Really Going Dutch

 Probably the first “normal” thing—besides cycling—I did during the COVID-19 pandemic was to visit the hospital Metropolitan Museum of Art just after it reopened.

Of course, there were restrictions: Visitors had to wear a mask and have their temperatures taken. And, of course, we had to follow social-distancing protocols.

But one thing I loved—along with the Japanese exhibit I went to see—was a service that was provided:  a bicycle valet.  That person parked your bike in a nice safe spot in the parking garage and gave you a ticket, just as if you had checked a coat or backpack.

Now another venerable institution—actually, annual event that’s been held since 1929–is offering a similar convenience. Cyclists can ride to the event, check their bicycles with a valet, and spend the day exploring, not only a museum, but a large part of a town.

The town in question is holding its festival—Tulip Time—from the 4th until the 19th of May.  And, since tulips and bicycles sound so very, very Dutch, you might think that town is in the Netherlands.

Well, it’s not. Rather that town is the Netherlands—or, more precisely, Holland. And it’s located, not among canals, but amidst lakes.

The Holland in question is in the Great Lakes State, i.e., Michigan. Not surprisingly, it was founded by immigrants from the eponymous nation and the Tulip Festival features, not only the colorful flowers, but all things Dutch.

What better way to get there than by bicycle—especially when a valet will park it safely?

T Time

 Yesterday’s ride, though short (about 40 km) was interesting. I had previously ridden most of the streets as segments of other rides. Until yesterday, I didn’t realize how close or connected some of them are.  They will, of course, become strands I will weave into new itineraries.

One strange part of the ride began next to the Albert Einstein College of Medicine. (Don’t you feel smarter just reading that?) There begins this street:

A few blocks later, it runs along the Amtrak and Metro North rail lines and becomes this:

So how did Sackett lose one “T”? Did he/she/they not show up for the 4 p.m. ceremony? Or did the railroad’s builders need a “t” to turn a rack of land* into a track?

The street continues along its way beside the railway and, at Hering Avenue in Morris Park, regains its previous identity:

So how did Sackett regain its second “t?” Hmm…The neighborhood, Morris Park, has been an Italian enclave for more than a century. One thing I know about my people is that we drink coffee. (Growing up, I heard, “Tea is for sick people.”) So I imagine it wouldn’t have been difficult to get at least one of us to give up a “t.”

Anyway, I had coffee before the ride. I probably didn’t need it:  The sunshine and brisk breezes woke me up!

*—That, I imagine, is how the two sides of land might look with the trench, but without the tracks, running through them.

Going On A Ride As The Neighborhood Goes

Someone delayed the start of my morning ride.

They* climbed from the gutter and onto the sidewalk, missing my front tire by a few feathers.

If I hadn’t seen—and touched—Maria’s pigeon a few weeks ago, I would have been shocked that this one came so close to me and didn’t fly way as I drew closer. They did, however, fly away once I started riding, which led me to believe (or at least hope) they’re not sick.

Now I’m going to tell you a secret:  They and I are part of a conspiracy to gentrify the neighborhood.

Ok, so that was a joke.  We’re not the only white folks in the neighborhood. And although it’s not the Upper West Side or even Astoria, this part of the Bronx doesn’t seem to need (or want) gentrifying:  It’s working- and middle-class, racially and ethnically mixed with, it seems, more of both “traditional” families and LGBTQ people than I expected.

I must say, though, that even in the most posh NYC neighborhoods, I don’t see many people or other beings whiter than I am.  And it’s not often that my ride is momentarily disrupted by a pigeon.

*—Have I become everything the Faux News/MAGA crowd hates? I’m even referring to animals by gender-neutral pronouns!

Who Copes Better?

What did I see this morning, as I began my fourth week (!) in my new apartment?

Marlee has been cuddling with me even more than she had been in the old apartment--and that's saying something.  I wonder whether she's scared about being in a new and possibly strange place.  Or does she like my body more because I've gained weight? At least, I feel as if I have.

