Biking Nations: Delhi, India: Part II

I managed one feeble sunrise photograph from the window of the taxi as it was heading from my hotel. My body was sure it was almost 9:00 at night in spite of the evidence Delhi was providing to the contrary. I had denied myself coffee as I was trying an experiment to combat jet lag: to confuse my body clock as little as possible, I was going to drink my usual two or three cups of caffeinated goodness at 6:00 in the morning Stamford, Connecticut time, which was going to be in mid-afternoon, well after my group bike ride was to be over.

A Google search had brought me to Delhi by Cycle weeks earlier, and after a couple of e-mails between myself and one of the guides, I was convinced the Shah Jahan Tour, the company's 'classic' tour of Old Delhi, was the one I wanted. It also fit into my schedule, but barely: the day of the tour was the same day my wife and I needed to check out of our small Delhi hotel and check into the Leela Kempinski hotel in Gurgaon. So immediately after the tour I was to head back to the hotel, gather our bags, and take a reasonably-priced car service to Leela.

First I needed to accept the early meeting time, which was 6:30 in the morning in front of the Delite Cinema. Once I met the guide, Bert, I took a look at the provided transport for the three-hour tour.

The bikes looked good to me. Delhi was pretty flat and nearly none of the bikes or even trikes I had seen up to this point had derailleurs to speak about. I'm not sure of the brand that the bright orange bikes hailed from, but they were rugged, had reliable brakes, a comfortable seat and a cargo basket. The only thing that bothered me was the absense of the words 'Delhi by Cycle' in big, block letters on the down tubes. Didn't they realize what a great piece of marketing real estate that is?

Never mind.

In a few minutes, we were all assembled: the pretty Holland, who was on a six-week vacation far from the Netherlands. The friendly Frankfurt, who was on business from Germany, and a nice couple from the East Coast: Washington and Alexandria, who were in Delhi attending the wedding of a friend. Our group also included a co-guide riding in the back of the group, ostensibly to make sure none of us would fall behind.

Within minutes of setting off, I found appreciation for the 6:30am start time: it wasn't blazingly hot and the streets weren't altogether crowded. At first.

We were encouraged to use our bike bells as frequently as possible and we almost always rode in single file. While I had been assured we would stop from time to time so we could take pictures (we did) I found myself trying to capture everything about Delhi while I was in motion. I also became an expert at pulling my battered, on-its-last-legs Canon PowerShot out of my pocket, turning it on, taking a picture, and putting it back in without endangering myself, the other cyclists, or any of the citizens of Delhi.

For parts of the trip, it didn't feel as though there were any roads; just empty spaces between buildings that were wide enough to move through. On more than one occasion, things got narrow and I could literally touch the filthy and fascinating buildings – complete with the unusual utility wires that looked like that had been put on the buildings with Silly String containers. 

As we approached the spice market, the smells in the air began to change. Depending on where I was and whether I was inhaling or exhaling, I'd smell trash, people, spices, assorted food, and animals. From time to time we'd see livestock such as oxen pulling improvised wagons.

At one point, Bert stopped, parked his bike, and indicated to the rest of us to do the same. He headed into a building and we followed him as he led us on foot through a number of staircases that would give OSHA representatives cardiac arrest. But when we made it to the roof, we had our payoff.

 

Had Andy Dufresne been up there to hand out beer, it couldn't have been a more surprisingly tranquil morning on the roof.

The sun was higher in the sky by this time, and it was getting warmer. Moments after descending the stairs that may have been used as props in a Wes Craven film, we were back on our bikes and headed away from the spice market.

After seeing a few highlights I wasn't fast enough with the Digital Elph Quick Draw, we arrived at Civil Lines, an area the British settled after 1857. Bert, Frankfurt and Washington led the way through the steel gates and into the couryard.

Moments later, we all stopped for a cup of tea. I can't recall the circumstances that led to this discussion, but I ended up being given the chance to...finally...pedal a cycle rickshaw.

Holland, who was egging me on to try it, ended up being my passenger as I climbed on and mashed the pedals. Moments later, we were around the corner, out of view of the others where Holland and I laughed at the prospect of a self-guided tour before I made (barely) a wide U-turn to return the rickshaw. I couldn't imagine pedalling it with multiple passengers for hours and I was glad I had generously tipped the driver my wife and I hired earlier in our trip.

