To Which Side Did This Ride Take Me?

The days are growing longer, however slowly.  That's a sign of Spring approaching, even if the past week's weather has been colder than a month ago--or what I experienced when I arrived in Paris during the first week of January.

But I am happy to have enough daylight late in the afternoon that I can sneak in a ride after classes.  So I took a spin down "Hipster Hook" from my apartment into Greenpoint and Williamsburg, and back through the still-bluecollar and industrial areas along the Brooklyn-Queens border.

Along the way, I stopped in what has to be one of the strangest, and in its own way, charming stores in New York.  I thought the sign might have been a "leftover" from some previous owner:  The lettering fonts and overall styles look like they're from the '50's, and delis, bodegas and the like no longer have to announce themselves as "self-service," as customers are accustomed to picking up what they want and paying for it. On the other hand, in France and other European countries in marketplaces and  stores that aren't supermarkets, you ask the fruitier or fromagier or whoever is working there--who might be the proprietor--for what you want and they pick it out for you. That was still common in the US, or at least here in New York, when I was growing up.

Anyway, the reason why I call this store "charming" is that it is unlike any other I've seen here.  It has all f the things you'll find in a deli or bodega, from coffee to cat litter.  But it also has a hodgepodge of items you might find in a dollar, or any other thrift, store:  small tools, housewares, stationery and the like.  

If you go there, you'll probably encounter something like what I saw: Gnarled, dessicated and otherwise weathered old customers buying lottery tickets and brands of beer that, I thought, disappeared 40 years ago alongside hipsters and wannabes buying craft beers I hadn't heard of, organic hummus and light bulbs. 

Oh, and the store includes something that was a veritable industry 20 to 30 years ago but is now as rare, and dated, as cuneiform:  movie rentals.  I don't know of any place in my neighborhood, or any place else in New York, that still offers this service.  I don't plan to avail myself to it since I no longer have a functioning player, but it's interesting to know that such a service still exists.  Best of all, there are gnarled, dessicated and otherwise weathered old customers buying lottery tickets and brands of beer that, I thought, disappeared 40 years ago alongside hipsters and wannabes buying craft beers I hadn't heard of, organic hummus and light bulbs.

Speaking of relics and artifacts:  On the ride back, I encountered these:

Those graffitoes have graced the wall of Calvary Cemetery that faces, ironically, Review Avenue in an industrial area along Newtown Creek.  I remember seeing them as a kid, when my family and I went to visit relatives nearby.  (Calvary wasn't the only cemetery we passed.  How did that affect my emotional development?) And I've seen them a number of times, usually from the saddle of my bicycle.

I have wondered what those people were like (or if they were real!). Did Marty and Janet stay together--get married?  Divorced?  Did one of them "come out" in his or her 40's?  And Joe?  Sometimes I imagine a blue-collar Brooklyn or Queens guy, like an older brother of one of the kids I grew up with. Was he sent to Vietnam?  Has he lived a long and happy, or a turbulent, life?  For that matter, are Marty, Janet and Joe on the side of the wall from which I encountered their "tags?"  Or are they on the other side?

Out Of The Habit?

Many, many years ago, I went to Catholic school.

How many years ago?, you ask.  Well, the nuns who taught us were covered from head to toe, except for their faces, in black.  I remembered them when, years later, I learned about the severe sartorial codes conservative Islamic states impose on women.

Needless to say, women who live under such restrictions don't do much cycling. To be fair, that also has to do with other restrictions--arguably, the most extreme have been imposed by the Taliban in Afghanistan--on where, when and with whom women can work, travel or simply be in a public space.

To my knowledge, even the most conservative orders of nuns aren't so constrained in their day-to-day movements. Still, I have a hard time imagining a woman riding a bicycle in one of those long habits.  Unless...

If We Ride, We're Not Dead

 Today is Dia de los Muertos--the Day of the Dead.  Actually, it's the first of two Dias de los Muertos. Like most Americans, I assumed it was simply today, the day after Halloween, which I knew as "All Saints' Day" when I was growing up.  But, as it turns out, today's commemoration is for deceased children; tomorrow is for departed adults.

As a kid, I always thought it was weird to have a solemn "All Saints' Day"--when we were supposed to attend Mass (I served, as an altar boy, in two ASD masses)--the day after Trick or Treating. Perhaps that was a way of inculcating us with Catholic Guilt (TM): You pay for pleasure with pain, or at least drudgery.

Interestingly, Dia de los Muertos, at least as it's celebrated in Mexico and Mexican immigrant communities, bears more resemblance to our Halloween than to a somber church holiday.  Notice that I used the word "celebrated."  That's exactly the point of the costumes and festivities: to celebrate the lives of the departed.

