Today is Veterans’ Day here in the US.
I can remember when it was called Armistice Day, after the treaty that ended World War I, a.k.a. “The War to End All Wars.”
I wonder how many soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen/women and other military personnel go into battle hoping that their battle, their war will be the last. I think that’s what I would hope. “Hey, let’s not do this shit again, OK?”
And then swords would be beaten into ploughshares—and mortar into bicycle parts.
In Ladri di Biciclette—known in the English-speaking world as “Bicycle Thieves” or “The Bicycle Thief”—protagonist Antonio Ricci’s bicycle, which he needs in order to do his job, is stolen. After a futile search, he sees an unattended bicycle and jumps on it.
Of course, there is even more to the story. But if there is a “point,” it may be that conventional morality breaks down when people are desperate, as Antonio and so many other people were in war-ravaged Rome. That is a reason why I and many other viewers have felt some sympathy for him that we wouldn’t feel for other bike thieves.
Then again, most bike thieves don’t have a motive nearly as laudable, or at least socially acceptable, as that of Antonio, who is simply trying to feed his family. Most thieves’ goal is to sell the bike or its parts, locally or abroad, whether for themselves or a ring or gang in which they work.
Then there is the fellow in New Zealand who saw an unlocked bike in front of a supermarket and took off on it.
Why? Because his own bike got a flat tire.
Matthew Gallatly has since pleaded guilty and been sentenced to community service and to pay for the insurance excess. The judge lauded him for owning up to his misdeed but said there is “no excuse” for it.
When kids are shot to death in school, “thoughts and prayers” are offered. But when anyone suggests making it more difficult to obtain firearms—especially assault weapons—some of the same folks who grace those kids with their “thoughts and prayers” grow apoplectic: They rage about “losing” their “Second Amendment Rights” and argue that a school shooting now and then is a “price” we have to pay for “freedom.”
I would bet that among such stalwart defenders of our “rights” are the ones ordering that a “ghost” bike be removed from its place by a school because students would be traumatized by seeing it.
This scenario is unfolding at Sugar Mill Elementary School in Port Orange, Florida. Tara Okhovatian placed the memorial to ShaoLan Kamaly, a 10-year old who was struck and killed as she rode her bike to school last spring. Okhovatian is a friend of Kamaly’s family and said her son loved playing with ShaoLan, who said she didn’t like princesses because they “don’t do anything but wait for guys to save them.”
Okhovatian tried to save her memory. But she has been ordered to remove the makeshift shrine or law enforcement would “retrieve” it.
Ah, where else but in Florida, where it’s easier to get a gun than almost anyplace that’s not an active war zone, but helping kids remember their classmate is deemed too dangerous?
Before firing the shot that grazed Donald Trump’s ear, Thomas Matthew Crooks (Can you think of a better name?) scoped out the area around the rally—on his bicycle.
Oh, and we’ve all seen videos of President Joe Biden wobbling and falling off his Trek.
What does that mean? For the first time in US history, a bicycle was involved in endangering the lives of both major-party candidates in a Presidential elections.
Bicycles! We all know they’re a Green Commie Chinese device to undermine national security. Therefore…We simply must ban them.
Of course you know, dear readers, that I would never propose anything so outrageous. Rather, it’s the premise of a Washington Free Beacon editorial.
Its author, Andrew Stiles, clearly labels his work as “satire.” As such, it’s very good—even if, as I suspect, he is lampooning his and the WFB’s editorial board’s idea of what cycling, recycling, gender-“changing” pinkos like me think about guns.
Another school shooting. Ban all guns.
For the record, I am not at all in favor of outlawing firearms. I have not so much as handled one in more than four decades. But I understand that if I were to pick one up, I won’t be on a slippery slope to shooting up a shopping mall.
