Careful Not to Offend the Brussels Sprouts

Photo Credit + Recipe Suggestion

From Cooky Cat . . .

When our friend David Wronski was coming up in his errant youth he attended the top rated University of Detroit High School in Michigan. It is a Jesuit institution situated in what was then a neighborhood of predominently Jewish families. As one of the ever irreverent Jesuit teachers put it, "The land of the Hebees and the Jebees." This mention is not just a clever bit to mildy shock. It turns out to be an important part of what will ultimately become — if you can hang on through it all — an excellent Brussels Sprouts recipe. And, suitable for Kosher cooks.


David spoke about his Biology classes in his senior year at his alma mater. Mr. Jim Lotze was his teacher there. As you may know the Jesuits are a teaching order. At that time Mr. Lotze was at the "Scholastic" level in his training toward the priesthood, and all Scholastics are addressed as "Mr." Well, Mr. Lotze (plain "Lotze" when we guys spoke of him) was not only an inspired and excellent teacher of science. Every day his students would show up for class and the blackboard(s) would be completely filled with amazing colored chalk drawings of what was being covered in that day's lecture.  

Mr. Lotze also taught the Chemistry class. That class was held in a room with ampitheater style seating and multiple blackboards at the front, the kind that could be raised to reveal another chalkboard surface just behind. Now Mr. Lotze took full dramatic advantage of this system of blackboards and was fond of shooting one board quickly upward to reveal the new material behind. Boys being boys, one day someone secreted an obscenity behind one of his boards and the class got quite a laugh when Mr. Lotze stood there with a satisfied grin as he revealed with his usual flourish the amazing new information. The board came down just as quickly.



Mr. Lotze also shared from the breadth of his experience with his students; sometimes far afield of the core curriculum. David remembers during one Chemistry class session being engaged in a lively discussion on the question "What is Art?"; a conversation he (claims) continues to develop to this very day.  It was during the Biology course that David was exposed to Philosophy by way of Paleontology when Mr. Lotze recommended The Phenomenon of Man by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J.  You should know at the time de Chardin's works were severely criticized by the Catholic Church, some even banned. Those Jesuits! But, in recent times both Pope John Paul II and Pope Benedict XVI have spoken favorably.

The Wikipedia entry for The Phenomenon of Man calls it, "a sweeping account of the unfolding of the cosmos". Pope Benedict "praised Teilhard's idea of the universe as a 'living host'". The idea of a scale of consciousness embedded thoughout creation in every blessed thing. Rocks, even. And a progress in evolution to a point of Oneness, de Chardin's "Omega Point". As the qoutes ascribed to Pierre Teilhard de Chardin following this will show, clearly they have stayed with our Mr. Wronski in his own development in this here God's Creation.

So what does this have to do with Brussels Sprouts? Huh, you ask?

Recently David came upon the first Brussels Sprouts of the season at a nearby Farmers Market. A traditional (usual?) recipe is to pair them with cooked chestnuts. For a big flavor boost, browned lardons of smoked cooked Polish bacon (Boczek Gotowany - Wedzony).

But, David also likes to cook vegetarian style dishes and it occurred to him that Tempeh (a fermented soybean food product, typically sold in 8 ounce packages) would be a good substitute for both the chestnuts and the bacon, texture-wise and flavor too. An idea he could share with his Kosher cooking friends.

The concern, however, owing to David's understanding of the nature of things in the cosmos— that there is consciousness in all things — was about shocking or offending those Brussels Sprouts by introducting such a non-traditional accompaniment as Tempeh.

It is a delicious alternative and here is the work-around for any fussiness from those easily offended Brussels Sprouts.

Brussels Sprouts with Tempeh . . .

(One package of tempeh is enough for four servings when used as an accompanying ingredient.)

First cut the tempeh loaf in half at the middle, then slice each half (carefully) in half again from the edge to create thinnish slabs. Fry until golden brown on both sides in butter or a vegetable oil. Important: as soon as the tempeh sheets are browned douse them with a good tamari. (What is a "good" tamari? Peruse the aisles of any well stocked Jananese food store and you will see "good" tamari. It also costs more.) Cut the finished tempeh in cubes sized to your liking and combine with steamed buttered Brussels Sprouts. Whole, halved, or chiffonade. (The chiffonade style can also be prepared uncooked into a cole slaw type salad.)