As you might imagine, I haven't done a lot of cycling, at least compared to what I normally do.   If I have gained weight, however, it may have as much to do with how I've been eating.  Last night, I realized that because I've been so busy, most days--including yesterday--I've been eating my biggest (or only) meal at the end of the day.  

Will Marlee still love me--or, at least, my body--as much when I get back to my normal cycling and eating habits?  And will she like this new place when it's all neat and arranged? 

The Four-Two-Oh!

 As I mentioned yesterday, it was “four-twenty.”

Many theories have circulated about how that combination of numbers, and yesterday’s date, came to be associated with marijuana.  One is that “four-two-oh” is the police code for it.* Another is that the date is Bob Marley’s birthday.  Neither explanation is true.

Still another  explanation is that it’s a reference to Bob Dylan’s song “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35”:  Multiply those two numbers and you get 420.  While this is somewhat more plausible than the other two stories I mentioned —and the 2016 Nobel Laureate for Literature did, after all, introduce the Beatles to weed— I still doubt it.

The most credible explanation seems to be that a group of California teenagers met at 4:2O in the afternoon to partake of it and other pleasures prohibited by their school—and the law. Supposedly, that group met during the 1970s and one of its members, Dave Reddix, later became a Grateful Dead roadie. (What else can a teenage pothead from California become?) In late 1990, he distributed a flyer (Remember, there was no social media!) inviting Oakland “Deadheads” to smoke with him at 4:20 pm on 4/20 in 1991. That flyer landed in the hands of a “High Times” magazine editor, who printed it in his publication.

So..the folks at Trek could be forgiven for naming one of their models the 420.  After all, it was 1981 and they probably didn’t know about Reddix and his troupe of truculent teenagers in Tiburon.  Or did they?

*—Cops always say numbers digit-by-digit.  So, for example, the 114th Precinct in my old (It still hurts to say that) Astoria neighborhood is “the one-one-four.”

The Trip And The Day After

Yesterday was a holiday most people don’t know about—unless, of course, they read this blog.😏

It’s interesting, and perhaps unique, in that it doesn’t commemorate the thing for which it’s named.

Believe it or not, yesterday was Bicycle Day.  I’m sure that some club or another had a ride marking the day.  And I’m sure at least one of the riders has dressed or made themself up to look like the man who, however unwittingly, made yesterday Bicycle Day.

On 19 April 1943, Swiss chemist Albert Hofmann rode his bike home after taking a mild dose (or so he thought) drug he synthesized several years earlier. “I was taken to another place, another time,” he recalled. “My body seemed to be without sensation. Lifeless. Strange.”

One thing we don’t know about his ride was its pace.  He may have been pedaling vigorously but I somehow doubt that he was riding like a Tour de France or Olympic racer in training.  So whatever he was experiencing—which, he said, lasted until the following day—probably wasn’t the result of endorphins. Thus, he can be said to have been on the world’s first LSD trip, literally and figuratively.

Ironically, the day after—today—would, decades later, become another “holiday” having to do with chemically-altered states of mind:  420 is a code name for marijuana and, at least in the US—where we write our dates in the exact opposite way from the rest of the world—the 20th of April is known as “Four-Twenty.”

The doctor at 87.  See what cycling can do?

By the way, Dr. Hofmann died fifteen years ago—at 102 years old. What was the key to his longevity? It must have been the cycling.

What Was This Driver Doing On The Road?

 Someone drives illegally. They* strike and kill a cyclist.

That driver has been sentenced to…

**

…five months in jail. Oh, and the badass judge tacked 40 hours of “community service” and “no more than five years” of probation.

Call me cynical, but I think the judge handed a sentence, light as it is yet still harsher than most for similar infractions because:

• the cyclist was a priest and
• as Paul Walsh, a reporter for the Minneapolis  Star-Tribune noted, Trejean D. Curry had “a penchant for driving without a license.”