Two of my uncles were hunters. I have been in rural homes where the meat in the freezer came from a family member’s skill with using a rifle that was propped against a wall. And, as the matriarch of one such family pointed out, in a remote area like hers, it could take the police an hour to arrive in response to an emergency call. That is, if they can even get to a house like hers, which may not be accessible from a paved road.
So, of course I don’t favor, any more than Bernie Sanders, “taking everyone’s guns away.” I do favor, however, stronger safeguards against unbalanced people getting their hands on weapons of war.
That said, I also think that to keep kids safe, we need to post copies of the Ten Commandments in every classroom*—just as we need to Andrew Stiles’ proposal to keep this country—and its presidential candidates—safe.
*—I would love to hear how a teacher might explain #7 to a second-grader.
Happy Juneteenth!
As you may know, on this date in 1865, a Union officer in Galveston, Texas read the order stating that, under Federal law, all slaves in the US were free.
Texas was the westernmost Confederate state and news traveled slowly in those days. (Remember, they didn't have telephones, let alone the Internet.) So slaves in the Lone Star State wouldn't learn of their freedom until two months after the end of the Civil War.
The news might've traveled faster if it had been delivered by this man:
He is, of course, "Major" Taylor: the first African American champion in any sport and one of the greatest athletes who ever lived.
Eighty years ago today, uniformed fighters from Australia, Canada, Czechoslovakia, France, Greece, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Poland, South Africa, Southern Rhodesia and, of course, the United Kingdom and the United States, staged the largest seaborne invasion in history. Today we know it as D-Day.
I reckon that not many of those soldiers, sailors and other fighters who opened the door to liberating Europe from the Nazis are alive today. It seems not so long ago that there were many more survivors—you saw them at Memorial and Veterans’ Day parades and other events—and they weren’t much older than I am now!
Anyway, I am observing this day precisely because I am a (mostly) pacifist: While I understand that Hitler may have been, as Kurt Vonnegut described him, “pure evil” and had to be stopped, I also understand that war is not only about the fighting itself or the ostensible causes; it’s also about the social and economic factors—including tax laws that reward a few people for making war on the planet, if you will. I shudder to think about the lives that have been wasted and ruined—including those of many veterans—as a result.
In other words, ensuring that no veteran wants is one of the things we must do in order to work for peace.
Now that I’ve delivered my message, such as it is, for this day, I am leaving you with images of soldiers who landed on the Normandy beaches with bicycles strapped to their backs. Of course they weren’t going for a pleasant tour in the countryside. They brought those bikes, which folded in the middle, because they could reach places, swiftly and silently, that couldn’t be accessed with motorized vehicles.
So where do “ghost bikes” come from?
An article in today’s New York Times answered that question: The bikes are donated by shops, friends or located via word of mouth. Volunteer strip away parts line pedals to make the bikes unrideable, then give them that familiar coat of white paint. The volunteers also make the signs that read “Cyclist killed here. Rest in peace,” that are usually attached to, or by, the bike.
In addition to describing how volunteers create “ghost bikes,” the article raises some important questions—and disseminates, if unwittingly, some misconceptions about why we’re seeing more “ghosts.”
As the article points out—Vision Zero notwithstanding—2023 was the deadliest year for New York City cyclists since 1999. The vast majority of casualties were on eBikes. But the article goes on to quote advocates and planners who say the network of bike lanes and other infrastructure is “disconnected.”
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| Photo from the New York Times. |
True enough, as I know all too well. But I don’t know how fixing that problem will make cycling safer for people like me, on traditional bikes, when much of this city’s laneage is dominated by eBikes and motorized bikes on which the motor is the sole means of propulsion rather than a means to assist pedaling. Too often, those bikes are ridden by “cowboy” delivery workers whose employers incentivize or pressure them to make as many deliveries as possible, as quickly as possible, safely be damned—or by young joyriders equally disdainful of the rules of the road. Oh, and don’t get me started on how often drivers (including cops) park in those lanes or pull over to have their coffee and donuts.