As Mrs. Wronski used to say, "None the wiser." That is the people who are used to always having the chestnuts and bacon. Even the Brussels Sprouts themselves. Not to mention the tempeh which the addition of tamari should keep it from any fussing on account of the cultural affinity.  

This little step of adding tamari to browned tempeh seems to produce a transformation which, to our palate anyway, competes with that bacon gold standard. If you have a hard time accepting this, then prepare the tempeh as above and cut into thin strips to add to a spinach and mushroom salad. Oh, Boy!

Also, the recipe above is a "basis" recipe. You can add garlic and/or browned fresh bread crumbs to bring the fancy.

Now, let's get philosophical . . .

 Quoting Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S. J.



Someday, after mastering the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness for God the energies of love, and then, for a second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire.

We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.

We are one, after all, you and I, together we suffer, together exist and forever will recreate each other.

The most satisfying thing in life is to have been able to give a large part of one's self to others.

Love alone is capable of uniting living beings in such a way as to complete and fulfill them, for it alone takes them and joins them by what is deepest in themselves.

In the final analysis, the questions of why bad things happen to good people transmutes itself into some very different questions, no longer asking why something happened, but asking how we will respond, what we intend to do now that it happened.

You are not a human being in search of a spiritual experience. You are a spiritual being immersed in a human experience.

Growing old is like being increasingly penalized for a crime you haven't committed.

The world is round so that friendship may encircle it.

Love is the affinity which links and draws together the elements of the world... Love, in fact, is the agent of universal synthesis.

Love is a sacred reserve of energy; it is like the blood of spiritual evolution.

Driven by the forces of love, the fragments of the world seek each other so that the world may come to being.

It doesn't matter if the water is cold or warm if you're going to have to wade through it anyway.

It is our duty as men and women to proceed as though the limits of our abilities do not exist.

He that will believe only what he can fully comprehend must have a long head or a very short creed.

The universe as we know it is a joint product of the observer and the observed.

Our duty, as men and women, is to proceed as if limits to our ability did not exist. We are collaborators in creation.

Source Brainy Quote

A Good Physic

When I was a lad and acting rather "cranky" my mother would state in no uncertain terms, "You need a good physic!" And, out from the bathroom cabinet came the ever present bottle of Flecher's Castoria.

I don't know how she put it together that being contrary and being constipated were related, but the dense rootey flavor of that laxative was like a punishment.

No, Ma! Listen! I'll be good!

Postscript: To this day I am a die-hard root beer fan. Hair of the dog?

She was "Peaches"

Remembering a summertime of hitting a tennis ball endlessly against the concrete handball wall at Hamtramck's Veterans Memorial Park.

It was a time when Jean Hoxie and her husband Jerry ran a tennis camp there.

Also, being trounced in a game by a 9 year old (I was 16) Peaches Bartkowicz, and her famous two-handed backhand.

In the day, Tennis Dress Code: White! Please!

Detroit Electric Car

In the the mid-1950s I often saw Mrs. Fisher casually driving her Detroit Electric along Lake Shore Drive in the Detroit, Michigan suburb of Grosse Pointe Farms. That's Mrs Fisher, as in Fisher Body, the early 20th Century coach builder and still an operating division of General Motors Company.

Obviously, even in the the 1950s such a vehicle was a rare antique. But to see a shiny jet black Detroit Electric with a proud old lady driving along with Lake Saint Claire in the background, it was quite a sight. Especially for this kid who was car crazy in that car crazy town.

Also, even then, somehow I took Mrs Fisher riding along in that electric vehicle to be representing something to all who saw her and that car. To me she was saying, think "Electric." If indeed she was, she was surely ahead of her time. A visionary, perhaps.

