A Good Way To Be Tired

 I have been in Japan for ten days.  Every one of them has ended with my falling asleep moments after entering my hotel room,

I could blame some of that fatigue on the heat and humidity: Every one has felt like the steamiest one I experienced in New York, Florida or anywhere else I’ve lived or visited. I don’t recall Cambodia or Laos, which are well within the tropical zone, being so  resembling a sauna. Today I did the trek up Fushima Inari, where ten thousand orange gates frame the trail up the mountain. Every body—including those young enough to be my grandchildren and lithe enough to be ballerinas and marathoners—were sheathed in sweat.

 

 

Were my fatigue a result only of the sweltering conditions, I would feel resigned, perhaps dispirited: The weather just happens. But I am satisfied, even content. I am experiencing so much during my days here, not only from my bike rides and visits to shrines, temples and other sites, but simply from being here.

It’s as if I am “catching up” or “making up for lost time.” At the risk of sounding trite, I wish I’d come here sooner—as in, decades ago. I find myself wondering what I might be like had I immersed myself in a culture where people do their jobs and helpful not because they’re trying to be helpful, but rather because, really, what else can we do? Now I wonder how much I’ve come to see aggression and confrontation as normal as a result of living in New York and, increasingly, the United States.

When I ride the unprotected bike lanes that line some streets, I don’t hear a crescendo of car horns behind and beside me or feel the hostility of drivers who just might run me over if it meant nothing more than a fine and points on their licenses (if indeed they have licenses). And in the sidewalk bike lanes, I don’t get the sense that pedestrians see me as part of an invading hostile force.

Oh, and store clerks don’t stare and sigh when I confuse the two coins with holes in the middle—a 50 vs a 5 yen piece—and explain—or call someone can —when I ask what’s in a package or bottle with a label printed only in Japanese. They have better things to do—namely, their jobs—than to shame or patroniize you.

In short, I don’t think I have ever been in a more civilized place. I wonder what I might now, be like if I’d experienced it earlier in my life. For now, it’s an adjustment—and adjustments tire me out. But I don’t mind this kind of tired.

A Shrine To What Is

 A week in Japan. Three days in Osaka. My twenty-seventh country and—how many cities, monuments and faces have I seen?  Yet I feel I am experiencing everything for the first time.

This has been my first trip to a place I hadn’t previously seen since I went to Greece six summers ago, a few months before COVID changed the world—and me.  (In early 2023 I went to Paris, where I lived years ago and have visited several times since.) Tokyo, Osaka and Japan certainly are different from other places I’ve seen: The qualities of light and color, and even of time and space, are as unlike others I’ve felt as takoyaki is from a jambon-beurre sandwich or a hamburger. Yet I can’t help but to feel that the real differences between what I have known and what I am learning lie within me and sometimes within my body itself.

For one thing, I notice that I am more tired at the end of a day of cycling, walking and sightseeing. Mind you, I have long realized that wanting to end a day of any journey—whether in a place I am seeing for the first time or a place to which I return nearly every day—by laying down my head is usually a good thing:  It means that I have lived that day, if not fully, then at least to the best I could.

The bike I rented in Tokyo.

Of course, some of my fatigue has to do with age: While I am in the middle of my life as long as I don’t know when it will end, I cannot pretend that my body is what it was forty years, or even minutes, ago. That, I realize, is also the reason why I could—and, I admit, do—wish I could have taken this trip earlier in my life, I am glad I am on it, and that it still lies ahead, now.

Then there is the weather: I landed in a heat wave. Or so it seems. Every day I have been here has been as hot as the steamiest days of any summer in New York.  That makes sense when one realizes that Tokyo and Osaka are on the same parallels as the American South. But it seems even hotter here than in Cambodia and Laos, which are undeniably tropical. 

I am not complaining: If everything is exactly as you expected, you aren’t traveling.

Perhaps that previous sentence seems smug or sanctimonious. Perhaps it is. For what it’s worth, it’s something that made sense to me today when I visited the Sumiyoshi Taisha shrine. (Hmm, maybe there is something to those shrines and temples after all!) Yesterday, after touring Osaka Castle, I wandered into NHK World. Not surprisingly, there were screens everywhere showing various Japanese TV programs—and Jaws with Japanese subtitles. I saw that movie the summer it was released and thought back to that movie time when I was pursuing the dreams of my father and a few other adults in my life. I thought that if I hadn’t pursued what they envisioned for me—mainly, their own unfulfilled wishes—my life would have been what it was “supposed to be.” I utterly failed in most of those pursuits because, I was told, I didn’t try or study or Jesus hard enough and that I should just “snap out of “ my “moodiness.”