I know that there are organized bike rides with cyclists in costume. I can't go to one of those, but I will ride later today with some old riding buddies.

  

Yes, they're old bike riders. Me, I'm Midlife Cycling! I go wherever the journey takes me.

(Photos taken at Fort Totten, 30 October 20222)

A Different Origin Story?

As a transgender woman, I often ask, "What if?"

What if I had been assigned, at birth, the gender and name under which I live?

What kind of cyclist might I have been?

Would I ever need to look back?

Riding From The Tooth Fairy To Ukrainian Children

 What did I do with my money from the tooth fairy?

I still have my wisdom teeth, but they don’t seem to help with memory.  For all I know, I never got money from the tooth fairy.

But Carina and Ariana Dinu did.  And they’re donating it to a charity bike ride—to benefit Ukrainian children.

Their ride was dedicated Iryna Filkina, a Ukrainian mother who was shot to death while she rode her bike home from work.  Carina and Ariana collectively rode 53 miles:  a mile for each year Iryna had lived before she was murdered.

Yes, you read that right.  Ten-year-old Ariana and seven-year-old Carina (Can you come up with better names?) gave their tooth fairy money to Ukrainian children.  That was “seed money,” if you will:  It was the first donation to the Go Fund Me page they started.

Actually, their ride wasn’t organized for the purpose:  They rode as part of the Ignite Women’s Bike Event.  And their fund-raising didn’t start with Ignite: a week earlier, they’d pedaled 45 miles in El Tour de Mesa.  By then, they’d collected about $1000, mostly from friends and family. El Tour has not only grown the amount of money they raised but expanded their donor bases.

What was I doing at seven or ten years old? I can remember some of it, but not what I did with my tooth fairy money, if I got any.  But said fairy, I am sure, would be proud of Ariana and Carina Dinu.

My First View, From A Bike

Yesterday I rode Zebbie, my 1984 Mercian King of Mercia, through the brownstones and rowhouses of Queens and Brooklyn.  Such a ride could easily involve a trip across the Kosciuszko Bridge, now that it has one of the better bike-pedestrian lanes in this city.

And so it was yesterday.  Tourists on Citibikes almost always ride across the Brooklyn Bridge for the views.  But no longtime New York resident does that.  Rather, in-the-know Big Apple cyclists opt for the Williamsburg Bridge or, if we simply want a visually interesting ride, the Kosciuszko.

In the spring and summer, the view consists mainly of skyscrapers foregrounded by trees and the factories and warehouses along Newtown Creek.  But the denuded limbs of winter reveal a landscape of differing verticalities. (Does that sound like a geeky phrase or what?)

When I lived in Manhattan and Brooklyn, one of my worst fears was--moving to Queens.  Mind you, I took many good rides, and enjoyed other activities, in "the world's borough."  But my first glimpse of it came from my family's car, en route to visit relatives:

Tell me, how would you feel about a place if the first thing you saw in it was a cemetery?  I'm guessing that I probably saw it for the first time on a winter day like yesterday, with leafless trees screening, but not shielding, the tombstones.  

But I did eventually move to Queens--to Long Island City, not far from where I live now.  Since then, I've visited Calvary Cemetery.  I know that there are tours of some of this city's necropoli, like Greenwood and Woodlawn.  Anyone who has a taste for such things (which I do, sometimes) should also go to Calvary.  Largely before of it, there are--wait for it--more dead than living people in Queens. (Thomas Wolfe once claimed, "Only the dead know Brooklyn."  What would he have said about Queens?)  In fact, more people are buried in Calvary than in any other American cemetery--or than live in Chicago!

Like Greenwood and Woodlawn, Calvary is the final resting place for some famous and infamous people, as well as everyday New Yorkers.  Also in common with them, Calvary began after the 1840s cholera epidemic: At that time, most of Queens and the farther reaches of Brooklyn and the Bronx (the locations of Greenwood and Woodlawn, respectively) were rural. And there wasn't enough room left in Manhattan to bury the victims of that epidemic, so the city mandated that they be interred elsewhere. 

All of those cemeteries have chapels large enough for masses or services.  But Calvary has a full-blown cathedral (not visible in these photos) at least somewhat reminiscent of the Sacre Coeur in Paris.

It's ironic that those same trees I saw yesterday obscure the tombstones in spring and summer.  Could their lush leafage during those seasons be nourished by the "residents" of Calvary?

Power Sources

In all of the Anglophone world, except for the United States, it's Boxing Day.

I can remember when the biggest disappointment, for some kids, was getting a toy they couldn't use on Christmas Day because it didn't have the required batteries. Because stores were closed, gratification had to be delayed until the following day, when those Eveready C and D cells could be bought.

