It Was A Nice Ride--While It Lasted

In 2010, Minneapolis became the first major US city (Denver was the first) to launch a bike-share program.

Now the program, known as "Nice Ride," is ending.

The chief reason is an operating deficit, a result of Blue Cross and Blue Shield of Minnesota ending its contract with Lyft, the ride-share company that has operated Nice Ride.  

After reading and hearing a Minnesota Public Radio report, however, I think the end of the road, so to speak, for Nice Ride has as much to do with how bike-share programs have changed and are leaving older programs behind.

For one thing, in many cities, bike share programs have turned into micromobility schemes.  According to Nice Ride executive director Bill Dossett, only 15 percent of micromobility rides were taken on the iconic lime-green pedal bikes.  As in other cities, motor scooters and ebikes have gained popularity.

That helps to confirm two of my suspicions, based on my observation of bike share programs in my hometown of New York and other cities.  

One is that the people drawn to the share programs weren't cyclists. When bike share programs started, they used the bikes for short trips. But, as share programs began to offer ebikes and scooters, users shifted to those conveyances.  

The other is this:  People who use micromobility programs are not using them in place of driving.  Rather, they are substituting their ebike and scooter trips for mass-transit rides--or for short rides with ride-share services like Lyft.  That, I believe, is one reason why Lyft has acquired, or been co-sponsoring or operating micromobility plans in other cities.  In other words, Lyft knows its market.

One thing that ride-share companies and micromobility schemes have in common is this:  People use phone apps to access them--except in Minneapolis.  Dossett says that Nice Ride plans to sell its 1333 bikes and 198 docking stations, but admits that it might difficult to find buyers because the bikes and stations were designed before those apps came into use.  Also, not many people or shops may want the bikes because they have custom parts and, as Dossett explains--and I can attest--"it takes a lot longer to maintain one of those bikes if you just have to fix a flat." (If you've ever had to fix a rear flat on a Raleigh DL-1, or any similar bike with rod brakes, you have some idea of what he's talking about.)  So, he says, the best hope might be to sell some of the still-usable parts

 

Coming Out

The other day, I rode to Connecticut.  It was one of the most spring-like days we’ve had so far:  bright and breezy.  So, I encountered a little more traffic than I’ve seen during the past few weeks.  On the other hand, I can remember very few days, under any sorts of circumstances, when I saw more people on bikes.  Some were cycling in groups, others solo, and a number of families were riding together in and around the parks in New Rochelle, Mamaroneck and Rye.

I also remember few times when tulips seemed so bright or beautiful—even if they were growing on the war memorial monument in the Greenwich Common.

A Thousand Words For "Red"

Even with the mishap I described in a previous post, Milos was great.  The swim alone would have been worth it, not only for its own beauty but for the way in which I was able to experience my own body.  Also, Irini is an absolute gem.

I went back to Athens on Saturday night.  Irini took me to Adamas, the port of Milos.  "Those ferries never leave on time," she advised me.  She was right:  Mine left more than an hour behind schedule.  I wasn't worried, though:  I wasn't making any connections in Piraeus or Athens.

If you've read anything having to do with ancient Greece, you might have seen Piraeus mentioned.  When people fly into Athens to take cruises, their ships leave from this port, which is in essence, if not in fact, part of the city of Athens.  It's at the western end of the #3 (green) Athens Metro line, which includes the stop (Petralona) nearest to the apartment where I stayed.  The train ride took about fifteen minutes, then it was about a five-minute walk (uphill!) to the apartment.  So, in spite of the ferry's tardiness, I got back at a decent hour.

The next morning, on the advice of the doctor at Milos, I called a doctor in Athens, who came to the apartment, took a look at my wounded toe and told me that the nail would need to come out.  Did I want to do it right then and there--she had the local anaesthetic--or wait until I got home?  I decided to do it then and there, even though I had to pay (I'll most likely be reimbursed by my health insurer) because I didn't want to think about it for the rest of my trip.

