Something I Never Dreamed

 I have moved from one place of residence to another—on my bicycle. I’ve carried, in addition to backpacks full of clothes and books, various kitchen items, a chair and desk.

But I never hauled what this cyclist has on his back:

Tour de Pothole?

 Once upon a time—when I was growing up in Brooklyn—one telephone area code covered not only the Borough of Hones and Churches, but also the other four boroughs of New York City.

Now there are seven.  Soon there will be eight. Someone suggested, only half-jokingly, that a pothole on Bushwick Avenue is getting the new area code all for itself.

If that were the cases, and every street crater got an area code, New York—and many other cities—would have too many area codes to 

• 

Members of the Nantwich Cycle Group are going to count all of the holes and cracks in their local streets —sort of. The Cheshire club is planning a ride to locate places where the pavement has split, heaved, collapsed or otherwise become a hazard. 

They hope to pressure the Cheshire Council East to make repairs.

Hmm…Maybe we should have a Five Boro Hole Tour here in New York City. I wonder, though, whether the Department of Transportation would pay any attention.

When We Become The “Other”

 What do you notice about this headline?:

Cyclist beats man with bike, critically injuring him on the Upper West Side

Leading with “cyclist,” to me, foments a bias—or sparks one some readers may have already had. I don’t recall news stories about cars hitting cyclists beginning with “Driver” or “Motorist.”

Now, some may argue about volition—the man who used his bicycle to attack another man seems to have intended it.  Why, I don’t know. 

While I suspect that the majority of car-bike collisions are caused by carelessness (such as the driver looking at a cell phone), confusion or poor conditions or infrastructure design, in more than a few instances, the person operating the vehicle clearly intended to cause harm.  Yet they are not identified first as drivers or motorists:  That person is portrayed as someone who just happened to use two tons of metal and a powerful engine to cause harm or worse to a cyclist or pedestrian.

Oh, and the way victimized cyclists are talked about—especially if they are dead—reminds me of how, not too long ago, rape and other sexual assault victims were thought about and treated: “What was she wearing?”“What was she doing out at that time of night?” “She had it coming to her.” And the perpetrator wasn’t identified as a rapist or predator, especially if there was a large gap in age or socio-economic status between him (I’m not being sexist; they usually were and are men) and the victim. That meant, too often, that he got off scot-free.

In other words, we, as cyclists, are subject to violence from people operating motor vehicles—or who throw debris in our paths, shove us off our bikes or attack us in other ways—far more often, I suspect, than we use our machines to cause harm.  Yet we are blamed when victimized—and “othered” when someone who probably doesn’t even ride regularly uses a bicycle to attack someone.

Why Is A Cyclist More 100 Times More Likely To Be Killed In Florida Than In New Hampshire?

Once again, Florida has more cycling fatalities per million residents than any other US state. The Sunshine State has 23.3 million residents, so its rate of 10.4 translates to 242 fatalities per year.

Florida's rate is 11 percent higher than that of second-deadliest Louisiana. New Mexico, South Carolina and Arizona round out the "top" five states for cycling rate fatalities.  At the other end of the table, the five "safest" states for cyclists-- Wyoming, Vermont, Alaska, Rhode Island and New Hampshire--all have about the same rate (0.1 per million), or less than one percent of Florida's.

Do you notice some patterns?

The states with the lowest rates are in New England (Vermont, Rhode Island and New Hampshire) or are far-western (or northern) states (Wyoming and Alaska) where outdoor recreation is popular.  The deadliest states for cyclists are all car-centric and in the "Sunbelt."

To be fair, none of the "safest" states has a city comparable in size to, say, Miami, Phoenix or even New Orleans.  Then again, the New England states have small-to-medium-sized cities with significant populations of college students.  Those cities are also older cities , developed before the automobile.  

 So what, aside from geographical clustering and (to a lesser degree, demographics) do the least dangerous states have share?  And what traits do the most perilous states have in common?

From the website of Christopher G. Burns, Esq. 