But today I realize I hadn’t failed, although I couldn’t have known it all of those years ago. If nothing else, I learned that those dreams and goals—such as going to West Point or Annapolis and embarking on a military career, which my father wanted for me—simply weren’t right for me. Perhaps even the dreams I had, like being a marine biologist, were not meant to be even if I blamoed my father and a buddy of his for hijacking them.

As for what any of this has to do with cycling: It’s probably one of the few passions I’ve ever had that nobody could change or destroy.  So here I am, in midlife, cycling in my 27th country.

Anyway, I realized at the shrine that my failure—if indeed there is any—was in believing that my life was “supposed to be” a certain way, whether in line with my own or other people’s wishes. Rather, I need to acknowledge, if not embrace, what is and journey through whatever will be.

Front and side view of one of the shrine’s sanctuaries .

After leaving the shrine, I entered a cafe—“Vie de France”—for a cafe au lait and to use their internet connection. I called Callie, Sam’s significant other, who is looking after Marlee. “I miss you,” she said.

“I miss you too. And Marlee?”

I met her—and “Sam”—just over a year ago, when I moved to the place where I live now.

You Don’t Have To Be A Mischievous Turtle

Yesterday, and the day before, I explored Tokyo by bike. Now I am riding something much faster than I ever could be, or could have been, on two wheels: one of Japan’s fabled “bullet” trains, headed for Osaka.

Yesterday I met Ava, her brother Alex and their mother and grandmother in Shinjuku  Guyoen National Garden. Ava was trying to find a turtle she’d spotted in one of the Japanese formal garden’s pools. I pointed out two fish—giant carp, I believe—I saw. She had already seen them and was determined to find the turtle. “Maybe it’s playing hide-and-seek,” I said.

“He’s being mischievous!,” she exclaimed.

We watched and waited. “Do you like to draw pictures?”

She nodded. “And I like to write stories.”

“Maybe you could make a comic. “The Mischievous Turtle.That would be a great name!”

Her eyes lit up.

She’s eight years old. I think she has a great future. Forget that: I think she has a good present. 

I can’t help but to wonder whether her imagination is stoked by the trips she’s already taken, courtesy of a relative who travels for his job.  Her mother told me they were going to Osaka. “We’re flying,” she explained because of the relative whose business brought them here. I can’t imagine that it’s much faster—or any better—than this train.

For that matter, I don’t believe it beats cycling. While Tokyo is not Amsterdam or Copenhagen, I saw plenty of people pedaling to work, or wherever they were going.  In fact, this morning I saw families riding together—a Sunday morning ritual, perhaps?

One striking similarly I saw with the European havens of everyday cycling is in the bikes people ride: completely utilitarian, almost invariably equipped with fenders, lighting, racks and baskets. Some, mostly young, people were astride lightweight road bikes and I even saw a couple of randonneuses complete with canvas front and rear bags and hammered fenders. But I didn’t see (or perhaps I just didn’t notice) any high-end off-road bikes.

I can’t help but to think that there is so much transportation and recreational cycling in a city as bustling as Tokyo because there is real support for it. While a few bike parking facilities have opened in New York, they are only in “prime” locations. Tokyo, on the other hand, has placed them not only in such spots, but also in underused spaces like those under bridges and overpasses. Moreover, they are convenient for people who, say, want to shop or go to a cafe: Parking is free for one to three hours, depending on the location. 

When the bike is wheeled into the spot, the front wheel is locked in automatically: If you have ever returned a Citibike or other shared bike to its portal, you’ve seen something similar. Each slot is numbered, and to retrieve the bike, you tap in the number. If you have left your bike for more than the allotted time, you will have to pay,100 yen (about $1 at current exchange rates) per hour.

Even where such facilities aren’t available, you can leave a bike and be relatively certain it will be there when you return for it. At the entrances to the Meiji-jingu shrine and Shinjuku, there are designated bike parking areas. The bikes, except for a Cannondale racing machine at Shinjuku, were unlocked. And that bike had only a minimum-security cable wrapped around its top tube.