Things are a bit different these days:

Kid, you plug your feet onto the pedals!

Where Do They Grow?

 Kid:  "Can you buy me this bike?"

Parent:  "Money doesn't grow on trees, you know!"

What Was He Riding?

Today is Palm Sunday.

I haven't been part of any religion or faith tradition in a long time.  I did, however, attend Catholic school and was an altar boy. (That sounds so odd to me after more than a decade and a half of living as female.) One thing I recall is that while we had an hour of religious instruction every day and were brought to confession after our Friday classes, we were not encouraged to read the Bible. 

Later on, I did read the book on my own and, in fact, was even part of a couple of study groups.  I came to the conclusion that while the Roman church might have had its own reasons to discourage Bible reading, it probably saved me, if unintentionally, from falling down the rabbit hole of all rabbit holes:  Biblical interpretation.

Since I can't read the Biblical languages, I can't say which translations are the most accurate, or which interpretations are closest to, as Constituional fundamentalists would say, the original intent.  (Constitutional scholarship might be the second-deepest rabbit hole.)  Was God male, or did God become so because of translations?  Did Jesus turn water into an alcoholic beverage rather than wine, and should Matthew 6:11 read "Give us this day our daily nourishment"?

Palm Sunday commemorates Jesus' entry into Jerusalem on, as recounted in Matthew 21.  Traditionally, this account has him riding a donkey.  But at least one Biblical scholar that someone was exercising poetic license, if you will, and argues that the story should have him astride a "pack animal" or "vehicle."

Hmm...How far can we take such an interpretation?

Will He Still Be A Paperboy?

Yesterday, while waiting on the supermarket line, a second register opened.  A customer stepped up to it; a couple of people on the line grumbled.  But a man who stood behind me reminded them, "They were ahead of us."

Hearing that, I was reminded of how "they" has become acceptable as a gender-neutral singular pronoun.  I can recall, years ago, the chair (actually, at that time, chairman) of the department in which I taught castigated a colleague for using "they" in that way.  "But we don't know whether it's a guy or girl," she protested.  Ever the fusty one, that chairman reminded that colleague, in one of the most condescending tones I've ever heard, that "they" is plural.

Of course, that locution hasn't made its way into most formal writing. Nor has the use of "their" for "his or her."  I believe, however, that it, and "they" will, unless someone comes up with useful, roll-off-the-tongue, gender-neutral singular substitutes for "him or her," "he or she" and "his or her."

Perhaps I pay more attention than most other people do to such things because I've taught English--and am a transgender woman.   Because I identify as a woman, I go by feminine pronouns.  But I also understand, better than most people (if I do say so myself), why someone who doesn't identify on either side of the gender binary would use "they" and "their" in the absence of other gender-neutral pronouns one can use to reference one's self.

I am happy that terms referring to cyclists and cycling are, mainly, gender-neutral, at least in English.  But I remember working in my first bike shop and hearing an older mechanic referring to "male" and "female" parts--and noticing that while some shops had a female sales person or even manager, the industry and sport were overwhelmingly male-dominated. 

Before that, I held two titles, if you will, that are particularly ironic, given how I now live.  During my Brooklyn childhood, I was an altar boy.  Today they're called "altar servers" but in the years just after Vatican II, girls weren't allowed on the altar--except to get married.  (At least, that's my understanding of how things were in the Roman Catholic church of the time.)  As incongruous as the title and role seem to me now, I have to admit that, at the time, I enjoyed the experience:  In a community where most of us attended the same church, and many of us the same Catholic school, altar boys were held in an esteem few other kids enjoyed.  Also, the church sponsored events for us:  We went to shows, ballgames, amusement parks and the like.  Those experiences, I think, helped to form some of my earliest friendships.

A couple of years later, after my family moved to New Jersey, I became a paperboy or, if you like, newsboy for the Asbury Park Press.  Although some women (including, for a time, my mother) delivered bundles of newspapers to paperboys, it was unheard-of for girls to deliver an individual copy to someone's mailbox or doorstep.   When the newsboy with one of the Press's largest routes "retired" (he graduated high school and joined the Army), the folks in the Press office "weren't sure" that it "would be OK" for a girl to take over.  But a few people, including my mother, managed to convince them that the girl in question would be a capable replacement--and she was.

I enjoyed darting down the streets and winding through the cul-de-sacs of Port Monmouth and New Monmouth, a sack of papers slung across my body, on my Schwinn Continental.  For one thing, I was getting paid to ride my bike.  For another, I felt free:  I had no other imperative but to be sure that when people came home from work or picking up their kids, a copy of the newspaper was in their mailbox, doorway or wherever else they wanted to find it.  

