A Good Step—But Is It Enougih

 

The Federal Government defines them as “micromobility devices.” Soon, however, one state might, in essence, classify them as motorized vehicles.

That might seem like a mere matter of semantics—or the sort of thing that occupies lawyers and policy wonks with too much time on their hands.  But it could have real consequences for eBike owners and riders.

Last month, Bill S2292 was introduced in the New Jersey Senate. It’s said to be “gaining traction “ as it moves the required Senate committee reviews. A date for a vote, however, has not been set.

In essence, the bill, if passed, would require “low speed electric bicycles” and “‘motorized bicycles” to have the same liability insurance as motorcycles or cars.

For the purposes of the bill, a “low speed electric bicycle “ is defined as a two- or three-wheeled vehicle with operable pedals and an electric motor of less than 750 watts that provides assistance when the rider is pedaling or ceases to provide assistance when the rider reaches 20 mph. A “motorized bicycle “ is one with pedals and a motor whose maximum piston displacement is less than 50cc or whose motor is rated at no more than 1.5 brake horsepower. Or, the bike is powered by an electric drive motor and does not reach more than 25 MPH on a flat surface.

Under those terms, eBike owners would be required to have insurance against potential bodily injury, death or property damage caused by their vehicles. In addition, eBike owners would need to carry personal injury protection in case their eBike causes bodily injury or death to another person.

The bill seems to be a response to the recent spate of crashes—and fires caused by eBike batteries. In that sense, I think it’s a good idea and think we should have a similar regulation here in New York. On the other hand, critics say that it could make eBike ownership “prohibitively expensive.” I also wonder how it could be enforced, given that many eBike purchases are made “off the books,” if you will, by undocumented immigrants.

Bill To Ban Bicycle Licenses In New Jersey

Perth Amboy, New Jersey is a largely working-class and non-White city over the Outerbridge Crossing from Staten Island, New York.  Last month, Perth Amboy cops stopped a group of boys on bikes who were popping wheelies and weaving in and out of traffic.  The cops could have used that stop to talk to the boys about bicycle safety. One of the officers did that, but the situation devolved into the cops confiscating the kids' bikes and handcuffing one of them.

The charge?  The kid they took into custody was riding without a bicycle license.

While the city has had a bike license ordinance on its books for decades, that incident marked the first time, to anyone's knowledge, that it was actually invoked.  That it was used to bring in a boy--who, guess what?, is Black--was, to be  polite, specious. 

The incident garnered national attention, which raised the question of what, exactly, are the reasons for, and purposes of, bicycle licensing regulations.  Most were enacted decades ago (That Perth Amboy's license costs 50 cents should give you an idea of how old that policy is!), ostensibly for purposes that are no longer, if they ever were, applicable.  Or increasingly-militarized police forces use them as yet another way to bully, intimidate and harass people less powerful than themselves. (The Perth Amboy cops could just as well have said they were arresting that kid for Riding While Black.)

Yvonne Lopez lives in Perth Amboy.  She also represents Middlesex County, of which the city is part, in the New Jersey State Assembly. On Monday, she introduced a bill (A5729) that, according to its synopsis, "prohibits municipal ordinances from from requiring license tag to use bicycles within municipality."  Currently, a few other New Jersey municipalities require tags or plates on bicycles, but specifics of those regulations vary.

In order to become law, the bill would have to pass in both chambers (Assembly and Senate) of the state Legislature.  I haven't heard any prognostication about the bill's chances of passing, but I suspect they're good, if for no other reason that the State probably would prefer uniformity from one jurisdiction to the next but doesn't want to be tasked with creating a state bicycle license system. 

Ride And Remember

Is there a Tomb of The Unknown Cyclist?

One could be forgiven for believing such a thing, especially after the way the Cynergy Cycling Club (of southern New Jersey) publicized its Memorial Day ride two years ago.

Whatever you do today, I hope you ride and remember!

No Fish Tales On This Ride!

You've heard the expression "fish story". You know, the ones about the catches that grow bigger and bigger in memory--or imagination.  Or the catches that never were in the first place.  

Surely you've heard one or two in your time.  You might have told one or two yourself. (Don't worry:   I don't judge!)  Me, I never have. (I swear! ;-))  I really was leading thhat stage of the Tour d'Israel when a Mossad agent yanked me away and conscripted me into the Army.  Really!