Also, as I’ve mentioned in other posts, the police—and very often, the public— blame cyclists who, if they don’t survive a crash, can’t defend themselves. (I have said that running down a cyclist is the easiest way to get away with murder in the US.) Never mind that the driver was speeding or ran a red light: There’s an attitude that cyclists “have it coming to them” when they’re injured or killed.
As long as misconceptions and misguided policies shape efforts to make cycling “safer,” those volunteers who make “ghost” bikes won’t lack for work—though they probably would love to do other things, just as Robert Capa hoped to “stay unemployed as a war photographer “ for “the rest of my life.”
Armed conflicts often lead to a form of hyper-vigilance I’ll call “war paranoia.” (There’s probably a clinical term for it.) Everyday people, objects and situations are seen as threats or dangers and met with brutal or deadly force.
Such was the case in Gaza, where an Israeli military strike targeted what was believed to be a rocket propelled grenade launcher.
It was bicycle, and its rider died in one of the most horrifying ways possible.
Today is International Women’s Day.
Whatever your gender identity or your anatomical configuration, if you are a cyclist, you should recognize the importance of women in cycling and, well, the world. For one thing, we are the majority of humanity. For another, there have been many great female cyclists, most of whom have ridden without recognition and support. A few, including Beryl Burton, have even beaten men’s records.
But perhaps the most important reason of all is that anyone who cares about gender equality needs to recognize the role the bicycle has played in the long journey toward that goal. After all, Susan B. Anthony said that the bicycle did more to liberate women than anything else. (That is why oppressive regimes like the Taliban forbid or discourage women and girls from riding them.) Bikes provided, and continue to provide, independent mobility. They also released women from the constraints of corsets and hoop skirts which, I believe, helped to relax dress standards—and thus make cycling easier—for everyone.
Today also happens to be the anniversary of two events that occurred during my lifetime. One is one the greatest aviation mysteries of all time: the disappearance of Malaysia Flight 370 ten years ago. Such an incident would have caused consternation in any time, but have become much rarer over time.
While that tragedy may not seem to have much in common with bicycles or bicycling, the other event is somewhat more related. On this date in 1971,”the fight of the century” took place between Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali. Joe won that bout, but Ali would win two rematches.
To this day, I can’t recall another sporting event-and very few events of any kind-that were preceded by as much anticipation and hype. I’m no boxing expert, but I doubt that there has ever been a title match between two opponents so equally matched in talent and skill but so different in style. Also, Ali had been stripped of his titles—and his boxing licenses—for three years because of his refusal to register for the military draft that could have forced him to serve in the Vietnam War.
So why is “The Fight” worthy of mention on this blog? Well, as I mentioned in a previous post, a boy named Cassius Clay might never have grown up to become Muhammad Ali, “The Greatest,” had his bicycle not been stolen. In recounting his loss to á police sergeant, he vowed to “whup” the thief. The sergeant, who just happened to train boxers on the side, admonished young Clay that he should learn how to fight first.
So..did you ever expect to see Susan B. Anthony and Muhammad Ali mentioned in the same post—much less one that includes Malaysia Airlines Flight 370?
One week ago, I noted the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln—and Charles Darwin.
When I was a child, Lincoln’s and George Washington’s birthdays were commemorated with their own holidays on the 12th and 22nd of February, respectively. Some time in my early puberty—when the deluge began!—that tradition ended in favor of the generic Presidents’ Day, on the third Monday of February: today.
OK, now I’m going to get political on you, dear reader. On one hand, I’m offended that this holiday, in essence, elevates Donald Trump to the same plane as Washington, Lincoln and Franklin D. Roosevelt. On the other hand, it’s part of the reason why February is Black History Month, which I wholeheartedly support. Originally, there was a Black History Week that included Lincoln’s Birthday. When Abe lost his own billing, the commemoration of a long-deleted part of this country’s heritage was expanded into the month.
