Back at the inn, after an early morning ride:
Williamstown, Massachusetts.
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Author: The Brompton Diarist
In anticipation of a bout of long, hot, cycling, I cleverly popped two of my stainless steel water bottles into the freezer the night before.
Naturally, I filled them only part way — about three-quarters full. They were frosty-wonderful when I popped them into Basil’s new bottle cages.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I stopped to swap bottles, and discovered only a chunk of ice at the bottom of one bottle.
The frozen water had stressed the stainless bottle beyond endurance, causing an explosion. This was painful to see. Also, this result rendered my “frozen bottle” approach considerably less clever than I had originally thought.
Had I filled a plastic container with apricot preserves, and left only a half inch at the top, all would have been well. Obviously, my calculations for actual ice were off; Mr. Diarist suggests, additionally, that the narrowing of the Sigg bottle toward the top may have played a part, depending on how the freezing actually progressed.
The second bottle escaped with stress marks (stretch marks?) along the side. Also, the bottom is now slightly convex, which causes it to rock a bit when set on a flat surface.
In future, I’ll fill the replacement bottle, and the other two, only half way up the lower portion of the bottle. Just before leaving, I’ll add cold water to top up. This won’t keep my libations as refreshing as would solid ice melting, but will keep down the water bottle replacement expenses.
Waking up extra-early in a strange place with a Brompton is only an advantage. Basil and I were out the door in ten minutes after a quick night’s sleep in Williamstown, Massachusetts, on a recent trip.
The light was marvelous on what turned out to be another exceptionally beautiful day.
There can’t be much doubt about which direction this side of Williams College’s Southworth Schoolhouse faces:
I thought this was a fairly uninteresting edifice, except that I love brick, of course. However, check out this peculiar detail :
Someone with either really bad taste (or, perhaps, a sense of humor) has added a faux column to the corners, with a odd little capital at the top, and an strange little base below. It’s class-on-a-shoestring! Or, anyway, an attempt at it.
The neighborhood around Williams is dotted with homes with large porches. Does anyone sit on porches any more? I imagine that air-conditioning — and computers — have probably nearly eradicated that once ubiquitous pastime.
When the illumination was just right, these windows mirrored the sky perfectly.
There was very little traffic and few people were stirring at this time on this particular weekday morning, and, correspondingly,very little noise. I was startled when Basil and I were crossing a street and the bell in this tower chimed the quarter-hour.
I took this shot because the house and garage are so quirky and so beautifully maintained — and because that central section is practically a turret, in keeping with a recurring Williams College theme.
Later I realized what was really unusual about this image: I think the vehicle is a Honda. That’s notable because Williamstown is nearly wall-to-wall (shoulder-to-shoulder?) with Subarus. No kidding; the Subaru dealer must be as flush as Midas. But why not? They’re excellent four-season vehicles, and their owners tend to be very loyal to the brand.
After our leisurely turn around town, Basil and I returned to the inn, relaxed and refreshed, to prepare for the day. I am not a morning person, but my Brompton has changed my life — literally, it seems. And so much for the better . . .
At the end of our first ride in Williamstown, Basil and I returned to our inn, then rode past, away from town, in search of a grocery store. Much to the pleasure of the one of us who was hungry, we found an upscale co-op.
This meant that cheese was undoubtedly on hand. Not only that, but it would probably be local cheese.
But imagine our surprise when we entered the store and saw this display:
This little orange beauty is a Citizen Tokyo, an inexpensive folder which is, nonetheless, equipped with six speeds, just like Basil (though without Brompton’s BWR hub).
Naturally, Basil posed with his new-found compatriot, though in trolley mode, as space below ceiling-level was limited. (So was light, unfortunately!)
We filled up Basil’s small green bag with Vermont blue goat cheese and a bunch of local hard ciders to take home to Mr. Diarist. Then we headed back to the inn for a light repast and a good night’s sleep.
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Gargoyle Gate
Williamstown, Massachusetts is the home of Williams College, an elite school with a history going back about as far as formal history does in the United States. As you’d expect, then, the emphasis is on academic study, not athletics.
But sports are played. This is the gate to an athletic field, in keeping, as you’d hope, with the appearance, at least, of the venerable construction of Williams’s early days.
The plaque says, enticingly, “Gargoyle Gate”, but I couldn’t find the gargoyle.