It didn't matter that I wasn't the best-looking, most popular or smartest kid in the class--or even what my gender identity or sexual orientation might have been.  All that mattered was that people got their copies of the Asbury Park Press. That, of course, was the appeal being a New York City messenger would, years later, hold for me:  Nobody cared whether I could "fit in" as long as they got their papers and packages.

Given who I am--more specifically, how I've become who I am--it is indeed ironic that I once worked and identified as a paperboy. Believe it or not, it's even stranger to see someone else, who's never identified as anything but male, to so identify himself.

George Bailey, paperboy

Every morning, George Bailey delivers copies of the Daily Mail in Headcorn, the southeastern England village where he lives.  It's not his first job:  Before taking up the route, he worked at a local golf course, for a food manufacturer and a stockbroker. Yes, you read that right.  Oh, and he did those things after working a paper round for the first time, starting at age 11.

Now he's 80, and still refers to himself as a "paperboy."  He returned to making deliveries as a pensioner, but recently considered "retiring" from it.  That is, until he made headlines and someone folks from Evans Cycles and Raleigh heard about them.  Together, they donated an e-bike to him.  "Offering a little electrical assistance when needed," e-bikes "increase enjoyment and ultimately encourage riders to ride more often," said David Greeenwood of Evans Cycles. 

Of the e-bike, Bailey said, "It's given me a new lease on life."  Now that he's using it, "I might even still be doing this when I'm 90."

If he is, will he still be referring to himself as a "paperboy?"  

Shut Down Without A Lockdown

 I am feeling somewhat encouraged:  Over the weekend, I managed to take two rides.  I don't know exactly how much I rode, but I guess that I pedaled about 70 kilometers on Saturday and that much, or perhaps a bit less, on Sunday.

Each trek took me through various parts of Brooklyn and Queens.  One thing is that, although I had to navigate traffic in some of the shopping areas, I found some solitude, in expected and unexpected places.

Lockdowns have been imposed in other states and countries.  There has been talk of one here, too:  Schools reverted to remote instruction last week, and if infection rates rise, "non-essential" businesses could close. (Good thing I got my hair done on Monday, even if I'm not going on a date or to any weddings, graduations or other large gatherings!)  If I hadn't known any better, I would have assumed the city had shut down when I saw this:

 

Thirteenth Avenue in Borough Park has long been a busy commercial strip.  My father grew up just off it; as a kid, I can recall trips to stores and bakeries--and pizza runs!--when we visited his parents.  In the decades since, the neighborhood has become one of the world's major Orthodox (Lubavitcher Hasidic) Jewish enclaves.  That, of course, is the reason why everything was closed--and I could ride on Thirteenth Avenue as if it were some country lane.

Well, most stores were closed because of shabat.  Gino's--yes, the destination of our pizza runs--managed to survive the changes in the neighborhood at least until a year or so ago.   Any time I was anywhere the neighborhood, I'd stop by for at least a slice or two--they were still as good as my childhood memories!--though, it seems, they stopped making arancini, one of the world's great comfort foods, some time ago.  

I know time marches on and all that, but I couldn't help but to feel what I saw from the Canarsie Pier on yesterday:

Well, I am healing, at least physically.  I suppose I'll "recover" from losing Gino's, too, even if it was one of the last old-school Brooklyn pizza joints.  

Cut To...The Chase?

I had a privileged childhood.  After all, I watched TV shows and cartoons that would later be considered "classics."  When I grew up (well, to the extent that I did), people were paying for subscriptions to cable channels that showed those shows and cartoons I saw for free.

One of those cartoons was "Tom and Jerry."  Every episode revolved around Tom's attempts to catch Jerry.  Sometimes he would succeed--almost.  Just when it looked like it was the end for Jerry, something would happen to Tom--a heavy object would fall on him, he would accidentally trip some Rube Goldberg device, or some other absurd accident would befall him--and free Jerry from his paws.

The reason to watch those cartoons, of course, was the chase and its twists and turns.  I wonder, though, what's going on in this cartoon:



Don't get me wrong: I think it's cute.  I'd show it to any young kid.  But is Tom chasing Jerry?  Oh, and they're on bicycles, but they never pedal.   Is there a hidden motor?  Hmm...Maybe they know the UCI isn't watching!

Sam, Sam The Bicycle Man

If I am ever near Seattle, I just might take a side trip to Sequim.  Why?  The lavender fields, which look like a little bit of Provence in the Pacific Northwest.

It also sounds like a place with interesting characters--like Sam, Sam The Bicycle Man.

With a name like that, he could have been one of the folks in The Spoon River Anthology if its author, Edgar Lee Masters, had a more sanguine view of small-town life.  What I am about to relate about Sam, though, comes from Sequim resident Tim Wheeler.

