Mayor Wants To Hold Motorist Accountable In Latest Cyclist Death

Too often, a motorist kills or maims a cyclist and gets not much more than a traffic summons--or a sympathetic pat on the back from a police officer. 

The cynic in me, and other cyclists, believed that Umar Baig would be the latest such driver.  Last Sunday, in Brooklyn, he sped through a red light on Coney Island Avenue. Another driver, traveling on Avenue L, T-boned his car.  Both vehicles spun out of control. One of them struck 52-year-old Jose Alzorriz of Park Slope, who became the 19th cyclist killed on New York City streets in 2019.  

Baig was briefly held and released.  The NYPD says it will charge him, but they did not say with what. Presumably, they will come to a determination after working with the Brooklyn District Attorney.

If Mayor Bill de Blasio has his way, Baig will not be the next driver to get tea and sympathy, and maybe a ticket.  "If you kill someone through your negligence, maybe that's not murder one, I'm not a lawyer, but I'd say it should be a serious, serious charge, with many years in prison" he declared. "It's not that that something unavoidable happened," he explained. "He blew through a red light at high speed, and someone is gone now, a family is grieving."

Let's hope that the Brooklyn DA and the NYPD see the situation as the Mayor has seen it.   Already, nearly twice as many cyclists have been killed in 2019--with more than a third of the year to go--as in all of 2018.

Fifth Avenue: Downhill In The Slope

Alert:  The video includes footage of a truck striking a cyclist.

This one hits close to home--no pun intended!

When I lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn, I cycled along Fifth Avenue nearly every day.   Those weren't my "fun" rides--far more pleasant streets and Prospect Park were close by--but I did much of my shopping, as well as a number of errands on Fifth.  

Then--the '90's and early '00s--the Avenue was lined with small shops of all kinds.  Some had been in the same family for a couple of generations; others were owned by young people who sold the sorts of books, clothes and music you wouldn't find in "big box" stores.  As the avenue is narrow, traffic could be congested and chaotic, but there was at least some level of respect between drivers--many of whom were making deliveries--and cyclists and pedestrians.   So, even though there was no bike lane, I never worried while threading through traffic and parked vans.

Fifth Avenue still doesn't have a bike lane, protected or otherwise.  I still ride there occasionally, but my recent experiences confirm something I've heard from other cyclists--and read in a news report:  Drivers aren't good about sharing the road.

Those accounts also confirm something else I've experienced on Fifth Avenue and elsewhere:  Some of the most reckless riders are on Citibikes.  A police officer has said as much to me:  When he sees someone with earbuds blowing through a red light, or making a careless turn, there's a good chance he (Sorry guys, they're usually young men!) is on one of those blue share bikes.

Such was the case Tuesday morning, when a Citibiker cut across traffic in both directions--against a red signal--and was hit by a truck. 

 

While the cyclist in question--identified only as a 39-year-old man--is expected to survive, he was knocked unconscious and suffered serious injuries.   The crumpled Citibike was still on the side of the road during the evening rush hour.


Now, I might sound like one of those New Yorkers who blames tourists for everything she doesn't like, but I really believe that, to some degree, Citibike has made cycling--and, for that matter, walking--less safe than it was.  While some commuters ride Citibikes, more are used by people who are in town for a day or a few days and are not accustomed to riding here or are just more careless because they figure they won't be here long enough to have to face the consequences of their actions.  

To be fair, similar things could be said about many of the drivers found along Park Slope's Fifth Avenue today.  They come and go:  There's a good chance that the one you see today (or tonight), you'll never see again.   In contrast, I used to see the same delivery drivers, as well cyclists and pedestrians,  several times a week, if not every day.  In other words, those folks were, in essence if not in fact, friends and neighbors. That, I believe, is a reason why drivers, even if they didn't understand cyclists, didn't harbor or express the kind of hostility we often experience today.

Oh, and it's a lot easier to see cyclists as "them" when their bikes all look--or are--the same.  

That said, I hope the fellow who was struck on Fifth Avenue recovers--and that he and the drivers he encounters are more mindful of each other.

Where It's Really Hard To Get Out Of The Way

I've ridden the block dozens of times.  And walked it at least as often.

It's less than a kilometer from where I grew up.  Relatives, friends and classmates lived along the streets that crossed it.

Unfortunately, for a 16-year-old boy, it's where his life ended. 


