50 Kilometers--For Dumplings?

Bagel runs.  Pizza runs.  Taco runs.  Crepe runs.  Beer runs. 

I have made all of those "errands"--usually, at night--on my bicycle.  Some of those trips spanned only a few blocks; others were considerably longer, like the rides I took from Rutgers in New Brunswick, New Jersey to Brooklyn for bagels.  It's not that decent bagels couldn't be had in NB or, more precisely, neighboring Highland Park.  I simply believed that the bagels in Brooklyn--at one place in particular--were the best.

And, of course, those 50 or so kilometers (depending on which route I took) left a bagel (or two) sized hole in my stomach.  

I've probably taken rides of similar length within the bounds of New York City to taste a food that, while available in whichever neighborhood I resided, was better in some ethnic enclave or another:  knishes from Mrs. Stahl's in Brighton Beach, dim sum in Flushing, jerk chicken in Flatbush and, of course, soul food in pre-gentrified Harlem.  Oh, and few things can cap off a winter trek like pho in Sunset Park.

So I fully empathize with four students who made a 50 kilometer late-night run from Zhengzhou to Kaifeng--for soup dumplings. Of course, those young people claimed that they weren't riding only for a midnight snack:  They say they also took in some cultural attractions in Kaifeng, a city that has served as China's capital eight times during a history that stretches as far back as the Athenian Empire.  I believe them simply because I would do the same--while sampling the local cuisine, of course!

That all would have been fine with the local authorities if the ride was limited to those four students, maybe a few more.  But news of the trip went viral on social media. As a result, the quartet would be joined by 100,000 other cyclists, mostly young.

To put that into perspective, the Five Boro Bike Tour, one of the world's largest organized rides, attracted 32,000 riders this year.  Some people complain because they lose "their" lanes and parking spaces when streets are blocked off, but otherwise there is little public or private criticism because the ride is planned well in advance.  Thus, people are prepared for the street closures and police have an easy time patrolling and protecting. (Plus, one assumes, they don't mind the overtime pay.) 

The Dumpling Run, on the other hand, was a spontaneous event. Thus, no one else was prepared for the ensuing traffic jams and other interruptions it caused and local officials were, needless to say, not happy. Nor were bike share administrators:  They had to shut down their networks because most of the riders used share bikes and the networks simply couldn't keep up with the demand.  Also, the ride led to a glut of share bikes in Kaifeng and not enough in Zhengzhou.

Then again, some local papers, like People's Daily, have praised the event.  They cite the "energy" and "spirit" of the ride, not to mention the boost to restaurants and other hospitality businesses.  I can understand:  I've pedaled 50 kilometers, and more, for art, history, culture--and food!

Hill Killer

 The title of this post sounds like a nickname for a serial murderer.  “Hill Killer” is actually the name of a bicycle apparel company in Hampstead, Maryland.

I haven’t bought bicycle-specific clothing, save for helmets and gloves, since I gave up my racing fantasies. I wouldn’t, however, mind riding one of their jerseys for my ride on this day, Dia de los Muertos.

And, of course, like any good gringa, I will eat Mexican food after my ride!

A Tour Of My New Home

 The other day I rode in the Tour de Bronx.  The ride, which isn’t a race, is offered in three lengths:  10, 25 and the “epic” “40+” mile route.  If you’ve been reading this blog, you know that I took the longest trek which, for me, still isn’t particularly long. According to a few other riders, we actually did about 45 miles.

I must say, though, that it’s interesting. We pedaled through some neighborhoods my neighbor Sam and I have explored. He has lived most of his life in the Bronx, but he—like other riders in the Tour—was surprised to see that the borough is full of such varying communities, architectural styles and topography. For example, people were as surprised to see a sign reading “Welcome to Country Club” (Yes, there is a Bronx neighborhood by that name!) as they were to encounter the climb from Van Cortlandt Park to the Fieldston enclave of private streets and the prep school JFK attended.

The ride’s’ volunteers were helpful and almost preternaturally cheerful.  In addition to directing us, they handed out snacks, water and energy drinks and served up pizza and other goodies in the Botanical Garden, where the ride ended.

That they had so much food and drink was amazing when you consider one of the ways the Tour differs from the Five Boro Bike Tour (which is roughly the same length):  the Bronx ride is free, while last year’s Five Boro set back each participant $100. I think the difference might be due in part to how many sponsors the Bronx ride has. But it may also have to do with another major difference in the ride itself.

Streets and highways that comprise the 5B route are completely closed to traffic. I imagine that the city spends a fair amount for police patrols along the way—and, as I understand, accounts for part of the entry fee.  On the other hand, most of the streets—some of which included bike lanes—weren’t cordoned off for the TdB. 