As to the Detroit Electric Car. Just to say that it was, well, electric. Also, aluminum body and "Chainless" Shaft Drive. Notice in the video the lever operation. The ad says it is a no-brainer (contemporary jargon) to operate. Looks complicated to me. But, hey, we have been with the steering wheel and floor pedals for a long time.

Nowadays, electric cars are back. Could lever controls be far behind?

  My Toys

How can anyone look back on their childhood and not recall their playthings? I have now arrived at a point where in searching for images of toys from my youth, the term "vintage" considerably speeds up the find.

Our child's playthings mark moments in time, and have their own sets of remembered signature experiences; each with its own exquisitely individual sensory palette of sights, smells, sounds, tastes, and touch.

It is such a gift to have a recollection of a particular cherished play thing and have that memory conjure all the associations it once had, just as fresh as at the time. Some of those associations lay in one's consciousness like buried treasure, special but long forgotten. But, once remembered, you can touch again the heart of your child. That so-called "inner child" that may have been shunted off to the side to make way for the trappings and manners of adulthood.

I'm remembering in my grade school days having a relationship to plastic. And, particularly, an olfactory one. Every so often I would get a new plastic wallet to carry around. There were several to choose from with graphics of your favorite cartoon characters or popular celebrities. They were all plastic and filled with the heavy scent of plasticizers to keep them pliable. Perfume to a kids nose. Or, the smell of the "airplane" glue used to make countless car, airplane and boat models. I don't know if the smell was all that great, or just rather pronounced and memorable. FYI, I didn't partake in that age old practice of glue sniffing, squirting a bunch of glue into a paper bag and deeply inhaling the fumes. Even then I knew it was not good for you. (Just like now with alcoholic beverages, it's more of a taste thing for me; not so much the buzz.)

Also there was something about the small, talismanic object. I had this small flexible plastic figure of a man. Sort of like this:

Could fit in the palm of a boy's hand. He was my alter ego; going everywhere to do battle, explore worlds, right wrongs. One day I lowered him down the small opening in the floor of our empty fireplace, down into the cellar space where ashes were collected. And, he slipped my line and got stranded there. With a flashlight and a string with a loop at the end I managed after some effort to recue him. Where he went since, who knows. Kids toys have a way of vanishing with time.

How could I not forget King Tut. Small, well made, self-contained, mysterious, magical.

 

Boys have noses. For pure olfactory bliss a tube of Tinker Toys is non-pareil. Still!

Since I had a brother older by nine years I got my share of hand-me downs. The heavy gauge metal pedal car styled after the Chrysler Airflow (circa 1934-1937) and the metal scooter that I would race the bus running on the street where I lived. The image below is a close as I could get. By the time the pedal car came to me the finish was a dark cherry red very similar to that on the scooter. The actual scooter was blue.

But, the best thing was the Schwinn Black Phantom. Electric front light and button horn, wide white walls, and a rear carrier. Also chromed fenders and a big-ass front springer suspension; also chromed of course.)

And, not to be forgotten, the genuine Red Ryder BB Gun. Yes, with every unit guaranteed to hear dear mom, "You're going to shoot someone's eyes with that!"

In the domain of creative/technical play there was the Erector Set, Chemistry set, and the American Bricks Set. The Erector Set was all about geometry, structure and the plain labor of screwing and bolting things together. The Chemistry Set, even then, I couldn't believe that I was let alone to play with who know what the heck was in there. Nowadays, nothing comes close to the pure havoc potential that came in that beautiful metal case.

During my childhood, metal was the usual material for toys. There was a wind-up submarine that I played with during long leisurely Saturday baths. That's right, Saturday. And, not Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. Unless there was a particularly grimy play day, bath day was Saturday. (Full disclosure: I like the image below, my actual model submarine was plastic; but it had ejecting torpedoes!)

Also the much loved metal gas filling station, with elevator to lift cars to the roof-top parking.

Perhaps the most gonzo of all my toys was the Coco-Cola fountain. It was this large plastic facsimile of an actual soda fountain fixture. You inserted a standard 8 ounce bottle of Coco-Cola and you could dispense it into small shaped plastic glasses.

