A Stretch

 I thought long necks were elegant. I wanted one so badly!

Defiance?

 “it’s cold!”

Was he trying to dissuade me from riding? The tallest man in our building smoked a cigarette just outside the entrance. I see him nearly every day. You might say that morning smoke is his daily ritual.

“It was cold today!”

That, from a woman about my age and half my size. Before this afternoon, I’d seen her only in the laundry room. But she greeted me with her weather report as she held the door for me on our way back into the building.

It certainly was colder today than it’s been in months. The wind made it seem even colder. Was that the reason why that woman, and the man, noticed? Or was it their age? Since I’ve moved into this senior citizens’ building, I’ve heard people remark about cold weather, and weather in general, than I’ve ever heard before.

While it was colder than it’s been in a while, it didn’t seem exceptional to me. Perhaps that’s a reason why, living in a senior building, I still believe I am in midlife.

Or is it an act of defiance—like the bright yellows and reds of leaves about to turn brown and fall—or the sun peeking through a gray shroud of clouds?  Or my ride today?

Both Sides: Memory In Midkife

 Does being in midlife do strange things to the ways we recall experiences?

Almost six months have passed since I taught my last class. I haven’t thought much about my time in classrooms, even though I spent half a century in them, if you count my time as a student, faculty member and artist-in-residence. (Sometimes those roles overlapped, e.g., when I was a graduate student and assistant.) On the other hand, I was a New York City bike messenger for one year, before I started teaching. Today, I found myself thinking about a particular incident from that time for no particular reason.

One late Fall afternoon, I made a run to a Spring Street gallery. At that time, that part of town—SoHo—was still an “artsy “ neighborhood; its streets hadn’t become the rows of designer boutiques and cafés that make Starbuck’s look like a gas station convenience store they are now. I picked up a framed print wrapped in brown paper. It didn’t fit into my messenger bag; my left arm was just barely long enough to cradle it against my jacket as I pedaled ten kilometers to an apartment on the Upper West Side. 

I breathed a sigh of relief that the print—an artist I’d heard of?—was, as best as I could tell, intact. A doorman didn’t stop me on my way in. (Could it have been because I’m White?) I climbed a flight of stairs, rang a bell and the door opened to a face I’d seen before, though not in person, framing blue eyes like no others I’d seen: mirrors of vulnerability.

When I picked up the print, the name on the tag was one I’d grown up with, yet it could have belonged to any number of women, including some who looked nothing like the one who answered the door. Seeing those days confirmed she was indeed “that” one: Judy Collins.

She had to’ve known I was trying not to show how star-struck I was: I was probably the 19457th person who tried to be “cool” in her presence.  My “professionalism” gave me away. “Thank you.” “Happy to help, Ms. Collins. Have a nice day.” “You do the same.”

That memory was prompted by something that came up when I opened a Google browser: an interview in which she talked about, among other things, her 40-plus years of sobriety. That confirmed what I thought that day: She was drunk or hung over; given the timeline, she was probably a year or two from sobriety.

She was also in midlife, at least chronologically. She is now 87 years old, on a “farewell “ tour. Somehow I believe she is still in the middle of her life: She is still creating and performing. Even if she is ending one of those things, she’s nowhere near the end.

What This Day Means

 Today is Veterans Day here in the US. It was called Armistice Day to mark the anniversary of the treaty that ended “the war to end all wars.” Of course, wars don’t end other wars just as having more guns doesn’t prevent gun violence:  something the rest of the developed world has figured out.

Speaking of the rest of the world: Much of it commemorates this day as “Remembrance Day” which, I believe, is more fitting. Veterans should indeed be honored—every day—by giving them what they need. (I say this as someone who believes the only true advancement the human race can make is to get rid of war.) And those who died, voluntarily or involuntarily, in whatever cause, should be remembered in the way any other tragedy is remembered.

Anyway, I took a ride today. The destination and distance are not important, at least to me. Rather, it was a necessary and fulfilling meditation, in part because I passed a few monuments to “the fallen.” I only wish those plaques and statues would emphasize the lost life, usually at a very young age, rather than “heroism” which, in time, is as forgotten as the “hero.”

Vietnam Veteran Bruce Weigl gave a much better tribute than I ever could:

Elegy

Into sunlight they marched,
Into dog day, into no saints day,
And were cut down.
They marched without knowing
How the air would be sucked from their lungs,
How their lungs would collapse,
How the world would twist itself, would
Bend into the cruel angle.

Into the black understanding they marched
Until the angels came
Calling their names,
Until they rose, one by one from the blood.
The light blasted down on them.
The bullets sliced through the razor grass
So there was not even time to speak.
The words would not let themselves be spoken.
Some of them died.
Some of them were not allowed to.

