A Record—For Whom?

 According to the latest statistics from New York City’s Development of Transportation, the number of cyclists in my hometown set a record for the fourth straight year.

Some may criticize their methodology:  They counted only the cyclists using the East River crossings, which connect Manhattan with Brooklyn and Queens.  While I wonder what, exactly, can be extrapolated from it, I also understand that those crossings are among the few places where à accurate counts can be made consistently.

Photo by Frank Franklin for the NY Daily News

From my observations, however, such a methodology skews the findings and conclusions drawn.  Cyclists using those East River crossings tend to be commuters—usually, going to Manhattan—and younger than other cyclists.  I think the DOT’s way of counting also misses riders who commute within their own borough or, say, from Queens to Brooklyn, and misses the Bronx entirely.

One interesting finding that squares with my observations is that even after the new bike lane opened on the Brooklyn Bridge, the Williamsburg Bridge is still the preferred East River crossing. It’s easy to see why.  For one thing, many of the young commuting cyclists I’ve mentioned live and/or work in the neighborhoods on either side of the bridge.  Also, at least in my experience, it offers easier access than the other bridges, and the Manhattan entrance is at the end of a protected bike lane along Delancey Street. 

Oh, and if you’re a tourist (or simply not a commuter or regular NYC cyclist), I’ll let you in on a secret:  the Williamsburg offers the best views—including those of the Brooklyn Bridge!

When It Was A Gravel Rider's Dream

Following the trail further, the hardy voyager wandered over 'hills and valleys, dales and fields' through a countryside where trout, mink, otter, and muskrat swam in the brooks and pools; brant, black duck, and yellow-leg splashed in the marshes and fox, rabbit, woodcock, and partridge found covert in the thicket.

The preceding passage isn't an account of my latest ride, though it could have described other rides I've taken.

I have, however, pedaled down the route followed by the author of that passage.  My latest trek along that thoroughfare--one of many--took me past stores, restaurants, condo and co-op buildings and offices.

Also, I rode in the opposite direction from that of the scribe who penned that passage.  Today, it's the only way one can travel for most of the roadway's length.

I am talking about one of the world's most famous urban byways:  Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.

The section Arthur Bartlett Maurice described ran from about 21st to 28th Streets:  about a mile and a half from the Avenue's southern terminus at Washington Square Park.  He was also narrating a northward ("uptown" in New York parlance) trek; since 1966, all of the Avenue, save for a few blocks at its northern end, has allowed only southbound ("downtown") traffic.

Can you believe this was once a sight along Fifth Avenue?

This month marks 200 years since the Avenue--which was mainly a dirt path--opened.  It had been planned thirteen years earlier; its opening ushered an unprecedented building boom that, decades later, would lead to the stretch abutting Central Park to become "Millionaire's Row" and, later, "Museum Mile."

Or this?

Mind you, I don't make a point of cycling Fifth Avenue.  But there are times when it's an efficient and, given that it doesn't have a protected bike lane, relatively safe way to go.   Because the stretch from 110th to 59th marks the Park boundary, most side-streets dead-end into it, so there are few intersections to navigate.  Also, I find that its traffic patterns and flows are fairly predictable, even along the Midtown sector.

Oh, and I always make sure I wave to Patience and Fortitude when I pass the main New Yave to ork Public Library building.  If they could talk.... 

(Thanks to Esther Crain, the author of one of my favorite blogs--Ephemeral New York--for the tribute to Fifth Avenue's bicentennial.)

Urban Range

 

West 59th Street, Manhattan, from the saddle of Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear bike.

Equal Rides, Unequal Fares

 $2.90

$4.79

Those two prices say much about the state of mass transit in New York City, my hometown.

The former is what you pay for a single ride on a city bus or subway.  The latter is what half an hour on a Citibike costs.

I would reckon that a typical subway ride—say, a commute from Astoria or Williamsburg to Midtown or Downtown Manhattan—takes about half an hour to 45 minutes. The disparity between the transit fare and a Citibike rental becomes even more pronounced, however, when you realize that if your bus gets caught in traffic or you decide to take a longer excursion on the subway, it won’t cost more. On the other hand, each additional minute beyond that $4.79 half-hour on a Citibike will set  you back 36 cents.