A “penchant for driving without a license.” According to a court filing, Curry has never had a driver’s license in his home state of Minnesota. Yet, by the afternoon of 25 October 2021, when he plowed into Rev. Dennis Dempsey from behind, Curry had accumulated “10 convictions for operating a vehicle while his driving privileges were revoked, six for lack of insurance, two for speeding, two for instructional permit violations, one for expired tabs and one for passing another vehicle in a prohibited area.”

Rev. Dennis Dempsey R.I.P.

All of that when he didn’t have a license? To me, the most pertinent question is:  How and why was this guy even on the road on the afternoon of 25 October 2021?

Oh, and he had the gall to claim that Dempsey had swerved in front of him. Skid marks and other evidence pointed to the exact opposite:  Curry swerved, accidentally or not, into Dempsey’s path on the should of the road where the driver and cyclist were traveling in the same direction.

I will end with two more questions: Will the jail sentence, “community service” and probation—even if they are served in full—change Curry’s behavior.  And what sort of sentence will Judge Dannia Edwards mete out the next time she is faced with a scofflaw, or simply careless, driver who kills a cyclist?

*—I have used a gender-neutral pronoun to eliminate, as much as I can, any biases.

**—If you were expecting me to say something like “a $50 fine” or “two points on the driver’s license,” I understand.

Riding With The Flow

 Today I rode to, and along, a river.

It wasn’t the Hudson or East River—the latter of which isn’t a river.

And I didn’t leave the city.  In fact, I didn’t have to go far from my new neighborhood.

The Bronx River cuts through the New York Botanical Garden, my building’s next door neighbor. Cycling isn’t allowed in the Garden. There are, however, trails along other parts of the only freshwater river in New York City and near its source in Westchester County.

I remember seeing the river decades ago, probably during a trip to the Bronx Zoo. Then, the water was barely visible because of the cars, tires and other refuse that had been tossed into it. Ironically, the building that once housed Lorillard’s snuff factory—one of the river’s first polluters—sits in the Garden, one of the organizations that helped to spur the River’s cleanup about 20 years ago.

I doubt that the water is potable. At least, I wouldn’t drink it. But people enjoy picnics and, I hear, fishing along its banks. And it’s become popular for canoes and kayaks.

Still, there are reminders that it is, after all, in the Bronx.  

I continued to ride for another two hours through unfamiliar streets in somewhat familiar areas. Soon, I hope, I will feel more at home, if for no other reasons that places become a part of me when I pedal them.

Proposal

 Some day—perhaps soon—I’ll believe that I’ve moved to the most wonderful neighborhood in the universe. As much as I love my new apartment (even if it is smaller than my old one), its views and its light, and as friendly as my neighbors have been, there are still things I miss about Astoria.

Those things include, of course, my friends—with whom I’ll try to stay in touch.  Also, it had, if not the best, then some of the best, of New York:  It’s about as close as you can get to Manhattan without being there, but it doesn’t have the self-conscious hipsterism of Williamsburg, Greenpoint or Bushwick.  

Oh, and there was the food. I’m finding good eats here, but I still haven’t come across a bakery, let alone one that makes bread or cookies like Parisi’s or bagels like Lots o’ Bagels. 

And of course, there are the rides.  I could continue to do them, but I would have to ride (or take a train) to get to them.  I’m just starting to discover some good routes here, but I’m still in the “It’s not the Fort Totten ride!” stage.

Finally, there are the characters.  I’m sure I’ll find them here, but I still think of the ones I just left. They include the guy who hung out by the train station and the stores. He approached me and, probably, every other woman in the neighborhood, with this proposal:  “Will you marry me?  I’ve got food stamps!”

I have to admit, there are worse—or at least more bizarre—pickup lines.