The most exotic to me, at the time anyway, was the gyroscope. I got it at the venerable J. L. Hudson Company, Downtown Detroit, Michigan. The Toy Department on the 12th floor was as magical a place as any kid could want. Here is an excellent article with photos of the toy department there. Behold!

That gyroscope was made in France, all metal with bright paint trim. It also came it a paper labelled box with a miniature metal Eiffel tower and a plastic jet plane. The thing about that set was that you hooked up the gyroscope to a long metal rod at the other end of which was the jet plane. When you actuated the gyroscope you placed it onto the nail point on top of the Eiffel Tower and the airplane would circle around for as long as the top continued to spin.

Every kid should have a toy gyroscope. The tricks it can do, not the least of which is the feel of the gyroscopic effect in your hands. However, I wouldn't recommend that Eiffel Tower. The pointy top on that little model was wicked sharp, like the point on a protractor if you know what I mean.

Since my formative years we have gotten all up about child safety. And, that's a good thing.

Now don't get me going to tell you about how my dad would make an annual trek from Detroit to Toledo, just over the Michigan-Ohio border, to give us kids a chance to buy Fourth of July fireworks with our savings. A fireworks store to a young boy is as close to pornography as his innocent young mind can go. Bright paper packages with hundreds of carefully grouped firecrackers with even brighter and fantastical labels. Bottle rockets by the gross. Cherry Bombs and Hammerheads/M80s, the heavy duty standards; each one a small bit of dyn-O-mite. BLAM! For those lighter moments, Lady Fingers. And, snap caps that you threw to he ground for an explosion whenever the circumstances indicated.

And since we are on the subject of pyrotechnics and explosives, toy guns were a staple of my masculine youth. Guns of all types. (Note to parents today: If you want to look into the future, notice what your kids are playing, and playing with.)

Here is a photo of the actual type gun I had in my collection. It was bright chrome with an eleven inch barrel. The "Dirty Harry" you could call it.

The space gun, or ray gun, conjured all kinds of fantasies in my young mind. The more bells and whistles, the better. (Item shown not actual specimen from my collection.)

And, every Springtime, a new squirt gun (those things broke down easily). No super soaker type units then, just single action close range weaponry.

It would be easy for the reader to get that I am as an adult a raging full fledged member of the National Rifle Association. I still retain my ingrained since youth love of gunnery. But I eschew fire arms of all kinds. 

Little known fact: Once I did own a shotgun and it became a kind of albatross for me living in NYC with no permit for that blaster. I didn't want to sell it and have who knows what would be done with it on my karmic record, so I perpetrated some skulduggery. I broke the gun into its two sections and packed it into a shopping bag. In the middle of the harbor on the Staten Island Ferry leaving Manhattan I eased into a spot where no one could see and threw the thing overboard. True story. (I'm mentioning this for any future archaeologist who finds it and wonders how and why.)Here's the full story.



The Record Hop

Every Friday evening during my last high school years was reserved for the Notre Dame Record Hop.

Notre Dame is a Catholic prep school for young men in Harper Woods, a suburb north-east of Detroit, Michigan. I went to the University of Detroit High School on the west side, also a young men's prep school. But, Jesuit. We had the occasional "sock" hop; so-named because we had to remove our shoes to dance on the school basketball court. But, at Notre Dame it was a weekly affair, and it drew kids from all the surrounding schools. So many new girls to meet and hook up with. "Hook up" in the day meant a telephone number and perhaps a date. I fell in love every Friday night at the record hop.

The festivities at Notre Dame were presided over by the popular Father Bryson, the "Disc Jockey Priest." I remember each time at the front door paying my two dollar admission and having my hand marked with an ink stamp as proof of having paid. Father Bryson was always there as a friendly and welcoming greeter. 

I'm reminded that the signal for the end of the evening dance was Percy Faith's Theme from a Summer Place. It was also the high point of a successful evening when if you found someone you liked you shared that romantic slow dance together. Father understood the teenage heart.

I was a shy fellow. There was a girl, Meryl, from Denby High. She was a regular, always inseparably with her two beautiful friends, Edith (Ead-It) and Maureen (Big-Mo). Meryl resembled Twiggy. Exactly.