Perhaps most important of all, I haven’t sensed the same animosity toward cyclists I have experienced in New York and other American locales. Drivers don’t double-park in unprotected bike lanes and where pedestrians and cyclists share sidewalks, each is almost deferential to the other. Perhaps this attitude has to do with the fact that most cyclists are riding practical bikes and wearing their work or everyday clothes. There is also, I believe, simply more of a communal sense: People don’t feel as entitled to, and are therefore less likely to battle for, space.

You don’t have to be a mischievous turtle to cycle here. I have felt comfortable while riding from the moment I went out with Sho and the group on our tour. I only had to remind myself that drivers—and cyclists—travel on the left, like the British.

Taking In Tokyo On Two Wheels

 I have claimed this city for myself.

That is a bold, even bombastic statement, I know. But that is how I feel any time I’ve taken a bike ride after arriving for the first time in some place. That city, town or even country, even if I have experienced only a small part of it, becomes a part of me.

Tokyo is new to me. It doesn’t, however, feel as strange as it did last night when, the closer I came to my hotel, the more lost I became. Is it my imagination, or do Google Maps directions become more vague the closer you come to your destination? 

I had a similar experience this morning when I went to meet a group for a bike tour. When I got off the Metro at Daimon station, I was across the street from the meetup spot. That street is wide—like a “stroad”—and the point of reference wasn’t easy to spot. So I wandered away from it and missed the ride. Fortunately, the folks at Tokyo Rental Bicycle allowed me to join their afternoon tour. In the meantime I wandered around Shiba Park, which includes everything from traditional Japanese gardens and memorials to a modern playground, and fronts this:

Who knew that a flight across the Pacific would land me in Paris? Or that instead of the Champ de Mars and Invalides, I would see it from the Shoguns’ burial site?

Anyway, after seeing that, I entered the Zojoji Temple just as a ceremony was about to begin. I had just enough time to photograph the interior: Although I am not religious, I have enough respect to honor the request not to take pictures during the ritual. I thought it looked new for such an ancient temple. Turns out, it was reconstructed, using both ancient and modern techniques, half a century ago on the site of the Tokugawa Shogun’s family temple. That building stood on the site for centuries before bombing raids leveled it in 1945.

After spending time there, and in the Treasures Gallery, I figured out where the bike tours met and took a ride with Sho,  a young Tokyo native tour guide, a woman and her son from Strasbourg, France (I can’t leave wFrance, can I? and another woman, originally from Spain but living ini Belgium and speaking French (!) as her everyday language.

The first stop on our tour was the Zoiji Temple and the shrines, which I had just visited. I didn’t mind: Sho explained, among other things, the differences between a shrine and a temple (A shrine is usually for Shinto and has a gate delineating it from the rest of the world; the latter is more commonly associated with Buddhism.)and how the role of the royal family has changed. He told us to park our bikes right outside the temple’s entrance—without locking them. As a New Yorker, it amazes me that people leave their bikes unsecured in public places of such a large city!

From there, we rode to the Imperial Palace. Like the Zojoji Temple, it’s a reconstruction of a building destroyed by Allied bombing raids near the end of World War II. The Palace itself isn’t open to the public except on special occasions, but the grounds, which include a moat and fortifications, are nice—and a short from Tokyo Station.

Then we cycled to what Show half-jokingly called “the most expensive Air BnB: Akasaka Palace, where visiting dignitaries stay. From there, we made one of two climbs included in the ride (You have to get your money’s worth, right?) to the National Stadium, built for the “2020” Olympics held a year later due to COVID and, much to the dismay of taxpayers, hasn’t been used and to a Hachiko’s grave. (Yes, there’s also a tombstone for the dog who waited for him!) Sho mentioned that all of the trees in that graveyard, where some of Japan’s wealthiest and most famous people are interred, are cherry blossoms. It made me wish I could have come early in the spring!

As if to show us what a city of contrasts Tokyo is, Show took us to the Aoyama Fashion District and Shibuya Crossing, which makes Times Square seem like an intersection in one of those town’s where there’s only one traffic light. Aoyama and Shibuya epitomize everything you’ve heard about hyper-modern Tokyo.

Now that I’ve taken the Tour, with Show guiding us, I feel more confident and ready to explore a city that I feel is now mine, if in a small way. A bike ride always seems to do that for me.

Our group. Please try not to notice the weight I gained this winter!

I rode this.

Crossing A Line

So where in the world is Justine, a.k.a. the author of Midlife Cycling?

OK, here’s the the first clue:

The sky is overcast, but neither it nor the water are as murky as they appear: I took the photo through a not-so-clear window. We should see a sunrise tomorrow.