While that wasn’t a problem for me—except for two incidents I’ll mention—for some riders, who were treating the ride as a race, stopping for a red light was an affront to their egos. So they rolled through and the riders behind them—including, at times, yours truly, felt drivers’ wrath.

One of those riders, who probably was young enough to be my grandchild, squeezed past me on City Island Avenue, which has one traffic lane in each direction and, for some reason, was as heavily trafficked as it would be on a summer Sunday. So there was no choice but to ride between the traffic and parked vehicles—which is where that young rider passed and almost bumped into me.

The other incident came near the end of the ride, where we turned on to University Avenue. There is a marked, but not protected, bike lane which I don’t use because, frankly, it’s more dangerous than riding in the traffic lane. Other riders were either familiar with it or saw that the turn to the bike lane was awkward. But one guy who looked like he’s lived on beer and bacon cheeseburgers since his days as a linebacker ended and was riding an electric bike (pedal-assisted, which was allowed) decided he had to ride in the bike lane and cut in front of me. “Why don’t you use the bike lane?” he yelled.

Even after his and the passer’s lack of consideration—and the fact that I had ridden everywhere (except Woodlawn Cemetery, which doesn’t allow bikes to enter at any other time) along the route on other rides, I am glad I did the Tour and probably will do it again. To me, it feels more like a ride than 5B, which feels more and more like an event. Oh, and I think the TdB offers more surprises—and rewards.

A Dying Breed?

 

Curtis Phillip, one of New York’s last remaining bike messengers. Photo by Kay Bonrempo.

In 1983-84 I worked for two small businesses in the same industry. Both are long gone. That, on its face, is not remarkable: Few small businesses, in any industry, last four decades.

I have noticed, however, that none of the other companies that were part of that industry when I was working in it are still in business. In fact, industry itself barely exists and what remains of it is very different.

I am talking about the bicycle courier business. Not so long ago, one would see legions of cyclists, most of them young men, large rectangular bags slung across their bodies. pedaling fixed-gear bikes in slaloms through throngs of buses, taxicabs, vans and pedestrians.

I was one of those couriers, and I saw hundreds of them every day. Now I rarely see even one, even in the Wall Street and Midtown areas of Manhattan.

Apparently, bike messengers like the ones I’ve described are a dying breed, not only in New York, but also in Washington DC and other major cities. Their disappearance has been hastened by the pandemic: Many professionals and businesses still haven’t returned to their traditional downtown office spaces.

But the decline of the bike courier business and bike messenger culture has been unfolding for decades: more or less since I made my last delivery four decades ago. While the world-wide web hadn’t come into existence, there were networks that linked computers within certain geographical areas and industries. And fax machines were already in fairly wide use.  Documents that didn’t require physical signatures could therefore be sent remotely. 

For a decade or so after I left the business, the number of messengers didn’t seem to decline much, if at all. They were, however, getting less work and their pay—whether by the hour as or per delivery—stagnated or declined. From what I’ve heard and read, messengers today make less in actual—not adjusted—dollars than I made 40 years ago.

Another blow to the world of messengering I knew was, if not a direct result of, then at least accelerated by, the pandemic: food delivery apps. When people used them, they discovered that they could get their sushi brought to them for less than it cost to deliver a sales report. They lost what little reason and inclination they might have had to use a messenger service like the ones for which I worked.

Some bike messengers became “hybrids”: They combined food delivery with ferrying documents and small packages to offices. Those couriers, however, found that delivering food ordered on Door Dash or Grub Hub was taking more of their work day. Some quit because orders placed  on apps paid less than their old messenger companies; others didn’t or couldn’t (or didn’t want to) become part of the new wave of delivery workers who ride eBikes or mopeds.

Cycling And….

 It occurs to me now that most, if not all, of my rides fall into one (or more) of these categories: the “pure,” “purpose-driven” and “integrative.”

The “pure” include training rides,those early-morning spins I’ve done lately and any other ride I’ve taken for its own sake.  “Purpose-driven” rides are commutes, errands and any other ride that involves a specific destination and task.

“Integrative” rides incorporate some other activity with cycling. When riding near home, or spending a few days in Paris, Rome or some other city, the ride can turn into a tour of architectural, historical or other monuments.* Or, in the country, my ride might be paired with hiking, camping or some other activity.

For Jeffrey Reed of suburban Buffalo, New York, that pursuit is “birding**.” I have never been a “birder,” though I have been paying more attention to our aleatory allies lately, possibly as a result of spending time in the Botanical Gardens.

