by Maynard Hershon
Opinion

If Your Mammas Knew...

Maynard HershonUntil yesterday, only 123 cyclists in 12 U.S. states rode fixed-gear bicycles on public streets. Track racers rode them on velodromes—banked wood or concrete ovals. A few old-school road riders used them for winter road miles in low, leg-loosening gears.

Big city bike couriers used them because they’re inherently sturdy; they may be less attractive to thieves and they afford precise speed control in traffic.

Overnight, U.S. city streets are teeming with fixed-gear bikes. Sparsely furnished, some without brakes or lights, many fixies, as they are called, sport handlebar shapes unseen and unmissed since the waning years of the 19th Century.

Fixie “riders” sport emphatically un-athletic clothing unseen since...well, just unseen.

Fixed-gear bikes lack ratcheting freewheels; they will not coast. Wanna go fast? Pedal fast. Wanna slow down? Resist the rotation of the pedals. No coasting or gear-changing, no help on the hills.

The single gear must be judiciously chosen, because it is all the gears one has. In my view, careful choices are rare. More often it’s: “Whatever’s on there, dude. It’s all good.”

Fixies are simple but not as versatile as multi-geared bikes. Not that versatility matters all that much to their “riders,” often grim-faced, aloof men and women in their twenties or thirties who stay pretty close to home.

As close to home as they are, you’d think they’d run into their moms, who would be vocal in their disapproval of the snooty, antisocial airs their kids put on. We’re talking about kids from good homes, whose moms read to them when they were little.

And their moms would be right: They’re a cliquish, insular bunch. They never return waves, smiles or nods. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen one of them smile, but I couldn’t pin down when. Not recently. Maybe I imagined it.

Evidently broke or having spent the rent money on American Spirit cigarettes and cotton cycling caps with Euro logos, fixie guys get by without inessentials like helmets, lights, brakes and razor blades.

Tamar and I see them after dark, riding without helmets or lights. Why do they do that? Why ride at night (when visibility may well be reduced) without lights? After seeing it done more than once, I got curious.

I asked a tattooed barista at our local café. “Oh, stealth,” she said: That’s the idea. Lean, elemental bikes that are almost not there—thus no lights or reflectors and often no brakes. No clutter. Clean. Minimal.

Mom would not understand. She could not care less about the uncluttered bicycle: You ride after dark with no lights! You forget to wear your helmet! You took off the brakes!

Again, mom would be right. You know, it’s no wonder fixie owners don’t say “hi” to me. I’ll bet I remind them of their parents.

Plus, my bike is cluttered with brakes and messy multiple gears. Their fixies definitely are not. I am therefore outside the pale. Untouchable. Perhaps you’re untouchable too.

Whatever the reasons, fixie “riders” do not say “hi” as traditional road cyclists used to do. Back when, roadies said “hi.” No kidding.

Whatever traditional cyclists did or didn’t do, urban fixie “riders” are not traditional cyclists, not athletes. They’d never thought about riding until yesterday morning. They were unaware of cycling in the old days, the era they honor in lock-step uniformity.

Here’s what they do: They identify certain commercially available items that seem (for mysterious reasons) to have cache—recognizable by their peers. They can’t pronounce the brand names but they pay silly money for “prestige” logos.

They show no interest in racing or in cycling history or lore, only in cool hardware. We wonder why owners of sporting machines with rich histories would ignore the back stories. Wouldn’t the owner of a green Bianchi Pista want to be able to identify Fausto Coppi or Felice Gimondi? Maybe not. Maybe he or she just liked the color.

Fixie folk can identify a Christophe toe clip and point out the differences among Campy pedal models. They know the names or numbers of all the Brooks saddles. They have never watched a Tour de France stage or opened a copy of VeloNews or Bicycling.

I suspect that much of the fixie appeal is deciding what to buy next. What can I buy? Maybe that’s what we all talk about every day. Maybe what to buy next is what makes the world go ‘round; for fixie “riders” and the rest of us.

Another key aspect of fixie allure is that they are visibly different. If they looked just like other bikes, there would still be 123 people riding them. Fixies obviously are not road, touring or commuter bikes. They’re not your father’s or your older brother’s bike.

They’re different, identifying their “riders” as different—not from one another, oh no. But from us. And from their fathers and brothers, who have derailleur bikes and would never, even at gunpoint, wear mid-calf length trousers.

My sweetie Tamar, from her vantage point of relative youth, says that today’s young people, unsatisfied by today’s uninspiring music, gadgets and transportation options, are looking backward. Old-school is the new black. Old-school stuff, not old-school folks.

Today’s young people choose the rebel styles of yesteryear, the elemental bicycles of turn of the century track cyclists. They like the look. They post photos of their bare-bones mounts on sites showcasing hundreds of mind-numbingly similar images. It’s true!

Fixie folk have zero historical perspective and don’t want any. They don’t realize that cyclists have ridden those bikes all along. Bikes they feel they invented have been a legitimate choice all along. They don’t know anyone who has been riding all along.

They don’t know how to compare one bike to another or one style of bike to other styles. Until they saw a matte-painted fixed-gear bike they didn’t want a bike. They weren’t riders. If you loaned one of them your bike, you’d have to teach him how to shift the gears.

Perhaps a few of these fixie people will turn into genuine cyclists. We’ll see. You know, I admit that I’ve owned a couple of fixed-gear bicycles, but I don’t want one now. Too hip. Too happenin’. Too clubby.

And far too demanding: Has to be tiring staying that snotty, 24/7. And just as tiring breaking so many laws on rides so brief. In a mile you become a general nuisance and fill drivers’ susceptible minds with homicidal fantasies—and you never even get warmed up.

If your mammas knew what brats they’d raised, you’d be in for a spankin’ for sure.

For more on fixies see the Christian Science Monitor: www.csmonitor.com/2008/0501/p20s01-ussc.html?page=1.

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