Midlife Sky

 Spring is associated with rebirth; summer with youth and coming of age. Autumn might be the “adult” season and this time—a week and a half into November—might be midlife.

At least, I felt that while cycling today. Now is a time of contrasts: Foliage is at, or just past its colorful peak. At the same time, each day is shorter and colder than the last; nights grow longer and darker. And the sky, at least as I’ve seen it during the past couple of days, grows heavier: a reminder that we, and the world, are that much older. But, for these few glorious days, it’s like a chiaroscuro background, highlighting the falling (or fallen) red, yellow and orange leaves.

Riding Through Midlife

 Sometimes folks in midlife just want to feel like kids again!

In The Air

 I subscribe to Mary Trump’s blog, “The Good In Us.” I learned about her in 2020, when the pandemic was ravaging communities and her uncle was trying to convince everyone he was doing a wonderful job and that he should be re-elected. During that time her book “Too Much and Never Enough” was published. She is a clinical psychologist, so when she says her uncle is a narcissistic sociopath, she is not merely name-calling.

Anyway, in one of her posts following this year’s elections, she remarked that the air felt different. I feel more or less the same way:  We are now, in some ways, in a different world:  The House of Representatives now has enough of a majority, and the Senate looks as if it will have one, to—one hopes—rein in some of Donald’s worst excesses and hold him and his cronies accountable. While I feel some optimism, being in midlife, I’ve seen and experienced enough transitions, in politics and elsewhere, to know that we may have to go through some difficult times in order to make the changes we want and need.

Perhaps it’s fitting that elections, especially the ones we’ve just had, are in November. You know that the days will be shorter, darker and colder for the next few weeks. Then, just before Christmas, the days will grow longer, a couple of minutes each day, but the cold will bite deeper for another two or three months before Spring. But we know Spring, and longer days, will come.

Discovering Midlives

FeedSpot has chosen Midlife Cycling as one of the top 70 midlife blogs to follow in 2026. MC was also included in FeedSpot’s list for 2025. That recognition has increased the number of readers and their sources, online and geographically. Of course I am pleased. 

There has been, for me, a benefit I never could have anticipated: I am learning, from that FeedSpot list, that there are other blogs written by other people (mostly women) in midlife. They discuss and illustrate diverse aspects of being in our stage of life, including everything from health and gained wisdom to style and relationships. 

It’s fascinating to learn other people’s points of view of being in the middle, however they define it, of their lives. While the particulars vary greatly, I see a common theme, whether or not it’s articulated directly:  We are living the truth of our lives, or at least moving towards it. There really is no other choice: We have come to realize that we can’t, for whatever reasons, continue to adopt the wishes, tastes, aspirations and roles, and to make the choices, others have decided were right for us. 

Those realizations, in part a result of learning about the experiences of others, especially women, in midlife, are one reason why I think the focus of my blog is shifting, however slightly, towards the “midlife” part of the title.  Of course, it also has to do with how my motivations for, and style of, cycling have changed in midlife. I have alluded to them, if in passing, in earlier posts. But I am still discovering what it means, for me anyway, to be a cyclist (and transgender woman) in midlife. If that journey parallels those of the women whose midlife blogs I’m discovering, it should be interesting and, hopefully, amazing.

They Voted For This Blog! Check Out Feedspot! Spread The Word,

 I would rather be elected than chosen, especially if it’s “Chosen” with a capital “C.” Why? Well, the latter has too many overtones and connotations of pre-determinism for my tastes. While it’s true that, for example, it would have been very unlikely for me to become a basketball player, ballerina or nuclear physicist, given my physical mental traits, I also have my doubts that I was destined to be at least some of what I’ve become, for better and worse.

So why am I giving you, dear reader, a discourse on fate?  Well, today is Election Day here in the US. Voting—or making choices of any kind—is antithetical to the idea that someone is foreordained to be our leader. That is one reason why I would much rather live in a democracy, however flawed and fragile, than in a monarchy or any other system in which leadership is hereditary.

That is also why I would rather be elected than Chosen. I have no plans to run for any sort of office, but I want people to select me and my work for our achieved merits rather than some actual or perceived quality I did nothing to achieve or deserve.

With those things in mind, I want to announce, with pride, that Midlife Cycling has been voted one of the Top 70 (#31, to be exact) midlife blogs on Feedspot.  

Please continue reading this blog, and others on the list: Midlife is an interesting and often exciting vantage point from which to experience, reflect and create.

