A* forwarded me an article today in the Wall Street Journal that marks the 100th anniversary of Sigmund Freud's one and only trip to America.
The author, Daniel Akst, writes accurately on Freud's anti-Americanism as well as his financial motivations in making the trans-Atlantic trek to give a series of lectures and accept an honorary degree from Clark University. In his remaining space, however, Mr. Akst spins off the same old stuff everyone's heard about how Freud was all wrong, how his professional ethics were suspect at best, and how psychoanalysis isn't taken seriously anymore. Fine. This is all the stuff of boilerplates by now. My problem with this article, and the many like it, is the frequency to which the author passes off his critiques as self-evident -- as if Freud's faults are obvious to the public at large. Specific claims against Freud aside, it always upsets me deeply when the court of public opinion is figured as unified and obvious.
This leads me to my question: Who cares if Freud was wrong? Most scientists, especially psychologists, of his time were wrong, and many far more ridiculously. And if he was so clearly and laughably wrong, then there's no point in rehearsing the point.
Now, I wouldn't for a second argue that Freud was right about everything, or even about most things. But I also can't stand seeing people with inappropriate qualifications making sweeping claims about Freud, psychoanalysis and current scientific opinions on psychoanalysis. It's ironic, then, but not unsurprising that Mr. Akst criticizes Freud for framing his Clark lectures for a "lay" audience. Uninformed, sweeping claims about anything of course ruffle the feathers, but it is especially troubling when they appeal to "The Obvious." This kind of discourse, which unthinkingly recapitulates the most un-self-critical aspects of a culture's prejudices, takes on a unique brand of self-satisfaction when it comes to Freud. One can't help but nod one's head in patronizing agreement. Therefore, this is hardly Mr. Akst's error; it's simply The Way We Talk about Freud.
I have a duty, then, to complicate this discourse, even if only lazily. I won't get into too many details here, but, to begin with, there are important differences between classical Freudian psychoanalysis and the ego psychology that came to dominate its American developments; and the scientific opinions on the science of psychoanalysis is anything but straightforwardly dismissive (see here for hysteria and here for the unconscious). The other day I was listening to a Radiolab program on choice that basically presented current theories in cognitive science that would have been recognizable to Freud and his followers. I'm not bringing up the possibility of vindication out of any optimism at all -- merely to make the point that the best thinking on his work is far from any consensus, and even further from the obvious. Again, to complicate things.
On a more contemporary note, I think it's important to think about how anti-Freud vitriol might boomerang right back at some of the liberal values that motivate it. I don't mean anything as dramatic as a specific article like Mr. Akst's directly backfiring or forcing liberals to capitulate to the forces of global capitalism.
I mean in particular that the Freud bashers seem always to be playing into the hands of the managed care movement in health care administration, inadvertently of course, thus working indirectly against a methodology that has indeed achieved both popular and scientific consensus: the proper treatment of mental illness. Psychopharmaceuticals work best when accompanied by talk therapy. Numerous studies have demonstrated that all talk therapies have the same cure-rate (about 50%). So what works is structured face-time, whatever the school or philosophy. It's unfortunate that therapy in this country is often conflated with the worst caricatures of Freudian psychoanalysis. But, because of this association, if "experts" continue to recite their catechisms to a public nodding with readymade agreement, then it becomes that much easier to ridicule the usefulness of talking about one's feelings and paying someone by the hour to listen. And as a society it becomes that much easier for us simply to carpetbomb mentally ill patients with drugs, and then leave them for their families and the insurance companies to sort out.
My thematic aim was "understated elegance." It's built up on a 1986 Miyata 310 triple-butted steel frame/fork that I bought in more or less immaculate condition. The rear and front derailleurs and downtube shifters are all Shimano 600 Arabesque, which I bought separately from each other. The Arabesque components are a good example of my theme: they don't seem special from a distance, but up close you can appreciate their detailing. The crank is an FSA Energy carbon double 53/39 from I don't know when. A few years ago at least. The rear wheel is a Bontrager with a new 11-34 (!!) 9-speed cassette. The saddle is the Specialized Toupe from Valencia, by way of my demolished mix-and-match Bianchi/Nishiki commuter. The front wheel, road bars and brake levers are also from the demolished commuter. They are obviously good luck, and I'm glad they have the chance at a second life on Baby.