I pined for her from afar, too nervous to make an approach. Then one day she passed me by in the hall just off the dance floor and poked me in the belly. Now, that was a clear signal of interest. Up until then she was as aloof as any teenage girl could ever be. I asked her to dance. Even went out for a date. 

But, alas, as we've all been there, the fantasy and the reality sometimes don't match up. Probably for both of us.

The Peach Pit Monkey

One of the nicest memories of things I remember my father doing for me was when he arranged to get me a peach pit monkey. He knew a fellow at work that carved them as a hobby. So we patiently went through the summer peach season looking for as good and as big a peach pit as we could find. 

After making my selection, he took it a away and a few weeks later appeared my very own peach pit monkey.

The peach pit monkey seems to be a folk art staple item, hand carved from a dried peach pit. In order to hold its integrity the monkey is carved holding its tail, as shown below.

I really wish I had my actual piece to display. If you search you will find several examples online, but almost all are rather crude compared to the one I had. Mine was carved and sanded to smooth graceful lines and the head was a very proportioned shape. I kept it on a key chain and over time it developed the most beautiful burnished mahogany patina.

As an adult I came to a place where I saw that I had ventured very far from home, from my heart. In a heart swelling gesture of longing for times gone by I telephoned my parents. I said to my mother, "I want my peach pit monkey." Instinctively she heard the call of my heart. "Oh, honey," she said in the most dear and tender way. "Your father is just coming home with the groceries, I'll let him talk to you too." Tears come on retelling this. To reconnect to the love bond between a child and parents is a blessing.

Alas, the peach pit monkey disappeared from memory. Yet, the heart's treasures which things like that can only represent anyway are stored safe away always at hand.

1966 Morgan +4 Drop Head Coupe

The Morgan Motor Company celebrated its 100 year anniversary in 2009. It continues to make the same range of coach built vehicles like my 1966 +4 Drop Head Coupe. That's my photograph above, from back in the day.

Morgan has even recently brought back the original 3 wheeler to great enthusiastic reception. Also, it looks to the future with forward looking designs like the ones below. But, the breeding is still there.

The Morgan Aero 8 . . .

The 2014 SP1 (Special Project / One Off). . .

 

Some of the most cherished memories from my years growing up in Detroit, Michigan are about my relationships to my bicycles. My bike was an icon of my selfhood. On my bike I was free; powerful, moving on my own, in my own time, commanding my destiny.

In the late 1940s my older brother Arnold had a Schwinn Black Phantom. What the Red Ryder Carbine BB Gun was to guns for boys, the Schwinn Black Phantom was to bikes. A real Cadillac. Maybe even, the Duesenberg of bikes. This is what it looked like, except for the red; my brother’s was maroon. (It’s not for lack of trying, but a maroon Black Phantom picture did not turn up in my searches.)

White sidewall tires, plush wide thick leather seat with beefy chrome springs, shiny two-tone paint job, pin striping, chrome springer front shock absorber, a rear rack, electric light and a push button horn (see the button there next to the Schwinn logo on the "tank".). And, lots of chrome; the real kind with high shine and mirror like depth. One day I inherited that behemoth. Mostly I remember that it was way too big for me, and that I could barely get my leg over. But when I was up, I was way up. Just a little concerned about stopping and the getting off. Watch out for the tender bits, young man.

When it came time to get my own bike, I chose a Schwinn also. It was a nice vibrant blue with cream trim. But I was so concerned then over the issue of bruising my bits that I insisted on a “girls” model. Took more than a little stiff upper lip to get over the teasing. Talk about conflicted. But, hey, maybe the boy I was then was a little ahead of his time. If you look at the latest designs of off-road bicycles now you see many models with major cutaway designs between handlebars and seat for good standover. It’s functional.

As I approached my teen years it was time to upgrade. It was time to graduate from sidewalk to street. And I needed something with a better fit for my increasing height. There used to be a huge bike shop on the East side of Detroit; Earl's on Harper near Whittier. Bike shops have a smell all their own, just like when you go into an old timey shoe repair shop. To a young lad, it was held in the status of a perfume. I think it’s from all those rubber tires, but the smell is ingrained and even now when I smell it I am transported. It evokes feelin’ good, don’t you know. Since this shop was big, it had a big smell. I think I used to go there just for the olfactory treat.