Wheeler's family purchased a dairy farm just south of the town.  A small creek cut across the bottom corner of the farm, isolating a one-third acre parcel that was "worthless for any agricultural purposes," in his words.  When they arrived, Sam Wyatt--The Bicycle Man--was already living there, having rented the space from the farm's previous owner.  

Sam lived in a tar-paper shack he'd constructed.  It contained a makeshift kitchen and single bed, and was heated by a tin stove.  There was also an outhouse. On his porch, he plied the trade for which Tim and other kids would recognize him.  As Wheeler recalls, "He could take any junked bicycle, no matter how rusty, and reconstruct it into a bike that some needy child could ride."  For Wheeler, Sam "took steel wool and polished off the rust" after adjusting the bolts and tightening all of the nuts and bolts.  But he couldn't find a proper seat.  So, he cut a chunk out of an old automobile tire and "wired it on the seat stem poking up from the bike frame."  

Wheeler rode that bike "hundreds of miles on all the scenic byways" in his area.  If he had a problem, "there was Sam, Sam the Bicycle Man to fix it for me."  Recalling that bike, Wheeler says, "No brand new plaything under the Christmas tree ever gave me as much joy as that bicycle."  What Sam did for Tim, he did for other kids in the area even though "I can't recall any of us paying him a penny for his work."  

Sam also rode his own bicycle to do his errands and visit relatives, who were scattered all over the Pacific Northwest.   He was doing that in his seventies, according to his grandson, Russell Wyatt.  He visited "every one of his brothers and sisters," according to Russell.

Tim Wheeler was in his early teens when Sam died.  At his funeral, the church was "packed" with kids for whom he'd built bikes.  I'd bet that they, like Tim, "learned to value old things, to try to fix broken things before we buy something new."  

But perhaps the greatest lesson Tim Wheeler learned from Sam, Sam The Bicycle Man was that "every child deserves food and shelter, and a bicycle, and lots of love."

I can hardly think of a better legacy.

What If She'd Gotten A Gravel Bike?

A few years ago, it seemed that the "buzz" in the bike world was about "gravel bikes".  

I can't say I've ever owned anything specifically designed as a "gravel bike".  I have, however, ridden all sorts of bikes--some my own, others not--on gravel.  Perhaps the bikes I pedaled most over pebbly surfaces were my mountain bikes and the one cyclo-cross bike (a VooDoo Wazoo) I ever owned.  I've also ridden road and touring bikes on such surfaces, usually as part of some other ride I was doing:  When you go on a loaded tour outside urban and suburban areas, you're bound to ride on gravel or dirt some time or another.  I even rode my racing bikes, with sew-up tires, on gravel--if not for long distances.

I suspect that most, if not all, of you have ridden on gravel with a bike that wasn't designed for the purpose.  And most of you were no worse for the experience than Gaynor Yancey was after running her brand-new "English Racer" into the rough stuff.

(I suspect Ms. Yancey isn't much older than I am:  I referred to the three-speed bike my grandfather gave me as an "English Racer", as most people did in those days!)

Just remember that you don't have a gravel bike!

She, like me, did not plan her plunge into the pebbles:  She encountered the crunchy stuff in the course of her ride.  But her foray didn't end so well because she wasn't as prepared as I was.  As she relates, she'd never before ridden a bike with "hand brakes".  So, when the paved street on which she'd ridden ended, she wasn't able to follow her mother's instructions to stop and walk her bike over the gravel path to her friend's house.  She was so distracted by her vision of showing off her new bike to her friend, she says, that she "forgot about the handbrakes."

She ended up with a knee full of gravel.  "And, on top of that, my beautiful new bike was hurt," she recalls.

Would things have been different if she'd gotten a "gravel bike" instead of an "English Racer" for her birthday?

Lights Out And Broken Glass

We often say, "There's good news and bad news..."

Well, on this date in history, there is a bad event and a terrible one.  Neither relates directly to cycling, so if you want to skip today's post, I understand.

Anyway, I'll start with the bad news in history.  It's an event I remember pretty well, especially given how young I was. If you are of a certain age, you might have lived through it, too.

On this date in 1965, it was "lights out."  Yes, that's the literal truth:  The lights went out in the northeastern US and the Canadian province of Ontario.  It was the result of failures in power generating station, beginning with one near Niagara Falls.  



My family and I were living in Brooklyn.  We weren't in the dark for as long as some nearby areas:  Around 11 pm, power gradually returned, after about six hours without.  O the other hand, some parts of Manhattan and other boroughs and states didn't have "juice" until the following morning.

