Wheel

Artist Michael DeLucia lives and works in Brooklyn, NY.

'Hence, when we came to Spezzia, we found that the Magra, an unbridged river on the high-road to Pisa, was too high to be safely crossed in the Ferry Boat, and were fain to wait until the afternoon of next day, when it had, in some degree, subsided. Spezzia, however, is a good place to tarry at; by reason, firstly, of its beautiful bay; secondly, of its ghostly Inn; thirdly, of the head-dress of the women, who wear, on one side of their head, a small doll's straw hat, stuck on to the hair; which is certainly the oddest and most roguish head-gear that ever was invented.

The Magra safely crossed in the Ferry Boat--the passage is not by any means agreeable, when the current is swollen and strong--we arrived at Carrara, within a few hours. In good time next morning, we got some ponies, and went out to see the marble quarries.

They are four or five great glens, running up into a range of lofty hills, until they can run no longer, and are stopped by being abruptly strangled by Nature. The quarries, 'or caves,' as they call them there, are so many openings, high up in the hills, on either side of these passes, where they blast and excavate for marble: which may turn out good or bad: may make a man's fortune very quickly, or ruin him by the great expense of working what is worth nothing. Some of these caves were opened by the ancient Romans, and remain as they left them to this hour. Many others are being worked at this moment; others are to be begun to-morrow, next week, next month; others are unbought, unthought of; and marble enough for more ages than have passed since the place was resorted to, lies hidden everywhere: patiently awaiting its time of discovery.'

Pictures from Italy, Charles Dickens. Ch. 9.

NÖ Caption Competition #5 - results

With the Festive Season closing-out 2009, here are the two best entries in our fifth NÖ Caption competition:

Man: I say Thelma, I think your left hip may be broken. But looking on the bright side, your Rapha Mink-pelt Bonnet with foldaway storm flap looks unscathed.

Man: Let me help you Madam. My name's Mr. Pendleton.

A very Happy Christmas to our all readers!

NÖ Caption Competition #5

As previously, email your entries HERE

'The coast-road whence Camoglia is descried so far below, is famous,in the warm season, especially in some parts near Genoa, for fire-flies. Walking there on a dark night, I have seen it made one sparkling firmament by these beautiful insects: so that the distant stars were pale against the flash and glitter that spangled every olive wood and hill-side, and pervaded the whole air.

It was not in such a season, however, that we traversed this road on our way to Rome. The middle of January was only just past, and it was very gloomy and dark weather; very wet besides. In crossing the fine pass of Bracco, we encountered such a storm of mist and rain, that we travelled in a cloud the whole way. There might have been no Mediterranean in the world, for anything that we saw of it there, except when a sudden gust of wind, clearing the mist before it, for a moment, showed the agitated sea at a great depth below, lashing the distant rocks, and spouting up its foam furiously. The rain was incessant; every brook and torrent was greatly swollen; and such a deafening leaping, and roaring, and thundering of water, I never heard the like of in my life.'

Pictures from Italy, Charles Dickens. Ch. 9.

'Some of the villages are inhabited, almost exclusively, by fishermen; and it is pleasant to see their great boats hauled up on the beach, making little patches of shade, where they lie asleep, or where the women and children sit romping and looking out to sea, while they mend their nets upon the shore. There is one town, Camoglia, with its little harbour on the sea, hundreds of feet below the road; where families of mariners live, who, time out of mind, have owned coasting-vessels in that place, and have traded to Spain and elsewhere. Seen from the road above, it is like a tiny model on the margin of the dimpled water, shining in the sun. Descended into, by the winding mule-tracks, it is a perfect miniature of a primitive seafaring town; the saltest, roughest, most piratical little place that ever was seen. Great rusty iron rings and mooring-chains, capstans, and fragments of old masts and spars, choke up the way; hardy rough-weather boats, and seamen's clothing, flutter in the little harbour or are drawn out on the sunny stones to dry; on the parapet of the rude pier, a few amphibious-looking fellows lie asleep, with their legs dangling over the wall, as though earth or water were all one to them, and if they slipped in, they would float away, dozing comfortably among the fishes; the church is bright with trophies of the sea, and votive offerings, in commemoration of escape from storm and shipwreck. The dwellings not immediately abutting on the harbour are approached by blind low archways, and by crooked steps, as if in darkness and in difficulty of access they should be like holds of ships, or inconvenient cabins under water; and everywhere, there is a smell of fish, and sea-weed, and old rope.'

Pictures from Italy, Charles Dickens. Ch. 9.

To Rome by Pisa and Siena

'There is nothing in Italy, more beautiful to me, than the coast-road between Genoa and Spezzia. On one side: sometimes far below, sometimes nearly on a level with the road, and often skirted by broken rocks of many shapes: there is the free blue sea, with here and there a picturesque felucca gliding slowly on; on the other side are lofty hills, ravines besprinkled with white cottages, patches of dark olive woods, country churches with their light open towers, and country houses gaily painted. On every bank and knoll by the wayside, the wild cactus and aloe flourish in exuberant
profusion; and the gardens of the bright villages along the road, are seen, all blushing in the summer-time with clusters of the Belladonna, and are fragrant in the autumn and winter with golden oranges and lemons.'

