We Didn’t Lose A Hero: Dolly Parton Will Always Be One

 

The other day, I wrote about heroes. In that post, I said that our heroes, especially when we are young, are people we believe we can emulate, or at least become. So a young person’s hero might be an athlete because they don’t yet realize that being the best basketball player in their neighborhood doesn’t mean they have the talent to win a scholarship to UCLA or Indiana, let alone a contract with the Lakers or Celtics. Or, perhaps, they might idolize a musical performer before they realize that no matter how much they practice, they’ll never play guitar like Jimi Hendrix.

Once they realize they can’t emulate a hero, one hopes they will find another satisfying path and not grow bitter and cynical.  If they want or need a hero, perhaps they can find one in someone who makes an admirable choice that they themselves could make.

When I was younger, Dolly Parton wasn’t a hero simply because I never could have imagined I could become like her. I don’t have her looks or talents—at least, not her talents.  I could, however, identify with the sentiment in “Jolene”—a sense of insecurity over not being “good enough “—and realized that she was doing things  of which I was capable, however imperfectly:  She could empathize and express it, and thus herself, in a completely authentic way.

And that is why she is—dare I say it—a hero to so many of us, whether in the LGBTQ community or in other dilemmas not of our own making, or enlisted military members (many of whom grew up poor, as she did). She wasn’t simply feeding us “It Gets Better” platitudes; she was creating and, more important, simply being, something better because she was unapologetically who she was.

That is why we didn’t lose a hero yesterday: She will always be one. At least, one of mine.

Who Are The Heroes?

 

Yesterday’s post was a “Sunday Funny,” got me to thinking about an interesting question: Who is a hero, really?

When we’re growing up, our idols tend to be much older than ourselves. To some kids, parents  might be heroes and even continue to be even after they become parents themselves. An athlete or other performer is often the object of a kid’s adoration. I knew a brother and sister whose avatars were, respectively, a mechanic and beautician. They were like magicians, who seemingly could do the impossible with their hands, in the eyes of those siblings.

I am not an anthropologist, psychologist or sociologist. For whatever it’s worth, here’s my theory about hero-formation: The one admired is visible, whether in person or some medium, and does something the admirer can’t do in the moment but hopes to accomplish one day. That, I believe, is a reason why most kids don’t idolize the author of a book (especially if it’s a children’s book) or creator of a movie or cartoon:  They cannot see the wordsmith, the animator, the director or, for that matter, even know their names. Also, they don’t get to see the process of those creations as they do with an athletic performance or dance.

You grow up, become as old as your childhood heroes and your life takes a path different from theirs. Sometimes very different. You realize that you won’t do whatever they did, whether because you couldn’t or your priorities change. Or you realize your heroes weren’t the people you thought they were.

My favorite baseball player was Tom Seaver.  He was one of the greatest pitchers ever to grace the game. But he wasn’t a hero:  I knew, early on, that I never would be a professional ball player, no matter how hard I worked at it. Later, when I learned about bicycle racing, I admired Eddy Merckx, who was in his prime. But he, too, wasn’t someone I could idolize because in those days, Americans didn’t ride in the peloton. The cyclists I admired were people like John Rakowski, whose around-the-world bicycle tour I followed in Bicycling!, and fellow club members-especially the women—who pedaled up mountains and across hundreds of miles.

In other words, my heroes, even when I was young, were people who did things I couldn’t do at the moment, but could do if I dedicated myself. In addition to the cyclists I mentioned, some teachers and professors became heroes, even though I wasn’t yet considering their career paths, because their education and the kinds of understanding they were out of my range yet still attainable.  As for people I never would meet, I looked up to writers because even if I weren’t as great as they were, I could see myself in them: Kurt Vonnegut’s and Allen Ginsberg’s  disdain for pretense, Toni Morrison’s understanding of dilemmas and Victor Hugo because he always seemed to ask, “Who are you?”  And there was Jacob Bronowski, whom I encountered in his “Ascent of Man” series. He seemed to know everything and somehow made it seem possible.

Although I don’t idolize athletes, there are some I admire as much as human beings as for their sports accomplishments. Among, but not limited to them, are people like “Major” Taylor, Jackie Robinson, Bill Russell, Muhammad Ali, Billie Jean King, Arthur Ashe and Simone Biles. While I will never match their physical feats, I can still use their courage, integrity and pure-and-simple humanity as guideposts to my life.  Perhaps they, the creators I mentioned and people who do whatever they can to make our lives and worlds more livable, are the closest we can find to heroes.