Now, here’s another clue:

Hot coffee in a canister.  I can’t find that in my local bodega.

And one doesn’t normally find these on arriving at an American hotel or B&B:

Finally, here’s one more tip-off that you’re definitely not in New York City—or anywhere in the United States:

Even if you couldn’t see the signs, or didn’t notice people’s faces, I think you could tell I wasn’t on the D train.

I am indeed in Tokyo.  After a 13 hour-plus flight, I need some sleep. But tomorrow I’ll be exploring—on bike, I hope.

Watch for this notice at your local post office:  

“WANTED:  Justine Valinotti (alias: the Midlife Cyclist Blogger). For crossing the International Date Line to ride a bicycle.”

On My Way

My next post will be from a  place I haven’t mentioned before. Stay tuned!

Why Do We Call It A Bike?

 When I was growing up, and when I was living as a man, everyone in my family called me by a shortened version of my old name, with an “ee” sound at the end of it. I always hated that nickname even more than my full name. There reasoning was that an uncle and my father shared that name. 

(I hated being a “junior “ even more than my nickname.)

For some reason, however, no one ever called my brother Michael “Mike.”

What got me to thinking about all of that? This:

From One Connection to Another?

 Today, for the first time in a week, I took a ride that didn’t involve errands or some other purpose. I pedaled, into the the wind, to Point Lookout. That meant, of course, the wind pushed me on my way back.

As I munched on the chips and salsa (homemade—in my home) I brought with me, a lady asked whether I minded sharing the bench with her. “Of course not!” The man who accompanied her said, half-jokingly, “I trust you with her.” 

“You don’t know me!” I joked back.

Vera is a delightful conversationalist. After an hour or so, she invited me to her house—only a block away—for iced tea. Her dog Willie greeted me at the gate and she introduced me to her husband, sons and grandson.

COVID, it seemed, turned many people inward, or caused them to tune out. But Vera said it had the opposite effect on her: After seeing people die, she “came to appreciate “ that she’s still here—at 92 years old. I never would have guessed.

So I got home quite a bit later than I expected. I felt a little guilty about that because ‘it’s the first time I’ve left Marlee alone for a whole day since I brought her back from the hospital. Before I left, he was trying to rub his face on me but the “Elizabethan collar” got in the way. 

We will have our connection soon enough, I hope. But for today I made another connection—or, to be exact, Vera made one with me. We exchanged addresses and phone numbers and asked me to call the next time I’m out that way.

Taking Their Bike Lane—Or Making Another Possible

 Keith Kingbay did as much as anyone could have to keep the torch flickering during what Sheldon Brown has called “The Dark Ages” of American cycling. He was a racer who helped to develop what was, for a couple of decades, the only world-class racing or touring bike made, or even conceived, in the US: the Schwinn Paramount.

But perhaps more important, he was a strong advocate for cycling when there were still relatively few adult cyclists in the US. He helped to reorganize the all-but-moribund League of American Wheelmen into the League of American Cyclists. So, perhaps not surprisingly, he championed what we now call “bicycling infrastructure.”

I now recall reading his articles and a book he authored or co-authored in the early or mid-1970s, when I first became a dedicated cyclist. As I am remembering, he said something to the effect that getting community support for cycling events is not difficult because bicycles are “not controversial.”

He passed away three decades ago. I thought of him in light of an argument about a Brooklyn bike lane.

In recent years, bicycles have become, at least in the US, symbols of environmental awareness and sustainability or, if you are of a different social and political persuasion,  everything that threatens the top-down, fossil fuel-consuming world as you’ve known it. In other words, it’s become a symbol of evolution or destruction.

While some individual religious people cycle for transportation or recreation, their organizations —especially if they are fundamentalist or otherwise conservative —aren’t exactly advocates for cyclists or cycling . On the surface, their hostility has to do with their alliances with right-wing politics. But if you probe deeper, you realize that the marriage of religious fundamentalism and political conservatism that veers into facism has to do with a shared interest in preserving patriarchal economic and social structures and what they perceive as “traditional” gender roles.

So, while the Satmar Chasidic Jews of Brooklyn may not have, or want, much participation in the techno-financial complex, they don’t want “scantily-clad” “sexy-ass hipster girls” rolling through their neighborhoods. That is why they (or their leaders at any rate) opposed Citibike, New York’s bike share program, and bike lanes.

