to put ourselves inside vehicles that travel in excess of 80 km/h (I'm talking within the city here) because Physics will be a bitch and a half when it catches up with us. Not to mention cars shouldn't be anywhere near large stationary objects like buildings and concrete bollards, because Physics will eat them. Not to mention - since Gravity is probably in league with Physics - we shouldn't have tall buildings with balconies, because if we were to fall off, Gravity - and Physics - would just outright kill us. And then there are airplanes. . . which are sort of like a clever human trap dreamed up over drinks one night by Physics, Gravity and Meteorology.
In fact, Physics is shaping up to be Public Enemy #1. Never mind the cyclists, we're all in the line of fire. Physics is out to exterminate the entire human race. Maybe even all life on Earth. I say we fight back. Down with Physics!
(Seriously? Physics isn't the problem when cyclists and cars share the road. People are.)
Monday, November 14, 2011
Space hog? Hell yeah.
I was riding down Bank Street this morning, on that long hill between Sunnyside and Riverdale. There are quite a few parked cars along that stretch, and you get up a pretty decent speed. I came through the Sunnyside intersection under the yellow light, but I'm pretty sure the pickup behind me had to have run the red. But hey, that happens all the time.
Lately, of course, I stay the hell out of the door zone, always aware of how much more dangerous it is than traffic. Especially at the speeds you can get up to on that hill. The street's two lanes wide, so I pulled out so I was riding at the far right edge of the inner lane, and zipped down the street. I noticed the truck behind me (noting that it had probably run the red light, with slight amusement.) I actually appreciated the fact that the driver wasn't crowding past me, although he could have pulled out to pass me at any point, it wasn't that busy.
It wasn't until the bottom of the hill, though, that I heard the engine rev and the truck pulled way out across the yellow line and passed me, with lots of space, which I also appreciated.
It was the annoyed honk of the horn that made me shake my head though. For a moment I felt a half-twinge, thinking, "that driver's cursing 'those damn cyclists taking up space on the road' right now." But I couldn't bring myself to feel bad about it for all that long. The truck had room and I wasn't slowing him down all that much, really. I was out of danger, and it was a lovely day. One honk didn't really do much to wreck that. I made a sort of sweeping gesture taking in the wide, quiet street and a sort of mild exasperation with the driver, and continued on my way home.
Lately, of course, I stay the hell out of the door zone, always aware of how much more dangerous it is than traffic. Especially at the speeds you can get up to on that hill. The street's two lanes wide, so I pulled out so I was riding at the far right edge of the inner lane, and zipped down the street. I noticed the truck behind me (noting that it had probably run the red light, with slight amusement.) I actually appreciated the fact that the driver wasn't crowding past me, although he could have pulled out to pass me at any point, it wasn't that busy.
It wasn't until the bottom of the hill, though, that I heard the engine rev and the truck pulled way out across the yellow line and passed me, with lots of space, which I also appreciated.
It was the annoyed honk of the horn that made me shake my head though. For a moment I felt a half-twinge, thinking, "that driver's cursing 'those damn cyclists taking up space on the road' right now." But I couldn't bring myself to feel bad about it for all that long. The truck had room and I wasn't slowing him down all that much, really. I was out of danger, and it was a lovely day. One honk didn't really do much to wreck that. I made a sort of sweeping gesture taking in the wide, quiet street and a sort of mild exasperation with the driver, and continued on my way home.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Riding in Memory
This morning was the tribute ride for Danielle Naçu, the cyclist who was killed last week when she was hit by an opening car door and thrown into traffic. I was expecting a crowd: I certainly wasn't expecting the hundreds that showed up. One policeman I spoke to afterward said he thought there were about 500 people walking or riding down Queen Street (where Danielle was killed); the folks at Spacing Ottawa think they counted more like 700 (in this video of the ride setting off from Bronson and Queen.)
I was somewhere toward the front end of the group, by virtue of having been inside at the Christ Church Cathedral hall till nearly ride time: they'd opened the hall and brought out coffee and muffins for the riders, and my friend Steve was there volunteering, so I popped in for a cup of coffee and to give him a hug.
The ride set off a bit after nine, led by Danielle's family, her brother carrying a huge bunch of yellow balloons. From the 'dozens' predicted on CBC Radio that morning, we were already up to hundreds and more joined the ride along the way. (CBC's Ottawa Morning show was playing an update about the ride every half hour from about 7:00 AM this morning, and correspondent Giacomo Panico was at the starting point by 8:00, about half an hour before I got there.)