Soon I will return to regular posting.  I have been so busy—and tired—that it seems like a miracle that I actually managed to do two rides—about 25 miles each—that had nothing to do with commuting or errands.

On The Right Track In Ghent?

 When I was in high school, I took my first organized charity bike ride. It was in the Spring of 1976: the tide of the 1970s Bike Boom was ebbing and few (at least compared to today) adults rode bikes.  In fact, most had not pedaled since they were kids, if they ever had ridden.

That is what made some of my sponsors hesitant before signing up:  They simply could not imagine anyone riding the distance of that ride: 25 miles.  Little did they know that I had already done rides twice and three times as long and a “century” was not far in my future.

Of course I finished that ride easily and my sponsors paid up. But the reason I am recalling that ride now is because of a near-tragedy. 

The ride crossed railroad tracks. Many riders were inexperienced and almost none wore helmets. (I didn’t!) Someone apparently didn’t realize that cyclists should ride across at a 90 degree angle, preferably while lifting themselves off their seats—or, if the tracks protrude too far off the ground or are wet, simply walk across.

That cyclist’s tire skidded against a rail and when he fell, his head struck the rail. At least that was the story I heard. About a week later, I heard that he’d recovered and was out of the hospital. I wonder, though, whether he suffered any permanent damage that wasn’t detected in those days before CAT scans (as they were called) were widely used.

I got to thinking about that incident, nearly half a century (!) later when I read about how the city of Ghent, Belgium is trying to deal with a similar problem.  Ghent and other European cities have trams—similar to the streetcars that once laced many American cities and “light rail” lines that have recently been built in Jersey City and other places. Those conveyances run on a narrower set of rails that are more likely to be at or near pavement level.  Also, in some places, cyclists and trams share the same spaces.

So while it is easier to traverse them, it is also easier to miss them or simply not to take the necessary precautions. In Ghent, with a population of around 264,000, bike crashes on tram lines send about 500 cyclists to the hospital every year.

The elastic solution would be injected in the area marked by green paint.

The city is testing a possible solution: Lining the cavity in which the track lies with a new elastic compound.  While it won’t sit completely flush with the pavement, there would be enough so that a cyclist could more easily move cross or move out of a tram’s way—and is less likely to get a tire caught between the track and pavement.

Four Hundred Kilometers From Totality

 

I didn’t create this Instagram reel.  But I was in the vicinity—near the World Trade Center—on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike.

Someone confirmed what I suspected: Many of the people were students or teachers at a nearby high school and college. What could be more educational than seeing a solar eclipse, even if we were about four hundred kilometers away from the path of totality.

What Color Is Your Ride?

 It isn’t easy being green!

Which Is Less Likely?

 What might you have in common with Miguel Indurain?

Well, not five Tour de France victories—unless you’re Jacques Anquetil, Eddy Mercx or Bernard Hinault.

Otherwise, it’s most likely that if you share any experience with the Basque legend, it’s that of having your bike stolen.

Last month, he was prepping for the six-day Titan Desert mountain bike race when his machine was taken from a van parked outside a hotel in Vilaseca, a Catalonian town where Indurain was staying.

Now, if you’re lucky, you might have another commonality with him: one that might seem almost as rare as five Tour de France victories.

He got his bike back.  The local police force reported the return, which they effected.

Now we are, unfortunately, in still-rarer, if not quite as rare as five TdF wins, territory: the constables actually helping someone to reunite with their bike. 

Miguel Indurain deserves such cooperation. So do you, should your bike ever be stolen.

A Quick Break: A Ride

Yesterday I rode—on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear— for the first time since my move.  It was a short trip, past the Garden and Zoo, but it felt good to do something not move- or work-related.

Although I’d previously done some cycling in this area, as Anniebikes says in her comment, there’s more to explore.  Even after 21 years of living in Astoria, I found new rides and variations on familiar ones.

