Crossing The Line Into A Collision

Once again, Florida leads the nation in bicycle deaths and injuries, overall and per capita.  And it's not even close:  the next-worst state--Louisiana--has about half of Florida's numbers and rates.

Having cycled in the Sunshine State, I could see why there the body count is so high.  Many thoroughfares are "stroads:"  multi-lane streets, avenues or boulevards that cut a straight line from Point A to Point B.  Such an arrangement seems to bring out the inner Dale Earnhardt in drivers. Also, those "stroads" are not only the most direct routes from one place to another:  They're often the only routes.  Worse yet, they often don't have "service" or emergency lanes or even sidewalks, let alone bike lanes.

The arrangements I've described can be especially difficult to acclimate to if you come from a place that isn't as auto- and driver-centric as Florida.   Just as my teachers and professors didn't teach me about female, queer or Black writers because they weren't taught them themselves, I think many drivers have the idea that the road belongs to them and nothing should be in their way because, well, they were inculcated with such a notion at a young age--and it was reinforced by road an highway engineering that prioritized moving motor vehicles as quickly and efficiently as possible from one point to another.

The conditions I've described had at least something to do with one of the more horrific car-bike crashes I've heard  of. Fortunately, it didn't add to Florida's death toll, though at least one of the cyclists involved has "incapacitating" injuries.

Notice that I said "at least."  The driver involved in this confrontation was piloting her Kia SUV south in the southbound lane of North Ocean Boulevard Gulf Stream, a Palm Beach County community.  A group of eight cyclists was riding northbound, in the northbound lane.

For some as-yet-unexplained reason, the 77-year-old driver crossed the center line dividing the two lanes.  The front of her vehicle met--with great force--the front of a 43-year-old cyclist and struck the others who were riding with him.

Perhaps not surprisingly, he's the one with the "incapacitating" injury.  Three other cyclsts had "serious" injuries; they, the others and the driver were brought to the hospital's trauma unit. 

I hope everyone--yes, including the driver--recovers and she explains, or someone figures out, why she veered across that road.  And I hope--though, I realize, this is a very long hope, especially with Ron De Santis in the governor's mansion--that Florida makes itself safer for cyclists, many of whom are tourists or, like me, were visiting family members.

A Problem That Grates On Us

The Villages is, as the name suggests, a complex of communities in north-central Florida, about an hours' drive from Orlando.

It's been described, both affectionately and derisively, as "Disney World for Boomers."  In reality, it's a planned community for retirees that seems, like others in the Sunshine State, to be built around golf courses.

According to a story that circulated in the media about a decade ago, The Villages had the highest rate of STDs in the USA.  While public health policy experts and health care professionals who have worked there and in other places have debunked that narrative, another stereotype about The Villages seems to hold true: In both the 2016 and 2020 Presidential elections,  Probably no other place voted as overwhelmingly for Donald Trump.

And, from a couple of accounts that have crossed my desk, I would infer that The Villages are like too many other jurisdictions, especially in so car-friendly Florida:  the safety of cyclists  doesn't seem to be a priority.

The area's auto-centricity has something to do with that.  So, I suspect do The Villages Operating Company and Sumter Landing Community Development District which, respectively, operate the complex and Collier, one of the Villages.

They are challenging a suit filed by James Heizer.  Two years ago, he says, he flipped over his handlebars when his bicycle tire was lodged in a sewer grate.

It's exactly the sort of accident I fear whenever I see sewer grates with slats that run parallel to the curb--or ones that have large gaps between them and the pavement.  I don't know whether the Villages uses either sort of grate, but they are the only ones in which I can imagine a bicycle tire becoming "lodged."

If that is the case, one can only hope that, in addition to reimbursing Heizer for his medical bills and other losses, that the sewer grates are replaced.  

Whoever Is At Fault, Blame The Cyclist

I have no connection with Dartmouth College, much less with its (American) football team.  But reading about what happened to the squad's coach, Buddy Teevens, sent a chill up my spine--not only because of his potential spinal injury, but also because of another he suffered and, more specifically, how and where he incurred those injuries.

Buddy Teevens and his wife, Kristen

A month ago, he and his wife were enjoying an early-spring evening ride in Saint Augustine, Florida. They own a home nearby, and I have ridden there a number of times during visits with my parents.  

Route A-1A, the road that zigs and zags along Florida's Atlantic Coast, cuts through the "mainland" part of the city, crosses the bridge into the area beloved by tourists.  Perhaps not surprisingly, the road is heavily trafficked, as it offers everyone's idealized image of a "road trip" with ocean views--and, for much of its length, has only two lanes.