Yisroel Schwartz was riding north on 17th Avenue, a narrow thoroughfare that runs through the heart of Borough Park, a neighborhood that is no as riding north on 17th Avenue, a narrow thoroughfare that runs through the heart of Borough Park, a neighborhood that is now home to one of the world's largest yet most cohesive Hasidic Jewish communities.

Although it's called an "avenue," it's narrower than most streets or roads in other American cities.  And because the Hasidim, who have large families, are among the most car-reliant people in New York City, the avenue is often crowded--even when drivers aren't pulled over to pick up or discharge family members, or simply double-parked. 

Those conditions, unfortunately, make getting "doored" a particular hazard.  That was the last lesson Yisroel Schwartz learned in his brief life.



He saw the door opening and swerved.  But he couldn't avoid it, striking the door and falling to the pavement.

But it gets worse:  While prone, he was struck by an Econoline E350 van that was heading in the same direction.  He suffered severe trauma to his head and body, and was pronounced dead soon after arriving at Maimonides Medical Center, about halfway between that block and my old house.

Both drivers--of he car whose door he struck and the van that struck him--remained at the scene of the accident.  The NYPD are investigating. Knowing that stretch of 17th Avenue--which I probably wouldn't ride if I weren't so familiar with it--I am actually inclined to give the van driver at least,  the benefit of the doubt.  No matter your cycling or driving skills, it's really hard to get out of the way on that stretch of the Avenue, between 53rd and 52nd Streets.

Tunnel Vision

We’ve had a lot of rain during the past few days.  It is April, after all!

I’ve gotten in a bit of cycling, though not as much as I had been doing.  Now I’ll confess that I actually took the subway yesterday.  My excuses:  The  curtain of rain precluded visibility, and I was carrying something that, perhaps, I could’ve hauled on my bike.

Heading home, I entered the York Street station in DUMBO. (I remember when the neighborhood was, well, not a neighborhood:  All of those self-consciously trendy cafes were warehouses and factories!). There, I remembered why I so prefer cycling!

Once Again, A Bike Lane Isn't Enough

Sometimes you hear bad news and it's far away.  Other times, it hits close--too close--to home.

Bushwick, Brooklyn is just a few kilometers from my apartment.  As it's between Williamsburg, Brooklyn and Ridgewood, Queens, I frequently cycle its mostly narrow streets.  Friends of mine live in or near it.  And, when I was writing for a local newspaper, my work frequently took me there.

While most of those streets are relatively quiet, they see more than their fair share of trucks, as the residential streets are hemmed in by a heavy industrial area.  And, of course, the sanitation trucks have to make their rounds. Because those streets are narrow, there isn't much room for anything else when a truck rumbles through.  A couple of those streets--like one I'll mention in a moment--have bike lanes.  But they provide little, if any, margin of safety in the conditions I've described.

Now, I don't think truck drivers are any more hazardous than drivers of other vehicles.  If anything, I find them to be more conscientious because their livelihoods depend on their safety records.  I know this because relatives and friends of mine have driven trucks for a living.  One--my grandfather--drove for the New York City Sanitation Department.

I also know that it's entirely possible to run something over without realizing it, especially at night.  It's hard to tell whether that "thump" you felt--if indeed you felt it--is a pothole, or an inanimate or animate object.  Or a person, on foot or on a bike.

That's why I can understand why the driver of a sanitation truck didn't stop around 8:30 last night, on Evergreen Avenue near Menahan Street, in the neighborhood.  There, at that time, a 25-year-old woman was struck by that truck.



Of course, I am not trying to minimize the plight of that woman.  The latest report says she's in "critical but stable" condition, with a broken clavicle and an open wound on her right arm.  I hope she recovers quickly and well.  

I also don't want to vilify the driver or the passenger of that truck.  Inside the cab of their truck, they were a couple of meters above street level, so even if they knew they'd hit something or someone, they wouldn't have had any idea of who or what it was.  They claim not have known they hit anyone or anything, and unless the investigation proves otherwise, I believe them.

I also believe--no, I know--that safety must be improved.  There is a lane on the street where that woman was struck. (I know: I've ridden it.)  But, as I've said in other posts, bike (and pedestrian) lanes, by themselves, don't constitute "bicycle friendliness".

