Illuminated Ride

Predawn hours. It’s black as night.

Oh. Maybe that’s because it is still night.

Country lanes are devoid of illumination, save for the thin sliver of a crescent moon and the distant twinkle of yard lights. The headlight on my bicycle has an adequate charge and the lane before me reveals bumps and sticks and stones in a narrowly channeled beam.

There are no other headlights. None from cars – mercifully, none from trucks either, not even as I roll through town on my way into the rural hills of Clay County.

The absolute quiet of night is a fallacy. A complete fabrication. In fact, on this early and wondrous September morning, the air is filled with sound: billions of crickets and other insects are playing a tune, singing their song. A light breeze buffets my helmet.

To the east a faint, rosy glow emerges along the horizon; night wanes and the dawn approaches.

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Misty Light


Let’s be clear about something right off the bat: Given the thick and cloudy moisture in the air, my iPhone camera picked up one heck of a lot more visibility than was apparent to me on this morning’s ride. Perhaps it has a particularly sensitive method of capture, but more likely it’s because I was almost constantly wiping the watery mist from the lenses of my glasses.

Considering that this was one of the final days in June, a time we normally experience as hot weather on the cusp of transforming into really hot weather, this morning was unusually foggy, damp, clammy, and chilly. In fact, at 49 degrees and the air at nearly 100% moisture, my fingers were actually cold. The loose, long sleeve jersey I was wearing had a hard line of water droplets on the front of my arms where I had sliced through the atmosphere as I descended the first hill.

The unusual weather also created an oddly ethereal light. It was as if I was viewing the world through the translucent surface of a plastic milk container. Everything was mysterious and extremely quiet, the normal sounds even of passing cars on the nearby highway dampened almost into nonexistence.

Idle hands

Brief, beautiful side light in the studio…

…and then it was overcast again. I’ve been hard at it for the past nine hours, engrossed in writing. From time to time I noticed that despite the heat churning out of the small furnace I have out here, my feet seem to be bone chillingly cold. The day is a murky gray for nearly the entire time, and my eyes are suddenly growing weary just as I am almost ready to wrap up. Then suddenly I hear a bird singing and the day turns bright and looks quite cheerful through the glass – this, despite the December cold I know is on the other side. From my perch at the drawing table, I look up and notice the sun has bathed the tubes on my bikes with a beautifully diffused light. Time to knock off work for the day.

Knocking off work, but not  elbow grease. A quick sandwich of leftover turkey and a bit of muscle applying and rubbing out Mother’s, this nice long point GB Hiduminium stem is nearly ready to be used on my Hobbs. I’m going to pull the bolts on Christmas afternoon to tidy up any grunge under them, then polish the bolt head best I can while they are out.

This next week holds the promise of riding weather and there’s no school, of course, due to the holiday break. I plan to get a bit of riding in to make up for the past couple weeks of below zero temperatures and boring revolutions mounted to the indoor trainer. The GB Hiduminium stem should be a nice pairing on the Hobss. I look forward to installing that, along with the Williams 1200 crankset I picked up recently; I trust they will occupy a pleasant few hours of my time one morning this coming week.

It’s winter and time to do a little reorganizing as bikes gather in the studio. It seems that access to the south entrance is a little difficult to negotiate at the moment. The 2016 frame purge continues and these are the bikes I plan to keep. A couple more have been set aside – the last three, in fact – to be photographed and put up on the auction block. As the hooks go vacant, I try not to get too excited about the frame that will be coming my way in February. (More about that when the time comes.)

I find myself overly rich in components and wheels. Shall I auction some of those off as well? Or hang on to them on the off chance some worthy frame comes my way? It’s a tough call. Generally, soon after I pass along a particularly choice part that I “will never have a use for,” I find myself in great need of that very thing.

In my sedentary state I find myself pondering many things that aren’t top of mind during my more active riding months. For instance, it occurred to me to look over the rando-style bag I designed and constructed over a year and a half ago. I used a really lightweight cotton duck on this prototype bag: the result is absolutely minimal heft. However, I worried (needlessly, as it turned out) that it wouldn’t hold up in use.

The bag doesn’t rely on a decaleur at all. Instead, I have fashioned a solid and relatively “quick release” system that mounts the bag to the Jim Blackburn rack on the underside.

These are the sort of things occupying my thoughts at the moment. I’m in no real hurry to work on the Hobbs because until my new project arrives in February, I really have no other to busy my idle hands.

It’s the Light.

I am what is termed a “teaching artist,” an artist who teaches others to make and consider and appreciate art. A good part of my professional life prior to education was as a designer, creative director, photographer, and illustrator, so it’s pretty safe to say that I’m fairly fine tuned toward and aware of the visual world around me.

Light, in particular, catches my attention, as do patterns, and colors, and textures. Typography, and the rhythm of letterforms. But light! The contrast of light against shadow. Light upon a reflective surface, carving a highlight along an edge, disappearing or emerging from murky shadow.

My studio is a workspace rather than a display area; it’s not a gallery but a place of books and tables and shelves. A sofa filled with lounging black labs, and a cat or two. Floor-to-ceiling windows and diffused light entering from a side door. Various of my bikes lean against book shelves or hang from a rack, and these tend to rotate out with those hanging from ceiling hooks out in the workshop – their number varies dependent upon what bike I rode last, the one I just dismounted from, the one that saw road time yesterday.

They lean there, waiting for the next ride, directly in front of my drawing table, immediately before me as I sit, pen in hand. The late afternoon light enters at an oblique angle, bathing things in a soft glow. It doesn’t take much for me to become engulfed in the sight. I am obsessed with bikes of a certain ilk to begin with, and the light simply renders an already attractive subject even more so.  The lines, the design. It’s the light.