Also, because it's in Florida--specifically, Northern Florida, which is about as Southern, culturally, as Alabama or Georgia--that traffic includes more than its share of pickup trucks.  Now, I don't mean to pick on pickup truck drivers in particular, but I can understand how they, because of their vehicles' size and potential for speed, feel--especially with those wide marine vistas--that the road is theirs.  And, like SUVs, pickup trucks offer their drivers poor sight lines and even more "blind spots" than smaller vehicles. 

So, whether or not 40-year-old Jennifer Blong was drinking--police declined her offer to take a blood-alcohol test--she struck Mr. Teevens with the Ford F-150 she was driving at 50 MPH in a 35MPH zone.  The constables' report of the crash noted that he wasn't wearing a helmet and didn't have lights on his bike.  It also cited him for "failure to yield the right of way" as he crossed A1A.  

Blong claimed there was "nothing I could do" as Teevens "just kind of appeared in front of me" as he crossed, as the police allege, outside of a desginated crossing area.  

While I, as a longtime dedicated cyclist, can find fault with both Blong and Teevens, I am struck by the Florida Highway Patrol's inclination to place the blame on the Teevens, the cyclist, for the crash.  

That said, I am sad for him and his family because, as of yesterday, the incident had another terrible consequence:  Teeven's right leg was amputated.  And he has a long rehabilitation ahead of him, as a result of his spinal injury.

Is A Cyclist's Life Worth $1166 And 12 Hours?

In some recent posts, I have taken heart in the fact that some drivers are being held to account in meaningful ways for injuring or killing cyclists.

Still, there have been many more incidents in which drivers got off with the proverbial "slap on the wrist."

Troy Manz was doing a 72-hour "sea to sea" race from Florida's Gulf to Atlantic coasts in February of last year.  The former Marine turned emergency flight doctor and National Guardsman.  He and his fiancee, Trish Wilkinson were just 20 miles from their destination--St. Augustine Beach (where I've pedaled during every trip to my parents' house) when they and a friend, Barbara Gilmore, were struck from behind by a car going about 70 miles per hour.  

Wilkinson and Gilmore were taken to the hospital and treated for their injuries.  Manz, however, died at the scene.

Last week they testified in a traffic case against the driver, Jonathan Quick.  While his blood alcohol level was determined to be below the legal limit, conditions were clear and, as Wilkinson recalled, "we took every precaution, we did everything safely."  They all wore helmets and had lights on the front and rear of their bikes.  Moreover, they complied with all relevant traffic laws, according to the Florida Highway Patrol report of the incident.

Quick was initially charged with careless driving and failure to yield the right of way. The judge in last week's hearing upheld the latter charge but dropped the one for careless driving.  As a result, Quick was sentenced to 12 hours of driver improvement school and an $1166 fine.

So..was that judge saying that Troy Manz's life was worth only $1166 and 12 hours?

Perhaps not surprisingly, Quick had a history of driving infractions before he ran into Manz, Wilkinson and Gilmore.  "I'm very concerned that this is going to happen to someone else and nothing that happened in the court system will keep the keys out of his hand or  will be any sort of repercussion," Wilkinson lamented.

She astutely identified the problem:  Such lenient sentences do nothing to prevent future incidents and, really, give no incentive for scofflaw drivers to change their behavior.

4000 Posts: Change And Hope

 Today this blog reaches another milestone:  post #4000. Every milestone, whether of this blog or in any other area of my life, is a time to reflect. 

It's perhaps not such a coincidence that I, and this blog, have reached such a landmark  after my latest trip to Florida.  I hadn't been there--or seen my father--in three years.  The occasion of my previous visit to the Sunshine State, which wasn't long enough (or quite the occasion) for a ride, was my mother's funeral. That was not long after my 3000th post on this blog. 

As I mentioned a few days ago, a couple of months after my mother passed, "COVID happened." In many ways, the world--at least the parts I know--have changed.  

I got to thinking about that while in Florida.  For one thing, while riding I noticed many more cyclists (which, of course, made me happy), and many more young or youngish people, than during previous visits.  Both of those developments are, at least partially, results of the pandemic. I also saw what I had never seen before on any of the streets, paths or trails:  e-bikes and scooters.  Of the latter, I would say that I saw, not only fewer overall-- which would make sense because there are fewer people in Palm Coast than in my neighborhood-- but also a lower ratio of scooters to bikes, e-bikes and other vehicles. Or so it seemed. Also, the e-bikes and motorized bicycles were ridden, it seemed, by recreational riders:  I didn't see anyone who seemed to be delivering anything.

