First Flakes, First Time

I saw snow for the first time....

...this morning.  This season.

Yes, flurries floated down to my helmet and the roadway as I pedaled to work today.  A few flakes fluttered through the air as I arrived on campus and locked my bike to the rack. 



By the time I'd finished my first class, the snow had stopped and none of it accumulated.  Still, I have to wonder if it's a harbinger for the season:  I don't recall seeing snow this early last year.  Then again, I've seen earlier snow in other years and perhaps any sign of winter is a surprise, given how warm it was during October and the first few days of this month.

So, does seeing snow for the first time--this day, this season--mean much of anything?  Probably not, at least for me or anyone else who lives in this part of the world.  But for the guys in the photos, it's another story.

You see, they are the Rwandan National Cycling Team.  They were at a camp in Utah, training for the Tour de Gila (their first US race) in 2007 when they encountered the white stuff on the side of the road.

They were so in awe of it that they were stuffing it into their jersey pockets, not realizing that it would melt.  Some of them also put it on their heads and got a case of brain freeze.

I sort of envy them, for their cycling abilities and for their sense of wonder at seeing snow for the first time.  I wonder what could stop me in a similar way during my commute!

Working In Mysterious Ways

If you have ever read Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, you might recall this:

Miss Watson she took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. She told me to pray every day, and whatever I asked for I would get it. But it warn't so. I tried it. Once I got a fish-line, but no hooks. It warn't any good to me without hooks. I tried for the hooks three or four times, but somehow I couldn't make it work. By and by, one day, I asked Miss Watson to try for me, but she said I was a fool. She never told me why, and I couldn't make it out no way.

Now, if Twain had been writing a century and a half later, Huck might have said something like this:

The Power Of A Basket?

About fifteen years ago, I saw someone riding a classic Cinelli track machine (fully chromed!) adorned with one of those flowery plastic baskets you see on little girls' bikes.

Had I seen it a few years earlier, I would have winced.  Or, if the bike was parked and its owner wasn't anywhere in sight, I would have torn the basket off.

Instead, I smiled...knowingly.  I had finally come to the realization that whatever keeps a person riding a bike is good.  That day, I saw nothing in the basket and have no idea of whether that rider--who had maroon hair and high boots--ever carried anything in it.  But if that basket made that bike more fun--let alone made it more useful--for her to ride, it couldn't have been bad.

I also realized that baskets, racks, fenders and other accessories--as well as wider saddles, higher handlebars and stems with longer quills and shorter extensions, might well keep the bike on the road or trail and not gathering dust in a garage--or, worse, rotting in a landfill.

What got to thinking about that chrome Cinelli track bike with the basket was this:

Karl King, a partner in an Arkansas blacksmith shop, built the bike near the end of the 19th Century.  It might've been consigned to the local landfill, if not the dustbin of history, at the dawn of the automotive age had King not built that front basket on the front. 

He wasn't using it to bring home pizzas or six-packs of his favorite craft brew, however.   That basket had a seat belt in it, as its museum display sign notes.  Take a closer look and you will see pegs--footrests--"just below the gooseneck" and in front of the mini-seat on the frame's top tube, as its museum display sign notes.  

King's granddaughters, Kay Stark and Genevieve Jones, rode in those seats. Long after his death, they donated the bike to the Nevada County Depot and Museum, housed in an old railroad station in Prescott, 95 miles southwest of Little Rock.  According to a museum posting, "the old two-wheeler looks as if it carried its last rider long ago and luckily found its way into the museum just before someone consigned it to that last great bicycle resting place, the scrap metal yard."

Hmm...Did the basket have anything to do with it?