Cute! Hooded Warbler . Photo by Jeffrey Reed

There is one more important difference, however, between my experience and Mr. Reed’s of integrating cycling with another activity. Because I am a lifelong cyclist, I usually am bringing the other endeavor—whether it has to do with nature, culture or something else—into my riding. Jeffrey, on the other hand, got on the saddle after decades away from it.

He decided on a hybrid-type bike.  While “serious” cyclists might turn up their noses at such machines (and, worse, those who ride them), they make sense for people like Reed—especially since, as he explains, most of his riding is on trails and gravel paths in local state forests and parks. Oh, and from what I gather, he’s not doing any of the “technical,” let alone gonzo, stuff I did during my mountain-biking days.

He says he doesn’t ride where there’s traffic, except on park roads where it’s minimal, because he has “no interest in becoming a hood ornament.” It will be interesting to see whether his cycling expands beyond his current self-imposed boundaries, understandable as they may be for someone who is returning to cycling—as a means to another pursuit.

*—There was an organization that conducted rides into ethnic enclaves of New York City and sampled its food. I took one of their rides—on the front of a tandem with a blind rider behind me.

**—I assume it’s what we called “bird watching “ in my day—just as I guess “thrifting” is the same (save for the prices) as shopping in thrift stores. 

Whose Deaths Should Be Commemorated?

 Although I consider myself a “99 percent” pacifist, I have the utmost respect for veterans.  It actually pains me physically to know that some are living under bridges, railroad trestles and highway overpasses. I’ve seen them while riding for fun, commuting or errands and have offered money, food, bottles to recycle or other items.  Sometimes they were too proud or ashamed (which are really the same thing) to accept; other times, I have discreetly left items or money to “find.”

I mention my attitude and relationship toward veterans in the hope that no one thinks I’m disrespecting them with the comparison I am about to make.

I do not support the removal of a gravestone or any other monument to any veteran—whether he or she died in battle at a young age or was an officer who lived to his or her dotage, and whether he or she was on the “right” side of a conflict. Most combatants are conscripted or join because of familial or societal pressures. They are all part of a carnage which I hope, however naïvely, will be seen one day as unnecessary as alpaca pantaloons.

Likewise, I would hope that all of the tributes—including “ghost” bikes—to cyclists killed by motorists are never removed.

Apparently, some person or organization in Austin, Texas doesn’t share my view.  “Ghost” bikes have been disappearing from the city’s streets.

Some people believe they are being retrieved for scrap metal, possibly by unhoused people. But there are also rumors that they are being systematically removed by city agencies or individuals who aren’t as in dire straits as the unhoused but don’t want to be reminded of any unpleasantness. As one resident whined, “A person died here, for heaven’s sake. Can’t you just let it be?”

I wonder whether that person would want to “just let it be” if the person to whom the monument was dedicated had died in defending the Alamo or slavery—which, if you read any history at all, you would realize are the same thing. 

 

Late Day, Late Spring : A Luxury And A Privilege

 Yesterday I packed a picnic lunch of Addeo’s bread, Delice de Bourgogne cheese and some nice, ripe cherries and hopped aboard Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear bike.

On about as pleasant an afternoon as one can hope to have, I spun down Creston and Walton Avenues to Yankee Stadium, where I crossed the Macombs Dam Bridge into Harlem.  Then I crisscrossed that iconic neighborhood to the Hudson River, where I picked up the Greenway and rode—with a breeze at my back, it felt more like sailing—down to the World Trade Center, where I took the PATH train to Jersey City.

After enjoying about half of my picnic along the waterfront, I zigzagged through modern office towers and charming row houses down to Bayonne*. A highway crosses over the line between it and Jersey City; a man I’ve seen before lives under it, in a tent, with a bicycle—it looks like a ‘90’s mountain bike—I’d seen on previous rides.  

The first time I saw him, his tent and his bike—probably a couple of years ago—I stopped and offered him food and money. He thanked me and refused both. I have been tempted to photograph him and his encampment because they seem to be as established there as the houses, apartments, stores and offices of the two cities he straddles. But I haven’t because I figure that if he’s refused my help, he wants his privacy. Could it be that he worries about being “exposed”—to authorities, or in general?

Anyway, after crossing the Bayonne Bridge, I rode along the North Shore to the ferry terminal.  After “rush” hour, boats run less frequently, and I just missed one.

Once I boarded and the boat pulled away from the dock, however, I wasn’t complaining.

Nice evening, isn’t it?,” a deckhand mused.

“It’s like we’re on a sunset cruise” I quipped. “And it’s free!”

“We take whatever little luxuries we can get,” he said. I nodded, feeling that not only was it a “little luxury;” it was a privilege.

Proposal

 Some day—perhaps soon—I’ll believe that I’ve moved to the most wonderful neighborhood in the universe. As much as I love my new apartment (even if it is smaller than my old one), its views and its light, and as friendly as my neighbors have been, there are still things I miss about Astoria.