Seeing the damage Ian wrought, though not as severe or extensive as what other parts of the state have endured, is enough to make me wonder how or whether some of the very things that attract people--namely, the scenic roads along the ocean and through the woods--can endure.  Perhaps more important, though, is how the psyche, if you will, of the place might change.  I couldn't help but to feel a more--for lack of a better term--sober atmosphere than I'd seen before.  Even the tourists, whether the motorcyclists along the A1A or the college students and other tourists out for the long weekend, didn't seem as carefree as in times past.

I hope some of the joy will return--accompanied, of course, by a safer environment for cyclists -- in Florida and elsewhere.  As long as people are cycling, I have hope.  And as long as I can pedal, whether to a milestone or no place in particular, I have at least one source of joy in my life.    

For the occasion of this milestone, here is a "4000" bike--an early '80's classic from Panasonic:

Panasonic DX-4000, circa 1981

Will He Give Them The Freedom To Be Themselves?

During my ride to St. Augustine on Sunday, I realized who is cleaning up the mess Hurricane Ian left:

I don't doubt they are still at work, even if it's taken a toll on their relationship

or detracted from the joy he could bring to some human

I have to hand it to those folks, though:  They have a sense of humor about themselves.

Like so much humor, however, it has its dark origins:

Am I the only one who saw a gun in the Ron De Santis campaign sign?

Of course it's a stylized map of Florida. I can't help but to think, though, that its creators stylized it as they did to fit De Santis'--and many of his supporters'--interpretation of "free." As in:  You have a right to as many guns as you want, whenever you want them.  But not to terminate a pregnancy, or any sort of healthcare or education, or a living wage.  Oh, and if you're a teacher or in the LGBTQ rainbow, you have no more rights to, well, anything.

If De Santis is re-elected, I suspect I may see more "skeleton crews" if and when I ride in Florida again.

Another Florida Ride After Ian

Yesterday I took another ride to the ocean.  I started the same way as I did the other day, along Palm Coast Parkway to the Hammock Dunes Bridge.  At the foot of the bridge, however, I made an opposite turn and pedaled south, along A1A to Daytona Beach.  In all, I  rode about 105 kilometers:  slightly more than the other day.

My first stop:  Painters Hill.

As usual, it lived up to its name.  It's not much of a hill, but the light, on the beach or the street, always seems to have a soft--dare I say it?--brushed quality to it, even on the brightest, sunniest days. Plus, whoever happens to be there--the swimmers (though there were none yesterday; it was forbidden), the fishermen, the strollers--seem to have been created from images in the eye of an immediate but vivid memory.

Along A1A I continued, through Beverly Beach to Flagler Beach, a mist on the water and high cirrus clouds accenting rather than veiling sunlight. 

After I passed the pier at Flagler, though, I had to make several detours and, at a couple of points, walk my bike, if for only ten meters or so.  As I continued southward, I could see where Hurricane Ian unleashed more of its force than it did around my father's house. A number of seaside restaurants, cafes and small inns, have been closed.  So were two convenience store/gas stations I passed.  In some of those buildings, the damage wasn't so obvious, so I suspect that they were flooded and, as a result, have structural, fire and other hazards. But some edifices were turned into piles of matchsticks.

What amazes me is that next to some houses and other buildings stripped bare by raging wind and rain were others that looked as if they'd barely been touched.  But even in front of  such homes and businesses, boards, pads, rugs, furniture and other home and office fixtures were piled curbside, or on the paths and sidewalks.

And what Ian didn't strip from homes, offices, hotels and eateries, he took from the beaches.  Sand was strewn, sometimes piled, across the roadway and on the bike lanes and sidewalks.  Even with the wide, knobby balloon tires I rode, the bike skidded and skittered on the shifting sand.

Still, I enjoyed the ride as much as any I've taken along the coastline.  Perhaps I was simply grateful that I could ride it.  Oh, and I met up with a couple of friends along the way.

Later today, I will head home. Perhaps I will return here one day and while some of the structures will have changed, the ride will remain familiar. Or so I hope.  

Me, Dad, Ian, Rita, Maureen And Delilah

The other day I took a ride to the ocean. 

And I took another yesterday.

From those images, you probably can tell that I'm not talking about the Rockaways, Point Lookout or Coney Island, my most common sea-bound treks.