Photo by Joe Buglewicz

A bill introduced in the City Council last week would keep Lyft, the company that operates Citibike, from charging more than the cost of a transit fare for a two-hour bicycle ride or an hour on an e-bike. “Bike share is an essential part of the New York City transit landscape,” said Lincoln Restler, a Brooklyn council member and the bill’s sponsor.”We need to make it accessible and affordable to all.”

Restler has been one of the Council’s strongest advocates for cycling.  His remarks reflect a philosophy that includes cycling as a vital part of this city’s transportation system. It seems that his bill has at least a chance of passing, given that Mayor Eric Adams has said he would be “open” to considering more Citibike subsidies for low-income New Yorkers.  The chief stumbling block is that what the bill proposes couldn’t take effect until 2029, when Lyft’s current contract with the city ends.

First Times, Again

 I’ve never been here before—on a bike.

So exclaimed “Sam,” my new neighbor and riding buddy when we stopped at City Island during our first ride together. I heard it a few more times the other day, after we pedaled the length of Manhattan on the Hudson River bike lane and looped past the Staten Island Ferry terminal and South Street Seaport to the Williamsburg Bridge.

“I’ve never crossed this on bike!”

He also rode “Hipster Hook”—the waterfront of Williamsburg and Greenpoint for the first time. In fact, our ride was his first into Brooklyn and Queens.

He apologizes for riding a pace slower than mind. I don’t mind, I assure him. He, who has asthma, is riding, and that is good. So what if we need to stop so he can use his inhaler? 

More than anything, I enjoy his company: Let’s say that he’s lived a life vastly different from mine and therefore sees things in a way I never could. Plus, I love seeing him experience those “firsts” on a bike. 

I suspect that if we do some of the same rides again, that sense of discovery won’t disappear: He will change as a rider as, I believe, we all do. Besides, I can take a ride I’ve done dozens, or even hundreds, of times and experience something new or anew, whether in my surroundings or my body, or the bike itself—whether I’m by myself or pedaling with a new riding buddy.

Moonlight Cruise

 Yesterday I combined a daytime ride with “taking care of business.” That meant crossing into Harlem and pedaling—sailing, really, with the wind at my back—down the Hudson River Greenway to the World Trade Center, where I boarded a PATH train to Journal Square, Jersey City.

As I rode the streets of the Bronx, Manhattan and Jersey City,I was surprised at how little traffic I saw. Could it be that the NYC Metro Area is experiencing an “August absence “ like that of Paris and other European cities?

Traffic was so light, in fact, that when I resumed my trip in Jersey City, I rolled down JFK Boulevard—a “stroad” I would not take under other circumstances—all the way to the Bayonne Bridge, where I crossed into Staten Island.

Ironically, I saw the densest crowds on the Ferry’s observation decks. Most of the people were, of course, tourists. But the few who seemed to have ridden the Ferry before couldn’t’ve been blamed for standing in the cool breeze.

Tell me, where else can you go on a moonlight cruise for free?

And my “moonlight cruise” continued on La-Vande, my King of Mercia, up through Manhattan where, I believe, I could’ve navigated by the August blue moon even if all of the neon and street lights—and all of the headlamps on cars, trucks and buses—had gone dark. 

I saw only one other cyclist and one runner as I wound my way up Central Park to Adam Clayton Boulevard *, where people seemed to enjoy the night as much as I did.

*—You can tell someone is native to the neighborhood if they call it “7th Avenue,” just as no New Yorker refers to 6th Avenue as “Avenue of the Americas,” its official name since 1945.

Hunger Ride?

Another heat wave. Tomorrow will be even hotter. 

I didn’t eat anything before setting out on an early ride to Randall’s Island. On my way back, I started to feel hungry about five kilometers from my apartment.

