One of my favorite films is Night On Earth. I won't argue that it's a great film or that Jim Jarmusch is America's answer to Fellini or Truffaut. It's not the sort of film that will teach you any great lessons or makes any grand artistic statements. Rather, it reveals people without judging them, which is--to me--one of the best things an artist can do.
What all of the characters share is the kinship of the night and the confines of taxicabs. The film shows us what happens inside cabs on a particular night in five different cities: Los Angeles, New York, Paris, Rome and Helsinki. Some of the actions and interactions are very, very funny--especially in the New York sequence. But all of them reveal hopes, vulnerabilities, resentments and so much more.
I've often thought that if I were a filmmaker, I'd want to do something similar with cyclists. Perhaps I could show a messenger in New York or London or San Francisco, for example, and, say, someone riding to or from work (or to shop) in Paris or Amsterdam and other kinds of cyclists in other places. Of course, the point of such a film--if indeed there was one--would be to show what it means to be a member of the family of two wheels, if you will.
But there would be a terrible flip-side to such a narrative: Cyclists who are on the losing end of encounters with motorists, or who are involved in some other kind of mishap. I was reminded of this when I learned of two tragedies that occurred at around the same time, in two different parts of the United States.
One unfolded in my own backyard, more or less. Thomas Groarke--suspected of driving drunk--ran down 17-year-old cyclist Sean Ryan near Marine Park, at the far southern end of Brooklyn. Ryan was pedaling along Gerritsen Avenue, where I have ridden many times. As the street is long and flat, and the streets that feed into it see little traffic--and even less from people who don't live in the neighborhood--some drivers seem to see it as a local version of the Daytona Speedway. And, because the area is relatively remote, on the edge of Jamaica Bay, it is not as well-patrolled as some more central areas of Brooklyn.
The impact of the crash severed the bicycle in half. I shudder to think of what it did to Sean Ryan's body!
A few hours after that tragedy unfolded on the East Coast, in the middle of Indiana, 36-year-old Theresa Corey Burris was riding to work, on US 40, just east of Hancock County Road 250W. An 18-wheeler driven carrying an oversize load--a huge concrete slab that protruded onto the shoulder of the road--struck her. Its driver, 55-year-old Reed Thompson, apparently was unaware he'd run her over until police stopped him half a mile from the scene.
Sean Ryan and Theresa Corey Burris were both riding at around the same time. That unites them; so, unfortunately, is the way they met their endings. I would prefer that we, as cyclists, share different bonds and that our fates are not similarly bound in a tragic moment.
What all of the characters share is the kinship of the night and the confines of taxicabs. The film shows us what happens inside cabs on a particular night in five different cities: Los Angeles, New York, Paris, Rome and Helsinki. Some of the actions and interactions are very, very funny--especially in the New York sequence. But all of them reveal hopes, vulnerabilities, resentments and so much more.
I've often thought that if I were a filmmaker, I'd want to do something similar with cyclists. Perhaps I could show a messenger in New York or London or San Francisco, for example, and, say, someone riding to or from work (or to shop) in Paris or Amsterdam and other kinds of cyclists in other places. Of course, the point of such a film--if indeed there was one--would be to show what it means to be a member of the family of two wheels, if you will.
But there would be a terrible flip-side to such a narrative: Cyclists who are on the losing end of encounters with motorists, or who are involved in some other kind of mishap. I was reminded of this when I learned of two tragedies that occurred at around the same time, in two different parts of the United States.
One unfolded in my own backyard, more or less. Thomas Groarke--suspected of driving drunk--ran down 17-year-old cyclist Sean Ryan near Marine Park, at the far southern end of Brooklyn. Ryan was pedaling along Gerritsen Avenue, where I have ridden many times. As the street is long and flat, and the streets that feed into it see little traffic--and even less from people who don't live in the neighborhood--some drivers seem to see it as a local version of the Daytona Speedway. And, because the area is relatively remote, on the edge of Jamaica Bay, it is not as well-patrolled as some more central areas of Brooklyn.
The impact of the crash severed the bicycle in half. I shudder to think of what it did to Sean Ryan's body!
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| Police investigate the scene where Sean Ryan was run down. |
A few hours after that tragedy unfolded on the East Coast, in the middle of Indiana, 36-year-old Theresa Corey Burris was riding to work, on US 40, just east of Hancock County Road 250W. An 18-wheeler driven carrying an oversize load--a huge concrete slab that protruded onto the shoulder of the road--struck her. Its driver, 55-year-old Reed Thompson, apparently was unaware he'd run her over until police stopped him half a mile from the scene.
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| At the scene where Theresa Corey Burris was run down |
Sean Ryan and Theresa Corey Burris were both riding at around the same time. That unites them; so, unfortunately, is the way they met their endings. I would prefer that we, as cyclists, share different bonds and that our fates are not similarly bound in a tragic moment.