Bicycle Safety In The City: It's About Him

I have long said that much of the opposition to bicycle infrastructure--or simply encouraging people to get out of their cars and onto a saddle--is really class-based resentment.  In other words, people who are upset when they see bike share docks taking up "their" parking spaces or a bike lane that takes "their" traffic lane away believe that liberal elites are coddling privileged young people who are indulging in a faddish pastime and simply won't grow up.

What they fail to realize is that creating awareness and infrastructure doesn't just protect trust fund kids who ride their "fixies" to trendy cafes where they down $12 craft beers.  A goal of efforts to encourage cycling and make it safer is also to protect those who, by necessity, make their livings on their bicycles.  Edwin Vicente Ajacalon was one of them.

Like most of the folks who make food deliveries on their bicycles, Ajacalon was an immigrant--in his case, from Guatemala.  He arrived in this country--specifically, to Brooklyn--a year ago.

He did not, however, live in the Brooklyn of fixed gears and craft beers:  Though he was only about eight kilometers from Hipster Hook, he lived a world away, in a single room he shared with five other men who, like him, are immigrants who delivered food by bicycle.  And the area in which he usually worked, which realtors dubbed "Park Slope South" some years back, is really still the hardscrabble working-class immigrant community it was when my mother was growing up in it.  The only differences are, of course, that the immigrants come from different places and that the neighborhood--hard by the northwestern entrance of the Greenwood Cemetery--is dirtier and shabbier, and still hasn't entirely recovered from the ravages of the 1980s Crack Epidemic.

Only one block from that entrance to the necropolis, around 5:45 pm on Saturday, Edwin Vicente Ajacalon was pedaling through the intersection of Fifth Avenue and 23rd Street.  There, a BMW sedan smacked into him.



The driver, to his credit, remained at the scene (and has not been charged with any crime). Unfortunately, there probably was nothing he or anyone else could do for Edwin:  Minutes later, the police would find him lying down in a pool of blood, halfway across the block from where he was hit.  Someone checked  his vital signs and found none, which means that, although he was pronounced dead when he arrived at the hospital, he might've died as soon as the car struck him or when he struck the pavement.

All anyone could do after that was to pick up the pieces of his bicycle which, along with a sneaker and a hat, where strewn about the street.

When anyone dies so suddenly and tragically, we can lament the loved ones who will never see him again, and those whom he will never see--as well as the things he won't have the opportunity to do.  For poor Edwin, those things include celebrating his fifteenth birthday.

Yes, you read that right.  Edwin Vicente Ajacalon was 14 years old when he was struck and killed while making deliveries on his bicycle--one year after emigrating, alone, from Guatemala.  He has no family here in the US, save for an uncle with whom he briefly lived.  Like his roommates, Edwin was working other odd jobs in addition to delivering food on his bicycle--and, after paying rent, sending money to his parents in Guatemala.

So...Now we know that bicycle safety is not just a matter of protecting pampered post-pubescents.  In this case, it's about protecting the livelihood of a boy in his early teens and the parents he was trying to support.  And they can't even afford to come to the US to claim his body. 

A Very Expensive Rest Stop

How much home can you buy for $2 million?

You might wonder why I'm raising such a question here. It's not that I'm getting rich from writing this blog:  In fact, I haven't made a cent from it.  Then again, I've never made any attempt to monetize this site.  

The question entered my mind because of something I saw during my ride yesterday.

In some parts of this nation, two million dollars can buy you a veritable palace, or at least a mansion.  I have to admit, of the ones I saw in this article, I am partial to the ones in Poulsbo, Washington and Block Island, Rhode Island.  Perhaps those high wispy clouds tinged by the sunset make the one in Washington State seem even more beautiful than it is.  And I just might like the one in Rhode Island because I'm generally partial to New England.

So...what does $2 million get you in New York?

Yes, a toilet. 

This public restroom facility (I think that's the official name for structures like it.) is in Gravesend Park, Brooklyn.  While growing up, I spent a fair amount of time in that park, wedged between the 18th Avenue shopping area and a Department of Sanitation garage.

Can't beat the location, right?  Maybe that's why it cost $5000 per square foot:  more than it would take to buy the most expensive apartment in Trump Tower!

And, no, there are no gold-plated fixtures or marble ceilings.  It's just a basic public restroom with steel stalls and fixtures.  At least it was clean, which is all I ask when I stop to take care of my needs during a ride.