Anyway, in an earlier post, I mentioned that during the late 19th Century Bike Boom, Washington’s Birthday was Bicycle Day. Dealers and manufacturers debuted new models and offered special deals, often accompanied by a lavish party. Bicycle Day morphed into Auto Day, which became part of the current Presidents’ Day.
When Washington’s Birthday was Bicycle Day, electoral campaign images often included bicycles, sometimes with the candidates riding them.
The “bad” government on the left (!) was that of Democrat (!) Grover Cleveland; the “good” on the right was the prospective administration of William McKinley.
So, since I broke a promise I never made to never discuss politics, I will mention one of my beefs with McKinley: His administration included the lynching of, I mean war against, Spain, which was predicted on a lie. (Sound familiar?) The spoils, if you will, for the US included Puerto Rico, Cuba, Guam and the Philippines (which, ironically, gained its “independence” from the US on the 4th of July, in 1946). Some historians argue that the war also made the invasion, I mean annexation, of Hawai’i possible.
Although I believe he would be on the right side of just about any cause you can think of, I try not to speculate too much because, well, we can’t know for sure. For example, many in the LGBTQ community, and our allies, have made him into one of our would-be advocates. I think he would have spoken up for us, but he would have joined with us slowly and carefully, as he did when he voiced his opposition to the Vietnam War. He was, after all, a pastor in a church that included many socially conservative congregants and clerics. Even many of his more secular political allies saw homosexuality, let alone any sort of gender variance as a pathology or even a form of criminality.
I have little doubt, however, that he would have endorsed, or at least approved of, bicycling for transportation as well as recreation. After all, he was known to ride—and he looked happy on his bike. But more important, I believe, was his growing awareness that he was working for economic justice. (This is a reason why some believe that he might have joined forces with Malcolm X had they not been assassinated.)
He probably would have seen the bicycle as a vehicle, if you will, for achieving those goals. Not only are bicycles relatively inexpensive and accessible, they help to reduce the environmental ills that disproportionately affect people of color and with low incomes. Also, cycling, like other forms of exercise, helps to combat diseases that—wait for it—also afflict the poor and people of color.
Hmm…Perhaps Transportation Alternatives and other cycling-related organizations should have a portrait of Martin hanging in their headquarters.
I hesitated to write this post. But even if what I say seems irrelevant or simply wrong, I have to say it.
As you’ve heard by now, sixty years ago today, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.
I was a very, very young child that day. My memories of that time are not of the event itself, but of people expressing grief or—to use a word that I wouldn’t learn until many years later. Even in Brooklyn, where I lived at the time, there were people who hated Kennedy as much as any Klan member, and for the same reasons.
I would say, though, that grief or, at least, shock. He was the first Roman Catholic to become President, and most of the people in my neighborhood shared his faith or, at least, attended the same kinds of churches. Most of the non-Catholics in our community were Jewish—working-class, like us—and felt as much as we did that JFK “belonged” to them.
I’ll spare you all of the hackneyed rhetoric about the youthfulness and optimism he radiated. And I won’t insult your intelligence by repeating that oft-echoed canard that the nation “lost its innocence” that day. This nation was never innocent; nor was any other, ever.
And for all that he accomplished, his re-election in 1964 probably wouldn’t have been a “slam-dunk.” People referred to the states south of the Mason-Dixon Line as the “Solid South:” Democrats had won most elections, from those for Congress and governors’ mansion all the way down to dog-catcher, for the century that had elapsed since the Civil War. But the “Dixiecrats” had completely different ideas about race relations and other issues from those of Democrats like Kennedy and Franklin D. Roosevelt. They, however, needed Dixiecrats’ support not only to win elections, but also to pass legislation.
It almost goes without saying that if JFK had lived and won the next election, we would be living in a very different—and, I believe, better—country. For one thing, it would be easier (though not easy; it never is) to be non-White, non-male, non-heterosexual non-cisgender and non-wealthy. I think legislation intended to guarantee the rights of people I’ve mentioned (who include me) would have passed sooner and wouldn’t have been weakened.