My new apartment has nice views and is much lighter and airier than my old place.  I wonder:  Will the sun steaming in my window energize me to ride more?Will the fog creeping by lure me into winding down the bike lane by the gardens?

The Latest Stop On My Journey

 OK. Now I am going to tell you about the life change which I’d been hinting about during the past couple of weeks.

As you might have guessed, it’s a move:  my first since December 2009.  And, for the first time since August 2002, I am not living in Astoria.

This photo from my 13 March post is one view from my new apartment: the Conservatory of the New York Botanical Gardens.

I am now living up the block from the Gardens’ Bedford Park Gate. If I look in another direction, I see the Fordham University and Prep School campuses and, in the distance, the Manhattan skyline.

The neighborhood seems to be a racially and ethnically mixed working-to-middle-class area, There are stores and restaurants nearby. Although they carry different items and serve different foods, they remind me of what I encountered when I first moved to Astoria. 

I must say, though, that I haven’t seen nearly as many cyclists—and, thankfully, motor scooters—as I would encounter on Crescent Street. That, I think, is a lesson in the sociology of urban cycling:  Astoria, like nearly Greenpoint and Williamsburg, has grown younger, whiter and more self-consciously hip. Perhaps I will—consciously or not—plant seeds of cycling culture as I pedal in and out of, and around, the neighborhood.

So why have I moved to Bedford Park, Bronx? Do you promise not to tell anyone? 

I am now in a senior citizens’ apartment.

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you might’ve guessed that I was in or near the age range for such a thing.  For several years,’I’ve been applying for one and my name finally came up. 

Whatever my housing situation, I do not plan to change the name of this blog. As I’ve said in earlier posts, whatever my age, I am in the middle of my life as long as I don’t know when it will end.  And, as long as I keep on cycling, I don’t think I’ll be anywhere near the end of my journey.

I Couldn’t Keep That Jeanne In A Bottle

 

Back in the day, I was young.  (Weren’t we all?)  And that was me, on a bike.

Egg Hunting

 Happy Easter!

The G&O Cyclery ((Seattle WA) announcing they’re closed because they’d “Gone Egg Hunting.”

I haven’t posted during the past week because of a change in my life.  I hinted at it in recent posts.  I’ll tell you more and return to regular posting soon.

Which Way?

Yogi Berra supposedly said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

Who Rode It? Who Owns It?

 Sometimes collectors pay hefty prices for bikes because of who rode them. 

I imagine that if you want to own anything Eddy Merckx or Bernard Hinault pedaled to victory, you would need to win a lottery jackpot or two—that is, if such machines are available. 

Nearly three years ago, a humbler mount—a 1970s Raleigh Traveler—ridden to work by a young woman named Diana Frances Spencer fetched 44000 GBP (about 62000 USD in the exchange rates of the time) at auction. The young lady had a change in her life circumstances and was advised that riding her bike to work—or, for that matter, her job itself (nursery school teacher)—would be “unbecoming” for someone in her new station.

I am referring, of course, to Princess Diana.  Even if she hadn’t ridden the bike, it probably would’ve gone for a lot of money just because of its association with her.

Similarly, another bike up for auction won’t go cheap because of who owns it: Jorge Mario Bergoglio. To the best of my knowledge, no one has seen him riding it. That’s understandable when you consider his age (87 years) and the vestments he’s expected to wear.

He is, of course the Pope. The Pinarello Dogma (Can you come up with a better name for a Pope’s bike?) has a starting price of 9000 Euros.  Experts expect the price could go as high as 25000 Euros. That it probably won’t go for as much as Diana’s wheels has less to do with the Pope’s or Diana’s popularity than with how the bike market has softened since the early days of the COVID pandemic.

Egan Bernal giving Dogma to the Pope

It’s ironic that the Dogma derives more of its value from who owns it than it does from who gave it to him:  Colombian 2021 Giro d’Italia winner Egan Bernal, who is reportedly a devout Catholic. Bernal actually had it made for the Pontiff and painted blue and white to honor his Argentine heritage.