By the time she finished, the morning was all but gone and Athens by Bike closes early on Sunday.  I probably could have rented a bike elsewhere, but I figured that being off the bike for a day might not be such a bad idea, even if the doctor said riding would be OK, as long as I wore open-toed sandals.  

So, the afternoon seemed like the perfect time for something that was highly recommended to me:  the Byzantine and Christian Art Museum. "Don't think about the "Christian" part; it's a great museum," advised Kostas, the young man who drove me to Delphi.  He was right; I think I've found one of my new favorite museums.

"Byzantine" is often used as a synonym for "intricate" or "complicated."  If your tastes don't extend beyond minimalism or even late moderinism, you probably mean the latter.  For me, though, the Byzantine artists were just as meticulous and studied as the great Renaissance figures, even if their priorities are completely different. 

Oddly enough, I found myself thinking about photography.  The artists who made all of those amazing icons of the Orthodox church weren't, of course, striving for anything like photographic realism:  How could they?  For one thing, I'm not sure whether anyone had any concept of "photographic."  And, if they did, how could they apply it to representations of Biblical scenes?

What made the connection, for me, was that, like medieval artists of western Europe, they were creating two-dimensional objects and images, and realized that not everything could be "classically" proportioned.  Also, I felt as if some artists were exploring different ways of looking at (actually, imagining) faces, particularly expressions, in ways the early photographers did.

I can't help but to think those artists understood that whatever they were making could be seen in a variety of different ways--whether by the leaders of the church or the lay people, many of whom were illiterate.   Those artists even understood that what, if anything, you saw depended on where you stood in the church.  So they even created double-sided icons, like this one:




The museum also contained architectural adornments and other objects from Orthodox churches:

In looking at the painted icons, I came to this conclusion:  If Byzantine were a language, it would have at least a thousand words for "red."

Fifth Avenue: Downhill In The Slope

Alert:  The video includes footage of a truck striking a cyclist.

This one hits close to home--no pun intended!

When I lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn, I cycled along Fifth Avenue nearly every day.   Those weren't my "fun" rides--far more pleasant streets and Prospect Park were close by--but I did much of my shopping, as well as a number of errands on Fifth.  

Then--the '90's and early '00s--the Avenue was lined with small shops of all kinds.  Some had been in the same family for a couple of generations; others were owned by young people who sold the sorts of books, clothes and music you wouldn't find in "big box" stores.  As the avenue is narrow, traffic could be congested and chaotic, but there was at least some level of respect between drivers--many of whom were making deliveries--and cyclists and pedestrians.   So, even though there was no bike lane, I never worried while threading through traffic and parked vans.

Fifth Avenue still doesn't have a bike lane, protected or otherwise.  I still ride there occasionally, but my recent experiences confirm something I've heard from other cyclists--and read in a news report:  Drivers aren't good about sharing the road.

Those accounts also confirm something else I've experienced on Fifth Avenue and elsewhere:  Some of the most reckless riders are on Citibikes.  A police officer has said as much to me:  When he sees someone with earbuds blowing through a red light, or making a careless turn, there's a good chance he (Sorry guys, they're usually young men!) is on one of those blue share bikes.

Such was the case Tuesday morning, when a Citibiker cut across traffic in both directions--against a red signal--and was hit by a truck. 

 

While the cyclist in question--identified only as a 39-year-old man--is expected to survive, he was knocked unconscious and suffered serious injuries.   The crumpled Citibike was still on the side of the road during the evening rush hour.


Now, I might sound like one of those New Yorkers who blames tourists for everything she doesn't like, but I really believe that, to some degree, Citibike has made cycling--and, for that matter, walking--less safe than it was.  While some commuters ride Citibikes, more are used by people who are in town for a day or a few days and are not accustomed to riding here or are just more careless because they figure they won't be here long enough to have to face the consequences of their actions.  