Here He Comes

 Forget Eddy Mercx. Forget Philippa York.  Here’s my real cycling hero:

Midlife Champions

 Athletes are referred to as “the Jackie Robinson” of their sport if they are the first African American to play in its top leagues or tournaments.

Althea Gibson has been awarded that title by more than one historian of sports. She broke the “color barrier” three years after Robinson played his first game for the Dodgers. Aside from the barriers they faced on account of their race, their stories have other parallels—and differences. 

Althea was born and raised in Harlem, New York City. While that presented its own challenges—for example, cops often conducted spurious raids in her neighborhood and chased African Americans, especially boys and young men out of other neighborhoods, she at least had a network to help her develop her talents. At age 14, she won on the New York State Girls’ Championship sponsored by the American Tennis Association, organized as an alternative to the all-White United Sates Lawn Tennis Association (USLTA).

Jackie, on the other hand, was born to sharecroppers in Georgia eight years before Gibson. What was life like in the Peachtree State? Because of the Jim Crow laws that were in effect at that time, African Americans were restricted to living in certain areas, deterred from voting through poll taxes, literacy tests and “grandfather rules” and barred from some schools, occupations and professions. And while sandlot baseball helped him develop his talents (like Gibson, he also excelled in other sports) it probably didn’t help him develop some of the habits and skills baseball players need to succeed at the highest levels.

I do not mean to minimize the obstacles Althea faced in comparison to those of Jackie. In 1949, she tried to gain entry into the USLTA’s National Grass Court Championship (the predecessor of today’s US Open) but was refused.This infuriated Alice Marble, a four-time winner of the NGCC, who wrote a letter to American Lawn Tennis magazine in which she created the USLTA’s “bigotry “ and demanding that Althea be allowed to compete in a qualifying event.

Finally, on this date in 1950, the USLTA admitted Gibson. She won her early matches but struggled for several years until winning the French Open in 1956 and the US Open and Wimbledon the following year, when she was 30.

While Jackie had an equally circuitous path to Major League Baseball, his differed in that he was already an established star in the Negro American League and, before serving in World War II, was a star football player and track-and-field athlete at UCLA.  Still, even though he was a first-ballot Hall of Famer, one can wonder what his career could have been: He was already 28 years old, an age when most ball players are at, or on the verge of, their prime.  

So being the first African American to achieve what she did is not the only reason Althea Gibson is “the Jackie Robinson of tennis”: both of them accomplished what they did as they were in, or entering midlife, depending on how one defines it.

(Althea also faced accusations that she was a man. Some things never change!)

Not The Way To “Graduate “

Many people ride bicycles until they “graduate” to cars. 

Here in the United States, kids may pedal to school, an after-school job or to someplace “fun” until they get their driver’s licenses.  Like many of my high school classmates, they may not mount a saddle again once they get behind the wheel of a car.

In other countries—and in some communities, including ones near me, the bicycle might be a means to acquiring an automobile. You often see immigrants taking this path, if you will:  They might ride a pedaled or e-bicycle to work, or to make deliveries, so they can save enough money to buy, or make a down payment on, an automobile. 

A gentleman in Indiana decided to follow the time-honored tradition I described in the previous paragraph, except for one thing:  He didn’t want to save up. Instead, he had the brilliant idea of using his bike to make one quick payday that would allow him to parlay two wheels into four—or, to be more precise, eight, as he bought two cars.

So what did he do that will be taught to future generations of students at the Wharton Business School (a certain billionaire’s alma mater)? And what lessons might those future Masters of the Universe draw from it?

Well, Derek Dwayne Core rode his mountain bike to a bank. I’ve done that many times myself. However, I have never entered such an establishment (or any other) dressed in white—and a ski mask. And the many items I’ve carried on my bicycles have never included a handheld device designed to propel projectiles for the purpose of making holes in human bodies.

OK, I don’t think I need to tell you what he did.  And it might’ve been a brilliant business plan except for a couple of things. 

 One, the bag into which he stuffed those green pieces of paper he took from the bank ripped, spilling those likenesses of American historic icons. Naturally, he gathered up as many as he could, which probably narrowed the time and distance between him and the folks pursuing him in blue suits.

