Doing Unto Others

Some good deeds can be performed only while you're riding your bicycle. 

You might be thinking of the time you gave directions to a pedestrian or motorist.  Or the time you retrieved something someone dropped.  And, of course, there are those times you've helped another cyclist on the side of the road.

I am thinking of those, too.  But then there are other problems or emergencies we can deal with but motorists or even pedestrians can't.  I'm thinking now, in pre-cell phone days, of times I summoned police or made a call from a pay phone when a motorist or someone else was stranded far from either. ( I've done this in France--when I was cycling the Pyrenees en route to Spain--as well as locally.)  Then there was the day I saw an elderly woman take a fall while crossing a street (in Florida) and, more recently, the time I saw a homeless man passed out on a sidewalk in the Bronx, on my way to work.  

My favorite, though, was the time a woman called, "You, on the bike!"  I turned.  "Can you help me?"  Of course, I pulled over.  She explained, between sobs, that she'd left her purse on a bus making its run along the Union Turnpike in Queens.  "Do you remember the number on the side of the bus?"  She did.  "Give me a few minutes."

It actually didn't take that long:  I found that bus a couple of lights away.  I knocked on the door and explained the situation to the driver.  He actually walked the down the aisle and--voila!--found a red leather clutch on a seat.  

When I brought it back to the woman, she, of course, thanked me profusely and wanted to give me the money in that purse--which I, of course, refused--while laughing out of sheer giddiness.  "Then I'll pray for good things to happen for you." I'm not religious, but I hope she didn't think I was laughing at her offer of blessings!

I laughed in that same giddy way yesterday.  As I approached the stairs on the Randall's Island side of the RFK Memorial Bridge, I saw a young man who looked ready to faint.  "Are you OK?" He stammered something.  I offered him my water bottle; he sipped from it.  But I knew he wasn't suffering from heat exhaustion, even though the day was warm and humid.  "Are you diabetic?"  He nodded. "L-low blood sugar!"   

I searched my bag:  no bananas, energy bars, chocolate or any of the other sweet things I might bring on a ride!  The only available food was on the island--or back on the Queens side.  "I'll get you something!  I'll be back in a minute."

So I pedaled at a pace that might've won me a race or two back in the day to the concession stand near one of the ballfields.  Much to my surprise--and, at that moment, horror--it was closed.  There was a "roach coach" (a food truck) nearby, a long line of customers snaked from its windows.  And it wasn't going to move quickly:  people were ordering hot sandwiches, plates and french fries.

Sighing, I caught sight of a nearby tennis club.  I'm not a member, but I figured there would be a cafe--or at least a snack bar--where I could buy something.  That hunch proved correct, and I bought two fresh-baked cookies--one chocolate chip, the other fudge with s'mores.  

When I got back to the stairway on the bridge, the young man was still there, and another young man was talking to him.  That other young man didn't have any food or water, but at least he encouraged the young man with diabetes. Both thank me profusely; the fellow with diabetes hugged me. 

Anyway, I mention these stories, not to boast of my magnanimity, but to point out that they never would have happened if I hadn't been on my bicycle.  That young man who was  about to faint, or worse, from his low blood sugar never would have been seen by the motorists streaming across the bridge.  And the pedestrians wouldn't have been able to get him a snack as quickly as I did.

What are some of the good deeds you performed while riding your bike--and that you could have performed only while riding your bike?

A Cycle Of Karma?

One of the most depressing things that can happen to us is the theft of our bikes.

Just as dispiriting as the loss of something we love and depend on is the realization that we probably won't see it again and, it seems, nobody who isn't a cyclist cares.  We report our losses to the police and other authorities and they tell us that we're not likely to get our wheels back--which is another way of saying they have other fish to fry.

Perhaps the best most cyclists can hope for is what Amanda Needham experienced.

The Brooklyn resident's bike, which she rode to work, was stolen from the front of her house on 3 March. After finding empty space where her machine had been, she took some cardboard and yellow paint to make a sign she would post in that spot.

It begins, "To the person who stole my bike:  I hope you need it more than me."  She follows with a lament about how she depended on it and what it cost her.  "Next time, steal. Or not steal," is how her plea ends.

That sign stood for five days before she heard a knock at her door. She thought it was a delivery. Indeed, it was, but not one she was expecting:  a stranger bearing a used kid's bike with a flat tire.  

A few days later, she got another knock on her door.  This time, an older woman greeted her with a hug and told her if she found another bicycle, she'd bring it to her.  

Not surprisingly, Ms. Needham was touched. "These people were visibly poor and giving from what they had," she said.  But they didn't prepare her for what--or, more specifically, who--came by later.  Steven Powers, an antiques dealer, was riding by and saw her sign.  He posted a photo of it on Instagram and, just as he was thinking of offering to buy her sign--for $200, what she paid for the used bike-- another dealer in the UK offered to split the cost.  "That was the little push I needed," he said.

The sign, he said, is "graphically interesting."  But most important, he believed, is that her message "wasn't angry."

Needham used that $200 to buy another bike.  Before she did that, though, she took the kids' bike to Court Cycles, a local repair shop owned by mechanic Ms. JoAnne Nicolosi.  She offered to repair the bike for free, and Amanda offered to set up her shop on social media.  They now plan to raffle the machine, dubbed #karmacycle, for free later this month.

While she isn't glad she lost her bike, Ms. Needham is happy to have met the people she's met.  Most important, though, is not that she lost her wheels or "got a secondhand bike for someone else."  Rather, she says, she just wants people to "remember that those tiny acts can really go a long way."

A Worker Rewards Hard Work--With A Bicycle

Perhaps you frequent a store or cafe and see the same person behind the counter every time.  Maybe you've progressed beyond exchanging pleasantries and have come to know something about that person who makes your coffee or sells you a newspaper or stamps.  

Yes, such things happen here in New York.  But I'm sure they happen even more frequently in some smaller towns.  

While it's nice to get to know that person who makes your sandwich, doing so can also be a little sad:  That person might be doing it because of some unfortunate circumstance.  And getting to that counter every day could be a job in itself.

Such was the case of Johnny Phillips.  Every day, he walked two hours to the Circle K market in Springfield, Illinois, where he worked a ten-hour shift.  Then he walked two hours to go home.

Jim Copeland learned of his story because he stops at that Circle K store every night, on his way to work.  He knew that Phillips "had to walk through a bad neighborhood" and figured that "if he did all that, he was really dedicated."  So, Copeland thought, "maybe I could help him."

On his way to work, an idea popped into Copeland's head:  "What if I could find a decent bike at a decent price?" So he went--where else?--to Craigslist, where he found a suitable machine. He took it to a "bike nut" friend, who oiled the chain and adjusted the brakes.

On Monday, Copeland brought the bike to the store's parking lot, told Phillips to close his eyes and handed him his new mode of transportation.  One can only imagine the emotions Phillips must have felt, some of which showed on his face.

For his part, Copeland drives a truck for a postal service contractor, so I suspect he knows a thing or two about work and dedication!