1948? Galmozzi

This is the iconic picture of Gino Bartali shifting the Campagnolo Cambio Corsa shifter, riding what is quite likely a Galmozzi, the bicycle of his choice. Bartali was a pretty decent rider. He won the Giro d'Italia three times and the Tour de France twice. He probably would have won more, but that inconvenient World War II intervened, then near the end of his career that pesky Fausto Coppi arrived on the scene. 

Below is a watercolor based on the photo. I would like to credit the artist, but such is the way of the internet, I don't know who painted it. I'll just have to give him a two thumbs up.

 

To the left is a copy of Tullio Campagnolo's drawings of the Cambio Corsa. Bear with me campers (or is it "bare" with me?) this will all come together eventually.

So much for the hors d'oeuvres, the appetizers. Now the main course, a late 1940's Galmozzi. We'll call it a 1948, as in 1949 the Cambio Corsa was replaced by the single lever Paris-Roubaix. Whatever the age, it was old ... and rough.

Per Aldo Ross:

Gunnar, the two-lever Cambio Corsa continued in production after the introduction of the single-lever unit (not called Paris-Roubaix until after Coppi's win in 1950). The P-R shifter cost something like three times as much as the Cambio Corsa, thus could be sold as an economical alternative. The Cambio Corsa and P-R were both still being marketed even as Campagnolo introduced the Gran Sport derailleur, and were still being used on new bikes into the mid-1950s.



















                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

One can never have too many visual aids or pie charts (actually had a management consultant tell me that one time). Here's a video of a restoration of the above Galmozzi frame. You are permitted to skip ahead and come back to this, but be warned, it's worth a minute, 43 of your life, if only for the musical background.

Here's the results of the above work.

Rory Mason found this when he was working for Cannondale in Europe and he is responsible for the beautiful restoration. Rory and I trace our relationship back to Dan Ulwelling who died in January of 2006. He was one of the finest men I have ever known.

The dessert? Today I bought this bicycle.

Second Thoughts

We experienced a little light rain on our morning birdwalk at Santa Ana. It cleared off and it was another beautiful day.

Lorna talked to one of our house-sitters yesterday. She related how much they were enjoying living in our house in Oakwood, getting to know each other, and even dealing with Bud, our old pug. Tentitively she may even be staying on for a while after we return. Still, even though things seem to be going well back there, I am getting a little homesick, getting ready to return. Then she dropped this bomb on us, a picture of our little Honda CR-V parked in the 1410 driveway. Maybe I'm not as ready as I thought I was. Lemme think on this a while. I'll get back to you.

You all stay cozy and warm,
Gunnar

Happy Birthday, Steve Norris

Steve "Will you still love me when I'm 64" Norris, had a birthday yesterday. To celebrate this event we went on a low key road trip. Early in the morning Lorna and I picked up Steve and Sue, and drove to the Laguna Atascosca National Wildlife Refuge on the Gulf Coast. Atascosca is notable in that it has logged more bird species, 417, than any other location in the U.S. It is also a prime location for butterflies and one of only two remaining locations in the U.S. that still has a breeding population of Ocelots. Ocelots are nocturnal and sightings are rare. Vehicles are no longer allowed on the vast refuge because in the past three Ocelots were killed by automobiles on the refuge. 97,000 acres, no cars - note to self: bring a bicycle. We did see birds, not huge numbers because the Spring migration has not begun in force yet, but a satisfying stop.

Great-tailed Grackle Quiscalus mexicanus. This is a big bird, 18" long, and right now in full breeding display it is a magnificent bird. And damned proud of it.

After we had walked ourselves weary we boarded the Ridgeline and headed south, stopping along the way at a little private park in Laguna Visita where there had been sightings of a Crimson-collared Grosbeak. Nice little park, Rufus Hummingbirds, but no Grosbeak. Too bad. I've never seen one.

It was hungry time so we stopped for seafood and craftbeer at Padre Island Brewing where I also had my growler filled with their IPA. Travel note: Never travel without an empty growler. You never know when there may be an opportunity.

Then we were off to the Convention Center for some good looks at warblers and water birds. 

We saw a Tropical Parula earlier this year. This is it's cousin, an opportunistic Northern Parula picking bugs off of a spider web.

 After watching a couple of warblers for a while we walked on the boardwalk out across the marsh. There were some ducks, a lot of migrating shorebirds (at a far distance) and an assortment of herons and egrets.

Belted Kingfisher

Reddish Egret

Great Blue Heron

Then as the sun went down behind us in the western sky, a large flock of Spoonbills returned from feeding. We forgot about everything else. Spoonbills in Spring pink are hard to ignore. They fed a little, then splashed, preened, mumbled to each other, before retreating to their sleeping quarters. Great light. I hate using "breathtaking", but they were just radiating pink. Up close they are really homely birds. Their color. particularly in this breeding trim, more than makes up for their gawky features. 

Happy Birthday Steve.  I hope it was a good day for you.