Washington, Alexandria, and Frankfurt laughed and took cell phone pictures as I brought the rickshaw to a stop and, after I thanked the owner, we all remounted our bikes to continue the tour.

The streets were getting more crowded by this time, but by now I was getting used to dodging unusual vehicles, people and animals. I gave rickshaw drivers an extra wide berth, as well as pedalers who were carrying things that obviously needed to get to where they were going by a certain time.

We stayed in a tight group most of the way toward Red Fort, which was built in 1648 and was occupied by the British from 1857 through that August day in 1947 when India became independent. It's now a UNESCO World Heritage site and an impressive tourist attraction.

Later on, we stopped at Karim's restaurant, a 99-year-old institution. We snacked on some yellow dal (lentils) and goat in a spicy gravy sauce while we talked about what we had seen so far that day and places we had traveled to.

Immediately after leaving Karim's, the most chaotic and unforgettable part of the trip was left: riding through the markets along some increasingly crowded streets.

We rang our bells almost constantly as we navigated our way through, trying to dodge everything and everybody Old Delhi was throwing at us. I nearly ran over a sleepy goat while making room for a passing motorcycle. People were carrying things from one storefront to another, and my eyes couldn't keep up with it all. I rarely got my camera out as I was too busy holding on to the handlebars. It wasn't until I got the picture below uploaded that I realized that what was in one of the bowls was brains.

As in: BRAAAAAAAINNNNS!

After I put the camera back in my pocket and continued navigating through the craziness, I saw a thin man pull two live, squalwking chickens from a little three-wheeled truck. As casually as he was delivering the mail, he stepped into a nearby shop front that had a crude, bloodstained table in front with severed chicken feet all over the ground. Just inside, leaning agains the wall, was another guy, who looked bored and was holding a knife.

I was passing by too fast to see what happened next, but I don't think it worked out so well for the chickens. Still, I was seeing the markets in all of their glory, and I wasn't going to look at any cellophane-wrapped food in Fairway the same ever again.

Eventually, we made it out of that fascinating place and back onto the street where we made our way back to the original meeting point, Delite Cinema.

When we all disembarked, I thanked Bert for his outstanding guidance and exhanged pleasant goodbyes with Holland, Washington, Alexandria and Frankfurt. I snagged an auto rickshaw and headed back to the hotel, collected the bags, and took the reasonably-priced car service to Gurgaon.

And I slept the whole way there.

When I awoke, I had arrived at The Leela in Gurgaon, and felt more dazed than I had felt since the trip began. The hotel was enormous and packed with luxury that seemed like such a contrast to what I had seen I felt as though I had landed in yet another time zone. Too exhausted to do much else, I drank a cup of coffee – as it was about six in the morning in Connecticut – before settling in and watching Dual Survival dubbed in Hindi. I couldn't understand it but I'm sure Cody not wearing any shoes was mentioned.

I enjoyed the rest of my stay in India, and even though I missed biking in Old Delhi immediately, I realized that I had ridden a bike in Asia for the very first time. Three continents down, four more to go. Hope you get to do some of them yourself and look up Delhi by Cycle or the equivalent thereof when you get there. Till then, ride on the continent you're with, and thanks for reading.

(Follow me on Twitter at @michaelknorris)

Biking Nations: Delhi, India: Part I

There are some serious and unexpected road hazards to be had in the United States, that's for sure. We have people who use cell phones while driving, people who apply makeup, and one guy in Stamford I saw using a solar powered calculator while behind the wheel of a white pickup (I know it was solar powered because he was tilting it toward the setting sun with one hand while typing on the other. No idea how he was steering).

But from time to time, you have to admit the dangers cyclists have to face here (and the infrastructure on which we face it) do not even come close to some other cities and countries around the world.

Like Delhi, India. 

It's a long flight from here and nine-and-a-half hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time. So for several days a few weeks back, immediately after my U.K. trip, I was observing cycling from the future. And in the future, they have roads, but there are no lanes, for elephants, bikes, or any other modes of transport. The yellow painted lines on the roads in most places are simply 'suggestions.'

I found myself yearning for I-95 on a Friday night. At least the cars there are organized in neat rows. Whereas here, everywhere I went the traffic functioned like the automotive equivalent of a herd of buffalo stampeding. And the cyclists in India are just as much a part of the flow as everything else.