According to an article in Legal Reader, the following are among the factors contribute to the relative calm or perilousness of cycling in a particular state:

--Infrastructure Deficiencies.  The authors of the article weren't talking about cycling infrastructure.  Rather, they refer to wide, high-speed roads that are common in the "deadly" states.  Perhaps more important, they also mention planning, in and out of urban areas, that is auto-centric. Thus--as I can attest from my experiences of cycling in Florida and South Carolina--it is all but impossible to go from one place to another without using a "stroad," which often have high-speed lanes connecting them to major highways.  Navigating one of those entry and exit points makes crossing Times Square seem like a stroll on a bridge over a theme-park "stream."

--Rural vs. Urban Risk Factors:  While urban areas account for 83 percent of total bike fatalities, rural areas actually have higher per-capita rates because of the factors I mentioned my previous paragraph.  One reason is that some large cities have at least a skeleton of bike infrastructure and--as I can attest from many years of cycling in New York--lower vehicle speeds make fatalities less likely:  A cyclist struck by a car traveling at 40 MPH (65 K/H) has an 85 percent chance of dying, but only 25 percent if the vehicle is going at 20 MPH (32.5 K/H). 

--Legal Frameworks:   States and other jurisdictions with lower fatality rates also tend to have laws that truly promote cycling safety, such as the Idaho Stop or its variants, and enforce other laws and policies such as those against distracted driving.  Also, some of the "safer" states have Vulnerable Road User laws, which impose stricter penalties for motorists who cause harm to cyclists and pedestrians.

In addition to better urban and suburban planning, bicycle infrastructure and better laws (and enforcement), the authors also call for, among other things, mandatory bicycle awareness education in drivers' licensing programs.  I think it's a good idea because one difference I notice between cycling in the US (even in "bicycle friendly" places) and Europe is that drivers are more conscious of, and courteous to, cyclists.  Some countries have the bicycle awareness training the authors call for, but even in the places that don't, motorists see us differently because many are also cyclists, or were in their recent pasts.

Boulevard Ochenta y Siete

 Yesterday’s rains left bright skies and brisk winds today: about as nice as can be expected this early in Spring.

So, of course, I went for a ride this afternoon. About 3.5 kilometers from my apartment I saw this:

I have passed that spot before, But today I couldn’t help but to notice how it was decorated. 

As colorful as the flowers (made of crepe paper) and ribbons were, that spot—a pocket park at the intersection of Southern Boulevard and Tremont Avenue—cannot be festive. That block of Southern is called the Boulevard Ochenta y Siete:  Boulevard 87.

And that name is the reason why that park can be decorated only in the sense that people who brave wars, disasters or other tragedies are “decorated” when medals are pinned on them. 

On this date in 1990–35 years ago—Julio Gonzalez got into an argument with his ex-girlfriend, who worked at the Happy Land Social Club, across the street from the park. Bouncers escorted him out of the club. Out on the street, he shouted, vowing to have the club shut down—which, ironically, he (or someone else) could have done, as it operated without a license.

In his rage, he went to a nearby gas station and bought a gallon of gasoline, which he would pour onto the staircase—the only way in or out of that second-story club—and light it.

In the wee hours of that morning, revelers, most of them Hondurans celebrating Carnaval, packed the darkened space. By the time firefighters put out the blaze, 87 would lose their lives.  

In a cruel irony, Gonzalez’s girlfriend, Lydia Feliciano, wasn’t there. In another terrible twist of fate, exactly 79 years earlier—25 March 1911–the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire claimed the lives of 146 workers, most of them young Italian and Jewish immigrant women. The Happy Land Fire was thus the deadliest conflagration in New York City since Triangle Shirtwaist—whose victims, like those at Happy Land, had no way out.

It wasn’t lost on me that I enjoyed an afternoon ride aboard Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike, during a beautiful Spring afternoon that just happened to be an anniversary of two of the worst tragedies to befall my hometown, New York, before 9/11.

Size Matters

 Make sure it fits!

A Budding Season

 Wednesday, on my way to work, I rode by St. Nicholas Park, which sits on a bluff between City College and central Harlem. The day was just warm and bright enough to herald Spring, but the wind nipped just enough to remind me that, perhaps, Winter wasn’t finished with us yet. 