Check out those blogs, and see Midlife Cycling’s place, on Feedspot:  https://bloggers.feedspot.com/midlife_blogs/?feed_id=5059845&_src=f2_newcampaign. 

I couldn’t have done it without Marlee!

Gates

 I pedaled through this “gate.” 

The Hell Gate Bridge was behind me.

Here’s To Authenticity!

 This has to be the best Dia de los Muertos bike ride poster I’ve ever seen.

Enjoy this fiesta! Go to an “authentic” Mexican restaurant in the nearest trust fund-hipster enclave. Wash down those nachos with a craft beer nobody outside said trust fund-hipster enclave has ever heard of. Celebrate like a gringo! (On second thought…)

Escapes

 

One hundred years ago today, Harry Houdini died. Of course, being only in, ahem, midlife, I never saw his escapes or other tricks. When I was growing up, however, some of the adults in my life could recall seeing his performances. They even said someone “pulled a Houdini” when someone wiggled their way out of an awkward situation.

If it isn’t ironic or fitting (depending on your point of view) enough that he died on Halloween, I couldn’t help but to notice, as I rode today, how many people—kids and adults alike—were wearing “prisoner” costumes: horizontally striped pullover tops with an inmate number on the chest and pants in matching stripes. I don’t think any correctional institution, at least here in the US, still outfits their inmates that way.  But it still seems to be a staple in movies, cartoons and TV—and in the Monopoly game.

I can understand the appeal of Houdini’s performances: Many people feel there is “no escape” from one thing or another: school, their families, their jobs or life in general, at least as they know it.

On one hand, bicycling has always been an escape. On the other, it’s allowed me to enter spaces, whether physical, mental or spiritual, I couldn’t have accessed otherwise.

The Beaches At Midlife

 Another ride to Point Lookout today. Beach season has long passed. But, owing to the gorgeous sun-filled skies and mild temperatures, I saw people, not only cycling, strolling and scootering (Is that a real word?) along the Rockaway and Long Beach boardwalks and a few on the sand in those places and the Point. The only folks who actually went into the waves  were a couple of surfers at Rockaway Beach. I heard one of them remark that the water wasn’t very cold, but not for swimming. That sounds about right: Water temperatures ranged from 16 to 18C (60 to 64F)— more or less the same as the second or third week of June. The most precipitous drop comes after (US) Thanksgiving.

One thing I noticed: The people I saw today were, mostly, not young. In fact, the youngest people I saw at Point Lookout were a man and woman, apparently husband and wife, with another man who seemed to be brother of the woman, all of them helping a man—their grandfather, I’d guess—with a walker. The man, I am sure, was happy to get out of the house, especially since today brought us some of the best weather (at least for folks like him) we’re likely to have.

You might say that the beaches were in a kind of midlife between their peak season fever dreams and a long winter’s sleep.

While the Colors Gently Weep (Apologies To George Harrison)

“It is always the darkest before the day dawneth.” So wrote theologian Thomas Fuller in his 1650 travelogue A Pigsah Sight of Palestine and the Confines Thereof.

Now, nearly four centuries later, I—who am definitely not a theologian—am here to tell you that autumn light is brightest, and its colors most vivid, right before the longest nights descend upon us. At least, that’s what I’ve seen while cycling during the past few days has led me to believe.

Could it be that yellow is weeping before it’s forced to turn brown and its fire turns it to ash?

Those Who Ride By The Sword…

 I have done loaded bike tours, road races, off-road rides and almost every other kind of cycling. What haven’t I done? BMX, mainly because when it started, it was seen as a “kid’s thing” and I was already older than anyone who was competing.  Also, I’ve never played bicycle polo because, well, I’ve never been involved in any sort of polo and wouldn’t even know where to find it.

There’s another sport I probably won’t engage in:

Bicycle jousting. As someone who’s interested in medieval history, I think it’s interesting ras a “What if?” game. What if Richard Beauchamp rode a bike? Would it be a custom Mercian or Jack Taylor—or one of those rigs British postmen used? Would Henry VIII (the world’s first Tudor convertible) have sponsored a bike jousting team?

Believe it or not, bike jousting is popular, at least on social media. How popular? Enough that bike share service Lime issued a statement saying their bikes shouldn’t be used by folks pretending to be Jean de Carrouges vs Jacques de Gris.

What next? Will Citibike tell us we can’t do Civil War re-enactments on their machines? Now that wouldn’t be a fair fight: their pedal bikes are blue and e-bikes are gray.

I Can Ride With No Hands. But Can I Watch It?