That got me to wondering:  Would the bike(s) Bernal actually rode command such a price?

From Rough Stuff To Gravel

 When you get to, ahem, a certain age, you become very skeptical when you hear the word “new.”  It seems that every genre of bike introduced and every “innovation” coming down the pike has been done decades, or even centuries, earlier.

I am thinking about all of the new and “revolutionary” bike and component designs and materials that appear on the market every year. Carbon fiber frame’s didn’t appear during the ‘90’s any more than the first aluminum frames were made by Alan during the ‘70’s.  Likewise, “rapid rise” derailleurs and disc brakes appeared on bikes decades before they attained their current popularity.

It could also be argued that “mountain” or “off-road” bikes are derivatives of earlier machines made to be ridden away from pavement. Oh, and the newest and latest trend—gravel bikes—is really six decades old, at least.

As a teenager in 1953, John Finley Scott drew a design for a “cow trailing” bike that reflected his interest in riding dirt, gravel and railroad grades.  At that time, few Americans rode bikes once they got their driver’s licenses.  So he looked to England, where there was a culture of “rough stuff” riding. 

John Finley Scott, with his Jim Guard bike as it came from England 

In 1961, he contacted British framebuilder Jim Guard, who brazed together Reynolds 531 manganese-molybdenum steel tubes with Nervex lugs. That was standard for high-quality, high-performance frames of the time.  So was the geometry:  72 degree head and seat tube angles on a 22 1/2 inch frame.  

Little did Guard or Scott know that configuration would become standard for gravel bikes six decades later.

Of course, the frame was outfitted with components very different from today’s.  Disc brakes for bikes were years away.  So Guard brazed on bosses for the most powerful brakes of the time: the extra-beefy cantilevers made for tandems. They, like the Specialites TA Pro Vis 5 (Cyclotouriste) cranks and chainrings Scott chose, would grace early mountain bikes two decades later.

The brakes were originally configured for 27 inch wheels, typical on quality touring bikes in the Anglophone world. Later, Scott had the brake bosses moved to accommodate the smaller-diameter 650b wheels, which allowed him to use wider tires.

Scott rode his proto-gravel bike on and off trails.  He thought it was the perfect way to explore the wonders of the American West. He continued his adventures until 2006, when he was a 72-year-old retired University of California-Davis professor of sociology. He hired a handyman he befriended to trim the trees around his property. That handyman cut down branches—and Scott’s life.

I would love to imagine a 90-year-old John Finley Scott tearing down a mountain pass with riders young enough to be his great-grandchildren on bikes that they probably don’t even realize he conceived, however unwittingly.

Which Season?

 For the first two days of Spring, we’ve had the coldest weather—and strongest winds—we’ve had in a couple of weeks!

And I’ve been busy with my latest transition. More about that later.

A Ride Before The Eclipse

 So how did I spend St. Patrick’s Day?

After attending to a couple of things having to do with my upcoming life change, I rode to Point Lookout.

March is known for its wind.  I was reminded of it when I pedaled against it on the return part of my trip.  But the day was otherwise lovely: enough sun lit the sky to highlight the constellation of clouds spread over flickering waves.

From what I understand, we are not in the path of the upcoming solar eclipse.  We will, however, get to see a partial eclipse. Perhaps I will watch it.  Whether or not I do, I will be happy I saw a galaxy of cloud formations.

Right Where They Belong

 Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

Somehow, leprechauns look like they belong on bicycles. Maybe it’s because they always look happy, and bike riding makes people happy.

That said, should we admonish them to wear helmets?

She Loves To Ride But Needs A Special Bike

 Kids (and adults) who are neurodivergent often have lots of physical energy but few socially-accepted outlets for it.

One such child is Mallory Siegman of Cape Coral, Florida. The 11-year-old looks forward to her adaptive physical education session at school, where she rides a specially-designed tricycle.