I decided, however, to focus on the advent of Spring when I saw this:

They Hit Him—For Kicks

(Warning:  This post includes a video some readers might find disturbing.)

When I wrote for a newspaper, I often talked with police officers and their bosses. I had some particularly interesting conversations with one precinct commander who was very well-read and had interests one wouldn’t expect. Anyway, he was talking about someone who’d just been arrested after a fairly long manhunt. The perp paid for something with a check (remember those?) that had his name and address on it.

“We don’t like to admit it,” the commander said. “But as often as not, we catch the bad guys because they do something stupid, whether it’s while they’re committing their crimes or afterwards.”

I thought about that—and felt terrible for Scott Dwight Habermehl and his loved ones—when I read about how he was killed while riding his bicycle to work at the Sandia National Laboratory in New Mexico last June.

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Albuquerque police shared an image of the car used to strike Habermehl taken from a nearby church. But they couldn’t determine who was in that vehicle until early this year, when they received tips about a video of the incident on social media.

And who posted that video? One of the three boys—aged 16, 13 and 11–in the vehicle.

Police are still searching for the 16-year-old, who is believed to have been in the back seat. The 13-year-old allegedly drove while the 11-year-old rode shotgun, literally and figuratively: as they approached an intersection, he waved a handgun, ducked and laughed as his side of the vehicle hit Habermehl. 

From the conversation in the video, it’s clear that the boys intended to hit Habermehl, whom they apparently didn’t know.

Here is, perhaps, the most paradoxical segment of their conversation:

16-year-old: “Just bump him, brah.” 

13-year-old: “Like bump him?” 

Police say three boys, including an 11-year-old, were accused in connection with the fatal hit-and-run of 63-year-old bicyclist, Scott Habermehl.

16-year-old: “Yeah, just bump him. Go like…15, 20.”

So the oldest boy is telling the “middle” child—the driver—to “bump” Habermehl, but not to go too fast. It will be interesting, to say the least, to see how he is charged when he’s caught, given that the 13-year old has been charged with murder. Police are working with the district attorney’s office and the Children, Youth and Families Department to determine charges for the 11-year-old.

Social media didn’t exist when I had that conversation with a precinct commander. But if it did, and he’d known about the boys’ video, he would’ve cited it as a prime example of what he meant.

Oh, and he probably would’ve said that not only did those boys take Scott Dwight Habermehl’s life, they effectively halted their own—and disrupted, or possibly derailed those of his family.

What Would John Think Of James?

He and John Forester would hate each other.

Or would they?

John Forester in the 1970s.

Forester, who died nearly five years ago, was best known as the author of Effective Cycling and for his advocacy of vehicular cycling.  He accused bike lane advocates of promoting what he called the "cyclist inferiority hypothesis" which, he said, was the product of motordom's propaganda campaign to frighten cyclists off the road.  

On the other hand, former "Top Gear" presenter James May  says "People on bicycles are really just pedestrians" and that the bicycle is "an elaborate piece of footwear."  He decries "vehicle levels of traffic controls for bicycles" he sees in his native Britain.

James May near his home.

Another point of contrast:  May, so far, has been praised for his point of view.  Forester was often vilified though, to be fair, many of his critics reacted to his "shrill, nasty" tone rather than to the substance of his arguments.

But, as with so many whose views seem, on the surface, to be polar opposites, they actually share an important commonality:  Forester was, and May is, opposed to much of the "bicycle infrastructure" that's been built. 

And their criticisms might look oppositional, but they share a same root concern:  that too many bike lanes, signals and such constructed, ostensibly, out of concern for cyclists' safety actually puts us in more danger.

Forester's criticisms of bike lanes mirror my own:  that because of their poor design, they make it all but impossible to turn safely and also put cyclists in the line of opening car doors and other hazards.  May takes issue with "extremist" measures like bicycle traffic lights.  One near his home should instead be a "give way" (or, to us Americans, "yield") sign and allow cyclists to make their judgments.  "As long as people cycle in a sympathetic way, and pedestrians are still at the top of the hierarchy--the world belongs to people, not machines--then it ought to work."

James May, after a charity ride.