My Uncle Sonny, who died at 50 more than four decades ago, saw people like Martin Luther King and “Bobby” Kennedy as his heroes. (They were often vilified in the communities in which I grew up, yes, in Brooklyn and New Jersey.) And he was one of the first people I told when, lacking any other way of coming to terms with how I saw myself, I thought I was gay. “Well, those Greek philosophers were fine with it. Some of them were gay. And they were some of the smartest guys who ever lived. So if it was OK for them, why not for you?” That, from someone who grew up in an environment not much different from mine.

But he was also a veteran: a VFW commander, no less. While I don’t think he was a “hawk,” he was almost unquestionably pro-veteran (an attitude I share) and believed all armed services members deserved our unconditional support. He had no tolerance for anyone or anything he saw as a danger, or even disrespectful, to te principles of the Constitution, especially the Bill of Rights. That included Communism; to be fair, almost everyone felt that way, even if they (unlike him) had never read the founding documents and only hazily understood what Communism is. (BTW: It’s not the same as socialism.)

It was his antipathy toward that system that led to his boycotting the work of a performer who remains popular to this day:  Jane Fonda. He wasn’t the only one who called her “Hanoi Jane.” To my knowledge, he never blacklisted any other performer or artist. While I never agreed with that particular stance, I could understand why he, like many other veterans, felt betrayed by her.

I mention that because, as someone immersed in the arts, I grapple with the question of whether to read, view, listen to or participate in works by creators and thinkers who express abhorrent views or engage in reprehensible behavior. I continue to read poets like T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound because, while they expressed views that couldn’t be excused even in context, also were instrumental to shaping modern poetry and literature in general. On the other hand, I haven’t watched a Woody Allen movie in decades. As a survivor of sexual abuse, I cannot excuse his behavior. But, honestly, I’d grown tired of him long before I knew about what he did with his daughter.

So, should I see a movie, knowing that a prominent person involved with it did so much to disgrace himself and his sport—and betray the trust of so many people?

Since this blog is about cycling and midlife, you probably have guessed that the person in question is Lance Armstrong. He narrates “No Hands: The Wild Ride of the Schwinn Bicycle Company.” I would be interested in the film, not only as a story about a bicycle maker, but also how a brand that became an American icon—something, perhaps, no other cycling company has achieved before or since—could have fallen as far as it did. 

In a strange way, Lance might be a good choice. His story parallels Schwinn’s in that he is probably the only cyclist in at least a century to become a national celebrity. Indeed, to this day, he is likely the only cyclist every American can name. And, just as Schwinn could have remained paramount (no pun intended) in the bicycle world had some within its company made better decisions, Lance might well be seen as one of the greatest athletes—and beloved for his “comeback” story—had he not cheated and bullied those who knew.

For all I know, he might be a good narrator. Still, I don’t know whether I could sit for “No Hands.”

Motivation?

 

I love Marlee. But there is one thing I can’t share with him. He’s given me every imaginable excuse as to why he can’t ride a bike.

I’ll make him watch this video. Perhaps it will change his mind. What do you think?

 

A Ride In Autumn Light

 I have no idea of how many miles I rode today. I know that I followed a combination of familiar streets and paths. And my bike—Dee-Lilah, my Mercian Vincitore, sang in tune with the autumn breeze, and me.

That last part is what I will remember. And the light that coruscated through the leaves:

Is that—what I will recall—the difference between cycling in midlife and those rides where counted miles?

I Went, And It Was Gone

 Today, after pedaling Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike, down through the Bronx, Harlem and the Hudson River Greenway to Battery Park, I decided to zig-zag through Lower Manhattan. I chanced upon a bike lane I hadn’t seen before because I was in a part of town where I hadn’t been in a while: the eastern end of Grand Street, in an old part of the Lower East Side.

I knew that the neighborhood, like so much of the city, has been changing rapidly. Still, I wasn’t prepared to see this:

When I first moved back to New York, I lived a few minutes (by bike) away. So, naturally, I went there when I needed, I believe, a tire. The man who helped me—as it turns out, the proprietor himself, Frank Arroyo—was friendly in the way of someone meeting a new neighbor and chatted with me about my bike (I was riding my Peugeot PX-10, if i recall correctly), bikes in general, the neighborhood and “what brought you here’; he wasn’t referring only to his shop. 

 I continued to patronize, or simply visit, his shop for, among other things, a reason I understood only much later: We were both building our lives in the city. For him, it meant starting a business that became, I dare say, an important part of the community. Kids got tneir first bikes and adults bought their first grown-up bikes there. Tourists and participants in events like the Five Boro Bike Tour rented from him. And countless people brought in repairs or bought used bikes from him.