And to all of you,
Be well,
Gunnar

What I Really Meant To Say

dry stick old women

white wind blown feather wrap boas

and golden slippers​

Cold, Wet Estero Llano Day

Nasty day outside, 45F, windy and drizzling. Nevertheless, we were going stir crazy and Marisol was coming in to clean the apartment. We needed to get out, so we took the short trip to Estero Llano Grande. I wanted to get some REALLY good pictures of Sora Rails. We did get a couple of looks. They were playing hide and seek in the cattails so I didn't even bother to shoot them.

Instead, I got a good look at a Screech Owl hiding in a palm tree. Technically this is a Mexican subspecies of the Eastern Screech Owl, but there is a move afoot to give it full species status. I care not. All I know is that he is rather cute, a droll little fellow.

Cinnamon Teal, Common Gallinule, Northern Shoveler (f.), Blue-winged Teal, American Coot, White-faced Ibis.

Common Gallinule

Cinnamon Teal

White-faced Ibis

One Snowy Egret is a beautiful thing. Eight in one tree is just other worldly. (Also two first year White Ibis)

I have posted a number of pictures of Pauraque in the past. I am obviously partial to them. I think they are beautiful birds, subtle colors, great patterns, and very confident in their camouflage.They are almost a foot long, still hard to spot, but once you learn their preferred habitats and get their feather patterns locked into your image retrieval system, you can find them. Today we retrieved three.

Be well, enjoy the ride,
Gunnar

This Old Man, Life in the nineties

Roger Angell's first contribution to the New Yorker was in March of 1944, a year before I was born. An amazing length of productivity. Nearing my seventh decade, I am relatively young, but still far enough along to appreciate his perspective of age and a well-lived life. The Angell piece, This Old Man, Life in the nineties, in the current New Yorker is just marvelous. A no bullshit view of life and aging. Here's a snippet:

Here in my tenth decade, I can testify that the downside of great age is the room it provides for rotten news. Living long means enough already. When Harry died, Carol and I couldn’t stop weeping; we sat in the bathroom with his retrieved body on a mat between us, the light-brown patches on his back and the near-black of his ears still darkened by the rain, and passed a Kleenex box back and forth between us. Not all the tears were for him. Two months earlier, a beautiful daughter of mine, my oldest child, had ended her life, and the oceanic force and mystery of that event had not left full space for tears. Now we could cry without reserve, weep together for Harry and Callie and ourselves. Harry cut us loose.

 What I’ve come to count on is the white-coated attendant of memory, silently here again to deliver dabs from the laboratory dish of me. In the days before Carol died, twenty months ago, she lay semiconscious in bed at home, alternating periods of faint or imperceptible breathing with deep, shuddering catch-up breaths. Then, in a delicate gesture, she would run the pointed tip of her tongue lightly around the upper curve of her teeth. She repeated this pattern again and again. I’ve forgotten, perhaps mercifully, much of what happened in that last week and the weeks after, but this recurs.

Carol is around still, but less reliably. For almost a year, I would wake up from another late-afternoon mini-nap in the same living-room chair, and, in the instants before clarity, would sense her sitting in her own chair, just opposite. Not a ghost but a presence, alive as before and in the same instant gone again. This happened often, and I almost came to count on it, knowing that it wouldn’t last. Then it stopped.

I don't know how the New Yorker website works. If you have to be a subscriber to access things, subscribe now. Your life will be fuller for it. Here's a link to the complete piece.

A Wave, Not the Water

Lorna is watching the Oscars. We're in an apartment, so I am too. I listened to Bett Midler sing Wind Beneath My Wings. Let us establish right here and now that I am one opinionated S.O.B. and then move on. I do not dislike Bett Midler; I do not even find the sentiment of the song particularly objectionable. But that is one dreadful song. Here is a counter.  

Thirst is not the answer, oceans come and go
I loved her seven seas worth, lord I loved her so
But she let me down so easy, one slow drop at a time
I would've killed myself but it made no sense
Committing suicide in self defense
But I lost everything I brought her
When she said, babe, you're just a wave, you're not the water

Centuries ago we were living on the gold coast
She was still in love with a long gone, cold ghost
I was only trying to turn back the tide of her tears

I felt like an endless ocean, rolling through the fog
Full emotion drifting like a weather beaten log
I even thought that I out thought her
'Til she said, babe, you're just a wave, you're not the water

I said, someday we'll love again, then you'll know the score
I've taught you everything I know and maybe even more
That's true she said, more than you ever will
I've said I've been your raging river, precious African queen
I've shown you everything that I've ever seen
But she knew more than I had taught her
When she said babe, you're just a wave, you're not the water

Well, I followed her far and wide with all of my will
Water on the move, you know it never stands still
And I moved every muscle, just to prove it can be done
Then up some old sad river, where snow white lilies float
I came to her for mercy, but I hardly rocked the boat
She seemed surprised that I had caught her
But she said, babe, you're just a wave, you're not the water

Ibis and Butterflies

Hot and windy today. I don't mind the heat actually, the wind saps my energy, blows off headgear and forces the tweety birds down into cover. But, what the hell, we went out to Santa Ana this morning anyway.

I took a few pictures of some White-faced Ibis. Great birds, wonderful in the air. From a distance they look brown. At the right angle reflecting sunlight they pick up an iridescence and their feathers look like the patina of ancient polished bronze. Just great birds.