To be fair, similar things could be said about many of the drivers found along Park Slope's Fifth Avenue today.  They come and go:  There's a good chance that the one you see today (or tonight), you'll never see again.   In contrast, I used to see the same delivery drivers, as well cyclists and pedestrians,  several times a week, if not every day.  In other words, those folks were, in essence if not in fact, friends and neighbors. That, I believe, is a reason why drivers, even if they didn't understand cyclists, didn't harbor or express the kind of hostility we often experience today.

Oh, and it's a lot easier to see cyclists as "them" when their bikes all look--or are--the same.  

That said, I hope the fellow who was struck on Fifth Avenue recovers--and that he and the drivers he encounters are more mindful of each other.

How Would Honest Abe Ride?

In almost any capital city, there are people—mostly young, and mostly male—who pedal to work.Some, especially in European cities, ride in the suits, dresses or whatever they wear to work.  Others make their commutes in bke in bike team kit or other athletic garb.  Then there are the hipsters or wannabes on fixed-gear bikes.

Which would Abe Lincoln be?

So Glad To Be Back That I Want To Go Back

It's been two weeks since my trip to Cambodia and Laos.  Everyone to whom I've mentioned it is convinced that I will go back.  So am I.  Any experience that brings me tears of both joy and sadness is worth repeating.  Of course, I wouldn't try to replicate the trip I just took:  That wouldn't be possIible.  But I could return, I believe, to what made the trip so memorable.

First among them is the people.  I already missed them during my flights home.  When I visit my friends in France, I miss them when I leave.  But I can't miss the familiar in the same way I miss the people I just met because, I guess, re-connecting with those you know can't change your perspective in quite the same way as people who allowed you into their lives,even if only for a moment, the first time you met them.  Plus, the only people I've ever met in the US who can match the vitality--who, purely and simply, have the heart and soul, for lack of better terms--are either African-American, immigrants or very old.  People in southeast Asia--especially Cambodia--have survived going to hell and back.  

I thought about that, again, the other day as I was riding back from Connecticut.  The temperature reached 34-36 Celsius (92-96F), and the humidity ranged from 80 to 90 percent.  Just before I crossed the Randalls Island Connector, I rode through the South Bronx.  Three of its ZIP codes--including 10451, where I work-- are the poorest in the United States.  Many residents indeed live in conditions most Americans--certainly those of my race and educational background--will never even have to imagine.  I know: some of those people are my students.  But even they have, if not luxuries, then amenities, that are completely out of reach for most Cambodian peasants and even city dwellers like Champa, the young woman who works at the guest house or  Sopheak, the tuk-tuk driver who took me around when I wasn't cycling.  As an example, the young woman told me she can't even stay in touch with me by e-mail because she doesn't have a device of her own, and she can't send personal messages on the guest house's internet system. 

Of course, you might say they were warm and friendly to me because I'm a tourist and they wanted me to spend money. But I experienced all sorts of helpfulness and friendliness--and a cheerfulness that's not of the American "it gets better" or "when one door closes, another opens," variety.  Perhaps the best expression of it came from a young woman at a gas station, where I stopped to ask for directions. "We are here," she said.  "We are alive.  We have today."

Then, of course, there are the things I saw.  While the Angkor Wat was the main reason I took the trip, and I spent about three full days in it, I could just as easily go back for Bayon or Banteay Srei--which, I admit, is my favorite temple--or to walk along the river junction or side streets of Luang Prabang.  And, naturally, eat the food--though I won't order a fruit shake, delicious as it was, again:  I think the ice used in it came from tap water, which unsettled my stomach on my penultimate night in Cambodia.

I must say, though, that I am glad to be riding my own Mercians again.  And, as hot and humid as it during my Connecticut ride, or on the Point Lookout ride I took yesterday, I wasn't nearly as tired because, in spite of the heat, the sun is much less intense.  And the road conditions are better, even in places like the South Bronx and Far Rockaway.