Pictures from Italy, Charles Dickens. Ch. 9.

Wiggins joins Manchester United

After months and months of speculation, and after many had reported a 'negative' outcome, Bradley Wiggins has left Wigan, to join Manchester United.

"He will be a marquee rider for us. He is an exceptional athlete - a great performer at a great age," declared Team Sky Supremo Dave Brailsford. "His presence will not only help us on the road but with the wider aims of inspiring people to not only follow the team but to get out and ride, whatever their age or ability," he went on.

One wonders how much $$$ Sky had to put on the Garmin negotiating table to cancel out the remaining year of Wiggin's contract. Either way, next year's ProTour, culminating in the Tour de France, may see the cycling renaissance hit new heights. And, as a consequence, if ITV4's viewing figures go through the roof, expect Mr Murdoch to empty his briefcase on their coffee table also, so us the paying punters have to access our own reserves, for the privilege of watching the heroics unfold.

Today's Guardian headline 'Bradley Wiggins's Sky transfer has taken cycling into the football age' more than hints at this directive. So while we look to the silver lining of a Brit bringing home the booty, remember too that the corporate behemoth that is Sky will not be happy with mere team sponsorship. They will be looking long term. And that means Premier League pricing!

Putting money matters to one side, there arises some fascinating dueling prospects for TdF 2010 - a very complete Team Sky, Radioshack and all its tooled-up firepower, and a re-stocked Astana. Game on.

Stacy Innerst is an artist and illustrator, born in Santa Monica, now plying his trade in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

This illustration originally published in The Pittsburg Post-Gazette.

What is not to like

Taking us for a ride

Photograph: Getty Images

There's something wrong with this picture. Some may say there are many things. But fundamentally, we think one single item clearly doesn't fit.

It's not Mr Cameron's faux "I'm loving the open road" grin. Nor the arm-numbing stranglehold of his backpack. Neither is it the wrist-shy fit of the Conservative leaders powder blue, fleece doublet. It is none of the above.

Take a longer look. Left leg at the top of the pedal stroke. Poised to power through another pedal turn. But what's happening with its counterpart? Knee bent also? Could Mr Cameron be riding a bike which is too small? Or maybe not even his own?

There are a great many schools of thought with regard to frame fit and sizing.

A widely used approach is the LeMond Formula - a center-to-top or c-t sizing method BIKE FRAME SIZE (in cm) = Inseam (cm) x .67
Measuring from the centre of the bottom bracket to the top of the seat tube, gives the recommended size for a road bike frame. This system was originated by engineer Wilfried Hüggi, and one of Greg LeMond's cycling coaches, Cyrille Guimard.

Others might suggest simply standing over the frame of a bike, and if there was an inch or two between the top of the top tube and one's 'crown jewels', then that was the right size.

Then there's the 'KOPS' (Knee Over the Pedal Spindle) method, which employs a plumb bob.

But even taking into account the low-rider style of Mr Cameron's saddle height, he's fooling only himself.

Velophobia

Westminster Council has a scrutiny committee. It is chaired by Angela Harvey. And she's on the case - “So many people are frustrated with it [errant cyclists endangering the world at large]. We’re always getting little old ladies who are knocked down and abused by a cyclist, who leaves them on the ground as they ride away.”

In an article from The Times, the bête noire that is the 'lycra lout' finds itself on the receiving end of yet another witch hunt. Fiona Hamilton's article suggests Westminster Council is seeking to become the first local authority to have its own velo vigilance squad - empowered to distribute penalty enforcement notices to any transgressing cyclist.

Which is a worrying development. One we have hinted at already, and in some way sets the wheels in motion for a new form of traffic warden - taxing the very form of green transport this government (and its Mayor) champion so vehemently.

The fact that the majority of riders who may skip from road to pavement do so because the cycle path is blocked by illegally parked vehicles, is perfunctory. The biker is the bad guy. The maverick wolf in our midst. All very evident with our media obsession with bike bashing. Such activity duly fosters an ignorant hatred and mistrust of cyclists within the rag-reading citizens - those who have a tendency to avoid developing their own, experience-driven, or evaluated opinions. The cyclist as anathema. Simple. You ride. You ride into persona non grata and parochialism.

Such hostility is, on the whole, city-centric behaviour. Which is, in its effect, quite difficult to fully comprehend and decipher. To wit, it would seem, one's zero emissions come at a cost. What we do understand - the only way forward is to play the role of the spear carrier - adopt a taciturn stance, and simply ride your bike.

To that end, we've closed our NÖ Twitter feed. Talk is Cheap. Cycling is free.