Those things include, of course, my friends—with whom I’ll try to stay in touch.  Also, it had, if not the best, then some of the best, of New York:  It’s about as close as you can get to Manhattan without being there, but it doesn’t have the self-conscious hipsterism of Williamsburg, Greenpoint or Bushwick.  

Oh, and there was the food. I’m finding good eats here, but I still haven’t come across a bakery, let alone one that makes bread or cookies like Parisi’s or bagels like Lots o’ Bagels. 

And of course, there are the rides.  I could continue to do them, but I would have to ride (or take a train) to get to them.  I’m just starting to discover some good routes here, but I’m still in the “It’s not the Fort Totten ride!” stage.

Finally, there are the characters.  I’m sure I’ll find them here, but I still think of the ones I just left. They include the guy who hung out by the train station and the stores. He approached me and, probably, every other woman in the neighborhood, with this proposal:  “Will you marry me?  I’ve got food stamps!”

I have to admit, there are worse—or at least more bizarre—pickup lines.

Soon I will return to regular posting.  I have been so busy—and tired—that it seems like a miracle that I actually managed to do two rides—about 25 miles each—that had nothing to do with commuting or errands.

They Didn't Take Only Bike Lights

 A year or so into the COVID-19 pandemic, some bicycle shops—including Harris Cyclery, Sheldon Brown’s “home” shop—closed for business. They were, ironically, casualties of the COVID-19 Bike Boom:  When their inventories sold out, no new merchandise was available because lockdowns disrupted supply chains.

Now a long-established bicycle shop may close due to a lack of inventory. Its situation, however, has nothing to do with the pandemic.

About two weeks ago, Najari Smith opened the doors of his shop, Rich City Rides, as he had every day for the past ten years.  However, that day’s shop opening would be unlike any other. 

He saw, “all the display cases emptied out.” Looking around, he noticed “all the inventory we had on the wall,” which included lights, locks and other accessories, “was gone.”

Now, his shop is far from the first to experience a burglary.  But losing about $10,000 worth of merchandise “hurts on a different level,” he explained, “because we’re not a big box store.” The impact is so great that Rich City Cycles will have to shut down “for the foreseeable future,” he declared.

Such a theft not only affects the livelihood of Smith. It also has a negative impact on a community. Smith has organized and led numerous rides.  Also, he has been in business long enough that “kids you meet at 15, they have their own kids now.”  In other words, he is a mentor and probably a friend to many in his community.

Moreover, the shop, like others, “represents a culture,” according to Contra Costa County Supervisor John Gioia, who represents the district. That culture is one of health, environment, working with young people and young adults,” he elaborated.

Such values are badly needed in Richmond, California the shop’s locale. The city, on the northeastern shore of San Francisco Bay, seems to have been untouched by the tech fortunes that have transformed San Francisco, Sm Jose and other community in the area. While Richmond includes suburban-style middle-class neighborhoods, it also has the notorious “Iron Triangle” and other areas afflicted by crime and poverty—and few options for healthy food and recreation.

Smith and his business partner hope to re-open their shop—and provide its tangible and intangible benefits it has provided the community.

Here is their GoFundMe page.

They Won’t Obey The Law. So Why Pass It?

 

Community Board 6, Manhattan . Photo by Kevin Dugan for Streetsblog NYC.

People kill people. Therefore, laws against homicide and manslaughter are pointless.

Any lawyer who made such a statement probably wouldn’t be a lawyer for much longer. And anyone else who uttered it might be committed—or, in some places, elected.

While nobody in Manhattan’s Community Board 6–which includes the east side of the borough from 14th to 59th Street, one member of that wise and worldly body said something that is, at least to mind, just as logically flawed.

Or could it be that Jason Froimowitz has access that I lack to powers of reasoning. He was reactingto a bill, proposed by City Council Member Robert Holden, that would require, “ every bicycle with electric assist, electric scooter, and other legal motorized vehicle that is not otherwise required to be registered with the DMV, to be registered with DOT and receive an identifying number which would be displayed on a visible plate affixed to the vehicle.”

That sounds good on its face. But, perhaps not surprisingly for anything from Holden—who’s never met a cop or car he didn’t like—it’s not very well thought-out.  For one thing,  doesn’t address a legal loophole that allows moped buyers to leave the shop without registering the vehicle. So someone could buy a moped and the city would be none the wiser—and thus unable to enforce a mandate to plate.

The bill also does not acknowledge a major source of dangerous moped and ebike operation:  food delivery apps, which guarantee customers that their ramen will be delivered within 15 minutes or some similar time frame.  As it stands, delivery services and the restaurants that employ them face no penalties when their delivery workers maim or kill someone.