Hmm...Maybe, next time I go to Southeast Asia, I have to bring one of my own bikes--though, I must say, riding local bikes made me feel a bit more "native", if only for a few hours!

They Were Going Their Way. So Were We.

They were crossing and walking in the bike lane.  In families, all of them:  very young girls and boys with curls cascading from their heads, their mothers' hair pulled back or covered, the men crowned with fur hats.  Sometimes they had to stop to take their kids' hands and guide them across the path; others stopped to talk, to behold the evening descending upon them, upon us.

Right in the middle of the bike lane.  All up and down the bike lane.  

And I didn't get upset with them.  None of the other cyclists seemed to, either.  We couldn't, really.  There were hundreds of those families, walking to or from the river or their houses.  There just wasn't any place else for them to walk.

We--for a moment, we became a community, even though none of us knew each others' names, and we may never meet again--all turned right on Ross Street and three blocks later, took a left on Hipster Fifth Avenue, a.k.a. Bedford Avenue, which parallels Kent Avenue and its bike lane.

We, all of whom were riding north on the lane, knew that whatever we thought of riding on Bedford Avenue, it was better than weaving through men and women and dodging children.  It was also, frankly, the most civilized thing any of us could have done.  

Alexsander Gierymski, Hasidic Jews Performing Tashlikh on Rosh Hashanah, 1884

We all knew enough to do that.  I wonder whether we all knew better than to ride through the Hasidic enclave of South Williamsburg at sundown on Rosh Hashanah.  I knew that the holiday began at sundown yesterday and will continue until sundown tomorrow.  But I just instinctively followed the streets to the Kent Avenue bike lane, which I normally take when I'm riding home from Coney Island, as I was today, or anyplace else in southern or western Brooklyn.

And those Hasidic families were, no doubt, walking their normal routes between schul, the river--where they cast pieces of bread into the metallic water for their tashlikh-- and their homes.  We couldn't begrudge them that, even if they were in "our" bike lane!

A Season In The Boogie Down?

My academic year begins on Thursday.  Today I rode to the college for a meeting and workshops.  

Through the Spring semester (which began a couple of days after a blizzard struck this city), I saw gradually-increasing numbers of cyclists on the RFK Memorial Bridge lane and on Randall's Island on my way to the college.  I saw a similar slow but steady increase in the number of bikes parked in the racks on the college campus, and along the streets surrounding it.  Those increases, of course, could be attributed to the warming weather.  

So, perhaps, it was no surprise to see more cyclists crossing the bridge than I've ever seen on a weekday.  Some looked like they were riding for fun or fitness, but others seemed to be on their way to work or some other obligation.  More than a few, I'm sure, were motivated by the the clear skies and mild temperature, and not deterred by the brisk wind.  Then again, that wind some of them across the island and bridge as I pedaled into it.  

It also wasn't a surprise to see only two other bikes in the racks.  No doubt there will be more once classes begin.  I wonder how many students, faculty and staff will continue to ride as the season grows colder, and possibly wetter.   Three subway lines stop right in front of the entrances of the campus's two main buildings, and four bus lines stop within a block.  So, I'm guessing that some of the bike commuters are "seasonal", if you will:  They use mass transit when the weather becomes less favorable for cycling. 



Perhaps the most interesting development I noticed is that on the South Bronx streets between the bridge (and Randall's Island Connector) and the college, I've seen more cyclists than I've ever seen before.   Some were riding the old ten- and three-speeds (Nobody calls them "vintage" in such a neighborhood!) in various states of disrepair--or with seats, handlebars and other parts that clearly are not original equipment.  You see people riding bikes like those all the time in low-income communities:  They have become basic transportation vehicles and, in some cases, beasts of burden that tow shopping carts or baby strollers piled with that day's shopping, or cans, bottles and other items that are being hauled to the recycling center.

I did notice, however, more than a few bikes that were clearly not being used for such purposes--and riders who almost certainly have never ridden their bikes in the ways I've described.  As we say in the old country, "They sure don't look like they're from around here."  I even noticed two people riding Citibikes, even though the nearest docking station is about 5 kilometers--and a world--away.

