On Thin Ice, Literally

Some years ago, I read Fooled By Randomness.  Its author, Nassim Nicholas Taleb--who is credited with coining the term "black swan"-- made his money on Wall Street before embarking on an academic career. (Hmm...Is that what I should have done?)  What I remember about the book now is that in it, Talib shared one of the lessons he learned as a trader:  People trust to chance precisely the events they shouldn't and try to control those things that are bound by fate.  

One problem, I think, is that people who work in jobs that jobs that reward caution, too often, play it safe in other areas of their lives:  They are the kind of people who will order the same dish in any restaurant of any kind anywhere in the world.  Conversely, some people who work in areas where risk-taking is rewarded, or at least expected, tend to take unnecessary and even dangerous chances with other things. 

An example of the latter kind of person might be Boston cyclist and vlogger Lucas Brunelle.  "I ride my bike the same way I trade stocks," he explained.  What's more, he documents his risky rides on videos he posts to YouTube.  To wit:

On 15 February, he departed from a parking lot in Allston and pedaled onto an frozen Charles River. At least, that's how the river probably looked to him. He transversed about 800 feet before falling through a crack in the ice.

Venturing onto any glazed body of water is risky. But ponds and lakes, which are usually stagnant and filled with fresh water, are more likely to develop a thick icy crust than a river, which has a current.  What makes a river like the Charles even more treacherous is that while it normally contains fresh water, salty currents from Boston Harbor--an inlet of the Atlantic Ocean--wash into it.  Salt water freezes at significantly lower temperatures (which is why, among the major oceans, only the Arctic and Antarctic freeze), so a river like the Charles might not develop a solid base underneath what appears to be a coat of ice.

Ever the risk-taker, Brunelle took to the ice the following week.  And, he says, he plans to continue his risky rides.  After all, what rewards him as a trader will make his rides rewarding, right?  Just ask Nassim Nicholas Taleb.

On Ice

I didn't ride my bike to work today. In fact, I'm not riding at all.

Blasphemy, you say.

Well, I took one look out my window and saw ice everywhere. Not just patches; I think the sidewalk in front of my place was the beginning of the Great Queens Glacier. At least the light was interesting:

On Ice

Remove the "b" from "bicycle" and you have...Well, OK, it's a misspelling.  But you're not far from "icicle".

I thought about that during the last couple of days.  We had a dusting of snow on Monday, and a bit more on Tuesday.  In between, we had some rain and sleet, and the temperature dropped.

That meant ice patches en route to and from work. Encountering an ice puddle is not so bad:  The best way to ride across one is to keep moving ahead in a straight line and don't brake unless you absolutely must.  

The real hazard, in urban cycling, is those patches of jagged ice:  You know, where it looks like the Ho Chi Minh trail glazed over.  That, I think, is where you are in the most danger of slipping and falling, especially if your tire brushes against one of the "ridges".  Then, it's like riding parallel to the railroad track in order to cross it.  

At least I didn't have to ride after dark. Even on a well-lit street and with a good headlight, it's harder to see those ice patches.

Potholes and Ice

Yesterday was cold, but clear.  And it seemed that the streets were finally clear of ice and snow.  So I rode to work.  It felt suprisingly normal, and good, considering how little riding I've done this winter.  The ride to my main job, and from there to my part-time job, were actually pretty routine.  


And so was the ride home.  I know that, bit by bit, we're getting closer to spring because it wasn't dark when I got on my bike at the end of my workday.  Rather, I started pedaling around the time the sun was beginning to set.


As I often do, I cut across Flushing Meadow-Corona Park.  It's kind of odd to say "cut," as going through the park actually lengthens my ride.  But I don't mind, as riding through the park is usually pleasant in and of itself, and it allows me to bypass the worst traffic between my home and work:  the area around Main Street in Flushing where, it seems, a whole continent's worth of cars--and driving skills--swerves, squeezes and wedges into four lanes of traffic.  

Some night when I don't have any pressing appointments, I plan to actually stop by the Main Street area.  It may have the widest and best selection of Asian food available in the US, with the possible exception of what's found in a couple of cities in California.


Anyway...My ride home hit a bit of a snag right in the middle of the park:  

OK, so Marianela's not the Titanic and the Park isn't the far North Atlantic.  But at times like that, I really wish that ice would remain in little paper cups, where it belongs, with lemon or cherry flavoring.


The ice spread around the Unisphere to the other end of the park.  So what to do?  Option A was to backtrack and ride up to Main Street. I had scarcely enough time for that.  Option B wast to walk across.  But I figured I had just as much chance of slipping and falling if I were on my feet as I'd have on my bike.  That left me with Option C.  That involved riding through the parts of the path where the ice was rutted with patches of exposed asphalt.  


This may have been the only time in my life I chose to ride through anything resembling potholes.  Maybe the near-constant vibration kept me from thinking about the ice and other hazards.  Whatever the reason, I made it out to the other side of the park.  And the rest of my ride home was as unremarkable as the segment before the park.

Solitary In The Snow

For the past couple of weeks, the only people I've seen on bicycles were making deliveries for the local restaurants and diner.   Whenever I see a delivery man (Yes, they're all men.), he likely to be the only cyclist on the road at that moment.


I think now of my days as a messenger.  There were days when I was not only the only cyclist on the streets (at least for a few blocks around), I was sometimes the only person to be seen on the streets.  It didn't matter whether I was on or around Wall Street, or in one of the industrial areas that still existed, though as shadows of their former selves, in Manhattan.  


In those days, I was watching quite a few post-apocalypse movies, most of which I've forgotten.  (Frankly, I watched most of them high or drunk.)  That may have been the reason why the landscape seemed almost lunar, and I felt like some sort of pioneer or homesteader.  


Somehow the snow and ice made me, and the few other people who were outside, seem even more solitary, as if the scene were a photograph negative of a chiaroscuro portrait.

This photo was taken in Kalamazoo, Michigan yesterday.  But it could have been shot in just about any community of any size in the Northeast or Midwest during the past couple of weeks.  It feels as if these storms are making every cyclist seem solitary.


In a sense, we are.