Why am I mentioning "fish stories" now?  Well, I got to thinking about them yesterday, during my ride to the Jersey Shore.  Of course, if you live an any coastal area, you've heard your share of such tales.  The guppy becomes a grouper, which in another telling, becomes a marlin or some other species that isn't native to the region.

A hundred years ago, people believed that stories about sharks were "fish tales"--or, if you were, sailor's tales. In other words, men who'd gone to sea--or claimed they did--would tell stories about those "man eating" creatures to scare or impress other people.  Or, if people believed in sharks, they thought the sailors and fishermen who told of them were exaggerating their size, speed and ferocity.

Well, one hundred years ago next month, those people would learn that those seafarers were only telling the half of it.  

The first two weeks of July 1916 were brutally, frightfully hot in the New York metropolitan area, and in much of the Northeastern United States.  At the same time, there was a polio epidemic.  Seeking relief, thousands of people took to the beaches of the Jersey Shore.  The combination of hot weather--which, in turn, meant warmer-than-normal ocean temperatures--along with the increased number of people may have brought the sharks, who usually habituate the shores of Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas, to more northerly reaches.

Shark attacks killed swimmers in the Atlantic on the 1st and 6th of July, off Beach Haven (near Long Beach Island, which was so ravaged by Superstorm Sandy) and Spring Lake (near Asbury Park), respectively.  Even though both attacks resulted in the swimmers losing parts of their bodies before bleeding to death, authorities thought there was no cause for alarm.  When sea captains entering the ports of New York and Newark reported seeing large sharks, they were dismisssed.

So was Thomas Cottrell, another sea captain and a resident of Matawan.  He spotted an 8 foot (2.5 meter) shark in Matawan Creek.  For its last couple of miles, Matawan Creek is a tidal inlet of Raritan Bay, which in turn is part of the ocean.  

Matawan Creek, a couple of kilometers upstream--and a century after--the shark attacks.

In a way, I can understand why authorities were skeptical of Cottrell's claim.  It had nothing to do (at least, as far as I can tell) with his credibility.  More than anything, I think that if people had a difficult time believing that a shark attacked in the ocean off southern New Jersey, they had an even more difficult time fathoming that such a creature would swim within sight of the Staten Island Ferry.  

(Even though one has to ride or drive 55 to 70 kilometers (35-40 miles) to get to Matawan from New York, due to the curvature of the shoreline, they're really only a few miles apart "as the crow flies".)

What was even more incredible was that the shark would swim upstream in Matawan Creek, about 15 kilometers inland from the ocean.  Had Cottrell been heeded, two boys--including 11-year-old epileptic Lester Stillwell--might never have entered the water.  They saw what they thought was a piece of an old dock or some other flotsam.  But when they saw a dorsal fin, it was too late:  the shark dragged Lester under the surface of the water.  He did not survive; neither would his would-be rescuer, Stanley Fisher.

On my way back, I pedaled across a bridge over Matawan Creek, a few kilometers from its mouth.  The still waters belied a century-old tragedy, one that is anything but a "fish story".  There were tears then; there have been tears in recent days; for me, there was only sweat: sweat of my own choosing.

Hoping That It Doesn't Become Merely A Memory

From Steve Greer Photography

I came across this image that reminded me of a ride I used to take at this time of year when I was in college.

Turns out, the cyclist in the photo is taking the same ride.  

He's pedaling the Delaware and Raritan Canal towpath, which winds for seventy miles through Central New Jersey, from the Raritan River in New Brunswick to the Delaware River in Bordentown.  

Paths were built along it, as they were along other canals, to allow mules to tow the barges.  Those paths fell into disuse as steam engines were used to propel the boats and, eventually, the canals themselves fell into disuse as railroads and, later, highways cut through the land.

The D&R Canal provided some of the best foliage rides in New Jersey--and, I daresay, the region.  One problem with it, though, is that it's in a flood-prone area.  Now, in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, I wonder whether the canal or the nearby rivers have spilled over onto the paths, and the land around it. I also wonder how many of those trees are still standing.