Two: A piece of his sneaker lace got caught in his chain.

Those green pieces of paper and sneaker lace became evidence that the fellows in blue suits would use at the end of their pursuit. Those things, and two others: the 2005 Cadillac Escalade he bought and the 2013 GMC Yukon his friend bought—with the green pieces of paper he managed to retrieve.  

Do They Ride Bikes?

During the mid- and late ‘80’s, I could ride all day and not see another adult cyclist, especially in “transportation deserts “ and other areas where, by necessity or choice, people were car-dependent.  By “choice,” I mean that people drove even when they could have walked or cycled for local trips or commuted on a bus or train.

Those communities tended to be working- and lower middle class. I often thought they, like many of us, were inculcated with the notion that motor=maturity and that only kids rode bikes. Whatever receational or other “by choice” cycling took place in middle-class neighborhoods. 

When I started this blog in 2010, I noticed that if I was the only adult cyclist within sight, I was probably in a low-income immigrant community. Sometimes it had to do with the fact said immigrants came from places where there was little or no cycling, possibly because they were too poor to buy a bike. Or they aspired to having a car, and they saw riding a bicycle as a sign that they were not progressing toward the goals they had when they emigrated.

If I saw other cyclists, they were almost always male. I was often admonished to be careful or that I shouldn’t be riding at all because the dangers were too great—or because they came from cultures in which girls and women simply didn’t ride bicycles. 

These days, even in the neighborhoods or areas I’ve mentioned, I am rarely the only adult cyclist.  Some might be on beat-up wrecks they cobbled together from abandoned or discarded bikes; others might be spinning the pedals of a Trek or Cannondale.  

There is, however, one city that reminds me of the old days. Before I moved to my current home, two years ago, I had ridden through it maybe a couple of times. But now that I am living across from the New York Botanical Garden and just above Fordham University, that city is only 8 kilometers (5 miles) away, directly across the city/county line. It hasn’t been a destination—yet—but it is along some routes I now ride.

I am talking about Mount Vernon. It’s not what comes to mind when most people think about Westchester County. If anything, it’s a lot like the working-class neighborhoods I described: apartment buildings are interspersed with brick and stucco houses surrounded by small parches of lawn. I suspect that many residents, if they don’t work in the city’s shops or factories, take the Metro North commuter railroad to Manhattan. For them, commuting by bike isn’t feasible and I imagine they don’t have the time or energy at the end of the day for a ride.

Perhaps their busy schedules, or some of the attitudes I described earlier, are reasons why I have yet to see another adult on a bicycle in Mount Vernon. Or could it be that they see someone like me and don’t see themselves?

Along For The Ride

 I never have had children. If I had, I like to think I would have taken them on bike rides. Somehow, though, I don’t think it would have looked like this:

I Couldn’t Cash My Traveler’s Check. And I Celebrated.

 

Today, the 15th of August, is the Day of the Solemnity of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Say that three times fast—in Latin.  If you won’t, I don’t blame you—not many other people would. If they’re paying attention to it at all, they simply call this date the Assumption. 

You may be wondering why there’s a holiday for something people believe whether or not anybody can prove it’s true.  Well, the “Assumption,” in this case is that the Virgin Mary ascended, body and soul, into Heaven at the end of her life. Now, I know that some people, including a bunch of old guys who live in Rome, do not see the Assumption as, well, an assumption:  It has been a “dogmatic truth of faith” ever since Pope Pius XI declared it so in 1950.  But the faithful didn’t need that decree; many have been celebrating it ever since at least the fifth century C.E.

And why is all of this important, at least according to Catholic theology? Supposedly, Jesus ascended to heaven under his own power. (Hmm…Sometimes getting up hills is hard enough!) Mary, on the other hand, could ascend only by the power and grace of God.

I guess that is the reason why even some very lapsed Catholics celebrate this day:  If Mary, a human, could go to Heaven, body and soul, so can the rest of us.  (I always wondered about the “body,” though:  If you are old and ravaged, is that the version of you that makes the trip up, up and away? What if you’re an amputee?) And in some current—and former—bastions of Catholicism, this date is a national holiday on which banks, post offices and the like close.

France is one such country. I was reminded of that during one of my bike tours there when I needed to cash a traveler’s check (remember those?). Fortunately, I could’ve made it through the day on some fruit and half of a baguette I’d bought the day before in Troyés.