Their opposition to the latter would have, only a few years ago, explained their delight in Judge  Carolyn Walker-Diallo’s ruling to uphold Mayor Eric Adams’ decision to remove a protected bike lane on Bedford Avenue, one of the borough’s major thoroughfares, without community notification or the other normal processes required for a major transportation project. In essence, Judge Walker-Diallo said that bike lane removal or replacement is not a major transportation project.

But the Chasidic community’s—and the neighborhood’s —leaders were not pleased. Not because, as it turns out,  Walker-Diallo contributed financially to the political campaign of a local bike lane opponent. Nor did it matter that the Department of Transportation under Adams, who is widely disliked in the community*, installed the lane.

Rather, their umbrage has to do with the fact that children were using the lane to ride their bikes to school. In fact, the suit against the lane’s removal (which ended with the judge’s decision) was initiated on behalf of one of those children. Peter Beadle, the lawyer representing him used the DOT’s own data showing that protected bike lanes reduced injuries by nearly half—to no avail.

He did, however, see a glimmer of hope. If changing from one type of bike lane to another doesn’t require community notice, he said, “then we need to change all non-protected lanes to protected lanes immediately because we know they make all road users safer.”

So, if bicycles themselves aren’t controversial, as Keith Kingbay wrote half a century ago, could he—or anyone else—have foreseen the controversies they could engender, let alone how they could flip political alliances?

*—I, too, am not a fan of the mayor, if for different reasons.

Marlee’s Home

 

After The Ride

 So why, dear readers, have you not heard from me since the Fourth?

(You might also be wondering why I’ve started this post with a question that sounds like something from an 18th Century epistleary novel. But I digress.)

No, I didn’t spend the past two days recovering from a wild birthday bash. 

Saturday, the day after the Fourth, could hardly have been better for cycling : temperatures reached the low 80s (27-28C), the sun illuminated high cirrus clouds and moderate wind blew in from the southeast. And surprisingly little traffic claimed the roadway. 

So of course I rode. On such a day I expected to see more people than I saw on the sand or in the water at Rockaway and Long Beaches and Point Lookout. One section of Jacob Riis Park was full, but there was some sort of gathering or celebration in progress. I didn’t see anything like the crowds I expected (and feared) until I got to Coney Island, where it seemed that nobody went home after the previous day’s fireworks and hotdog eating contest (of which I never understood the appeal ).

As the day—Saturday, the day after the Fourth —had grown late, I knew that even if the volume of traffic didn’t grow, the level of alcohol consumption would . So I took the train home, happy with the 85 mile (140 km) ride I’d taken on a beautiful day .

My great mood ended when I got home and saw splotches—of blood?—scattered across the floor and Marlee lying in a small puddle, acknowledging me only with her eyes. No veterinary offices or clinics were open, so I left a message with Bronx Veterinary Center, the first to open yesterday morning .

After spending most of the day there, I got the prognosis: kidney stones and blockages in her digestive and excretory systems. She underwent surgery and will be there until tomorrow.

Last night was lonely: It was my first at home, in decades, without her—or any other cat.

Here’s To The Fourth

Today is Independence Day—the Fourth of Joo-lie—in the US.

I had planned to start the day by riding with “Sam,” my neighbor and sometime riding buddy. He now has a much nicer bike—which I helped him find and customize—than he rode last year. But he has to cancel: a family member called and needed help with something. He and his girlfriend still plan on getting together with me for dinner and a celebration—of our friendship and the holiday.

Since it also happens to be my birthday (No, I won’t tell you my age.  I’ll just say that I’m still in midlife!) I am reflecting on my past, including my brief racing career (if you can call it that). I took myself way too seriously. I guess that’s a consequence of feeling you have to prove yourself at every moment, even if you don’t really know what you’re trying to prove or if it bears little or no relation to reality, or to whom you’re trying to prove it (or if they don’t care).

Now that I can look back at my younger self and say, “It’s OK,” I would love to show up for a race on a bike like this:

just to mess with my younger self and all of those guys (yes, they were male) who took themselves too seriously as I did.

(By the way, today is my birthday. I won’t tell you my age, only that I am still in midlife!)

Wheels or Wings?

 Bicycling is my preferred means of transportation and recreation.

I wonder whether this creature is considering an alternative to his/her/theirs.

An Inoffensive Mystery

 Yesterday I pedaled La-Vande, my King of Mercia to Point Lookout. On my way back, I hopped on a train in Arverne, near Rockaway Beach, when I saw a storm coming just beyond (or so it seemed) the Boardwalk. Still, I rode about 105 kilometers (65 miles).