Frankly, the birding was slim, so I fell in with the family lepidopterist, Ms Lorna. I don't know or remember the names of the butterflies down here; there are over 300. Lorna does, or knows the families so she can rapidly narrow it down. Butterflies are surprisingly difficult to photograph - two-dimensional, nervous and fluttery, sensitive to movement and shadows, and they will fold up their tent just when you think you're got a good shot.  

Slow, deliberate stalk.

Focus, short prayer, shoot.

Be well, enjoy the butterflies in your life,
Gunnar

Yard Guards

We like to think we have the best unit here at the Alamo Wesmor. Our innkeeper, Keith and his wife, Audrey live below us, and the view from our rear veranda of their nicely landscaped walled backyard. The goose and dog were an ever present team out there. The goose's job was to honk noisily at any noise or potential intruder. The dog's job was to lay in the sun and occasionally reinforce the goose's diligence with a well placed bark or two.

I don't know the goose's name, nor the dog's, but after three seasons they became fixtures in our lives. This year the old dog developed cancer and yesterday the family buried him in the backyard between two large bushes. Today the goose was apparently dealing with his sorrow by happily splashing in the water of a child's wading pool.

White-eyed Vireo

Yesterday was warm and sunny, 85F. Lorna did the bird walk at Santa Ana in the morning. I read in the sun. In the afternoon we went to Estero Llano Grande where Lorna did a butterfly walk. I just wandered around enjoying the sunshine - seeing a few birds, nothing unusual, although I did see a Mexican Blue butterfly, which unfortunately the lepidopterist group missed. Later in the afternon we sat around talking at Steve and Sue's, eventually migrating to the Ranch House for Dos Equis and burgers. A decent day.

This morning we went to the Edinburg Wetlands. It's another warm day, but overcast. It would have been good light for pictures, but there were not many new birds to photograph. The White-eyed Vireos are seemingly all over the area, hard to see, but easy to hear this time of the season. Word was that a female was sitting on a nest early in the morning and I was hoping to get a photo of the bird actually at the next. She lays an egg every day or two until she has have a full clutch before they start incubating them. The birds were lingering in the area, but I guess there was no reason for them to actually be on the nest. The nest is beautiful in a birdnest sort of way - grasses and leaves woven and lashed together with spiderwebs. The nest itself wasn't particularly concealed, which did surprise me a little. Maybe there just aren't jays and crows in the nesting habitats?

We stopped to pick up red wine on the way home - three bottles for $10. Nothing but the best for my lady. And pastry from El Manijar Bakery. Our car seems to have a difficult time driving past that. Yes, life continues to be difficult.

Be well,
Gunnar

Happy Teeth

Last week I broke off a tooth - busted it all to hell. I seem to recall 30 years ago the dentist (my late dentist) saying something about there wasn't enough support and the filling was a temporary situation. 30 years, maybe 40. Normally people go to Nuevo Progreso for cheap dental work, but travel south of the border is a little iffy right now so I talked to our innkeeper and he gave me the number of a dentist. I called.

Yesterday I google-mapped my way to his office in San Juan, Texas. San Juan is poor, so poor there are no curbs, minimal paving, no street signs. The neighborhood was little rough, the office looked a bit like an abandoned gas station. Actually, most of the buildings looked like they might be abandoned. I thought, what the hell, I just need a tooth pulled, how bad could it be?

I was pleasantly surprised at the office interior, a typical waiting room, bright, four comfortable chairs, magazines, and with the requisite large bubbling aquarium full of cichlids. The woman behind the counter greeted me, then apologized that she would need to print the information sheet because she didn't have one in English. Eventually she got the printer working and I proceeded to fill out the form. A short time later I was escorted to a nicely outfitted room, modern chair and dental tools, art on the wall, a Haydn sonata playing in the background. A dental technician took my blood pressure (132/79) and took an x-ray of the tooth in question. Some time later the dentist, an older, overweight Anglo with wild, flyaway hair, came in humming to the sonata. 

He asked me what the issue was. "My tooth is all busted to hell." He glanced at the x-ray and looked at the tooth. "That tooth isn't busted to hell. I've seen a lot of them way worse. What exactly is your expectation for the tooth?" I said that I doubted it could be saved so I assumed it would have to be pulled. He immediately pooh-poohed that and said he could cap it for 450 bucks. "Cap it? That's great, let's go for it."

He said, "First, there is another option. I see there is a tooth already missing next to it." (Missing for possibly 50 years. For 50 years I have only been able to chew steak on one side. Sometimes I don't get around to fixing things.) "For about $1,400 I can cap both of the teeth next to the gap, then bridge it, inserting a tooth in the gap. Give you three good teeth."  $1,400! I guess he has to be somewhat competitive with Mexico.

So he deadened my jaw; I listened to Haydn while he hummed along and ground away at the two teeth, then took a series of tooth impressions in epoxy. A hour and a half later I had two temporary caps. In two weeks I will have three new permanent chompers in my right lower jaw for the first time in 50 years. I will have Happy Teeth!

Texas Birdwatching

Thanks to Mark Stonich for sending me this link.