Ah, there's another point  of commonality: the notion that motor vehicles don't reign supreme. One could say, however, that Forester advocated for equality between cyclists and motorists while saying nothing about pedestrians, while May, as quoted above, believes that pedestrians (who, in his view, include cyclists) are at the top of the food chain, so to speak.

So, how would James May and John Forester see each other?  Of course, we'll never know about Forester and, to my knowledge, May--who is a lifelong cyclist--either doesn't know or doesn't think about him.  But I could see both of them pulling up the bollards from a bike lane.

Maria Ward: Bicycling For Ladies

As a teenager, I taught myself bicycle repair and maintenance, in part, because I envisioned taking off, alone, on two wheels across cities, villages, mountains and valleys; along rivers and seashores and across often-arbitrary borders.

I taken such rides, whether they lasted minutes or months, and found myself far from any bike shop at all or—as was the case in much of the US during the 70s or 80s—a shop that had Allen wrenches (“hex keys”) and inner tubes with Presta valves, or one in which the employees even knew what they were.

Even when I wasn’t far from home or a well-stocked bicycle shop with knowledgeable employees, I was happy that I learned to fix flats, adjust gears and brakes, and to do the other things needed to keep a bike running smoothly and safely. That knowledge enhanced something that bicycling itself has given me:  a sense of independence. My bike can take me where I want and need to go; the skills I learned from books, manuals and trial-and-error would ensure that I wouldn’t be stranded.

I must admit, however, that I was willing acquire such facilities in part because they are mechanical—and, in the ways of thinking I was inculcated with, masculine. You see, as much as I knew myself to be female, I was living, and would live for many more years, as male. It was the mid-1970s, but the schools and communities of which I was part hadn’t embraced the second-wave feminism that Betty Freidan, Gloria Steinem and other female activists and scholars shaped during the previous decade. In fact, many of us weren’t even aware of, for example, the Women’s Studies programs that were beginning in many colleges and universities.

So I didn’t learn technical “feminine” skills like sewing and learned some basic cooking skills from furtive glances at my mother’s and grandmother’s work. I guess, on some level, I thought that while women did most of the world’s food preparation, men doing it was OK because, well, chefs.

I mention all of this because the perceptions that (mis)guided my actions weren’t so different from the ones Maria Ward had to deal with eight decades earlier.

Ms. Ward knew that the bicycle could, and would—as Susan B. Anthony would proclaim—do more to liberate women than just about anything else. But she also saw that it wasn’t enough to design less-restrictive clothing for women or to allow us to ride without male escorts. She understood that for a woman to truly experience the independence cycling offers, she would also need to know to buy and maintain, as well as ride, a bicycle.

To that end, she wrote “Bicycling for Ladies,” published in 1896. It’s believed to be the first definitive guide for female cyclists—and, one and a quarter centuries later, one of the few of its kind.

I am writing, in the middle of Women’s History Month, about Maria Ward and her book because her endeavors are not only relevant for cycling: She made one of the many contributions necessary to effect the sort of change in ways of thinking that takes long, hard work. I am grateful for that, even if I wouldn’t have known how to apply it in my own life. And I imagine Ms. Ward would be happy that at least one more woman knows how to maintain her bike. But I wonder what she would make of the fact that I acquired those skills while living as a young male. I suspect, however , she wouldn’t chastise me because I still haven’t learned how to sew!

United We Stand—Or Ride

 Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Is it true that we’re all Irish today?

Along For The Ride

 We’ve all seen sepia-toned photos of mustachioed, too-hatted men astride “penny-farthing” (high-wheeler) bikes.

You may even have seen an image of a woman—probably in “bloomers”—on one of those machines.

But what about the kids?

The Longest And Best Afternoon—So Far

 Yesterday, my afternoon ride ended with me riding into the sunset.

I started around 12:30 and made a stop at Addeo’s, one of the best “finds” in my still-new neighborhood. I bought a small loaf of pane de casa—a crusty exterior surrounding a fluffy, almost-creamy interior (Did I just describe an old-school New York Italian?)—to accompany the tomato, hard-boiled egg and piece of Cabot’s Seriously Sharp white Cheddar in my Acorn trunk bag.