We’re the pangs in my stomach a result of the ride, not eating breakfast—-or seeing this?:

A New Totem?

 Not long ago, if you saw a wooden likeness of a Native American outside a storefront, the establishment inside was more than likely a cigar shop or tobacconist.

The new equivalent of the “cigar store Indian” is a bicycle, or a likeness of one, festooned with flowers and ferns. But smoking isn’t allowed (at least here in New York City) in the sort of business this new totem most often signals: a café.

I saw this one during my early morning ride.  It was, at least, a bike I recognized: a Raleigh Colt. Like the classic Raleigh 3-speeds, it came with 26 inch wheels and Sturmey-Archer hubs. The main difference, it seemed, was that the frame design was tweaked (the boy’s version is a “camelback”) to allow for a smaller frame on full-sized wheels.

Anyway, I thought the café Colt was just another decoration until I got a second glimpse.

The flowers aren’t attached to the bike, and the rear tire is flat. I wondered whether someone had abandoned the bike there.  Or do the café’s owners bring it inside at closing time?

Haring What I’m Seeing

 Seen during an early morning ride in New York:

Morning Light On The Island

 Another early morning ride to City Island. Check out the light:

Ghost Ride

 As I ride around New York City, I sometimes see “ghosts.”

Now, before you assume that I’m going insane, I am—at least in the opinion of some people—already there. Seriously, though, among the “ghosts” I see are buildings that are vacant or being used for entirely different purposes than the ones for which they were intended.

Also, there are what Esther Crain, the author of Ephemeral New York (one of my favorite blogs) calls “ghost” signs.  They usually were painted on the sides of buildings to advertise some business or another.  As often as not, that establishment is long gone. I found an exception just a few blocks from my new apartment:

Tierney Auto Body works is still in the same location but the sign has to be at least 40 years old:  The lower part of the sign (not visible in the photo) gives the telephone number—without an area code. Until 1984, all five boroughs of New York City were covered by the 212 Area Code.  But as fax machines and, later, cell phones become more common, the 212 area code was running out of phone numbers and new area codes were added. It then became necessary to dial an area code when calling within New York City.

While riding the other day, I discovered another “ghost” sign that dates from around the same time, or earlier:

Prospect Hospital, its name barely visible at the top of the sign, closed in 1985. That sign, like the one for Tierney, gives a phone number without an area code.

Another thing I found interesting is the sign’s proclamation that “alcoholism is a treatable disease.” Although researchers and doctors had been saying as much since the 1930s (when, incidentally, Alcoholics Anonymous was founded) that idea started to displace, in public perception, the old notion that alcoholism is a moral failing during the 1960s.

Speaking of the 1960s:  By that time, artists and intellectuals who were associated with the later part of the Harlem Renaissance had moved to East Elmhurst and Jamaica in Queens or (as in the case of John Coltrane) to Long Island. But during the Renaissance, theaters for movies, plays, vaudeville and other kinds of shows and exhibits flourished in Harlem. The “ghost” of one “shadows” a building that now serves as a church on 145th Street:

So, if nothing else, my bike trips show that you don’t have to be Demi Moore, Patrick Swayze or Whoopi Goldberg to see “ghosts” during your ride!

Late Day Ride In January

 I sometimes take an early morning or late afternoon ride down through Sunnyside and Maspeth and cross the Kosciusko Bridge into Greenpoint and Williamsburg.

The entrance to the bridge flanks a cemetery and offers one of the more foreboding views of the skyline, especially in winter.

Late In The Day And Semester

 

In the US, you don’t have to be on the West Coast to ride into a sunset on the ocean.

Here in New York City, you can go to the south shore of Brooklyn, Queens or Long Island, or certain parts of Staten Island, for such a ride. Actually, a ride to Battery Park in Manhattan also counts, as New York Bay—where the Hudson River ends—is technically part of the Atlantic Ocean.

A narrow passage of the Bay separates the tip of Manhattan from Red Hook, Brooklyn, where I took a late-day ride to celebrate the end of a torrent that inundated this city for nearly 36 hours—and to take a break from reading papers and other end-of-semester duties.