However, the metal portion of the gate was as pleasing as the stone, even without gargoyles:
The ancient (by North American standards) hasp and bar are still in place, but secured by a decidedly modern padlock. If not secured by the padlock or something similar, the bar can be lifted completely off the gate.
The hinge isn’t at the point where the separate halves join; it’s what allows the end of the bar to fold over the loop that, in combination with the hook above, holds the bar in place and level.
The bar is warped now, and no longer hooks as it should, at the other side, once the gate is closed.
At the end of the bar, the grip is impressively lethal looking, with that spike-like finial threatening serious violence to anyone imprudent enough to fall against it.
Basil admired the intricacy of the pattern. Old technology and new: Metal, it’s lovely stuff!
Basil, my Brompton bicycle, and I took a quick tour around Williamstown, Massachusetts when we first arrived, not pausing, I’m afraid, to identify the buildings we encountered.
This, however, is the First Congregational Church. There may be a law requiring one First Congregational Church in every New England town.
I admit to preferring the classic church and steeple to this creation, which looks a lot like a cross between a California mission and something gothic-gone-wrong. Variety is good, though; I like variety.
Turrets are a recurring theme in Williamstown architecture; though there’s less ivy than you might think. The ivy is a treat for the eye, but death on walls. Still, a college must have some, whether the school is technically Ivy League or not.
If you want something approximating New England Gothic, that’s here, too. The lines are a bit cleaner, and the ornamentation more sparse, than on similar structures in Europe. Also: no gargoyles.
Is modern art just not my thing? The structures scattered next to the Williams College Museum of Art did not thrill me, even though I’m rather pre-disposed to love metal.
I’m afraid these just seem creepy to me. Nestling a single eyeball in the landscape doesn’t help a bit. (NSA, are you calling me?) These pieces seem too whimsical to me to make a serious statement about being observed, and too aggressive to claim that isn’t the goal.
This sign amused me, so Basil and I attempted to stop in to pick up a comestible, only to discover that the business had closed up.
A sign in the window said that there had been a store there for 168 years, but now the space is empty. In fact, there were empty store fronts all along Spring Street. Were some seasonal casualties? Or do even the students shop elsewhere when they’re here?
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It Makes a Village
Well, almost. Here’s the cottage, no taller than I am, encountered in Willilamstown, Massachusetts:
and here’s the barn hen house:
They are right next to each other. Gotta love New England gentry farmers and their clever, crafty ways!
Basil and I took a trip to Williamstown, Massachusetts, recently. We arrived earlier than expected, so we set out exploring. Almost immediately, we encountered this building, destined (or so claimed the sign on the side) for conversion to “luxury condominiums”. They’re “now selling”, but it didn’t look as if there was a lot of conversion action going on.
Which hardly mattered: For visceral eye-appeal, it’s hard to beat ivy on bricks.
Look at that sky! It was like that the entire trip — just stunningly beautiful.
We took off down the two-lane highway that leads into (and out of) town, cycling next to flowing water virtually all the way.
Small rapids form as the water rushes over rocks and stones in the stream bed, which created a blissful background to the gentle clicking of Basil’s rear hub. We arrived after Williams College’s 2013 graduation festivities, so there was little in the way of traffic or other human distraction to compete with either the burbling of the waters or the enthusiastic tweets of birds.
We crossed over the water, but not without stopping to admire the bridge, whose railings seemed very contemporary, but whose rusty girders blend organically with the surroundings. I’m a sucker for the stones of New England, so the supports on either end were quite pleasing to my eye, too.
I’m a northern Californian at heart, but I love the ubiquitous visual pleasures offered in so many New England landscapes. Small stone structures, like the one above, for instance, turn up frequently, as do others like this unexpected wall, below, that doesn’t really go anywhere, or define anything but itself.
Basil waited patiently while I hopped the guardrail and snapped a few pictures.
We turned off the highway onto a smaller asphalt road, but that became packed dirt shortly thereafter, and I turned around. The area was rapidly becoming quite rural, and I was more comfortable staying closer to town in this unfamiliar geography.
Our eastern home grounds are lush, but not quite as lush as this part of the Berkshires, at least this year.
Trees are quite tall, and the mountains loom, so shadows form well before evening.
My trusty point-and-shoot was never able to capture any real sense of the scope of the landscape rising all around the area.