At Point Lookout, I shared the sun deck with a couple who, not so long ago, I would have described as “older.” They most likely had only a few years, if any, ahead of me.

The woman had whiter-than-white finger- and toe-nails that could have drawn attention to, or deflected it from, anything else about her appearance. Otherwise she didn’t seem out of the ordinary except, perhaps, for her black and white swimsuit and flip-flops that we’re probably expensive but pretending to try not to look it. 

The man, on the other hand wore a T-shirt with a logo from some event at Notre Dame (the university). At least, that was on the back.  I didn’t see his front until he turned to me and asked, in an almost awkwardly- polite tone, “Is the music bothering you?”

“Not at all, thank you.”

His device played Frank Sinatra at a volume one might hear in the background of a small office. In that space, with a roof and no walls, the sound was even less intrusive.

I grinned to myself. People, mostly young men, play their music, full of heavy bass beats, loud enough to vibrate the walls of buildings they pass as they speed down “strouds” in their “pimped out” cars. None have ever asked anyone the same question I heard from that man in Point Lookout.

Perhaps more ironically, a couole of weeks ago a young man making Fed Ex deliveries boarded an elevator with me. Turned out, we were headed to the same floor. “So you’re Sinatra?”

He looked at me quizzically.

“Going my way?”

Blank stare.

“You’ve heard of Frank Sinatra?”

“No.”

I explained that “The Chairman of the Board” was perhaps the favorite crooner of a generation or two. “You’ve probably heard at least one of his songs-“New York, New York.”

There was a glint of recognition.

“It has the line, ‘I wanna wake up in that city that doesn’t sleep.’”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well check out You Tube or anyplace else you listen to music. You can find more of his songs.”

I was happy to give that young man a piece, however small, of a proper education. But I don’t know which made me, a Midlife Cyclist feel old, if only for a moment: my having to explain “Ol’ Blue Eyes” to the young man or the older man asking whether 

The Wheel Keeps Turning

 The debates about larger vs smaller diameter wheels and wide vs narrow tires have raged for as long as I can remember 

and, probably, even before my time.

What I Didn’t Know

 Alert: I am, once again, invoking my Howard Cosell rule to write about something not directly related to cycling.  It is, however, a reflection from the vantage point of midlife, as I have defined it on this blog.

The night was hot, even for early summer. Judy Garland had just died, 47 years old. Patrons of a particular bar were mourning her passing. Or, perhaps, they simply wanted to release some tension, or simply have a good time.

Some of the bar’s regular patrons had been forewarned about one event about to take place. But at the time, they could not have known its aftermath.

On this date in 1969, New York City police officers raided a bar. That, in itself, was not unusual. Nor was the fact that its “respectable” patrons—mainly white-collar and creative men with wives and families not very far—at least geographically—from that place had been forewarned.

The remaining patrons consisted of “undesirables ” and “throwaways”: kids kicked out of their homes by families who didn’t approve of their “lifestyles;” others, young and old, who survived on the streets by catering to the most lurid fantasies of men (mainly) richer and more powerful than themselves, and those who were expressing their gender identity and sexuality in then-illegal or yet-unnamed ways.

I am talking, of course, about the 1969 Stonewall Rebellion. I was a week and a day away from turning and would know nothing about what happened that night for many more years. By that time, I was close to midlife—at least as I define it on this blog—and had become an avid cyclist.

Does COVID Explain Them?

When I wrote for small local newspapers, some cringeworthy headlines were spliced onto my articles. Those headlines, as often as not, were attempts to introduce three or more short articles, sometimes on entirely unrelated events or subjects, published together. 

Such a headline appeared on the web version of “The Olympian,” a Washington State newspaper:

Bicycle business closing, area hospitals avoid layoffs, Chinese dumpling eatery opens.

Are those three events related? At first glance, they don’t seem to be. But, as I’ll explain later in this post, there may be a common thread uniting them.

I’ll start with Dough Zone, the Chinese dumpling house. It’s actually not a brand new restaurant; rather, it’s a new location of a local chain. I can understand the appeal of those tasty morsels, which I suspect has increased since the pandemic: They are well-suited for takeout and delivery, both of which have skyrocketed in popularity since those dark days when in-person dining was forbidden.