In some senses, we were lucky:  It was a classic autumn evening, crisp but not too cold.  More important, perhaps, were the clear skies and full moon.  People did what they could outdoors, but some homes (including ours) had at least some light coming through our windows.

And, even all of these years later, I recall how calm and even helpful most people were.  My father couldn't get home from work, as the subways stopped running,  but he was able to call us from a pay phone (Remember those?)  and assured us he was OK.  There were also some funny stories, like the one about people who got stuck in Macy's furniture department and slept on the showroom beds.

Such an atmosphere was in contrast to another blackout a dozen years later that affected mainly New York City.  It was a hot summer night and that year, it seemed, the city was in chaos, what with Son of Sam was shooting and the Bronx was burning.  Well, it seemed that the gates of Hell or some Freudian subconscious opened:  More fires were set, and stores all over the city were looted.  New Pontiacs were driven off a dealers' showroom on Jerome Avenue in the Bronx; the Brooklyn neighborhood of Bushwick suffered devastation from which it would not recover for another three decades.  Lots of glass was broken that night.

And on the night of 9 November 1938 as well. Many fires were set, too.  On this date in 1938, what is often seen as the opening salvo of World War II occurred.  At the very least, it changed the nature of hatred in a nation.  Up to that time, Jews in Germany, Austria and other European countries were losing their rights--if they had them in the first place--in much the same ways African Americans lost rights during the Jim Crow era.  (I am not the first to draw this parallel; some scholars have said as much.)  For a brief shining period--about a decade or so--after the US Civil War, newly-freed slaves and their descendents enrolled in schools and universities, earned licenses to practice nearly every kind of trade or profession (including medicine and law) and were even elected to public office.  Those rights were withdrawn, as they were for Jews, and worse things came.

In the US, the Ku Klux Klan as well as other groups and individuals intimidated, harassed, beat and even killed black people who stepped out of "their place."  The Jews of the Reich didn't even have to do that:  On this date eight decades ago, bands of Nazis--as well some freelance thugs--destroyed synagogues and Jewish businesses all over Germany and Austria.  The police were under orders to do nothing except prevent injury to Aryans and damage to Aryan-owned homes and businesses.  

Although Jews were harassed, beaten and even killed--and their homes, businesses and synagogues vandalized--before this date, this event--known as Kristallnacht, the "night of broken glass"--marked the first mass, systematic terrorization of Jews.  And it shifted the means of expressing hatred of Semitic people from the legal and social to outright physical violence.  That night, more than 100 Jews were killed and 30,000 able-bodied men were arrested and sent to death camps in Dachau, Sachsenhausen and Buchenwald. (Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen had not yet opened.) Thus began the first mass deportations of Jews (and other "undesirables") to the camps: Until then, the arrests and deportations were less numerous and widespread.

In the US, citizens were outraged--at least for a while.  Newspaper editorials condemned the violence; no less than the New York Times suggested that the German government instigated the violence to line its coffers, both with the possessions seized--and fines levied on--Jews:  "Under a pretense of hot-headed vengeance, the government makes a cold-blooded effort to increase its funds."

Yes, the Jews were forced to pay for the violence they "instigated."  Sadly, Nazis and their followers in the Reich weren't the only ones who believed that the Jews brought it on themselves:  Father Charles Coughlin, and influential Catholic priest, said as much in his radio broadcasts, which reached tens of millions of Americans when the nation's population was about a third of what it is now.

Worse, though, was the initial inaction of the US government and others with power and influence.  At least some of it was a result of unconcious anti-Semitism, but I think a larger reason was that, for one thing, by that time, more Americans came from German ancestry than any other.  And people whose parents and grandparents came from other nations simply couldn't--or weren't willing to--believe that such systematic brutality could happen in "the land of Mozart".

Homes and synagogues burned as glass was broken and the lights went out.  I guess my family and city were lucky twenty-seven years later:  Our lights went out, but there was no broken glass.  And nothing burned.

Fifty Years Ago Today

Today I am going off-topic.

One of the most tragic events--no, I take that back, the single most tragic event--in the history of the United States took place fifty years ago today.

I am talking about the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr.

Now, I don't mean to diminish how terrible were the killings of John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X or the unfortunate souls who perished on 9/11.  They were all awful, and it could be said the country and this world weren't the same after them.  

Perhaps I see the murder of MLK as I do because it's the first assassination I can recall clearly.  I have only vague memories of JFK or Malcolm X, and the fall of the Twin Towers doesn't have a single tragic figure that stands out.  But, even at my tender age, I could see that Martin was emblematic (though neither I nor anyone else in my milieu at the time would have used the word) of everything that was necessary and possible.

Martin Luther King Jr. is kissed by his wife, Coretta Scott King as Nipsey Russel, back left, and Harry Belafonte, right, look on in 1963.