The bikes are different in this part of the world than they are anywhere else I've been. They're heavy. They have kickstands that go down with a loud clang. They don't have springy cable locks; just the ones that loop around the rear wheel that keep people from hopping on the bike and taking off (an innovation I wish I had last summer). Only once did I see a bike that was chained to something, and since there wasn't anyone around, I took a few moments to take a closer look.

One thing that is particularly noteworthy about the Avon Classic (which is the brand of this bike) as well as most other bikes I saw is there are no shift or brake cables. There are brakes and you do activate them via hand levers, but all along the frames are a series of metal rods. It's part of what makes the bike heavy but...wait for it...there's never a problem with cable stretch and I imagine they're quite reliable.

Only a few paces later I saw another unattended bike, this one from Hero Cycles Ltd. and it too resembled most of two-wheeled bikes in Delhi: battered, black, brilliantly made, a rear rack that could hold just about anything and a seat that has got to be introduced into the U.S. market soon.

The people of Delhi also appear to think differently about riding bikes than we do. They don't ride because it is environmentally friendly or to stay in shape. They ride because it is necessary to move from one place to another in order to make life work, and in some cases, to make a living.

What you see in the photo above are two popular ways to move around Delhi: you can pay an auto rickshaw driver (the yellow three-wheeled motorized things that look like the offspring of a VW Microbus and a Vespa scooter) or a cycle rickshaw. My wife and I used both, depending on the circumstances. Often, we could get somewhere in fine, unseatbelted comfort for less than a couple of U.S. dollars. When approached by multiple drivers or pedalers, we'd often name a figure and either negotiate or hop in the back. Often I was tempted to offer the pedaler more if he'd let me pedal the rickshaw myself, but my wife talked me out of it every time. However, I did unlock a great secret of India while I was there: an auto rickshaw's top speed is in excess of 37.4 miles per hour (the things we learn when palming a Garmin bike GPS).

Eagle-eyed observers of the photo above will notice a man hammering the pedals of a trike to deliver a large black tank of some kind. Aside from heavy tourists, it wasn't the heaviest or the strangest thing I saw on a trike in India.

He was barely moving, but I could tell by the look on his face that the amount of money he wanted to have in his pocket by the end of the day depended on his chain holding together. As far as I know, it did as it wound its way through the crank, which, like the Atlas and other bikes I saw, has the brand name actually cut into the crank. It's great marketing. I don't know why Specialized doesn't do it. Maybe they have too many letters.

People haul baskets, children, and all kinds of things that, when they are delivered in this country, require a truck half a block long. When you wonder why it isn't done in India, you have to remember that pedal-powered vehicles are the most a lot of its citizens can afford...and the roads of Delhi just can't handle too many more large vehicles.

Yes, the steel reinforced rear wheels was a common sight on some of these trikes.

One of the things I wanted to do in India (and something I love doing no matter where I travel) is visit bike shops. I was especially interested in buying a souvenir that I couldn't find anywhere else.

Here's something I learned while walking around in 90+ degree heat looking for bike shops in India: they aren't like the ones in the U.S.

Eventually, I found a bike repair shop that was just my style. I don't think this shop has a name. Only tools, parts, and one guy to wield them both. I remembered the part in Robert Penn's It's All About the Bike when he used a mechanic in India to fix his badly damaged frame, and I wondered if it was a place like this.

I didn't learn any key Hindi phrases before leaving the U.S. (i.e., 'where can I buy a bike?' or 'how much is that bike?' or 'can you direct me to your inventory of tools and seatpost bags for sale?') so I wasn't able to communicate with this shop's owner. I had better luck later when I came upon a shop that sold parts and had a great selection of merchandise.

After looking around at the bells and the locks and the other things, I knew there was only one souvinir that would do. My wife thought I was nuts that I wanted to put so much extra weight into my suitcase, but I paid 150 Rupees (about $3.00 U.S.) for the Royal-X crank (and arm; you can see it on the upper left side of the photo). I looked as though I was carrying a deadly weapon the way back to the hotel, but I had a cool cycling souvenir from Delhi, and it was fantastic.

That night, I put it away...and began to get excited about the next morning, when I'd get to do the thing I had wanted to do since I got off the plane: ride a bike through Old Delhi.