In case you were wondering:  It took seven and a half years to complete.  I bet it didn't take nearly as long to build this:

or the train line that ascends from, or descends to, the tunnel to the left of the photo. And I'll bet it will all last longer!

Out Front? Or A Fashion Accessory? Or A Human Shield?

If you live any place long enough, you notice changes.  Even if you find yourself with more choices in stores, restaurants or whatever--or if the buildings and parks get fixed up--you'll probably become one of those bitter or cantankerous people who grumbles, "I remember when..."

I'm starting to become one of those people in my current neighborhood of Astoria, Queens.   Before I moved here, I lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn for eleven years.  That was long enough for me to see it turn from "Dyke Slope" (The Lesbian Herstory Archives are still located in the neighborhood.) to a colony of affluent young couples who divided their work thusly:  one worked worked on Wall Street or was running a tech startup, the other pushed the kid in a stroller from pre-school to soccer practice or dance lessons while toting a yoga mat (and wearing $100 yoga pants).  

By that time, the joke was that the kids were the fashion accessories.  If you saw the way those parents (yes, some of them were men) pushed their carts, with the kid (or, more precisely, the kid's outfit) prominently displayed, you might think it wasn't a joke.

When some of those parents crossed the street, I really thought some of them might be using the kids as human shields!

I was thinking of them when I came across this bike:

It would be perfect for them, don't you think?

Waking Up And Finding A Bull's Head In Your Box

Today's weather was just like yesterday's, just a couple of degrees warmer.  Still, I did a shorter ride:  I got off to a late start.

But I enjoyed it nonetheless.  I rambled through some Brooklyn and Queens streets.  It's funny how I can roll through neighborhoods I know well, yet as I pedal down a particular street, I might think, "Hmm...haven't been here in a while.

So it was as I cycled down one of the major streets in a pocket of Brooklyn that no one seems to agree on whether it's in Williamsburg, East Williamsburg, Bushwick or Wyckoff Heights. 

("East Williamsburg" is an actual part of Brooklyn.  It's not just something you say when you're trying to impress someone--a potential date, perhaps--but you don't want to say you live deep in the heart of Bushwick.  For that matter, "Wyckoff Heights" actually exists, but about the only people who've heard the name are the ones who use it in reference to the area I rode through today!)

The street is bounded by the Broadway elevated train line and a cemetery.  On one side of the avenue I rode are projects and a senior center; the other side is lined with old factories, warehouses and storefronts.  If that doesn't sound like the sort of place in which artists live for about a decade before the neighborhood gentrifies--or becomes Hipster Hell--well, it is.

Not surprisingly, there are "vintage" and "antique" stores that charge more than most of those artists can afford for things other people threw away.  I stopped in one because it  had a couple of interesting-looking bikes and trombones (How often do you see them together?) outside the door, tended to by a rugged-looking woman in a long black skirt whom I took for one of the Orthodox Jews who live nearby but who, in fact, is the wife of, and co-owner with, a who looks like he could be one of the artists.

The woman was actually nice to me:  She invited me to bring my bike in.  The man was dealing with a haggler--actually, someone who was trying to shame him into giving her something at the price she wanted.  "I just bought property in this neighborhood.  I have a stake in it," she said, stridently.  Yeah, you're going to price all of the artists out of this neighborhood, I said to myself.

Anyway, there was some rather interesting stuff in the store.  This caught my eye:

I wish I could have better captured what I saw:  The curves of the handlebars and trombones.  It wasn't so surprising to see the latter.  But a box full of handlebars?  Even though a few bikes were for sale, that was a surprise.  I asked the female co-owner.  She didn't know how he came upon them.  "Probably they were getting tossed out," she speculated.  Perhaps, I thought, by some bike shop.  Most of the bars were cheap steel and alloy dropped bars, so I'm guessing the shop had them from old ten- and twelve-speeds that were "hybrdized".

Given all of the artists in the area, I wouldn't be surprised if at least one of those handlebars ended up in a sculpture or installation.  Could the next Picasso's Bull's Head be sitting, embryonic, in that box?

Joaquin Is Going That Way...

Everybody’s been storm-watching for the past 24 hours or so.  They all remember Sandy and, from what the weather reports say, Joaquin is even more powerful.  But the wind and rain that’ve battered us today aren’t his fault:  A Nor’easter has worked its way along this part of the coast.