America is, of course, not alone in venerating its military leaders.  And I am not foolish enough to believe that this country, or the world, will ever exist without armies and munitions.  But the only hope the human race has, I believe, is to work toward, if not ending, then at least diminishing, the role of the military and war--and indeed all violence--play.  Doing such work, I believe, is inseparable from the struggles for social and economic justice.

That last sentence is something Martin understood, perhaps too well.  When he said as much, in a speech he gave exactly one year before he was gunned down, many of his longtime supporters abandoned him. President Lyndon Johnson championed both civil rights and America's involvement with the Vietnam War.  When Martin denounced the war, some of his supporters took it as an attack on the person who brought to fruition some of the things for which Martin and his followers fought.

Some Americans--including some of my acquaintance, a few of whom are related to me--simply cannot understand why Martin Luther King Jr. is "the only person with his own holiday."  In some states, at least, that is not the case: Lincoln's birthday is celebrated before "Presidents' Day".  But, really, if only one person in the United States of America is to have his or her own holiday, I cannot think of who else that person could or should be.

In short, I feel he is this country's greatest hero, and we are still hurting from losing him.                                                               

A "Bridgegate" For Cyclists?

I lived through a time when the word "nuclear" was almost invariably followed by "holocaust".

Then again, I also experienced a few air raid drills when I was in elementary school.  One of the first stern glares a Carmelite nun directed at me was in response to my innocent (well, maybe not-so-inncocent) question:  "How is this going to protect us from an atom bomb?"

(Of course, now everybody knows that this is what you do in case of a nuclear attack:

• Duck under desk or table.
• Curl up in foetal position.
• Place head firmly between legs.
• Then, kiss your ass goodbye.)

Anyway...just as "nuclear" went with "holocaust", it seems that these days, "bridge" is followed by "gate".  And "Bridgegate" is the first thing people think of when you mention the George Washington Bridge.

Traffic jams have been as much a part of the bridge's 85-year history as corruption has been a part of the politics on both sides of the bridge.  Most of those tie-ups, unlike the ones caused by Governor Christie's acolytes, are not deliberate.  Nor will the ones that will  probably come soon and plague the bridge for the nest seven years.

Actually, the Port Authority's renovation project began last year, when lead paint was removed from the lower deck.  Removal of said paint will continue, and most important of all, the vertical cables will be replaced.  The PA says it will try to time the work to cause the least possible inconvenience to commuters.

Just as the term "human being" meant "white man with property*" to the Founding Fathers, "commuters" means, in PA parlance, folks who drive into the city and, well, maybe those who take the bus.  So, for that matter, does "traffic".

Now, to be fair, the PA plans to improve access to the bridge's bike and pedestrian lanes.  Then again, almost anything would be an improvement over what exists:  Hairpin turns on the New York side of the lane on the south side of the bridge, and steep stairs on both sides to access the lane on the north side.  Worse yet, the stairs on the New York side can only be entered by crossing a heavily-trafficked street that has become a de facto exit lane for the bridge an the Cross-Bronx expressway, and for buses entering and leaving the George Washington Bridge bus terminal.

It's like this on a good day.

But those entrances aren't the worst part of the lanes.  For one thing, in more than three decades of biking (and, occasionally, walking) across the bridge, I have never seen both lanes open at the same time.  Worst of all, though, is that each of those lanes is seven feet wide at its widest. At some pinch points--where, for example, towers are located--the lanes are considerably narrower.  And, of course, the structures that cause the "pinch" also make for very poor sight lines.  At times, I've wondered that collisions and conflicts between cyclists and pedestrians aren't more frequent than they are.

To give you some perspective:  The Federal Highway Administration recommends 14 feet for a two- way bike lane.  And the American Association of State Highway and Transportation Officials recommends 16 feet.  

In other words, the lanes are half as wide as is generally recommended.  And, just as the GWB is the nation's busiest commuter crossing for motorists, its bike and pedestrian lanes are also among the nation's busiest.

Now, are you ready for this?  The Port Authority's plans call for reconstructing the bike and pedestrian lanes.  The north lane will be designated for cyclists, and the south for pedestrians.  Sounds good so far, right?

New Jersey entrance to the bike/pedestrian lane on the south side of the George Washington B

And the bike lane will indeed be wider.  How much wider?  Check this out:  one foot.  So the new bike lane, according to the plan, will be 8 feet wide.  There is nothing to indicate that narrower "pinch points" won't be eliminated.  Perhaps they can't be.  But I have to wonder why, if the Port Authority is planning what is essentially a once-in-a-century project, it can't or won't build the bike and pedestrian lanes to modern standards. Instead, it plans to rebuild the lanes to the standards that existed in 1931, when the bridge opened.  