For that matter, I don't mean the Jersey Shore, where I haven't gone in some time.  Rather, for the past two days, I've done two other seaside rides I've mentioned--though, again, not for some time--on this blog.

I arrived in Florida on Friday evening.  The purpose of this trip is a visit with my father, whom I hadn't seen in three years, since my mother's funeral.  We'd planned another visit but, like so many other plans by so many other people, it was put on hold when "COVID happened."  

Since arriving, I've had nearly perfect weather for cycling and, of course, have taken advantage of it.  The bike I rode during previous visits--a balloon-tired beach cruiser--got rusty and dusty. My father, thinking the bike was beyond redemption (it just looks that way) went and bought another bike--a cheapo full-suspension bike--from a friend.  I rode it on Saturday, along the Lehigh Trail, over the bridge in the first photo and up Route A1A through Beverly Beach and Painters Hill.

Along the stretch from Flagler Beach to Beverly Beach, I was looking at some of what Hurricane Ian wrought.  While the damage wasn't nearly as widespread as what befell Sanibel Island or Fort Myers, there were piles of debris on roadsides, testaments to damaged or destroyed buildings and trees. As I looked at one of those ruins, a car door opened.  Just when I thought I was about to be "doored" again, a woman emerged from the half-opened portal and said, "You write a bike blog!"

Nothing like being famous, eh?

Actually, she is someone I met during a previous visit, about seven years ago.  I'd stopped at a gas station-convenience store for a cup of coffee or to use the bathroom--possibly both--when Rita broke me out, for a moment, from my stereotypical New York "don't talk to strangers" mode. (If I recall correctly, I had just arrived the night before.) We stayed in touch for a time but I think her number was part of the data that didn't transfer from my old to new phone, in spite of the salesperson's promise that everything, including a bunch of photos, would make the journey.

I didn't experience a near-catastrophe-turned-happy-coincidence the following day, when I pedaled up to the Castillo San Marcos in Saint Augustine--49 kilometers, or 30.5 miles--into a gusty wind, on the rusty and dusty balloon-tired beach cruiser.  Upon arriving, I wended through the shops and houses of the historic old town before enjoying a picnic lunch on the waterfront promenade and riding back--with that same wind, of course. So, I reckon that I at least rode a metric century on that rusty beach cruiser, though that was not the point of this trip.

After that ride, I showered, got dressed and went out to Mezzaluna for a delightful meal of mussels in a sauce of butter, garlic and lemon with even more delightful company, which included my father and his friend Maureen, a retired Canadian nurse.  She, as it turns out, was something of an avid cyclist and hiker before, as she said, "arthritis found me."  Afterward, we went to her house, filled with her plants and handicrafts, photos and paintings by friends and her late sister, all against backdrops of walls and alcoves painted in very Floridian shades of blue, green and yellow, and "guarded" by my newest friend--Delilah, her cat.

So now there are two Delilahs--well, a Delila and a Dee-Lilah, on this blog. Both are synonymous with delight, even if one is furry and black and white, while the other is lilac-colored and probably would have loved the ride I took today.

So why did I come to the Sunshine State this weekend?  Well, today is Columbus Day, Italian American Pride Day or Indigenous People's Day. (I prefer the latter because, not in spite of the fact that, I'm of Italian heritage: Why should our "pride" day be in honor of a guy who got lost?)  That meant a long weekend and, while some people traveled--There were quite a few out of state plates along A1A and foreign languages spoken at St.Augustine--it isn't nearly as hectic or expensive as traveling at, say, Thanksgiving or the Christmas-New Year season.  Plus, I didn't want the focus of my visit to be a holiday. Rather, I wanted to see Dad again, and because I wondered what it would be like to meet him without Mom or other family members.

I met him into a new phase of his journey--and, I suspect, mine, as I took familiar rides for the first time in a long time.

 

A Motorist Strikes--And Shoots--A Cyclist In Florida

It's bad enough when any motorist's vehicle strikes any cyclist.  It's even worse, at least in some ways, when said motorist does so intentionally.

What can be worse than that? 

An account that came my way provided an answer.  On Saturday, in Florida (surprise, surprise), on the Gulf Coast specifically, two men were cycling when they heard a car behind them. Before they could react, a driver them and knocked them to the ground.

Tire marks where a motorist struck--and shot--a cyclist.  (From WINK news.)

What makes this incident especially galling is that, according to investigations, the driver deliberately left the road to hit them.  Both cyclists saw that driver pilot the SUV past them, in the opposite direction, before circling around to approach them from behind, at a high rate of speed.