I also think we’d be in a “greener” country. JFK was the first President since pre-war JFK whose guiding principles included environmental consciousness. Most of his efforts focused on coastal landscapes because those were most familiar to him as someone who sailed from Cape Cod. But I believe that his consciousness about the natural world would have expanded—which would have helped to foster an environment that encouraged research and development of cleaner energy sources—at least in part because of his friendship with Rachel Carlson.
Who knows? If Kennedy had lived and served longer, the bicycle might be seen as a mode of transportation and not a toy for kids-or adults. Might we have more and better bike lanes? Would my hometown of New York be the new New Amsterdam?
That last title is fitting. It should be a day to remember—the living as well as those who are gone.
As I once told my brother, I have become more pro-veteran as I have become more anti-war. Whether they volunteered or were conscripted, anyone who serves should never want for anything—including mental health care—again.
And I believe in honoring them in other ways—which can include taking a ride for a veteran who can’t. That’s what I’m about to do.
After a great weekend of cycling, I had a busy and somewhat tumultuous couple of days. They weren't bad: I just didn't have any time for anything besides work, some business I had to attend to (more about that later) and, of course, cycling to it.
Today I will once again invoke my Howard Cosell Rule and write a post that's not about bicycles or bicycling. Well, I'll briefly mention some of my riding but it will hardly be the focus of this post.
Instead, I want to talk about this date--9 November--which, as it turns out, is one of the most momentous and tumultuous in history, particularly that of the 20th Century.
I'll lead off with the event that touches, if indirectly, on my cycling. Some of my most memorable rides took me through the countryside and among the temples of Cambodia. Seventy years ago today, the home of the Khmers and one of the world's greatest human-made structures gained its independence from France, the country that colonized it along with neighboring Laos and Vietnam.
Now, if you ever wanted proof that correlation does not equal causation (or, more precisely, that coincidence does not equal correlation or causation), consider this: On that very same day, in 1953, Dylan Thomas ("Do not go gentle into that good night...") died in St. Vincent's Hospital, in the heart of Greenwich Village. He had turned 39 years old a couple of weeks earlier and, as with any artist who dies young, legends and rumors grew around him. One I often heard--but for which I could find no corroboration--was that he "drank himself to death in the White Horse Tavern." Though he was a heavy drinker, he didn't suffer from cirrhosis of the liver. He did, however, suffer from respiratory ailments and, a week before he died, a heavy smog that would kill 200 people enveloped New York.
This date also witnessed two of the most important events in 20th-Century Germany. They both involved breaking things down, but nearly everyone saw one of those events as triumphant while the other would become a harbinger of one of the human race's worst tragedies.
Joy, at least for a time, came for many people in 1989 when, on this date, the Berlin Wall was opened. So, for the first time since the city's (and country's) partition by the US, Britain and France on the western side and the Soviet Union in the east. Soon after, people who lived on both sides, and tourists, hacked away at the Wall for souvenirs. Contrary to another rumor you may have heard, this event didn't inspire Pink Floyd's "The Wall," which preceded it by a decade.
But in contrast to those who gleefully broke those bricks away, the folks who shattered glass along the streets of Berlin, Vienna and other German and Austrian cities--on this date, in 1938--were angry, vengeful and hateful, stoked by a demagogic autocrat. (Sound familiar?) While Kristallnacht, the "night of shattered glass" may not have been the opening salvo of World War II (I believe Japan's invasion of Manchuria, seven years earlier, was, but what do I know?) it almost certainly was, if not the beginning of the Holocaust, then its signal bell. The kristall came from windows of Jewish-owned and -operated shops, and that night, 91 Jews were murdered, about 30,000 were arrested and more than 200 synagogues were destroyed.