That is why his shop closing—due to his passing late last year, as it turns out—is so sad. I’d heard that he contributed to a neighborhood theater and various charities, volunteered at all sorts of events, and encouraged his employees to do the same. And he managed to do it all, from that location, for nearly half a century: He started when hardly anyone else wanted to be in the neighborhood and became one of its mainstays. At the time he opened the shop, children and grandchildren of poor Jewish and Italian immigrants squeezed into the blocks between the Manhattan and Williamsburg Bridges gave way to Puerto Ricans (like him), artists and, later, young professionals, all trying to gain a foothold in this city and country.

As I lived in the city—especially during the year I worked as a messenger—I learned about other shops. Frank never seemed upset that I was patronizing places like Bicycle Habitat, Toga and Stuyvesant:  He knew he was running a family- and community-oriented business, not a “pro” shop. (It was an authorized Schwinn dealership.) Still, I would stop in and buy something, on principle, whenever I was over that way.

The closing of Frank’s is, therefore, not only the end of a bicycle shop and repair business. It also represents what is being lost in this city, especially in Manhattan: small, independent businesses that serve communities, whether in the sense of geography or shared interests (I think now of the Gotham Book Mart, which I still miss), started by a member of that community and stayed through thick and thin. While I hope it doesn’t happen, I expect that the space will be rented to some business of which the world doesn’t need another (like a boutique or over-priced coffee shop). Or, perhaps, when the neighboring businesses leave, whether or not voluntarily, the buildings will be converted or torn down for condos or co-ops unaffordable for the kinds of people who start businesses and build neighborhood institutions the way Frank did.

You’re Not From Da’Hill

 Sometimes someone can just tell, “You’re not from here!”

Here in New York, if someone asks how to get to “Hew-stun” street, we know that person is a tourist, or just moved here. That downtown thoroughfare shares a name with Texas’ largest city. Or so it appears. Actually, it’s named for William Houstoun, a member of the Continental Congress and 1787 Constitutional Convention. He was the son-in-law of Nicholas Bayard III, who owned a farm (!) that covered much of what is now SoHo and the Lower East Side and has a street named for him. At some point, the second “u” was dropped from “Houstoun.” 

So how does a real New Yorker intone it? HOW-stun. Apparently, that’s how the family pronounced it.

So why am I giving you a pronunciation guide to a downtown street? Well, during a ride the other day, I got a similar lesson.  

The Bronx is full of short, but sometimes surprisingly steep, climbs. One winds up West Tremont Avenue just south and west of Bronx Community College. It was just enough to make me glad I “wimped out” and took one of my geared bikes instead of my fixed-gear.  I wasn’t out of breath but, for a moment, I thought I was dreaming or hallucinating when I saw this:

I grew up at 573 Dahill Road in Brooklyn until I was 12. What, I wondered, was this barbershop 35 kilometers (22 miles), and even more years, away doing with the name of my childhood stomping grounds?

Oh, and I hope not to sound racist—and I mean no disrespect to the skills of the clippers I saw the other day—in saying this, but nobody in my old milieu (where they didn’t use words like “milieu”) would ever have gone to such a place because, well, no such place would have existed there. Our barbers were middle-aged or older Italian men who cropped the locks of men like them and their sons. 

I brought my bike into the shop. Haircutters and patrons alike looked at me quizzically: I obviously wasn’t there for a “fade” or cornrow. “Can I help you?” a slender man with a trim beard queried.

“Mamí, man’s haircut here,” one patron admonished me.

“Yo lo sabe.” Señora Provine, my old profesora, surely would have been appalled. Then again, I’m not sure anybody in the Bronx speaks the way she or, for that matter, any of my English teachers, taught us. And those guys, I’m sure, knew “I’m not from here” even before I opened my mouth. I even could’ve understood if they didn’t believe that I’ve been living in the Bronx, albeit in a different neighborhood, for 2.5 years.

To explain why the sign on the shop caught my attention, I pulled up images of my childhood home and the street sign on my phone.  “¡Mira! Yo vivida allí. La Calle Dahill. 

I pronounced it Day-hill. Just as anyone in my old milieu, where they didn’t use words like “milieu,” would have said it.

A customer overheard. “This place. It’s Duh-hill.” 

I should have known. Duh-hill. Da’hill. I missed the apostrophe implied by the space in that sign.  Just like Da’Bronx, not The Bronx.

Just 5 kilometers (3 miles) from my apartment. But I definitely wasn’t from there. At least we had a good laugh.

“Just” A Ride To Randall’s Island

 

Near the end of my afternoon ride, I heard my name. I turned: someone I hadn’t seen in a while. I’d asked about him at a neighborhood diner, where he was a regular and I occasionally get take-out. Turns out, he’d had a series of medical issues that turned out to be less serious than he’d thought.