Perhaps the threat of layoffs in Olympia’s St. Peter’s Hospital and Centralia in nearby Lewis County also has something to do with the COVID pandemic: Perhaps not as many health care workers are needed now as were necessary when the “mysterious “ disease was ravaging communities. But, from what I’m reading, I think the prospect of contraction may have been as much a result of another phenomenon: consolidation. Those hospitals, like so many others, are  now part of a larger group:  in this case, Providence. System officials, however, point to other factors, such as medications and other supplies rendered more expensive because of tariffs and the prospect of cuts to Medicare.Then again, those tariffs and reductions in benefits may be a result of the pandemic, which ballooned Medicare budgets and made medications and supplies, most of which are imported, more expensive. Now, I don’t know whether tariffs will result in those things being produced in the US, and thus less expensive. But the pandemic certainly showed how vulnerable our supply chains are.

Photo by Steve Bloom for The Olympian

Finally, the owners of Joy Ride Bikes didn’t mention the bust that followed the pandemic-induced Bike Boom as a factor in their decision to close their shop on 25 July. But it’s hard not to wonder whether it—and other changes in the bike industry and overall economy—might have influenced their decision that “all good things must come to an end,” as co-owner Will Trogen declared . (Didn’t one of the Beatles say that after “Let It Be?”)

Where Are You Most Likely To Lose Your Bike?

 Perhaps no-one would be surprised to learn that, according to the FBI, more bicycles are stolen in California than in any other US state. After all, it is the most populous state and has many active cycling communities.

It probably wouldn’t surprise many people to learn that my home state of New York, with the fourth-largest population, ranks fifth in total bike thefts.

On a per-100,000 people basis, however, neither the Golden nor Empire State is at or near the top. The District of Columbia leads that ignominious list, with 246 thefts per 100,000. The US capital’s rate is nearly double that of the highest state, Oregon, where 128 bikes are pilfered per 100,000 people.

(For reference, the US average is 44 per 100,000.)

Photo by KMGH

Those facts may not be so shocking, given the population density of DC and the bicycle culture in such Beaver State cities as Portland. 

Perhaps the most surprising fact is that Vermont, Montana and Utah—states with lower crime rates than the US average—rank fourth, fifth and eighth*—respectively, in per-100,000 bike thefts.

The Green Mountain and Treasure States’ fourth- and fifth-place rankings might be explained in part by their small populations: a relatively low number of thefts can skew the averages upwards. I have never been to Montana or Utah, but my guess is that they share some other characteristics with Vermont: a significant portion of their populations participate in outdoor activities, including cycling, and, perhaps, a sense of calm that causes people to let their guard down.

Perhaps Kryptonite should re-name their New York bike locks.

*—The District of Columbia (Washington DC) is ranked as a state for this purpose.

He’s Not The Only Culprit

 Eight months ago, Bekim Fiseku struck Amanda Servedio and killed her.

I took that tragedy personally in part because she was cycling near a Queens intersection—37th Street at 34th Avenue—I rode, probably, hundreds of times when I lived in Astoria.

And I was enraged because Fiseku was fleeing the scene of a crime—his—with officers of the 114th Precinct in pursuit. Chases of that sort are forbidden in New York City for the hazards they pose on narrow streets like 37th and 34th Avenue.

Bekim Fesiku

Not to minimize his misdeed, but the cops’ violation of city law is all the more disturbing when one considers Fiseku’s offense:  attempted  burglary from a nearby construction site.

As of yesterday, he faces charges for that—and second-degree murder as well as other crimes related to the death of Ms. Servedio and his fleeing (he blew through a solid red light.

I am glad that he has been arrested and charged and hope that he is punished to the fullest extent possible. On the other hand, I realize that he is not the only guilty party and that the NYPD officers who chased him for a comparatively minor offense may never be held to account.

Midlife Climbs

 It’s noon—and 94 degrees F (34.4C) already. I am glad I took an early morning ride to City Island and Orchard Beach after a cup of coffee and before breakfast!

It’s as if nature were reminding us that summer has indeed arrived. Tomorrow’s weather will be similar; I probably will do another early ride.

The weather is such a contrast to what we had a week ago, when I joked with a neighbor that we don’t have to go to London because its chilly mist drifted over to us. 

That day, and on two others last week, I headed for the hills. In Yonkers and other points north of the city, the peaks and escarpments aren’t very high, but the roads and paths leading to them can be steep—enough so that roadside signs tell drivers to shift gears.

