I live a block from the New York Botanical Garden and have visited several times during the eight months I’ve lived here.
About a mile (1.6 km) away is the Bronx Zoo. I went a couple of times as a kid but have no inclination to go there now: I don’t think I can bear (no pun intended) to see animals in cages.
I do, however, wonder how they might escape.
On Tuesday, I expressed the first iota of sympathy I’ve felt in a long time for Lance Armstrong. After all, I can empathize with anyone who’s had bikes stolen.
But it might be the last time I, or very many other people, express compassion for him. He is not the first, and probably won’t be the last, cheater to ride a bike. However, few, if any have done more to disgrace cycling.
On the other hand, a cheetah on a bike? That would be a first. And it certainly wouldn’t soil the reputation of the sport as the one whose seven Tour de France victories were vacated.
I have had many labels attached to me. Perhaps this is one:
After all, I have lived with more bikes than humans!
Eight years ago, I recalled my comical attempts to sell bicycle safety flags that had been in American Youth Hostels’ storage room for, probably, a decade.
That got me to thinking about how we, as cyclists, can make ourselves more visible to motorists. Perhaps there is no better way than this:
As I understand, bicycles and eBikes are allowed in certain areas of US National Parks.
I hope this rider isn’t violating the policy!
Five months ago, I moved into a senior apartment complex. (But I’m still in midlife, dammit! I don’t have a complex!😉)
Some neighbors don’t know my name, but they know I’m “the lady who rides a bike.” A few know about the 105 mile ride I took last week. One thing they don’t know, however, is that it’s not the first “century” I’ve ever done.
Some of my neighbors use walkers or wheelchairs. So I guess it’s not surprising that they look at me with awe or envy, as if I’m an Olympic athlete. I am sure that others, however, see me this way:
I have been diagnosed with allergies to dust and mold, depression (for which I’ve never taken meds) and gender identity disorder (for which I have received treatment.)
Had I been born a decade or two later than I was, I might’ve been diagnosed with a learning or emotional disability: There were some things I simply could not learn no matter how much I studied or how hard I tried, and I sometimes did things that were deemed “inappropriate”—or didn’t do things I was “supposed to” do—because I couldn’t understand someone or something that made sense to everyone else, or seemed to.
Here is a “condition” that non-cyclists I know would “diagnose” in me, even if they don’t call it by that name:
Some cyclists—especially racers and triathletes—eat to ride. Other cyclists ride to eat.
The same can be said for those who aren’t cyclists but take other kinds of rides.
Two years ago, staff writer Jill Lepore’s New Yorker essay, “Bicycles Have Evolved. Have We?” included this:
