Delivering Hate And A Death Threat

Yesterday afternoon, I hopped onto Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bicycle, and pedaled with no particular destination in mind.  I simply wanted to spend an hour or two riding before the rain came and I had to get back to work.

After zigging, zagging and looping through "Hipster Hook" and eastward to the closest thing this city has to a stetl--the Hasidic enclave in Williamsburg--I found myself riding down the unprotected bike lane on the left side of Tompkins Avenue, a one-way southbound street in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood.  Although the lane is nothing more than lines painted on pavement, I'd had no issues during previous rides along its length.  In fact, I rather enjoyed it because it passes a park and some of the most colorfully-decorated stores and cafes you'll see in this city.  

Note my use of the past tense.  It doesn't mean I'll never go back; it means only that the string of pleasurable rides was broken.

Between Madison Street and Putnam Avenue, a USPS truck parked in the lane, on the left side of Tompkins, probably to make a delivery.  Those trucks often take up more than the width of a lane so, perhaps not surprisingly, there was a traffic "bottleneck."  In that queue was another USPS truck, just a couple of vehicles behind me to my right.  The driver seemed to lean on her horn as she shouted out the window--at me, it turned out, even though I waited behind the parked truck so she could pass.

Well, as they say, no good deed goes unpunished.  She veered her truck toward me and yelled racist, "Fuckin' white tranny bitch!"  (Hey, she scored a trifecta:  racism, sexism and transphobia, all in one!)  At the next intersection--Jefferson Avenue--she pulled over to retrieve mail from a box.  I stopped and yelled, "What was that all about?"

"Mind your own fuckin' business."

"I am.  When someone tries to kill me, it's my business."

"Fuck you, white tranny bitch!".

Since USPS trucks don't have license plates, I snapped this photo of the truck number.  Then I took a photo of her, from the side, as she came out of the truck.  Proud of herself, she posed for me.

I have filed complaints with the USPS and the local NYPD Precinct.

He Says We're Charity Cases

When laws or policies are enacted so that members of "minority" groups can love and marry whomever their hearts desire, get jobs commensurate with their education and skills, and live in communities they can afford--and where their children will enjoy the same opportunities as their majority-culture peers--some folks whine that we're getting "special privileges."

This phenomenon is, sadly, hardly unique to the US.  It persists in other places, though the "minority" group in question might be different.  And the fear and resentment echoed in that complaint might be expressed in different language or other ways.

An example Patrick Lefevere's answer when presented with the idea of starting a women's cycling team in the manner of Movistar, FDJ or Trek-Segafredo.  The Decuninick-Quickstep team boss, widely regarded as the most succesful cycling team manager in history, hails from Belgium, arguably the most cycling-intense country in the world.  So, if anyone seemed a likely candidate to launch a top-tier women's team, he would be the one.

So how did he respond?  "I'm not the OMCW"--a Belgian welfare organization.

To be fair, he claimed he doesn't have "the experience, time, money or desire" for such an undertaking.  Perhaps his pockets aren't as deep (or it's more expensive to start a team)  and the time commitment in running a team is greater, than we suspected. Also, he's 66 years old, so he may want to spend whatever time he has on other pursuits--or his grandkids.  

But his experience?  While female racers differ from their male counterparts, I think someone like him can spot talent and train people.

Belgian Team Liv member celebrates her victory ahead of Elisa Longo Borghini in La Vuelta Stage 4 (Getty Images)

Again, in the interests of fairness, I should point out that he doesn't know how to convince someone with the requisite talent and skills to become a professional cyclist--a pursuit that, at times, has more in common with the life of a monk or nun than a rock star.  And, he claims that there's a chasm between the level of Belgian female cyclists and their peers in neighboring Netherlands, which has turned out champions like Marianne Vos.

Now, if he'd stuck to his claims about talent levels or what he was able and willing, or not, to commit to a women's team, he at least would have had some credibility.  But to liken such an undertaking to a welfare organization is to say, in essence, that we're charity cases.  We aren't, any more than the US Women's Soccer team is.  

Not For Women--Or Anybody

When I was writing for a newspaper, a police precinct commander sold me something I haven't forgotten:  "Lucky for us that most criminals are stupid."

For many perps, their folly begins in thinking that they'll actually get away with what their misdeeds.  But for others, their foolishness shows in the ways they execute--or don't execute their offenses. 

I got to thinking about all of that because I think there's a parallel principle in making works of "art".  We are lucky, I believe, that most of the truly offensive stuff--you know, things that are racist, sexist, homophobic or otherwise show contempt for some group of people that did nothing to deserve it--is purely and simply bad.  And that is the reason why it is usually forgotten.


So why am I pontificating about virtue and virtu on a bike blog?, you ask. Great question.

Yesterday "The Retrogrouch" wrote about a bicycle displayed at the North American Handmade Bicycle Show (NAHBS).  Its builder, Allan Abbott, dubbed it "The Signorina."

With a name like that, you might expect a nicely-made women's city or commuter bike with some Italian pizzazz.  Instead, it's a not particularly well-made (for a handbuilt bike, anyway) machine that's supposedly built in the likeness of a naked woman.



So far it sounds like a silly novelty item, right?  But it doesn't seem like anything to get worked up about. Or does it?  

Now, I'm sure there are places where such a bike could not be ridden because it would offend the sensibilites of some people.  I'm not one of them:  I have no aversion to nudity, although I have to wonder whether anyone in his or her right mind would want to see me naked.

But I digress.  If you're going to use a human form, au naturel, in one of your creations, at least show it in all of its imperfect glory--the way, say, any number of painters, sculptors, photographers and writers have done.  Whatever its gender, size, colors, shape, age or state of alertness or weariness, make it a reflection of what we are, and aspire to.  Above all, make it living, human and organic.

The supposedly female form in Abbot's frame is none of those things.  If anything, it's plain creepy:  The "signorina" is on her "hands" and "knees"--and headless.  I'm sure there are people--a few of whom are cyclists or collectors--who are turned on by such degradation.  I guess I'm philistine and reactionary:  I'm not one of them.

But, to be fair, if "Retrogrouch" hadn't described it, I might have needed time and an extra look or two to discern the nude female form straddling the wheels.  Call me slow or un-hip if you must.  Even after reading about it on Adventure Journal  as well as Retrogrouch's blog, I'm still not convinced that the bike in any way--realist or abstract, linear or Cubist, Classical or Impressionist--evokes a female, or any other human, form.

In other words, it doesn't work as art.  Perhaps we should be thankful for that.  

Somehow I get the impression it's not such a great bike, either.