Kevin Duggan Knows

 

Great minds think alike.

So I've heard.  Now, I am not going to tell you that I am a "great mind."  But I know when someone is thinking like a cyclist--in particular, a cyclist in New York City.

Kevin Duggan is such a person.  His latest article in Streetsblog NYC tells me as much.

In it, he lauds a new series of bike lanes I've already ridden a few times.  But he also said they are part of the "groundwork" for a "much-needed safe transportation network in the neighborhoods of Western Queens.

Astoria, where I live, is part of Western Queens.  There is already a lane--which is far from ideal--on my street and a few others.  But those extant lanes do not form a coherent network that would allow a cyclist or, for that matter, anyone not driving, a safe, reliable and efficient way to traverse the area between its bridges, schools, workplaces, shopping areas, parks, museums and the residences of people like me.

Nor do the new lanes about which Duggan writes.  Oh, one of them, along 11th Street, is protected by concrete barriers along some stretches and a lane of parked cars along others.  And it connects, if not seamlessly, with two other lanes along other major thoroughfares--Jackson Avenue and 44th Avenue-- in the neighborhood.  But they don't offer something else they could:  a safe and easy way to access the Pulaski Bridge, which connects the Queens neighborhood Long Island City (an area about 4 kilometers south of my apartment) to Greenpoint, Brooklyn--and has a protected bike lane.

Moreover, the Jackson Avenue and 44th Avenue lanes, which run east-west, doesn't connect (yet) with the lane along Vernon Boulevard--a north-south lane like 11th Street.  And there is no lane to connect Vernon or 11th to Crescent Street or other lanes that take cyclists to the RFK Memorial Bridge and other useful, relevant and interesting places.

Kevin Duggan understands.  I can only hope that the planners will, some day soon.

(Photo by Kevin Duggan for Streetsblog.  Map from New York City Department of Transportation.)

Nobody Uses Citibike Anymore Because Too Many People Use It

 When discussing bicycle- or "micro-mobility"-related issues, some people can't keep a metaphor or a story straight, let alone construct a cogent argument.

On Monday, I pointed out the malapropisms and simple lack of sense of a Manhattan community board member's objection to a bill that would require, among other things, licensing eBikes--even though I agreed, in principle, that it's not a good bill.  Likewise, while I and many other New Yorkers can point to problems with Citibike's service and equipment, the City Comptroller's review of it seems to be guided, as Streetsblog suggested, by Yogi Berra's observation about a restaurant:  "Nobody goes there anymore because it's too crowded."

On one hand, the report from Brad Lander--who has been mentioned as a possible successor to Eric Adams as this city's mayor--says that Lyft, the ride-share service that now operates the bike-share program, is no longer providing "reliable and equitable service."  On the other, it acknowledges that "Citibike enables millions of trips each month" and that in 2022, there were 30 million trips: "five times as many as when the city first launched in 2013."  Moreover, the report went on to say that preserving (Italics mine) Citibike as a "high-quality transportation service is essential."

Photo by Lindsey Nicholson 

 

So why did I italicize "preserving?"  Well, it's notable that  esteemed Comptroller used that word, and not "restoring" or some synonym for it.  While it's far from perfect, I would say--and the phrase at the end of my previous paragraph would indicate--that Citibike is at least pretty good at what it does.  Of course, my experience with it is very limited, but on the occasions when I used it, I could find a bike that worked reasonably well (not like my own, but that's a pretty high bar, if I say so myself) and a port in which I could leave and lock it without too much trouble.  Now, I only used Citibikes between my bike-rich neighborhood of Astoria and central locations in Manhattan and Brooklyn. So, perhaps, I never had to experience what elicits the program's sharpest criticisms, to which the report alludes:  that Citibike doesn't serve low-income neighborhoods and communities of color--or, for that matter, the borough of Staten Island.