Although I haven't ridden the D&R in a long time, I hope that a favorite ride of my past doesn't become merely a memory.  For that matter, I hope the same fate doesn't befall the Rockaways, Point Lookout or Coney Island.

This Bridge Is Out

You don't cross it for the scenery:  There are a power plant, trailer park and a container port on one side, and petroleum refineries and a rather rundown section of a gritty city on the other side.  


I used to cross it, though, every month or so.  When my parents were still living in New Jersey, I used to ride over the bridge's pedestrian lane--a ribbon of concrete just wide enough for a bicycle with dropped handlebars, seperated by a rusting iron wall about as high as the top of the average  cyclist's pedal stroke--to an intersection of a couple of highways, where I had to dodge trucks and ten-year-old Buicks driven by people who hated their jobs and put-upon housewives.


Such was the charm of crossing the Goethals Bridge.  Even if you've never been anywhere near it, you've probably seen it:  It's the bridge in the opening credits of The Sopranos. The bridge connects the only two places in the universe where the Sopranos could have lived:  Staten Island and New Jersey.  To be precise, the hulking span--which, even on a clear day, simmers in angry haze of smoke from rusting but still-functioning factories and refineries--links the most stereotypically unappealing parts of New York City's "forgotten borough" and a city that, until recently, basked in the glow of its neighbor:  Residents, in defending their hometown, would say, "Well, at least we're not Newark!"


But the bridge--named for the engineer who supervised the construction of the Panama Canal--was a link to greener pastures, to use a cliche.  Riding south from Elizabeth on Route 27, the industrial landscape would turn into a more-or-less suburban vista that included a rather nice park along the Rahway (as in the state prison) River.


I hadn't intended to ride that far into New Jersey. But I have been contemplating a ride to some of my old stomping grounds along the shore.  So, I decided to take a ride to the bridge, and to go across it.  However, a wrench was thrown into my plans.

Or, more precisely, a fence was erected between me and them.   Behind it, you can see the entrance to the path--when it was there.  Apparently, it's been removed or blocked off.  For all I know, it may have collapsed:  The Goethals is one of those bridges that always seemed in need of repair.  I'd bet that the soot those refineries and factories belch has something to do with it.

Anyway, when I turned around, I saw a Port Authority cop making his rounds.  In response to my question, he said there's no path for pedestrians or bicycles.  "Never has been," he added.


"Really?  I used to cross over it."


"But there never has been a path."


"There used to be something, on the side. It wasn't much, but I used to cross it.  So did other people."


"Well, there never was a path," he said.


Half-joking, I said, "Oh well, I guess I broke the law twenty years ago."


"Maybe you did," he said, suppressing a grin.


He then advised me of how I could go to New Jersey:  across the Bayonne Bridge, over which I have ridden a number of times.  He even gave me directions on how to get there.  The only problem is that Bayonne, while it has its charms (It was, after all, the home of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons!) , is really in the middle of nowhere.  More precisely, it's on a peninsula, and the only way off is through the bridge and a couple of highways.  At least, those are the only ways I know to go to points south in New Jersey.


So, I followed the Port Authority cop's directions past the container port, more decaying industrial buildings and marshland (in Tony Soprano country!) to Richmond Terrace, which snakes under the Bayonne Bridge and the north shore of Staten Island to the eponymous ferry:  the only way on or off the island.


On my way back to Manhattan, I thought about the ride in, when I met and exchanged e-mail addresses with a young(er) man.  More about him, possibly, later.

Reflections Cycling

All of my kidding aside, I really am a rather reflective and contemplative woman.  I've had to be.  Maybe that's why I sometimes, while riding, I see images of cyclists I might have been, or appeared to be:

Was this man riding to exhale?  Or would he be inspired?  Or some of both?  Actually, those questions apply to just about every cyclist one might encounter as a Saturday afternoon turns to dusk behind a curtain of high clouds.  For that matter, those questions could apply to pretty much anyone who cycled, walked, skated, skateboarded, fished from, or sat on the benches lining, the promenade that passes under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.


But what of two people on a tandem on the Coney Island boardwalk?

One doesn't see tandems very often in New York.  I'm guessing that the riders are a father and son or, perhaps, an uncle and nephew. 