But it did capture this island in the stream . . .
We went on to explore town and campus, but that’s a post for another day.
Just before a recent event — 34 hilly miles (54.7 km) in summer heat — I impulsively bought a double water bottle cage and had it installed on Basil’s saddle rails.
This is a Profile Design system; one of its selling points is that having the bottles in back is supposed to be aero-dynamic. This is not a consideration for the pace at which I normally ride; however, having three water bottles on hand for long rides is excellent.
(Also, another cyclist told me that my metal water bottles look like rockets when they’re riding in these cages. That may be justification enough.)
I don’t notice the cages or the water bottles while riding, and the bottles remained well-seated on the test run, which covered 34 miles of hilly terrain and speeds of up to 31.2 mph/50.2 kmph (gulp). An elastic “wire” around each holder grips the bottles so that they are unlikely to pop out while the bike vibrates down the road.
I can’t vouch for how easy (or difficult) it is to remove and replace the bottles while actually cycling; I’ve just barely mastered drinking from the bottle in front of me. I swapped empty bottles for full ones at rest stops, and drank from my front cage while on the fly.
The cages extend Basil’s length a bit, but not enough to be an issue most of the time. The angle is adjustable, so the bottles can be set whatever way is most convenient. Mine are quite upright, but the bottles could be tipped in toward the rider, if that makes the bottles easier to grab from the front.
The mount and bracket are metal and look well-designed. I expect them to prove quite durable.
The cages are completely out of the way when my Brompton is folded; they aren’t wide enough to rest on the supporting surface when Basil is folded and lying on his side, so there’s no obvious vulnerability there. Because the mount is attached to the saddle rails, there’s no interference with the Brompton fold, either.
For easier access, I dropped Basil’s saddle bag a bit. Although it’s not quite as easy to use the bag as it was before the installation, it’s still no problem to get to the gear inside; I got used to the change quickly.
For travel to or in a place like New York City — anywhere space may be at a premium, and the need to carry so much water less essential — I will disconnect the cages, and leave them home. Removing the double bolts (you can see the heads in profile, above) leaves just the nose of the mount, which curves above the saddle bag, and is surprisingly unobtrusive.
This was a terrific set-up for my first real summer weather ride; I’m eager to see how well it serves as the season continues.
Update 4 August 2013: I installed this cage on the original Brompton saddle, which has narrow rails; a commenter has noted that the version he purchased does not fit on his Brooks B17 saddle. If considering this bottle cage, it might be worth contacting Profile Design to see if the model you are buying will work with your saddle rails.
Basil and I have now ridden a thousand miles/1,609 km together since he arrived last October. Here he is, in Williamstown, Massachusetts, within a mile or ten of this rather thrilling moment in our mutual history:
Basil’s wheels have been on trails (dirt, gravel, and asphalt), on country roads, suburban streets, on highways in-state and out, on gritty Philadelphia streets, and all around Manhattan, including all five boroughs and across five New York bridges, and they’ve ridden through small towns in a host of Pennsylvania counties.
Basil has taken me far and near, and, in-between, brought the groceries home, attended farmer’s markets, run errands at the hardware store and hauled home basketfuls of all sorts of goods required in our home office and in my sewing room.
During his first thousand miles with me, Basil has traveled by train (both regional and Amtrak), in subways, in buses, on a ferry, in a tram over the East River, and in the trunk of my sub-compact car. (Also in the front seat of the car, until I worried about the effect of the air bag on him in case of a crash.)
We’ve ridden solo, and with the wonderful people we’ve met through the Bicycle Club of Philadelphia, as well as on a Tweed Ride, and with Mr. Diarist. We’ve done several small cycling events, and one of the largest in the USA.
Our shortest ride was 2.91 miles/ 4.7 km; our longest was not quite 62 miles/99.7 km. Thirty-four of a total of 74 trips were 10 miles/16 km or fewer (meaning that they were primarily errand runs); 40 trips were longer than 10 miles/16 km. Twenty-one trips were 15 miles/24 km or more and 14 trips were over 30 miles/48 km each.
When I stepped out of NYCeWheels that first time next to Basil I wondered how I could ever be worthy of the marvelous steed that is a Brompton. How thing have changed: It’s been an exciting journey from the first moment to the excellent serendipity that marks our current excursions. I may still not be worthy, but life without Basil? I can’t imagine it!