Notice that I used the past conditional tense.  I stopped beside a tree, just to get out of the sun for a few moments.  A group of people—a couple of families—invited me to join their picnic. I learned that in now-mostly-secular France, the day is, for many, one last chance to shop, take a short trip or simply relax before the rentreé (when kids go back to school) or returning to work.

Those experiences are, for most people, about as far from an “assumption “ as possible. That may be a reason why, even if they don’t believe what it represents, they celebrate the holiday. At least I didn’t need a miracle when, for one day, I couldn’t cash a traveler’s check!

Two Women Riding In The Rockaways

 

Today’s ride to Point Lookout was pleasant in all of the ways one could hope: The weather was warm, but not overly so; I had to pedal into just enough wind on my way out to make things interesting and I seemed to have just beaten the summer weekend crowds. Pleasant and pretty unremarkable, except perhaps for two women I saw.

The first rode with me across the Veterans Memorial Bridge to the Rockaway Peninsula and then to the boardwalk, where we parted ways. I’d guess that she’s within a decade of my age. She rode a Trek road bike in, probably, the smallest frame size available in that model. But I wouldn’t describe her as petite so much as compact:  Her body seemed to concentrate not only strength, but also the effort and discipline she put into cycling and, I suspect, whatever else she does.

The second, whom I encountered—ironically enough—just before I entered the VM Bridge on my way back, seemed about as different from the first. Tall and lithe, she could be as much a model as an athlete.  If the first one concentrated power, the second extended it through her long limbs. She rode what appeared to be a flat-bar road bike, also from Trek. The young man, who seemed to be her boyfriend or fiancé, pedaled a bike that looked like hers, except for its dropped handlebars.

On reflection, I recall a striking similarity between those two women:  They seemed, each in her own way, very confident and in command of their bodies.  The petite woman on her road bike pedaled in deliberate strokes and perched herself forward in an unapologetic yet joyful way. The taller woman kept pace with her male companion and, perhaps, could have ridden faster. But something in her body language told me she wasn’t trying merely to be in sync with him, and a brief glimpse of her face led me to believe she wasn’t deferential to him.

I am glad to have seen each of those women riding confidently, competently and comfortably in her own way. And they remind me of what this administration, with its patriarchal religious and oligarchic allies, are trying to take from us.

(I apologize for not taking pictures of either of the women, or today’s ride.)

Why Couldn’t It Break Away From The Big Screen?

        
(Go to 7:00)

I had forgotten about it until the other day.  Turns out, I’m not the only one who did.

I’ve been watching Paul Van Scott’s YouTube series on TV shows that lasted one season or less. Some shows, I must admit, I’d never heard of.  Others, however, I’d seen, if only for one or two episodes.

His segment about the short-lived series from 1980-81 included Breaking Away. It might sound familiar even if you never saw it: It was based on the previous year’s movie of the same name. That picture enjoyed both critical and commercial success; the TV show would only experience one. Why?

No one could answer the question. After all, it had all of the elements that made the movie so successful:  The relatively unknown actors fleshed out well-written roles in a coming-of-age story that just happened to be about a young man who dreams of being a professional bicycle racer.  The story also had an “underdog” element, as the young man was an American in the Midwest, and his heroes, whom he is trying to emulate, are Italian.

If the movie’s success surprised anyone, it was because relatively few Americans were interested in bicycle racing.  Remember, this was before Greg Le Mond’s Tour de France victories. And while almost nobody thought the movie turned the Unites States into a nation of cycling fans, almost everyone involved with the project believed that what made the story so appealing on the big screen would translate to the small screen.

Some argue that it did. And that is why no one could explain why its ratings were low enough that it was canceled after only eight episodes. The other shows that aired at the same time were decent but hardly ratings juggernauts. Steve Teisch wrote and Peter Yates directed both the movie and series. Some actors reprised their roles. One notable exception was Dennis Christopher, whom Shaun Cassidy replaced in the David Stohler role. While nobody ever watched Cassidy for his acting chops, I don’t think he would have turned off TV audiences.

Here is my two-bit theory as to why the TV series didn’t make it through a aeason. People who didn’t care about bicycle racing (e.g., most Americans in 1979) were willing to watch it for the sake of the story for a single movie of less than two hours . On the other hand, I think that if they still weren’t interested in pacelines and pelotons a year later, they certainly weren’t willing to see them every week, even if the series had the same “feel good” story as the movie and they thought Shaun Cassidy was cute.