So, why "Baby?" I spent a lot of time in the tool library at the Missing Link in Berkeley learning how to put her together. She's been a labor of love.
If Baby is like my child, then this other bike is like my mistress. Or my true love. I can't tell the difference.
She's a Peugeot PY10-FC from 1984, '85 or '86 (I'm still trying to determine which year precisely), an absolutely breathtaking example of early carbon tube, steel-butted frames. All her components are Dura-Ace. Her wheel rims are Mavic Open Pro laced to Dura-Ace hubs. All good, yes, but what's astonishing is the condition she's in. She's essentially 25 years old, but aside from a few scratches on her decals (which were inflicted, I'm pretty sure, during moving, not on the road), she's in pristine shape. Her components look brand new not because they've been polished or cleaned, but because they hadn't seen enough time on the road for their brand new sheen to have been tarnished. She is smooth as silk. By far the nicest bike I have ever ridden. Valencia's a BMW M3. This Peugeot is a Jaguar.
Here's a hot ad for the PY10-FC from 1985:
Update, 8/8: Tragedy. I tried raising the saddle, and overtorqued the seatpost bolt. The result was this:
I've put in a number of inquiries to various frame builders and repair shops around the country, and even in Canada. The consensus seems to be that the frame can be fixed -- but it's totalled. Or near totalled. So now I'm parting out the components and will hold on to the frame as a sad reminder of my need for a torque wrench.
That's Steve Inskeep, one of the hosts of NPR's "Morning Edition." Here he is today expressing consternation over RadioShack's rebranding to The Shack. And then there was his segment from earlier this summer with Louisa Lim on China's "Green Dam" software. Start listening at about 1:30. Even Lim is weirded out.
In Paris a scientist named Dr. Tissle published an academic paper attempting to explain the joy of fast riding. It was an effort, he wrote, to secure equilibrium, a steady state in the imperfect, imbalanced, and oft-tormented human mind. "The effect produced by the motion," penned Dr. Tissle, "is the exaltation of all the faculties of the physical activity: these are the new conditions that provide the sensation of pleasure. Thus it is possible for the entire character to change. Talkative people become taciturn and taciturn become talkative."
Yesterday, I walked for the first time in the two weeks since my accident. I visited the physical therapist, who told me that my anxiety about putting weight on my still-swollen foot (which was about 50% larger than its normal size) was unfounded. In fact, she said, I should be putting weight on it otherwise I put myself in risk of further damage. So I began hobbling around -- and, miraculously, within six hours the swelling had gone down at least 90%, and I was able to walk! It was slow and painful, but it's a start. The best news of all was that the therapist told me that I could probably do the Napa century in a few weeks. It'll take a great deal of time and discipline to get back into shape by then, but I'm looking forward to the toil.
I use my foot as a club more than anything, because it's gotten so weak. I can barely stand on my toes. Flexibility is extremely limited. And now, a day later, the swelling is going up and down -- not back to the pre-physical therapy appointment size, however. That kind of swelling seems to be gone for good.
For those of you dear readers who haven't heard my story already, I've reproduced here the little report I wrote up after I got home from the emergency room. (When I was in college, a friend of mine had the clever idea of writing on an index card the explanation for why he was in crutches, and I've done the same for injuries or set-piece explanations ever since.) I added a some reflections a few days later as a way of figuring out why I couldn't remember much of the accident itself.
Thank you for asking about my injury. On the morning of Tuesday, July 7, I was biking up Telegraph to campus and came to the Ashby intersection.