Joaquin, as of today...we hope!

Sandy became a “superstorm” when  merged with a Nor’easter before making landfall near Atlantic City, New Jersey.  It doesn’t seem that Joaquin will do anything like that:  He seems content remaining out to sea, well to the east of Montauk Point.  Still, he could gift our Nor’easter with even more wind and water than it might have whipped against, and dropped on, us:  As meteorologists tell us, the course of a hurricane is one of the most difficult things to predict.

There seems to be an interesting divide in how much concern people who lived through Sandy’s ravages are expressing about the prospect of another Nor’easter, hurricane or—superstorm?! From what my own admittedly unscientific observations, the folks on the South Shores of Staten Island and Brooklyn, and in the Rockaways, are bracing themselves.  Whether or not they’re making actual preparations, they are taking the reports and warnings seriously—more seriously, some admit, than they did when Sandy approached. 

On the other hand, residents of Long Beach and other communities on the South Shore of Nassau County—which, arguably, incurred even more damage than Brooklyn and at least as much as the Rockaways—seem more blasé.  As one man said, “I lost everything then.  I’m not worried now.”  But people in other devastated areas also “lost everything”.  In fact, in the Breezy Point area of the Rockaway Peninsula, houses that weren’t blown apart or washed away burned to the ground when water wreaked havoc with the electrical wires.  I recall seeing people who were able to retrieve only family photo albums before fleeing, or upon returning.

As for me:  I am watching the storms.  Aside from not having classes for a week, I wasn’t affected much by Sandy.  I want to make sure I can say the same thing about Joaquin or the Nor’easter.

Then again…Joaquin couldn’t possibly affect us as much as Sandy did.  After all, Joaquin is a male name, while both males and females are named Sandy.  Hell hath no fury like that of both genders, combined!

Outrunning The Clouds To Spotty Showers

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you may recall that I've written about "playing chicken with the rain."  As often as not, I manage to keep the rain at bay. ;-)

I did the same thing again today.  As I pedaled down 11th Street in Long Island City, I was greeted with this fairly ominous-looking vista:

Most days, the weather across the river in Manhattan ends up in my neighborhood withing a few minutes.  That's because Manhattan lies to the west, the direction from which most of our weather (one notable exception being hurricanes/tropical storms) comes.  When I can't see the spire on Liberty Tower (where the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center once stood), I know it ain't gonna be pretty.

The weather forecasters predicted "spotty showers" for the afternoon before a full-on storm would plow in for the evening.  What else can showers be but "spotty", especially on your clothes?

That is exactly how my ride ended:  with the showers making spots on my tank top and shorts just as I reached my front door.  In the meantime, I managed to make it to Point Lookout and back--105 km, at least.  I say "at least" because I took what I believe to be a slightly longer route--through Brooklyn--home.

A First, But Not A Latest

According to sociologist E. Digby Baltzell, Philadelphia is a city of "firsts", Boston a city of "bests" and New York a city of "latests".

The last part of Baltzell's observation makes perfect sense if you ride along the Ocean Parkway bike lane, as I did today.

Many histories, and the New York City Parks Department, maintain that it is the country's first bike path.  Whether or not such a claim can be made for it, the five-mile ribbon of asphalt and concrete is almost certainly the oldest bike lane continuously designated for the purpose.

Baltzell's observation might well explain why I rode the entire length of Ocean Parkway in both directions and saw only one other cyclist.  Granted, the temperature reached 34C (94F), but one might expect to see people--whether or not they are "serious" cyclists--riding to Coney Island, at the southern end of the path.

But I rode in the morning, before the worst of the heat baked the path, so I would have expected to see more riders.  

Aside from the heat, I think one reason why there was only one other cyclist--and there weren't many more when I rode the path about two weeks ago--is that the younger and hipper cyclists are riding the newer bike lanes, like the ones along the East River in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and along the Hudson on the West Side of Manhattan.

Also, there are no Citibike ports anywhere near the Ocean Parkway lane.  The nearest ones, I believe, are at Prospect Park--at its northern end, near the Brooklyn Museum and Library.  Ocean Parkway begins at the southwestern end of the park, about two miles (three kilometers) away.  So, if one were to take a Citibike from the Prospect Park park, he or she would not be able to return it in time:  One-time renters must bring the bike back within half an hour, while those with annual memberships have 45 minutes.  Even if one is in shape to ride a major race, he or she would have great difficulty in riding to Coney Island (or even halfway there) and back, especially given that Citibikes are not built for speed.