When I was growing up, there still weren't very many adults who cycled.  None in my family did.  Even the owners and operators of most bike shops weren't riders:  They, like most adults, saw bicycles as the means of transportation people used only until they got their driver's licenses.  


The few adult cyclists one saw were almost invariably male.   And now I realize that, even today, the vast majority of adults I see riding are male.  Perhaps that is the reason why I see those images of who I was, or might have been.

Now I remember cycling along the ocean in New Jersey as a teenager.  From Sandy Hook south to Sea Bright, the wind and tides exhaled through shells and bones on the other side of the sea wall that separated the ocean from Route 36; south of Sea Bright, they sluiced through mounds and valleys of sand that stretched even farther than I could have cycled on any day I cycled, or the one after it, or the one after it.  How far, exactly, would it go?  To Key West?  At least I knew that if I were to cross the ocean--which, of course, I couldn't do on my bike--I'd end up in Portugal, in Spain, in France.   


Nobody I knew then had been to any of those places.  And they hadn't been to the places where they wanted me to go:  the colleges, Annapolis, West Point or any of the other Armed Forces academies.  Or, for that matter, the offices  they hoped I would occupy, or even the schools in which I would study and teach.


None of those schools existed, at least for me, when I was riding along the ocean so many years ago.  And nobody followed me:  nobody, that is, except for a middle-aged woman who told me to inhale deeply and exhale completely, and that everything would be all right because she was going to be there for me, no matter where I rode. 


And I was present today, as I always was, for that teenaged boy who spent sunny days and overcast afternoons cycling the Jersey Shore.  Perhaps I saw the person he might have been, too.  


  

Hair and Tatoos

Today I rode the LeTour to work for the first time.   I was running a bit late--or, at least, I left my place a bit later than I'd planned--and forgot to bring my camera with me.  So I have no photos of myself or the bike or the commute.  But I'll tell you a bit about it.

First, fashion:  I feel as if I cheated a bit here.  I didn't ride in a skirt and heels.  Rather, I wore a sundress and my Keen sandals.  In a tote bag I stashed in my rear basket, I carried a short cardigan from a dusty blue twinset.   When I got to work, I slipped it over my dress, which was black with a hibiscus flower print in varying shades of blue.  One of those shades matched the sweater from the twinset, more or less.  And I also brought a pair of somewhat dressy black wedge sandals.  


I was glad to be wearing the sundress, as it was hot (though not as humid as yesterday).  And, of course, the Keen sandals were very comfortable.  


I didn't have any wardrobe malfunctions.  But the bike had a bit of a mishap.  Actually, it wasn't the bike itself; it was the rear rack.  The bolts that fasten the body of the rack to the arms that connect it to the seat stays fell out.  That caused my rack to flip backward and land on my fender.


Fortunately for me, I had just passed a hardware store, where I bought a package of screws and nuts, some lock washers and blue Loctite.  I've stopped there a few times before, as it's along one of my routes to and from work and other places.  Sometimes the guy behind the counter is an oldish Russian Jew who looks the way Alexander Solzhenitsyn (sp?) might have had he shaved.  But today I got this guy who is covered with tatoos and whose yellowing white hair  is longer than mine and beard is longer than mine ever was.  It's really odd to find him in that shop because it's at the corner of Metropolitan and 71st Avenues in Forest Hills, which is possibly the most resolutely bourgeois part of the city.  But he knows his stuff and is very helpful, which is one reason why his shop stays in business.


At one time in my youth, my hair was almost as long as that of the man in the hardware store.  And my beard, while not as long as his, was thick around my jaws and chin.   With all of the anger I felt in those days, I didn't need tatoos (which I've never gotten and probably never will get) or studded jacket to help me project an aura that said, "Stay the ---- away from me!"  I was like a cross between Charles Bronson and a hippie without the charm of either.


One hot day, I was riding my bike to my parents' house.  At the time, I was living in the town where I attended college (New Brunswick, NJ) and my parents were living on the Jersey Shore.  It was a thirty to thirty-five mile ride, depending on which route  I took.


Well, on that day, I peeled off my bike jersey before  I passed through Milltown, after which one of the early sedative drugs was named.  At that time, it was noted in the area for cops that were rumored to have been recruited in Alabama or from the KKK.  