A black BMW was in the right-turn lane, and the light had just turned green. I veered into the lane behind it, covering my brakes as it began to make a right turn. A hulking double-trailer big rig was accelerating in the next lane over. The BMW accelerated normally, but stopped suddenly before completing its turn, giving me little time to react. Because I was clipped into my pedals, instead of swerving to avoid it, which as I was angled would have meant swerving left into the big rig, I chose to run into the back of it in order to stabilize myself on the trunk while the big rig passed.
My momentum into the impact lifted my rear wheel slightly off the ground, and the forward momentum of my body caused the entire configuration to jack-knife. My rear wheel swung slightly into the left lane as a result, and a protrusion from the big rig clipped it, lifting my bike and myself over the BMW and into the small space between it and the big rig.
Witnesses explained to me later that some part of the big rig, not its wheels, ran over my bike while I was on the ground scrambling to tuck in my legs. Unfortunately, my right foot was still under my bike when this happened, and it was crushed beneath the weight.
My bike was totaled, and I was sure my foot had been broken. I was very lucky to have survived at all and even luckier that my foot had sustained no more than torn ligaments, heavy bruising, and assorted sprains. Witnesses also later explained to me that a surprise pedestrian was the reason for the BMW's sudden stop.
Thanks again for asking.
This is a long story for such a quick succession of events. The only clear memory I have is of hitting the back of the BMW and being assisted to the sidewalk by some of the witnesses. I can only conjecture about the actual accident; in that moment, all I know is that it was a close call. I don't know how close, but my proximity to mortal injury couldn't have been more than a foot or two.
The way I've been explaining it to people is that what happened to me is just short of traumatic. Running into the back of a car on one's bike is a more controlled affair than it may seem. It would have to be a pretty serious and careless collision for it to be anything more than awkward or infuriating. But being clipped by the big rig and tumbling over the car was both unexpected and non-injurious. It would be equivalent, I think, to being inches away from a car accident -- because the proximity would certainly be somewhat traumatic, but perhaps especially because its sheer immediacy would effectively obfuscate one's view of the accident. Violence in its most elemental form is simply heaped upon the senses. But having my foot crushed beneath the bike, which I didn't register visually, provided the release of libidinal charge that Freud theorized would prevent a total trauma. So in the midst of a technically traumatic experience, I had another one accompanied by a serious physical injury.
I had another close call when I was younger, at the end of the summer when I first began to drive. I had fallen asleep at the wheel near the interchange when I-45 turns into 610 West. I was travelling north on 45, one lane over from the left-most. When I woke up, there was an airbag in my face, the air was foggy with whatever compressed gas is used to inflate the airbag, and I was in the left-most lane on the Woodway overpass about 5 miles up 610. I had no memory of those intervening 5 miles. No one was injured. Miraculously, and not least because it was rush-hour.
So two brushes with death in thirty years. Third time's a charm -- but I don't know what that would mean in this context. I keep playing the phrase in my mind, though. It might be some kind of survivor's guilt. I keep probing my mind for signs of traumatic scarring.
This may sound perverse, but after all this I am even more committed to cycling. If I can reduce this to one reason it's because of its overall health benefits, which, I believe, outweigh any risk of bodily trauma. Dealing with the medical appointments and general inconveniences of being on crutches for two weeks has shown me how crucial it is to take care of one's self. Not least because of the logistical chaos that illness and injury wreak upon one's life. If I didn't have such a flexible schedule and an endlessly patient wife who works so close by, and if I were the primary bread-winner of our little family, then I can't imagine how we would have gotten through this.
There's a word that's overused in bike racing: strong. Riders and journalists are always talking about how this or that person is strong or strongest, or not the strongest, or how they feel strong or not strong. It's a good catch-all word for a sport that requires so many kinds of performance, and it's no surprise it's part of the name of Lance Armstrong's foundation. I'll talk more about this and the general glories of racing language in the next post, but I want to say here that it embodies what cycling means to me now. It's important to be strong, and to grow stronger. While we're young and strong we don't feel the urgency of it, but the cultivation of strength is like putting money in the bank. We all know that we'll have to make big withdrawals soon enough, but that kind of abstract, distant threat is easily blurred by habit. Be strong now.