To be fair, requiring registration—from the point of sale onward—would make it easier to hold Doordash and their ilk to account, in part because the police will have one less excuse for not enforcing bans on motorized vehicles in bike and pedestrian lanes—and for not citing dangerous operation on the streets.

Froimowitz's objection to the bill, however, has nothing to do with the flaws I have enumerated.  Rather, he seems to think that passing any law to address the issue is pointless.  This would-be bastion of jurisprudential logic instead offers up this analogy as his reason for voting against the bill:

We currently require registration and license plates for motor vehicles in New York City and there is a prolific problem of vehicles obstructing, and removing, and defacing those license plates, so I fail to see how a solution requesting new implementation of  license plates would be effective. 

Before I proceed, I must say that I fail to see how a vehicle can obstruct, remove or deface a license plate.  And I am trying to wrap my head around "a prolific problem."  When someone or something is "prolific," they produce something in abundance, whether it's fruit from a tree or writing from a blogger.  A problem does not produce anything; it is produced and whatever produces it might be prolific if it is making more problems or anything else.

Now that I have pointed out the mixed metaphors and overall lazy use of language by a member of a community board that includes some of the city's most affluent and presumably best-educated residents, I will say, in fairness, that he is right on one count:  No regulation will stop all dangerous, discourteous and simply stupid behavior.  But to use that as a reason not to require registration and plating is a bit like saying that there shouldn’t be any restrictions on guns because someone, somewhere will find a way around them.

He Gave The Kids Bikes. His Reward: His Shop Was Torched

 Even if I’ve grown more cynical about the human race—which is an occupational hazard of being in, ahem, midlife—I have continued to believe that bicycles and bicycling can bring people together.  After all, I have seen people from almost every set of circumstances imaginable on bikes.

And, although I have neither had nor wanted children, I believe that people and societies are no better than how they treat children (and old people)—and those who try to help them.

So, one bit of news out of Taibe, an Arab Israeli town, shocked and saddened me.

A week ago, Alaa Amara was asleep, with his phone silenced. One could understand if he wondered whether the news he received after walking was a bad dream.  Of course it wasn’t—but he wasn’t surprised.

A few days earlier, Amara, an Arab Israeli who owns a bicycle shop, decided to help evacuees from Gaza-adjacent communities. He told the Times of Israel that his friends “gave them items, food, they had what they needed.” The children, however, “didn’t have anything to do, no school,” he noticed.

So he brought a donation of 50 children’s bicycles. “I did it to benefit the children. They don’t know about war,” he explained.

Images of him delivering the bikes appeared on social media. They won Amara a champion in Yosef Haddad, an Arab Israel commentator who is pro-Israel and therefore controversial, to say the least.

Oh, and the children are Jewish.  That, and Haddad’s endorsement, put a target on Amara and his business.

Which is why the news he got last Saturday didn’t surprise him:  While he slept, his shop was torched.

A friend has set up a Pay Pal account and a crowdfunding effort has raised, so far, 550,000 Israeli New Shekels (about USD 137,000). Amara estimates damage at NIS 800,000 and he had no fire insurance. So, while donations could increase, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next. If he opens another bike shop, it will be elsewhere, he said. “I am afraid to be in Taibe now,” he said.

(N.B. Please do not take anything I’ve written as an endorsement of one “side” or another in the conflict.  As Alaa Amara and his situation show, the background of the conflict is too complicated to be reduced to “sides” and has as much to do with colonialism, from outside as well as within the region, as any current grievances.)

Bringing Us Our Daily Bread

People curse and depend on them.  I'm talking about those food delivery workers on e-bikes who weave, at breakneck speeds, through traffic and buzz pedestrians and cyclists.  People complain when they're nearly struck, or simply scared, by those couriers whom they expect to bring pizza, tacos, General Tso's chicken, sushi or pad thai to their doors within 15 minutes after placing their orders.  And, since most of those delivery workers are paid by the number of deliveries they make, and depend on tips, they will continue to rush within a hair's breath of anyone who's walking or pedaling in "their" bike lane.  As much as that annoys, exasperates and freaks me out, I try not to be too angry with them:  After all, many of them are supporting families here and in their native countries (nearly all are immigrants, many of them undocumented) and have limited job opportunities because they speak English poorly or not at all and may have educational or professional credentials that aren't recognized here.

Still, as much as I respect their work ethic,  I have to admit that no delivery worker I've seen has anything on this one in Cairo, Egypt:

#video
bread delivery in Cairo 🥖
🚲#ifb #SaturdayKitchen #Food #bicycle pic.twitter.com/dxqQBUr64R

— You Must Do✍️SURVEYS (@youmustdo1) August 14, 2021

Pedaling In Smoke

Two months ago, Canadian wildfires singed the sky orange in my hometown of New York City.  At times, you could actually smell—and see—smoke from the burning trees.