La-Vande, my trusty King of Mercia, made those miles out to the Rockaways feel like a magic carpet ride, even though I was pedaling into headwinds and its chain and cogs are about ready for replacement. Interestingly, when I made the left turn off the Veterans Memorial Bridge into Rockaway Beach, I felt I was riding a tailwind all the way to Point Lookout, even though the wind pushed, however slightly, at my right side.

I couldn’t help but to notice that I hadn’t seen much traffic on the streets or very many strollers or dog-walkers on the Rockaway or Long Beach boardwalks. On my way back, I found the reason: Orthodox Jewish men in drag (though they never would refer to it that way) or otherwise becostumed—for Purim.

Their revelry reverberated through my being: I felt such joy simply from riding my bike that no matter which way I turned, I felt a breeze at my back.  And i didn’t see the sun setting into tbe ocean: I saw just flickering, but still glowing, light and waves all the way to Coney Island.

So ended my longest ride so far this year:  130 kilometers, or 80 miles.

A "Cathedral" Under Hell Gate

Yesterday I reprised the late-afternoon ride I took two days before:  a 72 km (45 mile) round trip from my apartment to Fort Totten and back.

The air was a bit chillier, but brighter, than on my previous ride.  Perhaps that accounted for my seeing fewer cyclists, though I encountered more bundled-up people with their dogs along the waterfront path that winds under the Throgs Neck Bridge.  But the biggest difference--for me, anyway--was that I started a bit later.  You might say that I was playing chicken with dusk:  I got to my apartment in under some of the last flickerings of twilight.

The return leg brought me to the Connector between Randall's Island and the Bronx.  It runs underneath the viaduct that ushers Amtrak trains toward Manhattan and Penn Station.  There, I was treated to an early glow of sunset:

That light proved irresistible to me:  I slowed down and, of course, stopped to take pictures, even at the risk of ending my ride in the dark--which wouldn't have been the worst thing, as I'd brought lights. 

 

Later, I relished the irony of feeling as if I'd entered a cathedral while pedaling under a viaduct that continues from the Hell Gate Bridge.

Riding (Against) E-Bikes To Office?

How far has this apple fallen from the tree in the Big Apple?

The “apple” in this story is Andrew Cuomo; the “tree” is his late father Mario.

A few traits and traditions were passed down generationally, if not generationally. One is that they championed some progressive ideas and policies. They are/were staunch death penalty opponents. (Some argue that it cost Mario a fourth gubernatorial term at a time when New York State didn’t have term limits.) They also worked for LGBT equality:  In fact, during Andrew’s first year as Governor, New York became the sixth state to legalize same-sex marriage, four years before it became a Federal policy.

One thing Andrew didn’t inherit, however, was his father’s intellectual acumen and charisma as a speaker. Yes, his “fireside chats” early in the COVID-19 epidemic had their appeal, but none of his speeches are as memorable as Mario’s. 

And their political fates could turn out differently. Five years before winning his first gubernatorial election, he lost the Democratic nomination for the Mayor of New York City to Ed Koch. In 1988 and 1992, party officials approached Mario about running for the Presidency. Both times, he declined. Two years after the second overture, he lost his bid for a fourth gubernatorial term. He never campaigned for another elected office.

Andrew, on the other hand, resigned in disgrace from the governorship only a year after giving those daily COVID press briefings.  Now he is running for Mayor of New York City.

He has announced that if he’s elected, he would crack down on illegal e-bikes and reckless users by, among other things, requiring licenses and holding delivery-app companies responsible if one of their delivery workers injures or kills someone. That sounds good to me, but I hope he doesn’t conflate eBikes with regular bicycles, as many policymakers and commentators are wont to do.

Would I vote for him?

Although I cast my ballot for him previously, as someone who has survived sexual abuse and assault, I would have a difficult time choosing someone who was forced to resign over sexual harassment allegations. Had they not surfaced, perhaps he would have been forced to leave office—or been voted out—for under-reporting, by over 80 percent, the number of COVID deaths in nursing homes.

Then again, I voted for Eric Adams (in the general election, but not the primary), knowing full well that he’s corrupt. I have an excuse, however: his opponent was Curtis Sliwa.