That store had two great big show room spaces. The first when you entered from the street was for service, accessories, kids bikes and balloon tire models. Further on to the next showroom, English racers. 3-speed Raleigh’s, Rudges, Dunelts. This was the early 1950s and the 10-speed was still a rarity here in the USA. Schwinn made so-called skinny tire models, but they didn’t have the cache of the imports. Foreign was good. They were pioneered in Europe and those bikes represented serious cred. The big draw was the light weight and the gear selection.

My Raleigh Sports 3-speed was a gents. (In case you were concerned.) It was painted a metallic dark maroon with gold flecks showing through. And, it was loaded; thick leather Brooks saddle, Sturmey-Archer rear hub 3-speed transmission, trusty hand brakes, a headlight powered by a front in-hub electric generator, saddle bag, air pump. And, it was brand new! And, mine! I think my parents sprang $65 for that unit, a premium price at the time for a bicycle. But it was money well spent. I roamed Detroit many summers during school recess, exploring . . . everywhere. Belle Isle Park was a favorite destination.

My cousin Kenny got a Raleigh just like mine and we would meet up and go for rides around town together. One blissful summer day we were on our way to swim at a park in the suburbs on Lake Saint Claire. Besides bikes, fireworks were integral to our boy’s life. So, there we were, toodling along with burning punk incense sticks (mosquito chasers, we called them) tacked on to our handle bars and casually tossing lit ladyfinger fire crackers. The lady finger is 7/8” long and as thin as a knitting needle. So small, you get forty in a pack no bigger than a playing card. Just the right amount of fire power for casual pyrotechnics whilst pedaling through the tree lined streets of Grosse Pointe. Our fun was short lived. Unfortunately some do-gooder adult pulled us over and confiscated our illegal goods. It takes a village. Adults then seemed to be more authoritarian in their demeanor toward the youth. I can’t fault the fellow, but it was a conservative time in Detroit back then. (How conservative? Well take a look at the mass white exodus from the inner city not too many years later. And the results. Most of those folks are still conservatively comfortable in their suburban digs, but the blight in Detroit awaits attending. In any event, the pendulum has begun to swing and Detroit is coming back. Enough on the rag.)

After owning that Raleigh for a few years I made some “youth modifications”. To lighten and speedify, I removed the fenders and installed drop handlebars. Once in that “racer” mode I went on a 50 mile evening summer ride with a bicycle club group. It was grueling on that heavy bike; all the others were riding lightweight 10-speeds and fixed gears. I got home late and exhausted. In bed, I could feel my legs still peddling until I fell asleep. It was that ride with some serious riders and racers that got me to wanting some really serious metal.

As is my way, I researched the question thoroughly and found Gene Portuesi’s Cycle Sport Shop on the South Side of Detroit. That's him on the left. I remember him well for so many things. One notable comment he made about this young teen, "You're a noodle that hasn't been rolled yet". True. I didn't know it showed.

Mr. Portuesi then was a pioneer of finely engineered race and touring bikes and bike racing in the United States. He coached the Spartan Cycle Club and trained several champions. One I knew was Nancy Neiman, one of the first female competitive cyclists. She was several times in the mid-1950s a national women’s champion and is the first American, male or female, to have competed in a European stage race.

Mr. Portuesi hooked me up with a French Rochet Pista, a track bike. As shown. Pretty much identical to my own bike; same color scheme.