Oh, but it gets even worse. After driver struck them, the cyclists leapt and tried to flee.  The driver then got out of the SUV and shot one of the cyclists before getting back in and driving off.

Luckily for the cyclist who was shot, his injuries are non-life threatening.  

The Collier County Sheriff's Office says it has a "person of interest" but did not mention any suspects or a description of the shooter.

The Law, In All Of Its Majestic Equality

In Le Lys Rouge (The Red Lily), Anatole France wrote, "La loi, dans un grand souci d'egalite, interdit aux riches comme aux pauvres de coucher sous les ponts, de mendier dans les rues et de voler du pain."  The law, he says, in all of its majestic equality, forbids the rich as well as the poor from sleeping under bridges, begging on the streets and stealing bread.

Inspector Javert, who pursues Jean Valjean in Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, could have uttered that--without irony or sarcasm.  France, though, meant it as an indictment of folks like Javert and what they represent:  They might pursue justice "blindly," but the wrath of it falls more on the poor and otherwise vulnerable and marginalized:  Not only are we less able to defend ourselves if we're stopped, arrested or charged; we are more likely to be arrested and charged--or simply stopped and questioned--whether or not we committed any offense.

(Trust me, I know from whence I speak.*)

Moreover, those stops and arrests do little to nothing to enhance public safety and do little to nothing besides undermining people's trust in the police and the criminal justice system.  

The previous paragraph isn't my opinion, or that of a public defender or judge in the Bronx.  Rather, it's a paraphrase of the rationale a State Attorney in Hillsborough County--at the western end of Florida's I-4 corridor, politically one of this country's quintessential "swing" areas--gave for a new policy.

Six weeks ago, Andrew Warren issued a memo sent a memo saying that it's no longer appropriate to prosecute someone stopped on a bike if their only offense is that they resisted an officer without violence.  In that memo, he noted that while Black defendants make up a third of misdemeanor cases in the county, which includes Tampa, they represent 49 percent of all "resisting without violence" arrests.  And more than 70 percent of such cases that resulted from a bike or pedestrian stop had Black defendants--even though roughly one in five county residents is Black.

These findings did not surprise Black residents of the area, especially in light of a 2015 report documenting that Tampa police stopped disproportionate numbers of cyclists, 80 percent of whom were Black.  Those numbers were so egregious they drew the ire of the Department of Justice and helped to popularize the lament, "Bicycling While Black."

Warren's memo became the basis for his declaration that it is no longer appropriate to prosecute those stopped on bikes if their only charge is resisting an officer without violence, and as long as the "stop" is not related to some other, more serious, offense. While the number of affected cases, he admits, is small (about 40 or so per year), it will not tie up police time and other resources that could be deployed against crimes that are true threats to pubic safety, but also make, if in a small way, the criminal justice system fairer by not burdening poor and Black cyclists, most of whom are young, with criminal records for minor offenses.   

After all, the law, in all of its majestic equality, not only allows the poor as well as the rich, Black as well as White, and female as well as male (or genderqueer) to cycle or simply go about their business.  At least, it should. 

*--More than once, I have been stopped by police officers who had absolutely no reason to do so.  Once, in Lido Beach, Nassau County, the officer claimed I was "riding between cars'--where in the books such a law is embedded, I don't know--when, in fact, I was riding on the shoulder of the road, to the right of the two lanes of traffic.

Man Falls Off Bike--And Is Bitten By Alligator

 If you fall while riding your bike, how and where you land--which may or may not be in your control--has much to do with whether, or how severely, you are injured.  (Wear your helmet!) 

Whatever you do, try not to land on an alligator!

That is what happened to a cyclist in Stuart, Florida, a town near Port St. Lucie.  The man, described by Scott Lorraine of the Airborne Mountain Bike Club as an "experienced" cyclist, lost a tire while rounding a curve in Halpatiokee Regional Park and slid into the water, where he landed atop an 8-foot female gator.

The spot where the man fell of his bike and was attacked.  Photo by Charlie Shannon

Charlie Shannon was walking his dog when he encountered the man.  "He was hanging on roots like five feet below," Shannon recalled.  He used his dog's leash as a makeshift tourniquet, which he and others used to lift the man out.  "It was hard to get him out," Shannon said.

The gator, not surprisingly, wasn't happy.  But, according to John Davidson, who trapped the animal, gators can be "extra aggressive" at this time of year.  That might explain the severity of the bites all over the man's leg.

John Davidson, with the gator he captured.

I have seen alligators while cycling in Florida.  I hope I never have an encounter closer than the ones I've had!