Entering And Reaching During A Ride

The other day, I pedaled along the Queens and Brooklyn waterfronts from my apartment to the Williamsburg Bridge.  After crossing, I turned onto Clinton Street and crossed the Lower East Side and Chinatown before crossing under the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges. 

Then I decided to channel the bike messenger I was many years ago and zig-zag through the narrow steel, granite  and concrete  canyons of the Financial District.  There, I did something that sounds riskier than it actually is (which is the opposite of so many things done in that part of town!): I stopped in the middle of Fulton Street, with a line of cars in front of,  and behind, me.

It wasn't so dangerous because the traffic was halted for a bit longer than it normally would stop for a red light.  Guys in thick boots and safety vests were doing some sort of construction or destruction, I'm not sure of which.  So they, with the help of police, stopped traffic for a few minutes, did whatever they were doing and let the traffic go for another few minutes.

That was good, for me, because there are some things for which one should stop before entering.

I couldn't help but to feel that I was riding into the entrance of a cathedral--of tourism?  Of capitalism?  Of this city itself?

When the new World Trade Center tower was under construction, about a decade ago, I was prepared to hate it.  I never cared much for the old "Twin Towers," but after they were destroyed in the September 11 attacks, I felt that nothing should be built in their place.  I thought that the twin rays of blue light that were beamed up from the site for about a year were a fitting tribute to all of the lives lost.

I must say, though, that I like the new tower.  Its curves on the outside give it the grace of a dancer rising and arching her arms as she pirouettes.  It's as if the feeling of transcendence one feels under the arches of a cathedral were the result of the cathedral itself reaching for something.

I feel the new WTC, in its architecture, honors the people lost in and around the Twin Towers.  If only they were here to see it.

Twenty Years Later

If you don't remember where you were and what you were doing on this date twenty years ago, you either were in solitary confinement or of the generation after the children I would've had, had I been so inclined.

Perhaps the unluckiest people in the history of this city were the ones who went to work and didn't make it home.  In addition to firefighters, police officers and other first responders, and the folks who worked in and around the World Trade Center towers, they included messengers and others who made deliveries on bicycles. 

Photo by Jin Lee, from the 9/11 Memorial website

Their bikes were among those attached to a rack found mostly intact on Vesey Street.  The moment of the attack--8:46 am--would have been a busy time for them, as many office workers were arriving and those already at their desks were ready for, say, a bagel and a cup of coffee. The rack and bikes were largely shielded from debris by 5 World Trade Center, which remained partly intact after 1 WTC was struck.

A year after the attacks, only one bicycle had been retrieved.  The others, and the rack, are among the displays in the 9/11 Memorial Museum.

During the past week, the remains of two people who perished that day were finally identified.  More than a thousand victims' remains have yet to be identified.  Among them may be the messengers and delivery workers who pedaled those bicycles through the canyons walled with glass, steel and concrete and floored with asphalt.  Sadly, those folks, who brought everything from documents to donuts, might never be identified, as some of them may well have been alone in this city, in this country, on one of its most terrifying days.

Grass On Top, Bicycles At Base: From The Vision Of Oculus

Here in New York, we (those of us who aren't architecture critics, anyway) learned of him from this:

Oculus lifts its wings just north of Liberty Tower, where the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center once stood.  It rises, like a cross between a ghost and a phoenix, above the transportation center that brings seven New York City subway lines, as well as the PATH system, together.

It lifts and spreads our vision over and across a plaza surrounded by tall glass and steel towers.  In a way, it's almost an inverse image of I.M. Pei's Pyramid in the Louvre courtyard, which directs our vision from a focal point above the ground and, like Oculus, spreads it, though toward the ground, in a milieu of cream-gray Oise stone walls.

Although I like Oculus, I think it's fair to criticize it for housing what is essentially a high-end shopping mall on the site of one of the worst tragedies in this country's history.  (Ironically, it sits in the same concrete bathtub as the 9/11 Memorial Museum, which is as muted and somber as the Oculus is light and airy.)  But I also feel that beauty, in any form, is a fitting way to honor victims of a horrific event.

Oculus' designer created another iconic transit hub twenty-six years ago.  In fact, it is now one of the busiest rail terminals in Europe.  But, in an ironic twist, this terminal, designed to facilitate the movement of people to, from and through a major city, has been plagued with congestion.  Now the architect who created the train station is going to add something to it that might help to alleviate that overcrowding, at least somewhat.

Santiago Calatrava, who hails from Spain but is now based in New York, has unveiled plans a grass-topped office block on the plaza of his Stadelhofen Station in Zurich, Switzerland.  His glass "twenty first century office building" will feature bulging walls with slanted angles at the corners that--to my eye, anyway--are somewhat evocative of the ribs that comprise Oculus.  There will be a triangle of grass on the roof.