I did all of those rides—and today’s—on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear.  At times I berated myself because I was climbing more slowly than in times past—like, say, when I was in my 20s and 30s. But people applauded and shouted encouragement—“You go, girl!”—and I kept on pedaling.  Tosca has always been a joy to ride, however strong or slow I might be.

Sam, my neighbor and sometime riding buddy, reminded me that other people in our building marvel at what I’m doing. “Well, I’m lucky,” I demurred. “I am not in as much pain as they—or you—are.”

His back has been bothering him. He doesn’t want to “hold me back,” but I remind him that I am riding because I can and want to—and I’m willing to “slow down “ for him and his girlfriend, who has expressed interest in riding with us.

So now a question enters my mind: Why am I willing to “wait for” them but not to meet myself at the stage of my life, and riding, where I find myself? I enjoyed every pedal stroke of the rides I took and felt joy at the end. So what if I couldn’t climb a hill as quickly as I did 40 or 30 or even 20 years ago? As long as I simply enjoy riding, whether solo or with others, why do I need to criticize myself—especially in ways I never would criticize anyone who wants to ride with me?

I am not “too old.” I am in midlife as long as I don’t know when or if I must stop riding. So, I believe, is anyone else who, at whatever age, slings a leg over a bike, for whatever reason. And at any speed.

Everybody Was Out

 Yesterday was the first day of summer here in the Northern Hemisphere. I began the season with an early ride to City Island. An afternoon of exploring unusual buildings in unexpected places followed with the perfect companion for such a trek: Esther Crain, the author of Ephemeral New York, one of my favorite blogs. 

In the warmth and sunshine one expects on the first day of summer, it seemed that everyone was out for a walk or ride.  Even animated characters couldn’t resist the urge:

What Hath Juneteenth Wrought?

 Today is Juneteenth.  On this date in 1865, two months after Robert E. Lee surrendered, Unon  troops arrived in Galveston, Texas to accept the surrender of the last Confederate regiment and inform Texas slaves that they were free.

Those events are significant because Texas was the westernmost slaveholding state. In fact, during the Civil War, some plantation owners fled the fighting in other states and brought their slaves with them. As a result, the Lone Star State had, by some estimates, the largest remaining slave population by the time President Abraham Lincoln issued his Emancipation Proclamation.

Also, Texas became a US state because of slavery. Although most of its people were English-speaking, it was part of Mexico when that country outlawed slavery in 1825. Cotton-growing and cattle-ranching, both of which were heavily dependent on slaves, were the mainstays of its economy. Rather than give up their unpaid help, they chose to secede, making Texas an independent country (some natives still refer to it as the “Lone Star Republic) for nearly a decade before the US annexed it in 1845.

Everything I mentioned in the previous paragraph was not taught when I was in school. I wonder whether curriculum-makers are still “forgetting” it.

Anyway, although Juneteenth as an official holiday is only four years old, it’s already becoming a capitalist bonanza. The bicycle industry is not exempt  As an example, State Bicycle Company is using the occasion to promote its limited edition “Bob Marley Clunker,” complete with a hemp saddle and bag—and, of course, a facsimile of the Rastaman’s signature.

Seeing that bike reminded me of a vogue from my youth—or, at least, a time in my life I could say I was young or, at any rate, not in midlife.  During the early and mid-‘90’s, it seemed that every twenty-something in California who had access to a lathe was making parts, mainly for mountain bikes, that were lighter and, supposedly, improvements over what legacy companies like Shimano and Campagnolo were offering .

How much of an improvement were they? Let me tell you about my Syncros and Control Tech stems that were recalled and the Nuke Proof rear hub that folded on itself during a ride—or the Syncros seatpost on which the head separated from the shaft while I navigated a switchback. Or two riding buddies whose Kooka cranks broke. 

But, hey, that stuff looked really cool. And some of those parts were offered in every color imaginable. (Violet and Lilac? Sign me up!) For a time, some were even available in the “Rasta Rainbow” of red, green, black and gold. (Fun fact: Jamaica has the only national flag whose colors don’t include red, white or blue.) I had a seat bag decorated with fabric in those hues, and a former riding buddy ordered his custom frame in those colors.

I’ll bet the maker of that frame—and all of the “Rasta” parts and accessories I mentioned—would have loved to have a Juneteenth sale—even if they knew nothing about the history behind that date, Texas or anything else because, well, they attended schools like mine.

By the way, you know that Juneteenth is a combination of “June” and “nineteenth.” There’s a term for that kind of mashup: portmanteau (port-man-toe).