So, in answer to my question: I might vote for Cuomo, especially if his opponent is as clownish as Sliwa. At least I could hope he follows through on one promise.

Flying Righr—For Me, Anyway

 Daylight Saving Time means..a longer late afternoon ride. 

This time I pedaled out to Fort Totten via the Bronx River Greenway, Randall’s Island and the Malcom X Promenade—about 72 kilometers, or 45 miles, on my not-quite-as-the crow-flies route. 

Well, I didn’t see any crows, so I had an excuse for not following them.  I’m sure these birds, not quite of the same feather, won’t hold it against me:

A Longer Ride Today

 Daylight Saving Time began in most of the US today, when 2 am became 3 am. EST.

So…there’s more light at the end of today’s ride!

Late or Early?

 Late afternoon, late in the season.  Or is it a prelude to evening, and a new season?

A ride to Randall’s Island after work, after lunch, after everything else brought me to the brink—of changes.

I went for a ride in spite of (OK, you know me well enough to know that I might’ve ridden because of) high wind warnings. Gusts blew at my face, sides and back, depending on which way I rode.  But once I got to the Island—with some of the largest expanses of open space in the city—it seemed there was nothing but wind.

The temperature was around 10C (50F):  not unusual for this time of year. But the inescapable gusts could make it seem that winter would never end.

Or are they what ushers in the Spring?

Is this bare tree a reminder that winter is still with us? Or do its bare branches reveal a sky that’s brightening?

And is the mud around its roots a graveyard of bones and melted snow? Or is it a cradle for irises, purple asters and hyacinths?

Ah, the riddles of a late day ride, late in the winter—or a ride at the precipice of twilight, and a new season!

When A “Ghost” Bike Vanished

I don’t think this is what the folks at Recycle-a-Bicycle—or similar programs across the United States—had in mind.

In May 2019, 41-year-old Michael Brooks, who was known in his Indiana community for using his bicycle as his main form of transportation, was struck and killed at the intersection of North Russell Road and Indiana Route 45. That summer, a “ghost bicycle “ was erected at the spot that summer .

People came to regard it as a fixture on the scenic road. So they took notice when it disappeared. 

What happened?

It seems that a plow truck ran over it and covered it. When the snow melted, someone saw the mangled bike, un-chained it and brought it to a recycling center.

Now Nic Newby, Brooks’ former partner, and some friends are planning to go through Brooks’ “stockpile” of bikes and frames to create a new memorial.

Of course, nothing can bring back Nic’s partner or the friend of many. But, he points out, there will always be a reminder for motorists to keep an eye out for cyclists.

The driver who struck Brooks was arrested and jailed. Newby said that while “I don’t support the carcereal state,” he is nonetheless “glad that she is off the road.”

Michelangelo: Works Of Genius

 Nearly a year ago, I moved into my current apartment.  It took me a few weeks to figure out how to organize and arrange my new space.  One part of the process was fairly simple:  I bought three Delta bike storage racks, enough for my six Mercians.  Two of those racks are the "Michelangelo" model and, if they aren't works of genius, they certainly are very practical and attractive.

It makes sense that such an item would be named for the man who gave us "David."  Interestingly, he all but denied that he was a painter:  He considered himself a sculptor and sculpture to be a superior art form.  In fact, he so disdained painting (including his own) that he wrote this about his "Creation of Adam" in the Sistene Chapel:

Michelangelo: To Giovanni da Pistoia
"When the Author Was Painting the Vault of the Sistine Chapel"

I've already grown a goiter from this torture,
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water's poison).
My stomach's squashed under my chin, my beard's
pointing at heaven, my brain's crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy's. My brush,
above me all the time, dribbles paint
so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!

My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me, my spine's
all knotted from folding over itself.
I'm bent taut as a Syrian bow.

Because I'm stuck like this, my thoughts
are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.

My painting is dead.
Defend it for me, Giovanni, protect my honor.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.

(Translated by Gail Mazur)

So why am I talking about him today?  Well, in addition to having a bike rack named after him, he's one of my artistic heroes.  Oh, and it just happens that he was born 550 years ago today.  Some people and things really do get better with age.