We’re the same age: only a few weeks separate us. He knew that I am a cyclist but, until today, he had never seen me on my bicycle. “Where are you coming from?” 

“Oh, not far. Just Randall’s Island.”

“Just” Randall’s Island?”

Depending on which route I take to and from, and where I ride on the island, I cover about 25 kilometers. That, to me, is “just getting some fresh air.” To him, however, it seemed like an excursion. Mind you, he joined the Navy out of high school and, after a couple of tours and an honorable discharge, kept his fitness with weight and marital arts training.

One of the great things about midlife, at least for me, is that I have lost any desire to impress anyone. The people I tried to impress, which I confused with gaining respect, either couldn’t be impressed, at least by me (usually for reasons that had little nothing to do with my or their actual accomplishments) or, I would realize, weren’t worth the effort. 

What I haven’t expected is something I experienced today with that man: I was surprised that he actually saw something I did as out-of-the-ordinary, let alone worthy of praise. He, and others I’ve met during the past couple of years, like “Sam” and “Carrie,” have life experiences very different from mine and have done things that, while they don’t confer status, are things I’m not sure I could have done.

I pedaled “only” to Randall’s Island today. But it turned out to be just the right ride.

Cycling In Color

 We haven’t reached peak foliage in this part of the world. Still, there are plenty of vibrant, vivid colors flickering through leaves under a smoldering autumn sun. (It’s kind of odd, isn’t it, to use words like “vivid” and “vibrant” to describe leaves that are dying.) I feel as if I’d witnessed the entire season in this tree on Randall’s Island:

Red, orange, yellow, maroon and still some green. For the past couple of days, I’ve been taking rides, not to go any place in particular or to accumulate miles, but to fill myself with those hues and crisp autumn air. I’m

I guess that’s a perk of midlife: I can get on my bike for sensory experiences. I don’t need to justify what I’m doing or impress anybody. If my bike and body feel right, my ride will reward me. As it did today, and has so many days before.

The Family That Rides Together….

 My family never rode together. My father would take an occasional spin around the neighborhood. Because of our difference in ages, my brothers and I rarely did anything together: We had different friends (well, to the extent I had friends) and school and, later, work schedules. And my mother didn’t cycle at all; I’m not sure she ever rode.

What if she did? More to the point, what would a ride with her (or my father) be likeo were my brothers and I growing up today and, well,A few other things were different?

When Is It A Mobility Device?

 Today I’d like to address an issue in a comment I intended to publish but accidentally deleted.

The commenter took issue with my post from the other day. In it, I showed e-bikes parked in bike parking rack next to a sign warning riders not to do so at the risk of losing said e-bikes. 

The commenter believed the sign is discriminatory. As he/she pointed out, e-bikes are mobility devices, just like walkers and wheelchairs, for people like him/her who have disabilities.

The point about e-bikes being mobility devices is one I hadn’t previously considered, and is certainly valid. That said, I am probably not alone in my inability to tell which of those parked e-bikes was being used by someone who has trouble walking more than a block vs. the ones some teenager was joyriding with his girlfriend on the back. Perhaps some sort of sticker or decal would help.

That leads to the larger question policy makers in many jurisdictions are tackling: How, exactly, can e-bikes be legislated fairly?

While I have cursed out joyriders and “cowboy” delivery workers who sideswiped me and I probably won’t ever admit “defeat” and start riding an e-bike unless it’s totally impossible for me to ride a regular bicycle, I have nothing against e-bikes per se. If anything, I would rather see someone ride one rather than drive an SUV to work, school or shop. Also, I recognize—and have stated in previous posts—that delivery workers , nearly all of whom are male immigrants (at least here in NYC) may have few, if any, other ways of feeding themselves or their families besides bringing pizzas and quesadillas to folks who are too tired to use a microwave after a long day of making money off the very countries those delivery workers came from. 

About that last scenario: Just as I suggested a sticker or decal for people with disabilities, perhaps there could be another for delivery workers. Or, better yet, there could be a special license or permit, as there is for commercial vehicle drivers. Of course, one potential problem with that overlaps with that of registering e-bikes themselves: Some delivery workers are undocumented and therefore don’t want to risk “outing” themselves. I can understand: Even US citizens are sometimes reluctant, for any number of reasons, to engage with government bureaucracies.

And then there is the question of what, exactly, is an e-bike. Most jurisdictions define them, if they do, by whether the bikes have pedal assists or throttles, or by maximum speed. Even with regulations, too many machines that are within an inch or two of being a full-on motorcycle and are “flying under the radar.” I see them all the time in bike lanes, even the ones secluded from automobile traffic.