One of those redneck officers actually pulled me over when I was riding along one of the streets.  In those days I didn't carry ID with me; most people didn't. 


"What are you doin' here?"


It took everything I had not to answer him sarcastically. But, fortunately for me, I managed to check that impulse.  


"What are you doin' here?"


"Riding my bicycle, sir."



"To where?"


"My mother's."


"All right.  Have a good day."


I haven't thought about that encounter in more than twenty years.  Now I wonder:  What would it have been like if I were covered with tatoos.

The Almost Unbearable Lightness of a Late-Day Ride

Gunnar and Velouria may not have ever met.  But they have created a monster.


You see, they both used the word "pretty" in talking about the photo someone took of me the other day.  So, when I stopped during my ride today, I asked random strangers to take photos of me.  


Here's the first one, taken by a young Japanese woman on the George Washington Bridge:

OK, so it's not going to get me an endorsement deal, much less a modeling contract.  But at that moment, I understood what Salvatore Quasimodo meant by writing the shortest poem I know of: 


M'illumno
D'immenso.


That I was riding over the bridge at the beginning of rush hour but not dealing with the rush hour traffic was, in and of itself, pretty exhilarating.  But it was an utterly glorious day:  Yesterday's heat and humidity were nothing but memories (or bad dreams).   Pedalling across the bridge felt like flight.


On the Jersey side, I turned left and pedalled down the road that winds a descent from the top of the Palisades to the shelves of rock that line the Hudson, which looked like the sun-filled atrium of one of those very peaceful houses in which  everyone would like spent his or her childhood-- and some can visit in their dreams.  


I spun the cranks of Arielle, my Mercian road bike, as I descended layers of sunlight to the ferry piers at Port Imperial.  Then I followed the riverside road to Hoboken, where young people who work in downtown Manhattan were ascending from the PATH station.  A day like this really feels like an ascent when you're coming from the grimy subterranean depths, and when you feel a cool if strong breeze before the sun begins to set.  

In back of me is the old Erie Lackawana railroad terminal on the Hoboken waterfront.  At times like that, I wish the government hadn't taken over the still-existing railroads after the Penn Central bankruptcy of 1970.  After all, what use will anyone have again for such a beautiful word as "Lackawana?"


I continued down Washington and Jersey Avenues to the Jersey City waterfront.  Marlon Brando's character certainly wouldn't recognize the place now.  He might, however, recognize Richmond Terrace and the views from it:

I stopped in a nearby deli for something to drink during the boat ride.  That, ironically, caused me to miss a boat, with the next one half an hour later.   I had to spend that time in a penned-up "secure" area.  Staten Island's terminal of its eponymous ferry feels more like a series of airport security checkpoints.  A TSA employee even brings in a dog to sniff the bicycles.


Anyway, here I am in their version of Checkpoint Charlie:

Still, as you can see, I was in a great mood.


You may have noticed something pink attached to the saddle of this bike, and my fixed-gear.  It's one of the more interesting products I've tried lately:  a Bike Burrito.  It's so named for the way it folds (or rolls) up.  Inside it are a few small tools and a spare inner tube.


Back in the day, when I was poor, I used to roll up my repair kit inside a bandana and strap it to my saddle rails.  The Bike Burrito is basically the same idea, except that it has pockets inside and is made of very sturdy duck cloth, much like Carradice bags.    That canvas comes in various colors as well as a few prints as Jayme, who sews the Bike Burritos herself, finds them.  I ordered the two pink ones with black interiors.  They are "negatives" of a combination she offers regularly:  black outside, pink inside.  (That might be more anatomically correct, but what the heck.)  I also bought another, in a multi-colored paisley, which will go on my Miss Mercian.  That bike, because I'm building it with the Velo Orange "Porteur" bars, won't have the tape you see on my fixed and road Mercians.


Anyway...I recommend the Bike Burritos, which are available in three sizes.  Jayme is very sweet and accomodating, in addition to being a talented designer and crafts person.  And, her creations are compatible with Shimano, Campagnolo and SRAM shifting systems, as well as all other current and vintage components and bicycles.


And I recommend late afternoon-early evening rides along the Hudson that culminate in ferry rides back to the city!