Such sights and smells didn’t enshroud the ride I took yesterday. I pedaled Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear, along familiar streets from my neighborhood to Brooklyn.  While my nose didn’t detect the scent of incinerated wood and my eyes didn’t pick up ash or unusual hues on the horizon, I could sense the aftermath of a fire before I literally encountered it.

On Sunday, a fire destroyed a row of stores at the intersection of Lee Avenue and Hooper Street, by the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Most of the stores were closed, which is probably the reason why no one was hurt even as the stores and their contents were destroyed.

Still, such a disaster is particularly devastating for the Hasidic enclave of South Williamsburg. For one thing, the stores and the spaces they occupied were owned by members of the community, who were also nearly all of those establishments’ customers. For another, some of those stores sold the clothing and supplies kids will need as they return to school,  But most important, those stores catered to the specific needs and religious mandates of the community, particularly in food and clothing. (As an example, Halakhic law forbids the mixing of fabrics.) Those needs and requirements are sometimes difficult, if not impossible, to meet in other stores.

Anyway, I continued my ride. Sometimes it’s seemed as if I’ve been pedaling through smoke all summer.

Riding Under Smoke From Canada and France

About two kilometers into my ride today, I had this view of the Manhattan skyline:

Everywhere I rode, the sort of heavy gray haze you normally see before a summer thunderstorm enveloped the sky.  But there is no rain in the weather forecast until, perhaps, late tonight.  

As I rode, however, I convinced myself that it "wasn't as bad" as what we had earlier this month:  those blood-orange skies you saw in news images of this city.  I asked myself, "How bad could it be?" if I could see this so clearly:

at Schenectady and East New York Avenues in Crown Heights.  The mural depicts a the three main communities in the neighborhood:  Hasidim, Blacks (Caribbean and American) and hipsters/gentrifiers. 

I rode happily with such a belief or in such ignorance, depending on your point of view, to the Canarsie Pier where, not surprisingly, I saw about half as many people fishing, picnicking or simply hanging out as Tone would normally encounter at this time of year.

Still, "It isn't so bad," I told myself.

Then, as I pedaled away from the pier and was trying to decide whether to continue along the shore, west to Coney Island or east to Howard Beach, or to ride north in a more direct route home, I started to think, "something's not right."

I stopped at a Key Food supermarket for a bottle of water.  When I stepped back outside and mounted Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear (which was doing better than I was!), I felt my eyes stinging, even though I'd worn my wraparound glasses.  It occurred to me that whatever got to my eyes had to be in the air and smaller than a mosquito, gnat or other insect.

I splashed some water into my eyes and on my face and waited a couple of minutes.  Another block of riding, and the stinging returned.  I heard, from a radio of a passing car, that the health authorities declared the air quality "unhealthy."  I didn't think it would "pass" like an afternoon thundershower, so I pedaled a couple of more blocks to the Rockaway Parkway station of the L train.

During the ride, I thought about the young man a police officer shot in Nanterre, just west of Paris.  Not surprisingly, people protested, sometimes violently, in the City of Light and other French cities.  In places like Nanterre, groups of people seemingly as disparate an the ones depicted in the mural I saw.  I won't say there's more or less unity in one city or country than in another, but there always needs to be more.

If there was any good news in my taking the train home, it might be this: For about half of my ride, I was the only white person--and the only person with a bicycle.  No one seemed to care except a little girl with whom we exchanged wide eyes and funny faces.  Her mother smiled on my way out:  She looked tired and, I think, was happy that someone relieved her, for a few moments, from having to keep her kid occupied.  I guess taking the train home wasn't such a bad thing for somebody!

Fuel Efficiency

 Today is Cinco de Mayo.

So, of course, I am going to ride--and eat Mexican food.  Which Mexican food(s), I haven't decided yet.

But I think this T-shirt might influence my choice:

Me Revoila!

You haven't heard a day-by-day description because I really filled my days there and wasn't getting back to my hotel room until the wee hours of morning.  By then, between all of the bike riding, museum and cathedral visits and socializing, I was tired, though in good ways.

Perhaps, in reading the previous sentence, you might think I shouldn't be calling this blog "Midlife Cycling" anymore.  But I'll continue to do so because, well, what else am I going to call it?  Anything with "Old" or "Senior" in the title just wouldn't have the same ring. Besides, I want to stick to "Midlife Cycling" as an act of defiance, just as I continue to speak French for as long as I can get away with it after getting home from a trip.