My track model had one gear that was fixed; no coasting. If you wanted to change to a higher or a lower gear you had to remove the rear wheel and flip it to the desired gear on the other side of the hub. And, no brakes. Your feet were strapped down to the pedals with cleats on the soles of your shoes that interlocked with the pedals to prevent unintentional pull outs. This arrangement is the same concept as today, except nowadays the technology is at a level that could not even have been dreamed of in the 1950s. There was a quick hand release mechanism to slacken the hold down strap so you could pull your foot free when you stopped. For stopping you resisted the forward momentum of the bike with your feet locked onto the pedal. Plus a glove with an extra leather patch to act as a brake pad when pressed against the front wheel. You get real good at defensive riding and looking ahead down the road when you pedal a fixed wheel, a “fixie”. The bike was delivered with a set of every day tubular tires, and a set of lightweight high pressure silk threads (95psi!) for racing only. I was not that into the idea of racing, but Gene Portuesi was an advocate and tried to steer me in that direction.

My parents coughed up $165 for that bike. That’s way high when you consider the average bike you bought your teen age kid was less than one-third that price. But again, I used the hell out of it. A lot of bang for the buck, for sure. I am appreciative that my hard working folks supported me with that purchase.

My Rochet was constructed with de rigueur Reynolds 531 tubing, finished in a brilliant candy apple blue with candy red trim on the head tube, down tube, seat tube. Chrome fork and chromed trailing ends of the chain and seat stays. The frame was joined with investment cast (lost wax method) lugs; very fancy art nouveau-ish.


Those at the head tube were chromed. Gold pin striping in all the curlicues around all the intricate edges of the lugs. Many of the parts were lightweight Duraluminum; the wide flange hubs, cranks, chain ring, and handlebar stem. 

The stem was also adjustable front to back. Those notches for the bolt and the V shape kept it from twisting. Well thought out design. And, the adjustment was something I was always fiddling with. Nowadays shops have very complex rigs to dial in specs to the rider ;on custom builds, anyway.

The seat was a narrow leather Brooks model. That’s all. Very simple. You may know that the fixed wheel bike is in vogue these days. It gives a very satisfying ride with instant communication between rider, bike, and road. Just that it only operates in one speed. High gear you can get a lot of speed. Low for spinning, and certainly for slogging uphill.

Speaking of a bang (of sorts), one eventful experience I want to share involves me on my Rochet and some angry truck drivers. A boy on a bike can be a cocky SOB. Think NYC bike messenger. You get to thinking that the world owes you the right of way. Well, one day I was pedaling down the road and a truck pulls out in the middle of my path and forces me to swerve sharply with very little notice. I looked back and flipped the driver the bird. Minutes later I’m going down another road when two burly fellas catch up with me and furiously tell me to pull over ‘cause they were. . . “Gonna break your legs”. Talk about road rage. The thing about a track bike is that it has a very steep front fork angle which makes it highly responsive. I made it like a bat out of there, quickly scooting around several cars in heavy traffic, and managed to out maneuver my bad karma. Whew! Really. I rode humble from then on.

So, you may ask, what about the racing. I gave it a stab, but it wasn’t for me. I just like to ride around on my bike. But I did put in some training time; laps around Belle Isle. Once a week my club, the Spartans, would meet up on a slow traffic stretch of road there and have training sprints. We had to have car spotters, and more than a few times there were some close calls with careening cyclists and cars.

The thing that you also do if you are a serious competitor is shave your legs. Here again, I got some good character building teasing from friends outside the cycle world. But the shaved legs are necessary for when you fall. Hair slows healing, and gets in the way on race day when you fall and want to get back up and race again. The treatment then if you fell and got your skin all scraped and bloody was a liberal douse of cleansing rubbing alcohol.

On the one day when I entered an amateur track race I arrived to see a horrible sight. One of my teammates had fallen and had a serious road rash. Naturally, I was nervous to be in my first race, but the sight of him screaming from the sting of the rubbing alcohol bath put, shall I say, a little damper on my drive to compete. I didn’t do well that day.

After that I kept to sport riding, which is my thing anyway.

Then some years  away from riding bikes I not so long ago got a Schwinn Heavy Duty. Nicknamed the "Newsboy" on account of that beefy model was popularly used by, you guessed it, paper boys for their routes. I swapped out for high rise type handle bars; better ergonomics for me. Narrow padded seat for more movability. Added a rear caliper brake for improved stopping.

Probably one of the heavier bicycles, at 45 pounds. Don't ask me why; maybe the vintage appeal.

And, that’s about me and my bicycles.