Now, I don't know much about the economics of major public works projects.  I can't help but to think, though, that in relative terms, it wouldn't cost much more to build a modern path than the one that's planned--and, better yet, to build  a bike path on a separate, lower lever from the pedestrian lane.  Certainly, doing so would cost less than building another lane as a stand-alone project at a later date.

Artist's rendering of a possible bike laneconstructed at a lower level alongside the current lane on the north side, which would be reserved for pedestrians.

Oh--one other thing is planned in the reconstruction:  a fence, a.k.a. a suicide barrier, along each lane.  I'm not going to argue that such a barrier shouldn't be installed:  It's likely that most of the suicides that have occurred from the bridge were preventable.  I can't help but to wonder, though, whether the barriers will make riding or walking across the bridge feel even more claustrophobic than it already is at times.

Oh, Deer...Or, Qu'est-ce Qu'on Peut Dire?

Around this time every year, two of my uncles took hunting trips.  They and some of their buddies would drive upstate, usually to the Catskills, in pursuit of deer or whatever else they could shoot.  Sometimes they went with bows and arrows; on other trips, they brought rifles.  I would learn that hunting season was delineated not only by the prey (deer, bear, moose) but also weapons (bow or gun).  

On a few occasions, they said they'd "bagged" a "big one" but couldn't bring it home.  (Sounds like a "fish story", doesn't it?)  But I recall one other time they actually brought back a deer carcass and we ate a lot of venison (which I liked) that fall and winter.  Another time, they brought back the antlers.  To this day, I choose to believe that they actually let their buddies take the rest of the animal:  Being the city kid I was (and am), I wouldn't have known whether they bought their "pointers" in some gift shop.

Although it's something I could never do myself, I have always had respect for hunting.  Some of that, of course, ,may simply have been a result of my love for my uncles-- one of whom is my godfather and my only still-living uncle. If nothing else, I came to see that someone who shoots an animal is very, very unlikely to turn his gun on a human being.  Also, I learned that the chase requires self-discipline and a respect for the animal whose trail you are following.  Finally, I have come to realize that a certain amount of hunting is actually necessary, as the animals' natural predators are all but gone in many areas.  Even though the thought of shooting an animal does not appeal to me, I would rather that some animals were shot by sports people than to see many, many more starve and freeze to death during the winter.

Still, I smile on those rare occasions when I see a set of antlers tied to a roof rack.  Honestly, I still couldn't tell you whether they were actually hunted by the vehicle's driver or passengers, or whether they came from some store.

I probably wouldn't care whether or not they were real if they were transported this way:

I mean, really, how can you not respect someone who cycles to the hunting grounds and brings back his or her "trophy" on two wheels?  ;-)

Rides And Memories From The Day Of The Dead

I grew up thinking today was All Saints' Day.

Later, I learned that it was also called All Souls' Day.

Either way, it was the reason Halloween (All Hallows' E'en) existed.

Then I learned that those two days, and the one that follows are celebrated as Dia de Muertos in Mexico, and now in Mexican communities here in the US. 

Actually, only the southern part of Mexico, where Aztec and other indigenous cultures were still strong, celebrated it until the middle of the 20th Century.  Until then, the north--which was almost entirely Roman Catholic and mainly of European ancestry--commemorated All Saints' Day in a fashion similar to the rest of the Catholic world.  What that meant, mainly, was going to Mass and, for some families, a commemorative meal or other event for their dear departed.

I must say, though, that for a time in my life, it didn't seem to have anything to do with death--unless, perhaps, the weather was particularly gloomy.  Catholic schools, including the one I attended, were closed that day.  We were expected to go to church, but other than that, we were free.  At least, I was, because my family didn't do anything special for the day.

I can remember going for bike rides on the first of November, both as a child and as an adult.  According to the calendar, this day is the first day of the year's penultimate month.  Some years, the weather told us that the cycling season was winding down, or even on its last legs.  

Whatever the day was like, the sensual feast of October would soon be over and the more austere beauty of November would lead to rides that shortened with the amount of daylight available but grew in intensity, sometimes physically but more often emotionally.

Today I rode to work and  I might get to sneak out for a "quickie" before riding home.  Whatever I do, I am sure to think about not only my rides past, but also the people who rode (some of) them with me--and the person I was on those rides.  And, of course, about the rides ahead.  

Yes, on the Day of the Dead.

About the Images:  The first is the box from a special edition "Day of the Dead" Bicycle playing card set.  The second, third and fourth are by Heather Calderon and are titled "Hollywood Bicycle Woman," "Hollywood Bicycle Man" and "El Panadero", respectively.