In any event, I hope that the Ocean Parkway path is not forgotten.  I suspect that Citibike ports will be installed along its length, and in Coney Island itself.

Riding In The Parks

For someone who's lived as long as I've lived in New York, I really haven't done much cycling in Central Park.  Even during the eight years I lived in Manhattan, I seldom ventured into Frederick Law Olmstead's masterpiece of urban landscaping.

I guess part of the reason why I didn't do many laps around Strawberry Fields and the lake is that, well, riding or running in the park seemed like such a New York cliche.  Being a reel Noo Yawkuh (and being young and full of testosterone and alcohol, among other things), I thought I was just too cool for that.

Actually, I came up with some pretty good reasons not to ride in the park:  Most of the times when I could ride there, the lanes were choked with other cyclists, runners, joggers, women (and, occasionally, men) pushing strollers and, ahem,  the bane of every New Yorker's existence:  those dreaded, dratted tourists!  Later, inline skaters would be added to the mix.  And, it seemed, nobody watched where he or she was going, especially the skaters. 

The funny thing was that everything I just said could also be said about Prospect Park in Brooklyn.  But I rode there far more often than I rode in Central Park. Part of the reason for that was that I lived very close to Prospect during my eleven years in Park Slope.  Also, when I was living there, I had begun to do a lot of fixed-gear riding, and Prospect was nearly perfect for that.  Plus, being a bit older, I think I'd  become a bit more tolerant of tourists and such.

Anyway, what got me to thinking about Central Park was a photo I came across:

Photo by Faungg on Flickr

Out Of The Fold Of My Past

In an earlier post, I wrote about the Dahon Vitesse D5 on which I commuted for about a year and a half.  I think I gave the impression that it was the only folding or collapsible bike I've ever owned.  That's more or less true, if you don't count another one I owned for a few days.  

I was reminded of it when I came across this photo:

It's a Chiorda folding bicycle, just like the one I owned for a few days. It's even the same color, although--cosmetically, anyway--in slightly better condition than mine was.

I had an excuse for its rattiness: I found mine by the curb, next to some bags of trash.  For some reason I don't recall, I didn't ride my bike that day to visit a then-friend who was living in Jackson Heights.  I spotted the bike as I walked to the subway station.

But I didn't take the train home.  I walked the bike to a nearby gas station where I inflated the tires.  They held air long enough for me to ride the bike back to Brooklyn, where I lived at the time.

At that time, I'd ridden a few folding bikes, never for very long.  The Chiorda was about what I expected from such a bike.  Actually, I should qualify that statement:  It was about what I expected from a folding bike, but slightly better than what I expected from a Chiorda.

You see, I developed an early prejudice against the brand.  My first--and, for a long time, only--experiences with them came in the first bike shop in which I worked.  A nearby R&S Auto (Think of it as a low-rent version of Western Auto or Pep Boys.) sold Chiorda ten-speeds for $69.  The quality of the ones I saw ranged from ghastly to just plain scary.  I don't recall seeing one that didn't have a misaligned frame; some had bottom bracket threads that stripped when you removed the cups, rear brake bridges that broke off the stays and various other problems.  

At that time, bikes from Taiwan and Eastern Europe (except for the Czech-made Favorits) were considered the worst on the market; I think the Chiordas I saw were just as bad.  To be fair, though, any of those bikes was better than the Indian three-speeds I fixed.  And, I would learn that Felice Gimondi actually won the Tour de France on a Chiorda--though not, of course, the one I found or the ones I'd worked on.

But my ingrained prejudice prevailed. Even though the treasure I found in the trash was better than I thought it would be,  I didn't expect to keep it.  One day, a few days after I found it, I took it out for a spin.  I stopped at a greengrocer, where I encountered a sometime riding buddy and local mechanic.  He actually wanted the bike--for his girlfriend.

I guess I can understand why he wanted it for her:  Even if it wasn't the greatest bike, it was kinda cute.  So, for that matter, was she.  He was, too.  I haven't heard from him in years.  Now I wonder whether she still has that bike--or him.

America's First Bike Path

A running joke among New York City cyclists (particularly those in Brooklyn) concerns the Ocean Parkway Bike Path:  It is the world's first bike path, and looks it.