Will I see those non-utility cyclists in the South Bronx come November or December?  For that matter, I wonder how many of the riders I saw on the bridge or the island today will still be on their bikes as the season turns in "the Boogie Down". 

Riding To Trees And Light Ahead Of The Storm

Tomorrow we're supposed to have torrential rains, courtesy Tropical Storm Bonnie, ready to slam into the Carolinas any second now. To me, it's one thing to start a ride with the possiblity of rain, or even in a shower.  But riding in a hurricane or monsoon is beyod the limits of even my insanity!

So, I am happy I embarked on today's ride.  For the first time this year, I pedaled to Connecticut and back.  True to other predictions I heard, I saw very little traffic, even along Boston Road in the Bronx or in downtown New Rochelle or by the state line.  Almost anybody who planned to travel this weekend is already at his or her destination and will probably return tomorrow afternoon and evening.

Aside from the light traffic, today's ride was a delight in other ways.  For one thing, I rode Arielle, my Mercian Audax, again.  (The flat just before the state line on my return trip wasn't her fault!)  And while the temperature reached 33.3C (92F) in downtown Greenwich, the heat didn't feel oppressive until the last few kilometers (out of 125) in the Bronx and Randall's Island.  That may have had as much to do with my relative fatigue (I wasn't drop-dead tired!) as with the weather.

But what I found most enjoyable was the light of this day: the kind one might see, depending on where one is, on the cusp between late spring and early summer.  Thin wisps of clouds dissipated the sun's refulgence to make it reflect the former, but that light was bright and warm enough to signal the arrival of the latter.  I especially noticed that light around the trees by the war memorial in Greenwich.

Those trees reminded me of one of the loveliest coins ever produced in this country.  In the late 1990s, the US Mint inagurated a series of quarters, or twenty-five cent pieces to the rest of the world, commemorating each of the fifty states.  The Connecticut quarter is my favorite:

US Mint Image

Anyway, I noticed something else rather interesting during today's ride.  Quite a few people were riding bikes.  Some were families; others were on social or training rides.  Most of the riders in the latter category were men; most were on road bikes and the rest on mountain bikes.  Fixed-gear bikes were conspicuously absent. 

On the other hand, I saw a few riders on fixies yesterday after I crossed the city/county line into Nassau County on my way to Point Lookout. Not as many as I might see in Williamsburg or even my neighborhood of Astoria, but enough to be noticeable.  One reason might be that the terrain on the South Shore of Queens and Nassau County is completely flat, while there are some hills in Westchester County on the way to Connecticut. Also, the riders seem to be a bit older in Westchester than on Long Island and, at least from my observations, fixie riders are younger than other riders.

Whatever...I had another great ride today.  What else can I ask?

The Road--And Season--Ahead

In cycling, any given time of year provides its own trials and pleasures.  In this part of the world, it is early in the Spring.  So far, riding has been a bit arduous but very exhilarating.  I think both have to do with how little riding I did this winter.

The ice and mounds of snow and slush are gone.  Some trees, bushes and other plants are budding now.  They fill me with hope, but do not yet distract me from the ones that are still bare, the ground that is barren from now and the buildings and other structures that bear the patina and show the wear and scars of the season we experienced so recently.  

 

So I am not surprised to see a kind of tentative energy in the steps and body language of people, some of whom I had not seen in months. I guess I ride that way, at least some of the time:  Even though the signs of a new season are around us, something in my body--and mind--still has not quite attuned to its rhythms. At least not yet.  It's almost as if I--and, perhaps, the people I see--still need to be convinced that it is indeed Spring, and we're not going back.

As long as we're moving forward, I guess it doesn't really matter whether we're pushing through mud or promenading along a path lined with cherry blossoms--or pedaling around potholes in the streets.  There is a ride, a season, ahead.