But those wannabe Harleys, I suspect, aren’t the ones used by the commenter I accidentally deleted. Nor are the legitimate e-bikes from share services like Lime. I think the commenter might’ve been upset (rightly) over being lumped together with them. So, even if policy-makers come up with fair and equitable regulations, signs like the one I saw would need to be re-written. Whether or not it was intended, the bias was certainly perceivable in that sign.

Foliage Before The Storm

 This, fifteen minutes before the edge of a hurricane pushed wind and dumped rain on us:

All About Parking

In New York City, it’s always about parking.

It’s one of the ostensible reasons for opposition to bike lanes: Drivers complain the green strips take away “their” spaces and traffic lanes.

Turns out, people with cars and trucks aren’t the only ones who can’t find places to leave them when they’re not driving.

In spite of the warning, e-bikes have filled one of the two rows of bike racks by the Staten Island Ferry terminal. Critics of dockless bike share systems have at least one piece of evidence here.

But it also raises a valid question: Is it better to leave e-bikes and scooters in a rack where they don’t belong than in the middle of a sidewalk or other public passageway? At least those racked e-bikes aren’t making life for people with mobility issues more difficult. Still, if I had to park my bike and there were no free spaces in that rack, it might be more than an inconvenience—say, if I had somewhere to be.

I will, however, put things in perspective. Here is the biggest “parking” problem at the terminal—and throughout the city:

Some would say, “They should go to the shelters.” I have known a few people who’ve spent time in them. While a few say the shelters offer services and “you can get your life back together” in them, even they admit the shelters often turn people away because they’re overcrowded or simply can’t handle the problems some homeless  people face. The overcrowding, along with some residents’ mental health issues and sheer despair and desperation, leads to theft, fights and worse. So it’s almost understandable, at least to me, that some people would “park” an elbow’s width away from the cyclists like me—and thousands of tourists—who stream by every day.

How An “Influencer” “Won”—On A Bicycle

I am almost always happy when I see somebody on a bicycle.

Notice that I said “almost.” Among the exceptions are when someone uses the bicycle to commit a crime or cause harm.

Or cheat.

I have never run a marathon, so I rarely criticize whatever anyone does to complete one—unless someone does something like what Yuanyuan Sun, known as “Abeeer” on social media did in the latest Berlin Marathon.

Now I am going to reveal a prejudice. I really try not to categorically disdain groups of people. As an example,  while  I can’t count any lawyers among my friends, and probably never will, I have met advocates who work for the public good, including ones who fought for equal rights, which the current administration is trying to take from people like me.

On the other hand, I must say that it didn’t surprise me to learn that Ms. Sun is an “influencer.” Some might accuse me of internalized misogyny, as the majority of “influencers” are female. Others might accuse me of jealousy, as many “influencers”:are younger and more conventionally attractive than I am.

But I have seen too much, shall we say, unethical behavior. In trying to get that perfect image, I’ve seen them endanger people by, for example, obstructing the paths of cyclists, pedestrians and disabled people. And some, like Ms. Sun, cheat:  She rode the last few kilometers on the back of a bicycle. That helped her finish the course in her “personal best” time and post a video of her, adorned with a medal.

Now, to be fair, what she did is, arguably, not the most egregious example of non-pharmaceutical performance enhancement in a long-distance running event. In the 1904 Olympics—one of the most bizarre sporting events ever held—the marathon’s winner was disqualified for driving part of the way. Then there was Rosie Ruiz, who “finished” the 1980 Boston Marathon after entering it during the last mile. That, after taking the subway for part of the 1979 New York Marathon, for which she was given a special dispensation to enter after claiming she was dying of cancer when she missed the qualification deadline.

I guess what Yungyung Sun did bothers me more because she committed her fraud on a bicycle. And I’ll admit being an “influencer” doesn’t redeem her in my eyes.

Why Him?

Why was the tubing on this frame named for a guy who got lost?

 

Happy Columbus Day/Indigenous People’s Day!

I live near the “real” Little Italy in the Bronx. I often go there for food and, occasionally, other kinds of fun. There are festivities there. So why am I not participating in them? Well, I’ve never understood why a guy who got lost, didnt “discover” any place (people were already living there) and helped to start the transatlantic slave trade became a source of Italian pride when we have Michelangelo, Galileo, Dante and Leonardo (What does that tell you when we only need to use their first names?), Vivaldi and, for crying out loud, fashion designers? 