But one of the most intriguing aspects of this planned building (and the reason why I'm writing about it on this blog!) is that the plan includes public parking for 1000 bicycles on the ground level.

With his plan, Calatrava becomes the latest in a growing number of architects to integrate cycling infrastructure into an otherwise commercial project.  If successful, it will have the benefit of making both cycling (particularly for transportation) and mass transit more convenient--or, to some, simply more palatable. Whatever you think of his designs, he ought to be commended for that.

Sheltered From The Ruins Of 9/11

As you aware (I'm sure), today marks thirteen years since the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center were destroyed.

There's nothing I can say about the terrible events of that day that hasn't already been said, except for this:  Whatever the truth about it is, it probably won't be known during my lifetime.

That said, I'm writing to point out something that's on display at the 9/11 Memorial Museum, which opened in May.  (The Memorial opened on the ten-year anniversary in 2011.)

The bicycle rack, and bicycles attached to it, were found mostly intact on Vesey Street.  Ironically, Five World Trade Center, a low-rise office building just to the south of the Twin Towers, shielded the bikes and rack from the destruction that befell the Twin Towers.

Only one rider stepped forward to reclaim his bicycle.  To this day, the identities--and fates--of the owners of the other bikes are not known.  Given that the Towers were struck by Flight 11 at 8:46 am, one or more of the owners may well have been a messenger making that day's first delivery--or a restaurant delivery worker bringing some executive his or her coffee and bagel.

 

The Best Bicycle Parking In New York?

Today I was in Tribeca again.  I had some business at the Borough of Manhattan Community College.  Two weeks ago, I made one of my rare (since 11 Sep 01, anyway) appearances in that part of town, where I saw an interesting Frankenbike ridden by a librarian.

However, on this visit, I saw something even more interesting, and certainly more gratifying.  It's in Fiterman Hall, which is literally no more than a couple of pedal strokes away from the site of the former World Trade Center.  In fact, you can see the memorial from some parts of the building.

The college had another building called Fiterman Hall, onto which 7 World Trade Center fell in the wake of the attacks. The original Fiterman--a 1950's office building that was donated to the college in 1993-- was so badly damaged it had to be razed; the new building bearing the same name opened just this past August.

I found myself liking the new building:  It's spacious and full of light.  Best of all--at least to those of us who travel on two wheels--it has two bicycle storage rooms inside.  One of them was in use when I arrived.  They can be accessed only with a BMCC ID card, or if a security guard lets you in. 

Not bad, eh?  It's even better behind those doors:

Some swanky gyms don't even have such nice bike rooms.  For that matter, I can't think of any other colleges or schools with anything like it.

  It was cold and windy today; I wonder how many more bikes will be in that room come Spring, or on a Tuesday or Thursday.  On one hand, I'd like to see it full, just to know that people are cycling to the college and that the room won't be re-purposed.  On the other hand, if I need to go back, it'd be nice to know I'd have such a place to park Vera or whichever bike I ride.

Banana On Sports

Yesterday's post turned into a capsule history of the banana seat.  I hadn't intended that; somehow, while under the influence of a Dunkin' Donuts dark hot chocolate, my mind drifted in that direction.

I was thinking about banana seats because of a bike I saw yesterday:

It was parked outside the main building of Borough of Manhattan Community College.  The school is located, literally, in the shadow of the site of the World Trade Center; for a few years after 9/11, I could only pass through that part of town.  However, yesterday, I had business down that way, and spotted the bike--just as its owner showed up to unlock it.  

I didn't get much of a chance to talk with her.  Her name is Julie, and she's a librarian at the college.  I would have loved to ask her whether she bought or received the bike in the state I found it--or whether someone converted it for her.

I know enough to realize that her bike is a Raleigh "Sports" three-speed from the mid-1970's. The particular shade of blue (with a silver panel on the seat tube) was offered around that time, which is when I first began to work in bike shops.

Probably the only more elegant "Sports" models were made in silver-gray.  The paint and panels are, I think, tasteful without being overly formal:  It's not difficult to imagine students as well as professors--or librarians--riding it. 

Like many Raleigh three-speeds ridden by commuters, it has a basket fitted to its handlebar.  However, it has another modification that the chaps in Nottingham never envisioned:  a banana seat!  At first glance, it looks utterly incongruous.  However, as most people who ride the Raleigh Sports--or other English three-speeds--want a comfortable ride, and the banana seat is indeed the idea some people (particularly those who ride short distances) have of comfort, there is a certain weird logic to installing one on such a bike.