But I digress...and now I'll confess:  I simply wanted to spend a few days un-tethered to my electronic devices.  I didn't turn on my laptop and or answer e-mails on my smartphone unless they came from my friends in Paris or anything else related to my trip. 

I mean, when the spire of the Eiffel Tower is peering from behind l'Ecole Militaire, across the street from my hotel (the Derby Eiffel), the Seine is a five-minute walk away, and art, great food, friends and new bike lanes--real ones!--beckon, why would I want to spend time with my face in front of a screen? 

During the next few days, I'll tell you more about my trip...including, of course, where and what I rode!

I'm Canadian. Really I Am... Je Suis Canadienne. Vraiement!

 It's the day after Christmas.  Most schools, colleges and universities are closed, and will be for the rest of this week, as is the custom for the week between Christmas and New Year's Day.

Here in the US, banks, post offices and many workplaces are closed.  I claim some responsibility for that.  You see, I am really Canadian.  Really, I am: Je suis canadienne. (Is there a gender-neutral term for "Canadian" in French?) Today is a holiday in the Great North, and in Jamaica, Australia and, of course, the UK.  

In other words, it's celebrated just about everywhere English is spoken--except for the US. When we declared our independence from the Crown, it seems that we tried to break every one of His/Her Majesty's customs and traditions--except, of course, for speaking English.  But we altered the meanings and usage of many words, and the conventions of speech of writing, to the point that George Bernard Shaw once quipped that America and England are separated by a common language.

Today things are closed in the US mainly because it's Monday and Federal law says that if certain holidays fall on a weekend, the subsequent Monday is a holiday.  

But I'm going to allow myself to think that we're really celebrating Boxing Day because, well, why shouldn't we?  According to some sources, this holiday originated with upper-class families who sent their help--who, of course, worked on Christmas Day--home with boxes of gifts and food for their families.  Other sources say that it was simply a day of charity, when boxes were given to the poor.

Today, of course, few people in any of the countries that observe this holiday think about those origins.  But many people--some of whom, like Moses and Ann Mathis,  I've mentioned on this blog--keep up with the tradition in their own ways: They collect and, sometimes, repair bikes that go to children who might not otherwise get them. 

NSW couple reach out through social media to gift refurbished bikes to kids doing it tough https://t.co/IspkgWQUEt via @ABCaustralia

— Justine Valinotti (@madame_mercian) December 26, 2022

Kellie Ward and Jason McMillan also are keeping up the tradition.  Two years ago, the Tamworth, Australia couple bought a second-hand bike, fixed it up and offered it to a family in need via social media.  They received 40 responses.  Two years later, businesses have pitched in with enough bike parts, helmets and other items for 11 kids to receive bikes.

While it's odd that a Southern Hemisphere country where Summer begins in December adopted the customs of a Winter holiday from the Northern Hemisphere, it's nice to see that folks like Ward and McMillan are, in their own way, keeping up one of England's more laudable traditions.  

Oh, and I wouldn't mind seeing Boxing Day enshrined as a holiday in the US.  After all, as Stephen Marche points out in his Times editorial, sometimes people need a holiday from a holiday!

If It Leads To Pho, Let It Snow

When the weather outside is frightful
Vietnamese food can be so delightful.

OK, the writers of "Let It Snow" probably never tasted Vietnamese food.  But Wanya Morris and Brian McKnight, I am sure, comforted themselves with their favorite foods on cold, stormy nights.

That is, of course, unless their culinary pleasures weren't available.  Depending on where they lived, they might not have had access to Vietnamese, Chinese, Mexican or whatever foods because the weather was too frightful for the delivery people.  After all, for how little they make (without benefits), who has the right to demand that they complete their appointed rounds through rain, snow, sleet or hail?

Such a dilemma confronted Philip Marciniak.  On a normal day, he makes his rounds as an appliance repairman on electric cargo bike.  His business includes, not surprisingly, electric bikes.

On Monday, roads in his hometown of Saanich, British Columbia were rendered impassible by a heavy snowfall.  And Marciniak really, really wanted his Vietnamese food. 

So what did he do?  He mounted a snowplow to his bike and soon he was enjoying his pho.

OK, so he didn't have his "light bulb moment" when he hankered for Ca Kho To.  He'd been working on his electric bike-plow prototype for at least a year before using it to retrieve his Asian treats.

While he doesn't think his contraption will replace truck-driven plows, he plans to use his bike-plow to get around when the weather is frightful. He jokes, however, that he might plow on request--as long as the right meal awaits.