As much as she loves to ride, she can’t venture out on her own because she has autism.  It’s especially important for her to get exercise, her mother Danielle explained, because she was recently diagnosed as a borderline pre-diabetic.

So, she is entering Mallory into The Great Bike Giveaway, presented by The Friendship Circle of Michigan, a non-profit that provides programs and support to individuals and families with special needs. Turns out, Mallory has two siblings who are also autistic. Planning activities, Danielle says, is a challenge.

She hopes to win an ET 2611 tandem from Freedom Concepts, which retails for $10,000. One way it differs from other tandems is that it can be steered from the rear and the front steering can be disabled.  That means Danielle or her husband can ride in the rear (what is often called the “stoker” position on a traditional tandem) while Mallory or one of her siblings rides in the front (often referred to as the “captain’s” position). Most important, according to Danielle, is that she is “always right there” for Mallory and is “able to help her so she doesn’t get hurt.”

More information about the Giveaway—and to donate, go to the Friendship Circle page.  Mallory has her own page, where you can vote for her.

Bike Mistaken For Deadly Weapon In Gaza

Armed conflicts often lead to a form of hyper-vigilance I’ll call “war paranoia.” (There’s probably  a clinical term for it.) Everyday people, objects and situations are seen as threats or dangers and met with brutal or deadly force.

Such was the case in Gaza, where an Israeli military strike targeted what was believed to be a rocket propelled grenade launcher.

It was bicycle, and its rider died in one of the most horrifying ways possible.

To The Next Stage Of My Ride

 Over the past week and a half, what little riding I’ve done has been for commutes or errands, the latter of which has to do with an upcoming life change.  More about the latter soon. All I’ll say, for now, is that it will include a view of something I’ve ridden to and by many times:

Bike Thieves Prey On Crash Victim

The late, great Tom Cuthbertson--author of "Anybody's Bike Book" and "Bike Tripping"--wrote that stealing a bike from someone who loves and depends on it is one of the lowest things one human being can do to another.

As someone who loves and depends on my bikes, I agree.  But I also believe that some forms of bike theft are lower than others.  

On 23 February, some time between 5:30 and 6:30 pm local time, a young cyclist fell off his Carerra Vengeance mountain bike and suffered serious injuries.

Two men in their 20s stopped by on the premise of helping him.  They did indeed help him to his feet and waited with him until medical help arrived.  They were not, however, the Good Samaritans they pretended to be.  The victim's vulnerability became an opportunity for them to get a free bike--which they took with them as they fled into the York (UK) city centre.

A police spokesperson is urging anyone who might have information to contact Constable Eleanor Stevens.  

Why Do I Have A Cat?

This is why I have a cat:

What Do A Bike Race And An ‘80’s East Village Club Have In Common?

During my youth, there was a joke:  If you want to clear out an East Village club, all you had to do was walk in and yell, “DEA”—meaning “Drug Enforcement Agency.”

The East Village has gentrified enough that I doubt any of those clubs still exist.  About fifteen years ago, Brooklyn’s Bushwick neighborhood was more or less like the EV of my memory.  I guess it’s a sign that I really am well into midlife that I don’t know where the current epicenter of the club scene is—or whether they can be cleared out by yelling “DEA!”

I was reminded of that old joke when I read about an eight-day stage race in Spain. One week ago, on Day/Stage 6, 130 of the 182 riders bailed out because of “flat tires” and other maladies that coincided with the arrival of Spanish anti-doping authorities the way plane crashes, defenestrations and “accidental” poisonings follow expressions of dissent from, and other opposition to, authoritarian regimes.

Alvaro Marza, a former time trial champion who finished eighth in the race, noted that relationship between flat tires and the arrival of the anti-drug officers. “It is not a complicated mathematical formula, but it is the harsh reality,” he wrote in an Instagram post.

Susan B.Anthony, Muhammad Ali And Flight:370

 Today is International Women’s Day.