To be continued (click here for Part II).

(Follow me on Twitter at @michaelknorris)

Hide Your Derailleurs: We're Going to Brooklyn

Thanks to the Five Boro Bike Tour, I can count on biking in Brooklyn at least once a year. This past Sunday I visited it bikeless, which enabled me to move slowly enough to really see Brooklyn. In all of its Brooklyn.

The people of Brooklyn are usually friendly and have their own style; think Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany's crossed with Lisbeth Salander from The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. There are many cyclists, but there is nary a spandex-shorts wearing one to be found. From what I could tell by keen observation, there is a bizzare bandit on the loose in Brooklyn – one who only appears to steal front and rear derailleurs – so if you ride there with anything that has shifters, keep a sharp eye.

It was my wife's idea to head to Dekalb Market in Brooklyn, a collection of refurbished shipping containers showcasing the act of retailing and the practice of selling food as an art form. It's on 138 Willoughby Street, a convenient subway ride on the 4 train from Grand Central Terminal. The whole place initially reminded me of Bartertown, except without Thunderdome, Tina Turner, or Master Blaster.

Though the retail shop part of the market isn't open on Mondays, Dekalb is open seven days a week and there is a large open space in the middle for events, such as bike-in movies (don't take the tall bike from Joy Machines). The day I went there I was reminded about just how good Brooklyn can be. Picture a great food truck in your head. Now picture a dozen or so other great food trucks. Take away the trucks and put them all in a row under tents and in shipping containers and you've got Dekalb. Tacos for $3 each was what I went for and they did not disappoint. Neither did the lemonade topped with a scoop of strawberry rhubarb sorbet. Trust me: it is a summer drink for heads of state.

Strolling around the market, one can visit Far Far Away Toys, a fun vintage toy shop containing all of the toys, action figures, lunch boxes, and other childhood goodies that you went-all-'Sid'-from-Toy-Story on more than a quarter of a century ago. There's little to no chance I'll whisper 'Greedo!' as I utter my last breath and drop a Hoth snow globe on the floor, but if you or any of your friends mourns the toys of yesterday and want them back today, that's the place in Brooklyn to go.

Not far from Far Far Away is Love of Pretty (I only went in there to see what was taking my wife so long) which mostly has handmade jewelry, but I still saw something I liked.

And just next door is the famous Eleanor's, which lives up to its mission in providing 'stylish bicycle accessories for ladies.'

The place has a very well edited selection, and it's actually quite nice to visit a bike shop that knows what it is instead of piling random goods everywhere. If you want a basket, a wine rack that attaches to your top tube, or you want to buy a handmade bicycle skirt garter clip so your wife or girlfriend can ride in a skirt with confidence, this is the place to go.

I did not get to visit Velo City (the cool-sounding organization that provides cycling-based urban planning programs for youth) as they are probably attending the Velo City Global 2012 conference in Vancouver this week and didn't bring their container.

So Dekalb Market is a nice way to visit Brooklyn, and if you want to go I suggest you get a move on: the landlord is planning to develop the land and the market, containers and all, will move to a yet-unknown location in a few months. Now, if the mayor of Stamford, Michael Pavia, wants to sew up his reelection right now, he would engineer a way to move Dekalb to Stamford and put it in the huge vacant lot across from the mall, but a small part of me hopes this place will stay a destination in Brooklyn. Thanks for reading.

(Follow me on Twitter at @michaelknorris)

Mountain Biking in Manhattan (Yes. That one.)

The whole reason I went mountain biking in Manhattan on Sunday is because my wife wanted to visit an art store in Darien, Connecticut on Saturday. Walking from the art store that afternoon I noticed a barber shop that was still open. Nobody was ahead of me so I got my hair cut for the first time since visiting London. While my wife was waiting for me she became bored and thumbed through Outside magazine, a periodical we don't get at home. A bit about the Highbridge Park Trail System caught her eye, and our Sunday afternoon just fell into place.

This is part of why print needs to last forever: I have nothing against getting your media (like DIYBIKING.COM) on tablets but the experience is so personalized that kind of thing would probably never happen if you're finger-swiping your way through your usual stuff and never have to rely on someone else's magazines.