Aside from the ways the report contradicts itself, Gersh Kuntzman of Streetsblog points out that it has another problem:  the report is based on only two months--June and July of 2023, when Lyft admitted that it was experiencing problems, especially in certain areas (mainly in the Bronx) and with theft--out of nearly five years of the company's operating the service.

A Labor Day Ride

 Today is Labor Day in the US.

In previous posts, I discusses races and other organized rides held on this holiday as well as the roles bicycles and bicycling have played in the labor movement and workers’ lives.  Today, however, I want to talk about something I saw during my ride this morning.

Knowing that a hot, humid afternoon was forecast, I took a pre-breakfast/brunch spin to Fort Totten (about 40 km round-trip) on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear. This ride includes, as it usually does, the Malcolm X Promenade, which rims Flushing Bay (where the East River and Long Island Sound meet) from LaGuardia Airport to the Northern Boulevard Bridge to Flushing. 

There are park benches along the Promenade so, not surprisingly, it serves as a lover’s lane, spot for impromptu small parties and simply a place for people to hang out and enjoy views of the water, airport and Manhattan skyline.

I have also seen the unhoused there.  If J they catch my attention, or they catch mine and I am carrying anything edible, I offer it,  They invariably thank me and sometimes eat it as I am pedaling away.  Are they testing it, or do they somehow know that I didn’t spike it with chemicals or ground glass?

Anyway, I have also noticed people—almost always Hispanic men—sleeping or hanging out on benches. I know they are not among the unhoused because they are not flanked or propped by bags or carts full of possessions.

They are most likely like a man who sometimes sits in the doorways of apartment buildings or on the stoops of houses on my block. He always greets me; he “knows” me because he works in a store I sometimes frequent. I see him from late afternoon or early evening to around midnight.

What might he have in common with at least one of the people I saw along the Malcolm X Promenade? Well, for one thing, he works a job that doesn’t pay well. For another, he lives in a room in “shifts.”

He’s in those doorways or on those stoops during the hours when his “roommate“—who probably is in a situation like his—is there. They share the room, and the rent, with another man who is most likely in similar circumstances.

I am mentioning them—and the people I saw during my ride this morning—because they are often forgotten on this day. I am happy that unions are regaining some of the power they’ve lost since the Air Traffic Controllers’ strike of 1981.  But for every union member who’s regained some of the rights, benefits and pay they lost, there are many more like the man on my block or the ones I saw during my ride this morning: the ones who don’t have unions, knowledge of the system or fluency in English to advocate for themselves, let alone anyone else.

Pedaling In Smoke

Two months ago, Canadian wildfires singed the sky orange in my hometown of New York City.  At times, you could actually smell—and see—smoke from the burning trees.

Such sights and smells didn’t enshroud the ride I took yesterday. I pedaled Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, along familiar streets from my neighborhood to Brooklyn.  While my nose didn’t detect the scent of incinerated wood and my eyes didn’t pick up ash or unusual hues on the horizon, I could sense the aftermath of a fire before I literally encountered it.

On Sunday, a fire destroyed a row of stores at the intersection of Lee Avenue and Hooper Street, by the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Most of the stores were closed, which is probably the reason why no one was hurt even as the stores and their contents were destroyed.

Still, such a disaster is particularly devastating for the Hasidic enclave of South Williamsburg. For one thing, the stores and the spaces they occupied were owned by members of the community, who were also nearly all of those establishments’ customers. For another, some of those stores sold the clothing and supplies kids will need as they return to school,  But most important, those stores catered to the specific needs and religious mandates of the community, particularly in food and clothing. (As an example, Halakhic law forbids the mixing of fabrics.) Those needs and requirements are sometimes difficult, if not impossible, to meet in other stores.

Anyway, I continued my ride. Sometimes it’s seemed as if I’ve been pedaling through smoke all summer.

A Surprise During A Ride Without A Plan

Errands and things that weren’t so complicated that a politician or lawyer couldn’t further complicate them took up my morning.  

So, by afternoon, I wanted—and needed—to ride  I had no destination or route in mind.  I didn’t even know which bike I’d ride.  For some reason, Marlee sniffed around La-Vande, my King of Mercia. For some other reason, that was the reason I wheeled her out my door.