Whatever your gender identity or your anatomical configuration, if you are a cyclist, you should recognize the importance of women in cycling and, well, the world.  For one thing, we are the majority of humanity.  For another, there have been many great female cyclists, most of whom have ridden without recognition and support. A few, including Beryl Burton, have even beaten men’s records.

But perhaps the most important reason of all is that anyone who cares about gender equality needs to recognize the role the bicycle has played in the long journey toward that goal. After all, Susan B. Anthony said that the bicycle did more to liberate women than anything else. (That is why oppressive regimes like the Taliban forbid or discourage women and girls from riding them.) Bikes provided, and continue to provide, independent mobility. They also released women from the constraints of corsets and hoop skirts which, I believe, helped to relax dress standards—and thus make cycling easier—for everyone.

Today also happens to be the anniversary of two events that occurred during my lifetime.  One is one the greatest aviation mysteries of all time:  the disappearance of Malaysia Flight 370 ten years ago. Such an incident would have caused consternation in any time, but have become much rarer over time.

While that tragedy may not seem to have much in common with bicycles or bicycling, the other event is somewhat more related.  On this date in 1971,”the fight of the century” took place between Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali. Joe won that bout, but Ali would win two rematches.

To this day, I can’t recall another sporting event-and very few events of any kind-that were preceded by as much anticipation and hype. I’m no boxing expert, but I doubt that there has ever been a title match between two opponents so equally matched in talent and skill but so different in style. Also, Ali had been stripped of his titles—and his boxing licenses—for three years because of his refusal to register for the military draft that could have forced him to serve in the Vietnam War.

So why is “The Fight” worthy of mention on this blog?  Well, as I mentioned in a previous post, a boy named Cassius Clay might never have grown up to become Muhammad Ali, “The Greatest,” had his bicycle not been stolen. In recounting his loss to á police sergeant, he vowed to “whup” the thief.  The sergeant, who just happened to train boxers on the side, admonished young Clay that he should learn how to fight first.

So..did you ever expect to see Susan B. Anthony and Muhammad Ali mentioned in the same post—much less one that includes Malaysia Airlines Flight 370?

Why Are More Cyclists Dying On NYC Streets?

The New York City Department of Transportation has reported that 2023 was the deadliest year for cyclists since 1999.  A total of 30 people lost their lives on two wheels. That represents a more than 50 percent increase from the fatality rate of the previous year, or the year before it.

Cyclist deaths in New York City

(Purple bar-traaditional bicycles.  Pink bar--eBikes)

E-bikes

Traditional bicycles

30 deaths

23

25

20

15

10

7

5

2009

2011

2013

2023

2015

2017

2019

2021

(Source:  New York City Department of Transportaion)

The number of cyclists who were killed while riding traditional non-motorized bikes (7) actually declined from any of the previous 15 years. So, the vast majority of the city's cycling fatalities were on eBikes.  Moreover, those 23 deaths in eBike crashes is more than double the number of any other year for which records have been kept.

That number is, in part, a reflection of the degree to which eBikes have, as some cyclists and pedestrians say, "taken over."  Indeed, no eBike casualties are recorded before 2014 because, before that time, there weren't significant numbers of motorized bikes on this city's streets. 

(That era--the early to mid 2010's--was also, interestingly, when the popularity of motorcycles was at its lowest ebb in at least half a century.)  

But one theme has remained constant in the past quarter-century.  About half of all bicycle and eBike deaths are a result of crashes with trucks.  A major reason for that, I believe, is that truck drivers simply don't see cyclists.  Also, delivery trucks often pull into bike lanes or the rightmost traffic lane, which is used by cyclists when a separate bike lane isn't present. Some drivers, I imagine, don't know how else to make deliveries.  Plus, there is simply more traffic of all kinds on this city's streets, in part because of ride-share services that began to proliferate at around the same time as eBikes.