So on short notice and for the first time since visiting the Cleveland Metroparks, I got my homemade mountain bike together for a quick trip to New York City, which was easily done by taking the Metro North from Stamford to Harlem-125^th St. station. When it's a busy Sunday, I keep my bike in the vestibule, and three mini bungee cords will hold it – or any bike - in place: one wrapping the rear tire around the pole and the other two as shown.

When we arrived, my wife headed off to sketch while I biked down 125^th street and took a right on Amsterdam Avenue. I could have taken a subway to a trailhead (as suggested by the Outside article) but was feeling limber enough to handle several dozen blocks.

I did okay, but I admit I did miss the polite, non-honking motorists of Cleveland. Also, the bike I built lost a crankarm on the way up (well I didn't lose it; it just came off and since I was clipped in it just clung awkwardly to my left shoe) so I had to stop briefly to wield a minitool in front of a psychic's office – who probably saw that coming.

With no other noticeable, debilitating mechanical defects, I ended up entering the trail at the dirt jump park, which is at the part of Amsterdam Avenue that turns into Fort George Avenue, just past 190^th street. Nearby, there's a basketball court, a baseball diamond, and, that day, an ice cream truck that played The Entertainer/theme from the Paul Newman film 'The Sting' as it rolled by the park.

Despite not owning a BMX bike in years, I took a few laps on the Highbridge Mountain Bike Course. After all, I didn't really see how the new bike would do on rough stuff at Cleveland. On these huge but tiny hills, it did great and the suspension is cushy-soft, but if you'll look closely at the picture above you'll see the rear fender is bent around the side of the seat tube like a bad comb-over, so I ended up removing it entirely and stowing it in my backpack.

Then I took a quick look at the trail map and set off. Because of where I was, the 'less difficult' trails were the first ones I hit. Some nice singletrack, but I was distracted by realizing that all this was somehow in New York City. Thanks, New York City Mountain Bike Association.

I did have a couple of reminders that I was, in fact, in NYC. Depending on where you are in the park you can usually hear the traffic on the Harlem River Drive or Fort George Hill – which is actually useful to get your bearings. Also, you can sometimes see evidence that the city makes unwelcome visits to the park and leaves general litter and some teeny-tiny plastic bags (you know, for postage-stamp sized sandwiches). Trails don't maintain themselves, and I can only imagine how much work the New York City Mountain Bike Association and the city's parks department has cut out for them, so before leaving for the day I walked along part of the beginner trail and carefully picked up every large piece of glass I found. I was mainly worried about a flat tire spoiling someone's day. So if you can do it in a safe and non-gross way, it's good to leave any park with more than what you came in there with.

Happily, I suffered no flats as I wound my way through the trees, and the errant empty bottle of wine couldn't block some of the views.

However, I was soon hit with a problem with my old nemesis: the front derailleur. I lost the ability to shift into the lowest gear in the crank and thus began to balk at some of the climbs. I've had trouble adjusting this properly on my Park Tool workstand, a full size set of tools, lemonade and tortilla chips within reach, and Season 10 of Top Gear on the TV so I knew I wouldn't have a chance trying to fix it proper in the urban jungle. So I got along without it, stopping on the steep climbs but flying down the hills. All in all, I was able to do a few miles of mountain biking in Manhattan and feel some good bumps through the suspension that rivaled most of the five borough's potholes.

I had also started the afternoon mostly riding alone, but I met a few people on the trails while I was in and on the way out, I noticed several spectators and riders enjoying the mountain bike course.

I would have watched myself, but I needed to head south to meet my wife at the station. That allowed me to put the mountain bike back in the Big Ring so I could cruise as fast as five blocks per minute at times.

On 125^th street, on a Sunday afternoon, it was very busy so I kept a sharp eye on the helmet rearview mirror, inattentive motorists and a lumbering double-decker sightseeing bus. Another peril was the heat, so I stopped and got a drink at a pushcart that happened to be on Lenox Avenue right across from Red Rooster, a great restaurant my wife and I ate at back in March that she sketched.

New Harlem dinner plans would have to wait for another trip, as we were to get on an early train. Still, it was a great day of mountain biking in Manhattan. Remember, if you go: 3 bungee cords, plenty of water, body armor and a full-frontal helmet (if you do the double-black diamond trails), a plastic bag to put litter in, and bike tools. And bring a great bike. Failing that, bring a bike you love. Thanks for reading. 

(Follow me on Twitter at @michaelknorris)