And why was one of the best-known brands of bicycle tubing, from which so many fine frames (I’ve owned seven and ridden a bunch more) have been constructed, named after that wayward sailor?

Does ending a post with three consecutive rhetorical questions mean I’m getting cranky in midlife?

5000

 

So why am I posting an image of a 1988 Panasonic DX~5000?

Well, it was a nice bike from one of the most under-appreciated bicycle manufacturers. I think Panasonic never became as popular (at least in the US) as other Japanese brands like Fuji and Nishiki—which continue to offer some great bikes—because most Americans thought of Panasonic only as an electronics company. But their bikes had excellent workmanship and were well thought-out.

But the real reason I chose that model is its number. Yesterday’s post was #5000 in the history of this blog. 

So why didn’t I write a celebratory post yesterday? Well, I felt really good after yesterday’s ride and was still glowing within from the light over the ocean. Call me self-indulgent or narcissistic or whatever else you want. I wanted to share it before I got too full or tired. (I think that was one of the mistakes I made during my Japan trip last year: I waited until night to write and, after full days of biking and exploring in a mountainous country during the hottest part of the season  I was cooked.)

Anyway, here’s to 5000. I think it’s a good reason to skip the Sunday funnies, at least for this week.

A Ride As The Sun Breaks

The days are growing shorter. So I should begin a multi-hour ride early in the morning, right? Did I? No. I took my time with breakfast and let Marlee cuddle me: I think he wanted it because I was wearing a sweatshirt I hadn’t worn in a while. 

I had another motive for starting my ride to Point Lookout later than I “should” have. Today was one of those bright, nippy, breezy days that practically defines October. Tomorrow’s forecast calls for wind and rain, courtesy of a hurricane that’s soaking the South. So I figured—correctly, as it turned out—that as I pedaled along the ocean, I would see light and cloud formations even more vivid than those of hot, shadowless summer days.

It was as if the sun were taking a break in the waves ahead of the approaching storm.  

A First Bike As I Never Could Have Understood It

 

In the milieu in which I grew up, well, you would never hear the word “milieu:” I didn’t encounter it until my freshman year sociology class in college.

That’s not to say people were stupid, or merely uneducated. In both Brooklyn and New Jersey, the two places where I spent my pre-college years, almost everyone was working- or middle-class. Almost every kid I knew had two parents. If any kid was being raised by only one, it was more than likely the other had died: Divorce and separation were rare; a parent choosing to raise a baby or child was rarer still. To my knowledge, only a handful of kids I grew up with were adopted. Among them was the sister of the closest friend I had in high school. And my friend already had four siblings when his family took in one more.

You probably could guess that in that milieu (!), almost entirely White, conservative (even for its time) and mostly Christian (Catholic and mainstream Protestant) witn an assimilated Jewish community, there were no “out” gays or lesbians; a non-heterosexual parent or teacher was unthinkable. The only trans person most people had heard about was Christine Jorgensen, and then only as a punchline.

At least I knew that LGBTQ people existed, even if I didn’t know who they were. (Much later, I would find out that a few whom I suspected, and some I never would’ve guessed, were indeed not hetero or cis.) I cannot say the same for another group of people who, like LGBTQ people, are often misunderstood and unfairly stigmatized: foster children.

Not only did I not know any foster kids—or, more precisely, know that anyone I knew was one—I didn’t even know what that meant. When, much later,  I finally met some whom I knew to be foster kids, I started to understand why some teachers, counselors and other professionals said they were “difficult” to work with or even “hopeless:” Many have endured traumatic experiences no one, much less a child, should bear. And, one thing anyone who has taught, at any level, can tell you is that, all other things being equal, people-whatever their age—are easier to teach and learn more and better when their lives are stable and structured.

That so many come from dysfunctional or abusive environments means that foster kids often don’t have the milestones and other experiences other kids, even adopted ones, typically enjoy. One such experience was a kind of rite of passage for so many kids, including me: getting their first bicycle. So many foster kids not only don’t get a first, many never get a bike at all.

Some employees of an Utah Volkswagen dealership understand what I’ve just described. Ken Garff Volkswagen in Orem has a “We’re ‘Hear’ For You” program in which employees decide how they want to give back to the community. The program has worked with Utah Foster Care in other ways, but this time employees decided to buy, and in some cases assemble, 100 bikes. They even attached name tags to the bikes so the gift felt more personal.

Those employees did all of that on their own time. That tells me that they understand something I did: the thrill of getting that first bike and something I never could have: what it’s like to be a foster kids. And I suspect that at least one of those employees is a cyclist and understands the pleasure cycling can give us, from childhood to midlife and beyond.