I zigged and zagged along waterfront promenades and side streets from my Astoria neighborhood to Williamsburg. From there, a detour led me into industrial areas of East Williamsburg and Bushwick where I found myself following a string of graffiti murals that seemed to unfurl like a videographic collage along my ride and led me to this:

The word “truck” over the window hints at the building’s former role as a tire shop.  Given the location, drivers or owners of those hulking industrial vehicles were no doubt most of their customers.

The new clientele, I imagine, are more likely to be fixing or fueling their psyches and, perhaps, accompanying friends, dates or partners than to be hauling steel stock or power tools.  The Bushwick Triangle—where Johnson and Scott Avenues intersect with Flushing Avenue—is a lounge.

Even with its new look and purpose, its shape reminds me of a much larger and more famous structure:  the Flatiron Building, often cited as New York City’s first skyscraper  Somehow, though, I can’t imagine it adorned with a mural like the one on the Bushwick Triangle—even if the Flatiron’s owners were inclined to, and the city allowed, it.

I am glad, however, to have encountered a fun and interesting visual surprise during a ride for which I had no plan.

Some Things Can’t Hide

 For my morning ride, I turned from Crescent Street to Broadway and crossed under the elevated train at 31st Street.  I found myself in…Ukraine?

That’s what I wondered, at least for a moment.  What would it be like to ride down a familiar route and encounter a military vehicle .

Of course, that truck had nothing to do with the Armed Forces.  And its driver did nothing to menace me or anyone else.  But I had to wonder about the motivation of whoever had that cement mixer truck painted in camouflage colors!

A Ride From Astoria To Denmark, Via Atlanta

I have a confession:  I rode a bike-share bike the other night.

No, I wasn't in some faraway place without one of my bikes.  I was in my home city--New York, where I live with almost as many bikes (and Marlee) as I lived with family members when I was growing up.

So what was I doing on a CitiBike?

Well, I went to some place where I wasn't sure I could park any of my bikes safely.  A phone call confirmed that there is no on-premises bike parking. And, while there are on-street bike racks-- in addition to sign posts, railings and such--I didn't want to lock up my bike for the three hours or more I expected to be at my destination.

This image will give you an idea of what the neighborhood is like:

All right, the whole neighborhood isn't like that.  It's actually one of the more affluent areas of the city.  The crime rate is lower than in most other neighborhoods but, as in similar neighborhoods, a fair amount of that crime consists of bike theft.

That semi-submerged house is, as you may have surmised, a prop on a stage--specifically, in the Delacorte Theatre, the home of Shakespeare In The Park.

There I saw a very interesting production of Hamlet.  All of the major soliloquies (speeches), and most of the original language, was intact. But it was set in suburban Atlanta, and some liberties were taken with the chronology.  

Whenever I've assigned the play, I've told students that there are really two Hamlets in the play. The one who delivers "To be or not to be" and those other immortal lines is really Hamlet Jr. or Hamlet II, and he is brooding the death of his father--Hamlet Sr, if you will.  In this production, he becomes the patriarch of a mixed-race family. The play opens with his funeral, which includes soul and gospel songs and dance. 

For me, the cast (Ato Blankson-Wood is one of my favorite Hamlets!) helped me to see something that has been in the play all along but what is seldom emphasized:  what we now call "intergenerational trauma."  It also conveys the effect of murder and other kinds of violence on families and communities.  And some of the "tweaks" to the original dialogue--such as "Denmark's a prison" becoming "this country is a prison" (so powerfully delivered by Blankson-Wood)--makes the play almost scarily relevant.

Those who insist traditional, period-correct productions may not like this one.  And I'll admit that some attempts to transpose a contemporary Black/mixed-race American milieu with medieval Denmark don't always work.  But this production "hit" far more often than it "missed" for me, and I recommend it. Oh, and if you need an excuse to ride a Citibike even if you have a few bikes of your own, here it is.