In other words, maintenance seems to have been deferred ever since it opened in 1894.  

The Ocean Parkway Bike Path when it opened in 1894.

Still, it's an interesting--and even fun--ride for all sorts of reasons.  For one, you can use it to ride from Prospect Park to Coney Island, as I have often done.   For another, it's separated from the pedestrian path and rows of benches by an old railing.  If it's not raining, some of the last remaining Holocaust survivors will share bench space with Hasidic and Orthodox Jewish women and their children, wizened Russian men and Middle Eastern people in various states of being covered up.

Plus, the Parkway is a cross between one of those grand Boulevards you find in European cities, and an urban highway.  That is not surprising, when you consider that Frederick Law Olmstead--who designed Prosepect Park (as well as Central Park, Fairmount Park in Philadelphia and Mount Royal Park in Montreal)--took those boulevards as his inspiration when he built the Parkway. Whereas most European boulevards lead from one grand square or plaza to another (as the Champs-Elysees leads from la Place de la Concorde to l'Etoile), Olmstead's parkways led to or from one of the parks he designed.

Ocean was thus the first Parkway ever built; Olmstead followed it with Eastern Parkway which, as its name indicates, radiates from the park to the eastern edge of Brooklyn.  

Olmstead designed those boulevards in the 1860's, before bicycling became popular.  So, of course, he wasn't thinking about bicycles, let alone automobiles, when he planned his parks and routes.  However, he seems visionary in that it was relatively easy to incorporate bike paths into the Parkway routes as well as in the parks he designed.

But I don't think he planned on the kind of maintenance they would--or, more precisely, wouldn't--receive!

Out And About After Sandy

I was lamenting the fact that I won't be able to take a big trip this year.

However, I am experiencing the weather and seeing the kind of light one finds in London, Copenhagen and other northern European capitals.  

Somehow, though, I don't imagine they've had anything like Hurricane Sandy.  Then again, I'm sure they have other kinds of rough weather that I didn't spend enough time in those places to experience.

But I digress. Apart from the chilly, damp air and gray skies, something else gives the part of the world in which I live the flavor of northern Europe:

Those bikes are parked outside PS 1.  It seems that every time I ride down that way, I see more and more bikes parked there:

Those racks, installed recently, aren't enough for the bicycle traffic that stops at the museum.  Almost as many bikes are locked and chained to lamposts, parking meters and other immobile objects on the surrounding blocks.  Some of those bikes are interesting and unusual, such as this one:

A few A. Sutter bicycles, which were made  France, made their way to these shores before and during the '70's "Bike Boom."  They are much like other French bikes of the period--a little nicer, perhaps than Peugeot, but not quite as nice as Motobecane. But definiely, quintessentially French, for better and worse.

I mean, nobody else did chainguards the way they did them in Gaul.  And their fenders are, rightly, the ones that inspire the ones Velo Orange and other companies make:

The bike in the photos, and most other A. Sutters, were manufactured in Chatellerault, in the Loire Valley. A. Sutter also offered a top-of-the line racing model that Olmo made in Italy.  Like most top-of-the-line Italian racing bikes (as well as some from other countries), it was equipped with Campagnolo Nuovo Record components.

I don't know whether A. Sutter is still in business--and, if they are, whether their bikes are still made in Chatellerault or anywhere else in France.

If they're still being made, I wonder whether they're available in the light blue of that bike. Lots of bike makers made light blue bikes, but this particular shade, by itself, all but marks it as a French Bike.

Now, for a very different blue bike, take a look at this:

You've probably seen Austro-Daimlers before.  They're another marque associated with the '70's Bike Boom.  They might be best-known for one of the most elegant catalogs ever produced and their pledge that their top-of-the-line bike, the Ultima, would "leave the factory in a specially prepared foam-filled case." The ladies' version of the Vent Noir might be the most elegant mixte that wasn't made by a French constructeur or English hand-builder!

Even their lower-and mid-level bikes reflected the attention to detail of their best machines:

I find it interesting to see bicycles like this one that are more than three decades old but look as if they just left the showroom.  Was it stored in one of those foam-filled cases?

Anyway, enough about bikes.   I took a spin down to Brooklyn, and passed by Pratt Institute. I can hardly imagine a campus looking more autumnal than this: