Little Town, Little Criminals

Ask newspaper writers what annoys or frustrates them most, and the answers will include headlines.  My newspaper articles certainly weren't masterpieces of literature, but it drove me crazy when it was led off with something illiterate, clumsy or simply inaccurate.

So I felt for Nicole Rosenthal, a staff writer for Patch.  Her otherwise-good article began with a title that, while it caught my eye--for a reason I'll mention in a moment--it set a very different tone than, I believe, Ms. Rosenthal intended.

"Aberdeen, Matawan Kids Are Violating Bicycle Laws, Police Say." Matawan is a village in the northern Monmouth County, New Jersey township of Aberdeen.  Until 1977, the whole township was known as Matawan.  Just one township--which, like Matawan, includes a few villages--stands between Aberdeen and Middletown Township, where I spent my high-school years and first became a dedicated cyclist.  In fact, some of my early two-wheel treks outside Middletown took me through Matawan and Aberdeen.

(Snark alert) Li'l Lawbreakers!  (Photo by Rachel Sokol)

Then, as now, the township's and village's streets, aside from Routes 34, 35 and 79, are lined with neat homes of people who commute to New York (the railroad station is one of the busiest in New Jersey) and their kids who are like suburban kids in other places--which is to say that if you take away their electronic devices, they're probably not so different from the kids I knew in Middletown.

According to the article, police have received "numerous" complaints about children "disregarding" the state's bicycle safety laws.  Well, since most young people don't think very much about the laws are--if, indeed, they even have a vague idea of what they are--I don't think they "disregard" them.  Perhaps "violate" is a better word:  After all, people violate all sorts of laws and rules they don't realize they're violating.   

So what sorts of laws do the youngsters of Matawan-Aberdeen violate? Well, from what the article says, some weren't wearing helmets, which the Garden State requires for riders under 17 years of age. (No such law existed when I was that age; in fact, people would look at you askance if you wore a helmet.)  But the majority of complaints were about kids riding in the "middle" of roadways.

Indeed, the law in New Jersey, like its counterparts in most jurisdictions of the United States, says that cyclists have to right as far to the right as possible.  (If that's an attempt to influence our politics, it didn't work with me! ;-)) So, I guess some people would define any other part of the road as "the middle."  If that's the case, were the kids endangering themselves or holding up traffic--or popping wheelies, as kids have been doing for about as long as they've been riding bicycles?  

(If they were riding in the "middle" of the road on Routes 34, 35 or 79, people wouldn't have been filing complaints; they would have been filling out hospital forms or making funeral arrangements!)

Anyway, I saw the headline and wondered whether that town where I rode past other kids like the one I was in Middletown--white, suburban and, if they were anything like me, rather docile even if they were capable of being smart-asses--was suddenly turning out menaces to society.

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 We'd Worn Them?

If you're of my generation, you didn't wear a bike helmet when you were a kid.  But, if you have kids, you probably are making them wear helmets when they ride--at least if you're in the US.

That got me to wondering:  What would our childhoods have been like if we wore bike helmets?

From Pixabay

At Least He Survived--We Hope

Some stories bring me no joy.  But sometimes I feel the need to tell them, if only because they hit close to home.

At least this one hasn't ended in tragedy...so far.

A few days ago, I wrote about Madison Jane Lyden, the Australian tourist run down by an inebriated garbage truck driver as she cycled up Central Park West.  Well, I've gotten word of another cyclist struck by a motorist on a route I ride frequently.

Just before  8 pm yesterday, an 11-year-old boy (whose name hasn't been released) was riding his bike in Far Rockaway, in an area I pass through when I ride to Point Lookout or other points on Long Island's South Shore.  Occasionally, "Far Rock" is even my destination, especially when I'm trying to get a ride in during an abbreviated winter day.  




Anyway, a black sedan slammed into him--and kept going.  The impact sent him airborne for several car lengths. He landed in the hospital with internal injuries, but he is expected to survive.

At least, according to the NYPD, the driver of that car--41-year-old Aghostinho Sinclair--has been arrested.  Needless to say he's in a heap of trouble: The charges against him include reckless endangerment, leaving the scene of an accident--and driving without a license. (The latter charge is called "aggravated unlicensed operation".)  I wonder whether "endangering the welfare of a child" or some similar charge can be added to the list. 

Meet Mr. Bicycle of Harrisburg

I can't begin to count how many times I've seen people riding bikes with quick release levers that were twisted shut without engaging the cam.  Or racks, fenders or other accessories or parts that were just a bump away from falling off the bike--or into the wheel. Or, worse yet (for anyone who's not riding on a velodrome), brakes that are improperly set up or adjusted.

Now I've seen all sorts of other problems on peoples' bikes, such as rusty chains and soft or flat tires.  But the other problems I've mentioned can result in accidents and injuries.

Ross Willard understands this.  About 15 years ago, when the retired railroad executive was volunteering with a food program, he noticed children riding bicycles with brakes that didn't work.  The Harrisburg, Pennsylvania resident then started to fix bikes on street corners, at community events and in other venues, using tools he kept in the back seat of his car.

Ross Willard

That toolbox in which he kept his wares became "a bigger toolbox", then "the van, the trailer and the warehouse".  The enterprise he couldn't contain would become Recycle Bicycle Harrisburg, which opened its first shop ten years ago.  He, the founder, still serves as its "chief mechanical officer."  And he operates a bicycle collection point, repair facility and teaching center for repair and maintenance.  

Recycle Bicycle Harrisburg has a "do it yourself" philosophy, according to Willard. There is no charge for any repair, or even a bike, but visitors (except for very young children) are expected to make their own repairs, with the assistance of volunteers.  And people can take bikes in exchange for helping with repairs or other shop work.

He sees an irony in all of this. "In a sense, it's socialism," he says.  "I don't own the bikes....the people own the bikes."  That ethos, however, developed out of a sense of personal responsibility bordering on libertarianism that was inculcated in him by his parents.  "If you see something that needs to be done, don't call the government.  Go fix it," he says.  "And that's what we do."

He started fixing bikes for kids because he saw how important they are to young peoples' sense of well-being.  "The bicycle is freedom," he explains.  "The kids need bikes to see the world." 

The same could be said for adults and bicycles.  In particular, Willard's organization has another "target audience" in addition to children:  residents of halfway houses.  A prison guard from Willard's church told him about the needs of those recently released from jail and prison.  Among them is transportation--to and from job interviews, work, group meetings and other required programs.  Most cannot afford a car; even those who can might have trouble paying for gas and insurance.  Also, "if you give them a car and the computer dies, they have gpt to pay somebody" to fix it, Willard notes.  But they can bring their bikes to Willard's shop as necessary.

Recycle Bicycle Harrisburg also provides other valuable resources for halfway house residents.  For one thing, they can perform their prescribed community service by volunteering in the shop.  And for those who are trying to build up their resumes, that work counts as experience.  And Willard is willing to provide them with a reference, which nearly all of them need. 

On top of everything else, the halfway house residents experience, like the rest of us, freedom while riding a bicycle--though they, having been incarcerated, might feel it even more intensely.  Also, for some of them, daily or several-times-a-week bike rides are the first regular exercise they've had for years, or ever.

For what he has brought to his community, parolees, kids and other residents of Harrisburg have affectionately dubbed him "Mr. Bicycle".

Do They Teach That In The Academy?

If you head to Tampa from Daytona Beach, you will most likely pass through a city called Lakeland.  

I have to admit that I'd never heard of it until my parents moved to Florida.  Then it became a name on the weather map of the local television newscasts:  The temperature in Lakeland would be shown, along with those of Winter Haven, Titusville, Daytona Beach and a few other locales in the middle of the Sunshine State.

Since then, I've learned that the headquarters of Publix, one of the largest regional supermarket chains, is in Lakeland. (If you've spend any amount of time in Florida, you've almost certainly shopped in a Publix store.)  I have also learned another interesting fact about the city:  The canine unit of its local police department is regarded as one of the best in the United States.  One of its dogs, Nox, took first place in the annual USPCA Police Dog Trials (the largest event of its kind), while another one of its police pooches--Bruno--won the event in 2012 and 2013

Knowing about their canine unit got me to wondering how the police officers themselves are trained.  Something told me that their training must be pretty good . After all, studies have confirmed something I've always suspected:  Developing a rapport with an animal helps people in their relationships with other people.  Now, I realize that a police officer doesn't have the same sort of relationship with a German Shepherd in the unit as a civilian has with a pet poodle.  But I think that the ability to communicate with an animal requires intuition, which is certainly useful in human relations.

I got to thinking about those things when I came across a story about a police officer in Lakeland who helped a little girl fix her bicycle chain.  Items like that catch my eye, in part, because you would never see them in New York Metro Area media.  Also, according to the story, the girl calmed down from the temper tantrum she lapsed into when her bike chain jumped off its sprocket.  That's not a reaction one normally associates with seeing police lights flashing here in New York, especially if one is a member of a marginalized community.

I couldn't help but to wonder whether her reaction--and, for that matter, the fact that Shane Stinson stopped to help the girl--was a result of training, Officer Stinson's personal qualities or the community's relations with the police (which are probably a result of those other two factors), or some combination of them.

Whatever the answer, Officer Shane Stinson of the Lakeland, FL Police Department should be commended.

It also has me thinking about whether they should teach bicycle repair in police academies--and elementary schools!