The weather stayed lovely: about 10 degrees, with the sun trying to break through and very little wind. I was riding alongside my friend Kevin, trying to remember how to ride that slowly - I caught on after a block or so. Hundreds of bike bells ringing meant we rode along in a bubble of chiming sounds. People stopped at the side of the street in respect, or took pictures of the stream of cyclists and walkers. We wound to a halt at the ghost bike installed on the north side of Queen, where Danielle died, and Danielle's brother Brent climbed up onto the bike (which was already nearly buried in flowers) to speak to the crowd, and everyone burst into applause (and the ringing of bike bells.)
That was when I started getting choked up. He released the balloons he was holding, and we all watched them drift up and away. Then Brent thanked everyone for being there, talked about Danielle's love of the city, and said that it was the support and warmth of people in Ottawa that had been helping them get through.
Sam McGavin, who had organized the ride, was a tiny woman, who was lifted up onto Brent's shoulders so she could speak to the crowd as well. She said that she heard about Danielle's accident when her partner called her, frantic to know if she was all right, and that it was probably the same for a lot of us. "For a day, we didn't know who she was," she said, "only that one of us had died, and it could have been a friend, or a sister, or a girlfriend, or a mother, or a daughter." She called on everyone to share the road, and on the city planners to take cycling into account when they design roads, build public spaces, and plan streets, and told everyone to be cautious - "not afraid," she said, "but cautious and aware."
Looking around, I was amazed at the size of the crowd. It stretched back at least a block, probably more.
After Sam stepped down, the crowd slowly dispersed, with a number of people waiting to place flowers that they'd brought on the already buried ghost bike, and the media interviewing a few people, as well as the Naçu family. I stayed for a moment, not wanting to simply ride away, and then, of course, I did: down blocked-off Queen Street and onto Bank, where all the cars and bikes were rolling along as usual, but, I imagined, a little more somberly.
I was somewhere toward the front end of the group, by virtue of having been inside at the Christ Church Cathedral hall till nearly ride time: they'd opened the hall and brought out coffee and muffins for the riders, and my friend Steve was there volunteering, so I popped in for a cup of coffee and to give him a hug.
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| Steve manning the coffee table. |
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| Setting off. |
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| "Jordan L" (@supposedly_fun) posted this on Twitter: the ride as seen from an office block on Queen. |
That was when I started getting choked up. He released the balloons he was holding, and we all watched them drift up and away. Then Brent thanked everyone for being there, talked about Danielle's love of the city, and said that it was the support and warmth of people in Ottawa that had been helping them get through.
Sam McGavin, who had organized the ride, was a tiny woman, who was lifted up onto Brent's shoulders so she could speak to the crowd as well. She said that she heard about Danielle's accident when her partner called her, frantic to know if she was all right, and that it was probably the same for a lot of us. "For a day, we didn't know who she was," she said, "only that one of us had died, and it could have been a friend, or a sister, or a girlfriend, or a mother, or a daughter." She called on everyone to share the road, and on the city planners to take cycling into account when they design roads, build public spaces, and plan streets, and told everyone to be cautious - "not afraid," she said, "but cautious and aware."
Looking around, I was amazed at the size of the crowd. It stretched back at least a block, probably more.
After Sam stepped down, the crowd slowly dispersed, with a number of people waiting to place flowers that they'd brought on the already buried ghost bike, and the media interviewing a few people, as well as the Naçu family. I stayed for a moment, not wanting to simply ride away, and then, of course, I did: down blocked-off Queen Street and onto Bank, where all the cars and bikes were rolling along as usual, but, I imagined, a little more somberly.
 |
| (Photo: Pat McGrath, The Ottawa Citizen: The story, with photos and videos, is on the Citizen website.) |
Monday, October 17, 2011
Tribute Ride tomorrow
(Cross posted on Spacing Ottawa)
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| The ghost bike on Queen, Sat. night. |
And thanks to Spacing Ottawa, here's a gorgeous little piece by Belfast journalist Malachi O'Doherty, who I had the real pleasure of meeting a few years ago at the Writers Festival: worth watching, in memory of any cyclist killed on the roads.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Reason #462
... that drivers should give cyclists a little elbow room:
Sometimes there are surprises. Like large chunks of inexplicable concrete sitting there at the edge of the road.
This was on Main Street, in front of Saint Paul's University, where, believe it or not, a cyclist often finds herself squished that close to the curb (it's a narrow, fast street with a serious pothole problem.) I'm baffled. And glad I had space to swerve. And considering starting a catalog of the odd things I've had to swerve to avoid.
Sometimes there are surprises. Like large chunks of inexplicable concrete sitting there at the edge of the road.
This was on Main Street, in front of Saint Paul's University, where, believe it or not, a cyclist often finds herself squished that close to the curb (it's a narrow, fast street with a serious pothole problem.) I'm baffled. And glad I had space to swerve. And considering starting a catalog of the odd things I've had to swerve to avoid.
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