The rest of the bike's eqipment seems to be original, except for the tires:  a white/cream Schwalbe on the front, and a whitewall of some sort on the rear.  The white/cream Schwalbes look great on Raleigh three-speeds; I installed them on the last such bike I owned.  I guess two white walls wouldn't look bad, either.  

I'm guessing that Julie has a bike that suits her purposes, although I would never install a banana seat on a Raliegh Sports (or almost any other bike, for that matter).  Anyway, I'm glad she's riding to work.  

After 9.11: Riding Without The Guys

Now, two days after the anniversary of 9.11, I'm thinking about how that day changed my cycling life.  I'm not going to talk about how it changed my life because that's way beyond the scope of this blog, much less this post.

None of the cycling partners I had at that time in my life are cycling partners now.  In fact, most of them dropped out of my life, or I dropped out of theirs, not long after that time. 

I'm thinking in particular of someone we used to call "Crazy Ray."  I met him back when I was an active off-roader; later, he, a few other guys and I did road rides.  

He always seemed to be riding the line between physical courage and insanity.  One of the things I prized most about my pre-transition life was his respect.  When we pedaled through the trails--and sometimes off the trails--in the Catskills and in Pennsylvania and Vermont, I didn't do all of the jumps or other stunts he did.  And I didn't barrel down hills with the abandon he did.  But I was in really good shape in those days, and I could keep up with him in every other aspect of our rides.  None of the other guys in our "crew" could say that--not even the ones who were a decade or more younger.  He noticed that.

But, he once told me, the real reason he respected me was that I wasn't a "bikehead." And, he said, he admired the fact that I have the sort of education and do the kind of work I do.  That, I thought, was interesting, as he seemed satisfied with his work, and was certainly earning a lot more money than I was.  But, he said,  there were a lot of things he wished he learned, but felt he couldn't.  I suspected that he had a reading or other kind of learning disability; I offered to help him if only to figure out what kind of help he would need and whether I could give it, or refer him to someone who could.  He said he would take me up on it, but he never did.

I think that he felt a bit insecure, not only around me, but around his girlfriend, who was working on a PhD in, if I remember correctly, sociology.  I know that he felt insecure around some of her friends and colleagues, whom he met at parties.   I told him he shouldn't; he actually sustained thought and expressed himself well.  "But," he said, "I know I can do better."

I'm sure he could have done "better."  Maybe he has. I haven't heard from him since about two weeks after 9.11.   

We had our last phone conversation in the early hours of one morning that was, as I recall, chilly for the time of year.  Actually, he called me and cried.  That wasn't like him.  "Ray, whatever it is, you know I'm cool with it."

"It's not like that, he sobbed."  I heard other voices, and machines, in the background.

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the World Trade Center."

"What are you doing there?"

He explained that he'd gone there to help with the rescue and recovery.  His metalworking skills, which he gained from his work as a plumber, were needed.  So, as soon as it was possible to ride his bike there--a couple of days after the planes hit the towers--he went to help.  That was more than a week before our phone conversation; he had been at the site around-the-clock ever since.  And, as you can imagine, he had gotten almost no sleep during those long nights.

"Why don't you go home, see your girl?"

"I can't.  They need me."

"But you've been there nonstop.  Nobody can ask more of you than you've already done."

"Yeah, but..."

"But nothing. You can't take care of anybody else if you don't take care of you."

"All right.  Maybe tomorrow I'll go home, for the day."

"Would you like for me to bring you anything?"

"No, Sarah will do that for me.  But thanks..."  He was crying again.

I never heard from him again.  Nor did I hear from any of the rest of our "crew."  I know that at least one other was working at the World Trade Center site in those days after the attack.  

That fall and into the winter (which was one of the mildest I can recall), I rode, almost always by myself.  I didn't mind that; actually, I was trying to make sense of a few things--or, more accurately, some things made perfect sense and I was trying to deal with them.  

Most of them related in one way or another to the gender transition I would undertake.  Tammy realized that I was headed for it and there was no way to stop it; when I offered to live the rest of my life as Nick, she said, "No, you can't do it just for me. In fact, you can't do it at all."  

9.11 didn't cause me to re-evaluate my life or undertake my transition.  However, less than two months before that day, I had the experience that caused me to realize that I could no longer live in this world as a man.  I had always known myself as female, but I spent more than forty years trying to live otherwise.  Just a few weeks before 9.11, I realized that I simply could no longer pretend.    And, just after 9.11, I found myself thinking about the people who died that day, and how many of them had unrealized dreams and unfulfilled lives of one sort or another.  I realized that had I been in one of those towers, I would have had the "M" on my death certificate.

And so I embarked upon my transition.  However, the transition didn't entail only what I did consciously and willfully.  It also involved those parts of my life from which I passed, or that passed from me.  And it, like 9.11, would change my cycling life as well as the rest of my life.