Do They Think Pedaled Bikes Are For Midlife—Or Later?

 

This news item from Philadelphia echoes a lament I’ve heard from other parts of the US:  Fewer kids are riding bicycles.

That may seem counterintuitive (as much as I hate that term), given that Philly, like other cities, has been building bike lanes and investing in other forms of cycling infrastructure—and that cycling for transportation and recreation, especially among Generation X and Millennials, had been on the rise, at least through the pandemic. The report I’ve linked mentions several possible reasons: Kids are spending more time on screens and are riding e-bikes or scooters. Their parents are concerned about traffic and other dangers.

It also hinted at a socio-economic phenomenon: families and communities are “under-resourced.” That is a fancy way of saying some families can’t afford to buy their kids bikes and even the giveaway programs can’t provide nearly enough. Even if parents can afford bikes, they may not have the time to ride with their kids—which brings us back to their safety concerns.

It’s an unfortunate fact that while cycling can provide relatively inexpensive transportation and exercise, its benefits are far from equally shared. As I mentioned in an earlier post, my friend “Sam” observed that the cyclists we saw on traditional bikes were older than e-bike riders.  I would also add that on any given day, e-bike riders I see trend poorer—and darker—than those of us on pedaled bikes.

About the previous sentence: If my observations reflect broader realities, it may be because  a disproportionate number of e-bikers, at least here in New York City, are delivery workers, nearly all of whom are immigrants from Africa, the Caribbean and Central America. But even among those who aren’t bringing pizza or tacos -to people who just got home from work, most of the e-bike riders I see are people of color. Those who aren’t are usually tourists.

Could it be that kids who don’t have bikes see their parents, older siblings or other adults a generation older than themselves riding e-bikes and think “That’s what I want”? Kids, consciously or not, aspire to be like the adults in their lives.  They can envision themselves to be like them, and not the older adults—who are riding traditional bicycles.

It’s rather ironic that piloting e-bikes, and other motorized vehicles (including cars) is seen as a sign of “growing up” while pedaling is a symptom, if you will, of middle or old age!

How Many, Again?

 I know I’ve posted images like this in previous “Sunday Funnies “ posts. Yesterday’s “How Many Bikes” reminded me of it.

How Many Bikes Do You Need?

 A few neighbors have asked me, “How many bikes do you have?” I never give a direct answer. Part of the reason is my nature:  For whatever reasons, I have never liked “How much” or “How many” questions.

I will admit, however, that I have more bikes (seven) than most people. If I had more money or space, would I want more? In my youth, I would have said, “Definitely!” Then again, I didn’t have as many bikes as I have now.

Seeing this video from Rémy Métailler made me feel that while I may never know how many bikes are enough, I don’t feel as if I have too many.

Ten bikes. He has me beat. But the late, great Sheldon Brown had more bikes than both of us put together:  30.

Will Marilyn Be Forever In Midlife?

 The other day marked an anniversary. It’s one of those dates like that of the JFK assassination: Had I been a little bit older, I might’ve remembered where I was when news about it flashed across screens and buzzed over radio wires.

Early in the morning of 5 August 1962, Eunice Murray noticed a light under the bedroom door in the house where she worked. She knew that wasn’t a good sign. She called Dr. Ralph Greenson.

Why Dr. Greenson? He was the psychiatrist of the woman who slept in that room. Except, that morning she didn’t wake up:  Some time during the previous night, she ingested a fatal dose of sleeping pills.

Eunice Murray was the woman’s housekeeper. By now, if you didn’t already know, you probably figured that the woman in question was Marilyn Monroe.

So, apart from the anniversary of her death, why am I writing about her? Well, she was 36 years old, which means she would have turned 100 on 1 June.  Nobody seems to think of what she might’ve been like as a centenarian, or even if she had lived to be, say, 70 or 80. At the same time, the images of her are not those of an aborted youth, like those we hold of James Dean or any number of rock stars who died young.  

So was she in midlife when she died? Purely from the standpoint of chronological age, we might say she was on the cusp of it. In terms of her career and fame, however, she wasn’t. It’s generally agreed that her rise to international stardom began in 1953, when she appeared in “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” and “Niagara.” So her career as we remember it was less than a decade old when she passed.

