We Love Our Bikes--But Not The Way She Loves Hers

If you read this blog regularly, you probably "love" your bicycle(s).

I use the word "love" in quotations because, although most of us would say that our bikes make our lives better in any number of ways, what we mean by "love" can be very different.  

For me, my bicycles have meant that I can commute without having to deal with traffic jams, crowded subway or bus stations and the costs of gasoline, tolls and parking, among other things.  My bikes have also given me many hours of pleasure, whether I've pedaled the back streets of the Bronx or Belleville, a path through Cambodian rice fields or jungles or a seaside ramble. Oh, and I've even moved my possessions from one apartment to another on my bike.

In short, I have a difficult time imagining my life without bikes or bicycling.  Others could say the same thing, though for very different reasons.  

Esther Deaver is one such person.  Known as "The Bicycle Lady" to residents of Winston-Salem, North Carolina, she not only depends on her bike; she lives on or with (depending on your point of view) it.  She doesn't own much else in this world, and most of her meals consist of what she finds or  local residents and merchants give her. 

As you have probably realized, she lives on the streets.  There are a number of stories about how she got there, but the most verifiable accounts say that she went to Winston-Salem with a church group and lost touch with her family.  Not surprisingly, mental health issues seem to have played a role.

She has never tried to harm anyone, and attempts to place her in institutions have been unsuccessful.  So some people keep an eye out for her and try to help her in whatever ways they can.

Other people, though, are not so benevolent.  One took her bike recently.  An anonymous benefactor left her a new one.  The gift has everything she likes except for a banana seat and sissy bar.  But the owner of a local bike shop says he can remedy that for her.

Even with that anonymous gift, she still feels sad about losing her old bike.  It may have been the sort of machine at which many of us would have turned up our noses.  But she loved that bike in ways most of us could never understand.

Yes, You Really Can Take It With You

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I once moved myself from an apartment in one part of town to another on my bicycle.  I still take pride in that, even if it's somewhat undeserved:  I didn't have much at the time.  Still, it helps to reaffirm what I've always known:  You can carry just about anything you need on a bicycle, as long as you pack it properly.  

Anyway, I now realize that I might take too much pride in my accomplishment.  A native of Sacramento-area Roseville towed his house with his bicycle.

Ike owned a local business but got sick and lost it all.  When he became homeless, he decided he didn't want to stay in one place.  So he fashioned a portable home for himself.  It seems to be made from scrap lumber and other materials from an old building.  Whatever its origins, it shows ingenuity on Ike's part.





He's also built a few others, he says.  He hopes to interest people who might help him build more by donating building materials or bicycles. As he sees it, his bicycle-towed home could be an alternative for other homeless people.

You might say that Ike is turning into an evangelist for his idea:  As he travels, mainly in and around Natomas (just north of downtown Sacramento),  he holds a small ministry.

Reverend Ike on a bike? You gotta love it!

(When I lived in Washington Heights, my daily bicycle commute took me past Reverend Ike's "Palace Cathedral."  It was housed in one of those beautiful or grandiose, depending on your point of view, Art Deco-with-Egyptian motif movie theatres from the 1920s.)

Needy Kids Have Homeless Man To Thank For Their Bicycles

One of the best-known non-profit organizations in the New York area started because a homeless woman died.

On Christmas Eve 1985, Metro North Police ejected the woman from Grand Central Terminal.  The temperature outside had fallen below the freezing mark and the woman, suffering with pneumonia, returned to the terminal--specifically, to an area that, at the time, wasn't enclosed--in the early hours of Christmas morning.  

She fell asleep on a bench and never woke up.

If you've been in the Terminal recently, you've seen a well-lit terminal that, even when it's jammed with rush-hour commuters, really earns the moniker "Grand" with its ceiling mural and sweeping staircases. But when the nameless homeless woman died there, the mural was covered with soot (mainly from tobacco smoke) and everything else was covered with filth or worse.  

When the "Jane Doe" lived and died there, a man named George McDonald--a garment-industry executive--was feeding homeless people and even got to know a few of them.  They all knew about the "Jane Doe"--whom they called "Mama" and alerted him to her death.

She spoke little English; later, it was determined that she was an Eastern European immigrant.  She seemed to know almost nobody besides the other homeless people who frequented the Terminal--and Mr. McDonald.

Her death led McDonald to a career change:  He would start the Doe Fund, which he still co-directs.  The organization's work includes career training (as well as transitional work), education and helping to provide housing so that people like "Jane Doe" can break cycles of poverty and homelessness--as well as addiction and other problems.

Although the woman's death was a tragedy, it at least led to something that might help others in her situation.  The Doe Fund doesn't perpetuate her name (at least not the one she had before it was forgotten), but at least it helps to provide some people what they need--and what she didn't have.

In Asheboro, North Carolina, the death of another homeless person has led to a charitable program.  It's not as big as the Doe Fund--at least, not yet.  Maybe it never will be as big because its scope is different.  But it's at least an attempt to help some people who have very little.  And it bears the name of the man whose death motivated it.

Gary Long

Gary Long was known to area residents who saw him riding his bicycle loaded with aluminum cans he was hauled to the recycler.  As poor as he was, area residents--including congregants of the West Asheboro Church of God, which he attended--saw him as a generous man.  Matt Gunter said of Long, "His heart was, 'If I had a million dollars, I would love to give kids bicycles.'"

His metaphor might have been a bit jumbled, but Gunter's intentions were good--and he acted on them.  He's the pastor of the church, and he appealed to congregants for monetary donations. 

They gave him enough to buy 12 bicycles, which were delivered to the Salvation Army for distribution to needy children.

Gunter says this donation won't be a one-time event:  He plans to repeat it next year and in years to come.

Pastor Matt Gunter (left) and Luis Viera (of the Salvation Army) with bicycles donated in name of Gary Long.

He is doing it in the name of Gary Long, a homeless man who died on 21 October.  At least Gunter knew his name--which is more than anyone knew about a woman who died in the bowels of Grand Central Terminal in the wee hours  of a Christmas morning 33 years ago.