If plowing a path leads to Pho

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Voyage En Rose

 In  2000, I did a bike tour through the Pyrenees, from France into Spain and back.  I started in Toulouse, where I spent four days.  To this day, it's one of my favorite large cities.  The people are friendly and it has all of the other things to love about French cities and towns:  great food, beautiful public spaces and interesting art.  But the thing that leaves me with a warm glow (please indulge me in this analogy/pun) is the light at the end of the day.  So much of the city softly blazes as the sun sets among brick buildings.  For that, Toulouse is often called la ville rose.

So why did I think about that while riding yesterday?  (Well, why wouldn't I?)  As we near the winter solstice, the days are growing shorter.  So any given ride has a greater chance of ending, or even continuing, into the sunset, under twilight.  After riding to the Rockaways and Coney Island, I passed through Clinton Hill--a neighborhood just east of the Brooklyn Academy of Music and Atlantic Center.  

The area is probably best known for its old stone churches, brownstones and the Pratt Institute.  Nestled among them is a smaller but well-respected university:  St. Joseph's.  As a longtime presence, it--not surprisingly--shares the neighborhood's architectural and other visual delights.  

Those buildings, on Clinton Avenue, are adjacent to St. Joseph's and share many characteristics with its other buildings.  They are not, however, part of the university.  The exteriors have been almost unchanged since they were built in 1905, in part because the block is one of the city's first designated historic districts.

Whoever lives in those buildings comes home to a maison rose at the end of the day.  That might be reason enough to live in them, as so many other parts of this city have less rose and look more and more like they're built with neutral-tone Lego blocks. 

Bike Banks: A Solution To A "Hidden Poverty?"

I haven't been to the Netherlands in a while.  So my firsthand memories of it aren't as clear as they are of countries I've seen more recently. But an impression I formed during my time there has been reinforced in all sorts of ways:  It is a country of contradictions and paradoxes.  You can see it in the art:  Few countries can claim as many renowned artists, in proportion to its population. Those artists include Rembrandt and Mondrian; Vermeer and Van Gogh (though the French love to claim Vincent as their own, as he lived and did his best work in Arles).  

Another paradox is that it's the country that, some historians and economists argue, created modern capitalism--or, at any rate, exported it to the world. Yet it was one of the first nations to institute a comprehensive--or, if you like, socialist-- safety net for all of its citizens.  

That system, which includes single-payer healthcare, is one reason why Dutch society isn't as socially stratified as the US.  While there are some very rich people, few (if any) approach the level of affluence seen in the wealthiest Americans, Russians or the economic elite in other countries.  Yet, there is still a stigma attached to a particular kind of poverty or hardship: the kind in which parents have difficulty providing for their children.  Even in a time or near-record inflation, including energy costs that have doubled, people are expected to "just shut up and get a job and don't complain," as one person put it. 

Some Dutch people and families, like their counterparts in other countries, have to make difficult choices.  So one of the things that might be sacrificed is--even in nation where it's said, only half-jokingly, kids learn how to pedal before they learn how to talk--a bike for a kid. Not having a bike, for a young person, can result in taunts and bullying--and make a commute to school even longer and more arduous.

That is where Dutch "bike banks" come in. Think of them as a cross between a program like Recycle-A-Bicycle and a food bank.  They Royal Dutch Touring Club ANWB has created a scheme in which volunteers train people, including teenagers who have dropped out of schools, to make second-hand and discarded bikes ride-worthy.  Those bikes are then distributed to kids in need.  

The biggest problem is that even in the Netherlands, where bikes outnumber humans at roughly the same ratio that guns outnumber people in the USA, there aren't enough bikes to meet the demand. One bike bank in Amsterdam has received 1200 applications for 400 bikes.

The "bike banks," some of which are found in low-income neighborhoods of cities like Amsterdam and the Hague, not only spare kids from taunting and parents from shame.  Bicycles are ingrained in Dutch life in ways that few Americans can understand. "In Holland, you need a bicycle to join in," said Inge Veliscek of ANWB.  A bicycle is necessary "to go to your football, or to your friends or the school of your choice," she explained.  

Photo by Anna Holligan for the BBC.

As an example, a girl named Sanna picked up a sky-blue cruiser. "It's pretty," she exclaimed.  But even more important, according to her mother, it will allow her to ride to a better school in a better neighborhood. Knowing that, it's easy to imagine that having a reliable bicycle can result in a better job or living situation--or to have a job at all if paying transit fares every day is too much of a strain on the budget.

A bike "makes your world bigger," Ms. Veliscek said.  Not having one is a "hidden poverty."

Perhaps understanding that last phrase is key to creating, not only a bike culture that does more than fetishize accessories, but a transportation system in which bicycles are a key component.  Such an endeavor seems anathematic to "law and order" American politicians, but completely logical  to the Dutch, who prize order as much as anyone in the world.