This fact is especially striking when you realize that just a few months after “GPB” and “Niagara” were released, she wed Joe Di Maggio, who had just retired from what made him famous. That fact and his age (12 years Marilyn’s senior) would lead most people to agree that he was indeed in midlife, or entering it, just as Marilyn was becoming, well, Marilyn.

Because he remained in the public eye after his playing days ended, people saw him age—well, but age nonetheless. By the time he died in 1998, aged 84, he had become a kind of eminence grise.  

Which brings me back to my earlier question: How do we remember Marilyn Monroe? Did she die on the verge of middle age? Or does she live on in a suspended kind of midlife?

Is This Raleigh The End?

 Two years ago, I wrote about Mercian’s near-death experience. It ceased trading in April 2024.  A few weeks later, a group of four businessmen who are cycling enthusiasts purchased the company with the intention to “honour its legacy.” (Gotta use British spelling, ya know!) it seems they have:  They kept the blazers, painters and other craftspeople who were doing all of that beautiful work. In the meantime, they overhauled management and customer service, which seemed to be the sources of the company’s problems.

The BBC and other media described Mercian, rightly, as “iconic.” They are, in the sense that they are emblematic of traditional bespoke frame-building. They are not, however, a name most casual or very young cyclists, let alone the general public, know. 

If you ask most people to name an English bike-maker, they would probably say, “Raleigh.” The (perhaps sad) irony is that it hasn’t made bicycles in England since 2002 and hasn’t even been British-owned since 2012. Those developments ended 115 years of manufacturing in Nottinghamshire and 125 years of English proprietorship.

Photo by Christopher Thomson for The Guardian

Raleigh was, perhaps, the most-recognized bicycle brand in the world (and probably second only to Schwinn in the US) because it was the largest manufacturer in the world.  At its peak, over 8000 workers turned out more than a  million bicycles in Nottinghamshire.  To put that in perspective, if we assume that Raleigh operated an eight-hour day five days a week, it produced more bikes in an hour than Mercian made frames in a year.   

By now, you might have guessed why I am writing about Raleigh:  it might be consigned to the parts bin of history. Back to 2012:  That’s when Dutch group Accell, which owns other bike and e-bike brands, bought Raleigh. Ten years later, KKR, a US-based private equity firm bought Accell.

Little did the folks at KKR realize they were buying just as the COVID pandemic bike boom was about to go bust. The industry couldn’t respond quickly enough to increased demand. Bike shops ran out of inventory; by the time manufacturers ramped up production, it was too late. Shops and manufacturers, including Raleigh, were stuck with excess inventory.

KKR couldn’t right its ship by cutting costs and sharing operations between brands.  But it was too little, too late:  They had to hand the business over to creditors, who tried arranging a takeover, which failed.

Yellow Is The New…

When people get angry, they “see red.”

Not so long ago, however, a cyclist in New York City might’ve seen yellow: No driver drove more of us to fits of rage (not to mention alcohol and other drugs) than one behind the steering wheel of a taxi. He (almost all were male) was the “cowboy” of the urban canyons, darting in and out of lanes, pumping the accelerator and brake pedals seemingly split-seconds apart and screeching to stops a hair’s breadth from strollers in the crosswalk.

Today I took a ride across the High Bridge into Manhattan down to the Village. For the first time I can remember, I was happy to see yellow cabs on Seventh Avenue. In fact, they seemed tame and predictable—at least in comparison to some of the new menaces on the road. I’m talking about the kids on scooters and motorbikes, and people in SUVs whose driving skills didn’t improve with the size of their vehicles.

But the worst of all are some ride-share (Uber, Lyft, et al). Since people don’t hail them—they’re summoned via apps—they pull in and out of bike lanes, or whichever lane is nearest the curb, without warning. And nearly every one I’ve seen is looking at a screen rather than their surroundings. Basically, they’re taxi drivers without the regulations or accountability of drivers in yellow cabs—who today seemed like  model citizens on the road.

I didn’t see yellow when I got mad today.

Midlife Questions

 Some say we become jaded in midlife. Actually, we are simply not as easily impressed as we once were. While some retreat into quiet resignation, others ask the “rude” questions:

Doing My Dirty Work

I didn’t post yesterday because I was too busy spreading diversity, equity and inclusion as I pedaled along the Grand Concourse Bike Lane—in the heart of the bluest Congressional District (NY-15) of the United States.