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| Olivia Hooker |
I invoke my Howard Cosell Rule to discuss important historical events and people because I have come to understand, at least somewhat, how necessary it is to commemorate them. There are very few remaining witnesses to Kristallnacht, just as there were only a handful of living people who experienced the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921 when I wrote an article about it. That piece's publication on Huffington Post brought me into contact with one of those survivors: Olivia Hooker, who saw the bombings, shootings and destruction as a little girl. She was 101 years old when that article appeared and we corresponded until her death two years later.
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| Eve Kugler |
I cannot pretend that I understand, let alone feel, what she or Eve Kugler, who was seven years old on that awful night when those windows were shattered “in the land of Mozart” have carried with them through the rest of their lives and, in the case of Olivia Hooker, whatever came after. But Elie Wiesel has written that when we listen to witnesses, we become witnesses. Perhaps that is the best I can do--and why I am invoking my Howard Cosell rule.
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.)
There are moments that change history. Everyone knows some of them; others, we think we know. Then there are the ones that, while documented, are forgotten even though their significance is both deep and broad.
We've all heard the story of how Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to the Castle Church door in Wittenberg, Germany five centuries ago. While almost no one doubts he actually wrote the theses--and he sent copies of them to church and political officials--the story about him hanging them on a church door is in doubt.
On the other hand, there is a video of an unknown taxi driver who, perhaps unwittingly, launched the movements for sustainable transportation and economies--and the backlash against them that has launched a culture war between drivers and cyclists, among other people.
In 1972, the unnamed livery driver was incensed that his "right" to drive wherever he wanted was "taken" from him by city officials who had the temerity to close off a street. Why would such overbearing functionaries arrogate unto themselves the authority to keep someone like him from driving down a thoroughfare paid for with his taxes?
Well, if the answer is that the driver in this story paid a larger share of his income in taxes than his counterparts in other places, it would be almost understandable. Somehow, though, I don't think that he was preoccupied with that fact. Like many drivers, he simply wanted to take the shortest, most direct and convenient, route to wherever he was going. If he were being paid per-trip rather than per-hour, his frustration would have been a bit more understandable, if not justifiable.
But I think he simply was impatient in the ways drivers often are: I guess it can be frustrating to have something that can get you somewhere quickly and with minimal effort, only to be stalled by something, animate or not, that doesn't "belong" in the roadway.
That something, in the driver's way was a set of barricades. Their purpose? To designate a "children's only" street.
Perhaps it had something to do with having children--perhaps the ones who would have been on that street--that led citizens of that city to denounce the driver and push for safer streets for pedestrians, cyclists and other non-motorized travelers.
That city was Amsterdam which, in 1972, was as choked with auto traffic as many other European capitals. Now, of course, it's known as one of the world's most bike- and pedestrian-friendly cities, and has led the way--along with cities like Copenhagen--in developing walkable, cycleable city centers.
That taxi driver may never be as famous for pulling down barricades as Martin Luther was for (allegedly) hanging up what might have been the world's first viral message. He did, however, ignite a culture war that has been largely won by those he fought against. Such a story gives me hope because in more car-centric places, the reactionaries (who abound in, but are not limited to, conservative political factions) are riling up their constituents against an imagined "war on cars" from the borough of Queens, NYC (where I live) to Queenborough, UK and Queensland, Australia.
We are a nation of drivers.
— Rishi Sunak (@RishiSunak) September 30, 2023
Most of us use a car every day and, for many, life would be difficult without their car.
But too often, drivers feel under attack.
That changes today with a long-term plan to improve drivers' experience on the road.
Here’s how 👇🧵 pic.twitter.com/yJvotPyyYy
Those would-be defenders of the diesel tend to be older, while those who don't want to spend three hours of their day driving to work and parking tend to be younger, in chronology and, like yours truly, in spirit---even if I am in, ahem, midlife!
Believe or not, bicycle manufacturers were major, or at least significant, employers in the US until World War II.
I’m not talking only about Schwinn. A few years ago, I wrote about the Shelby Bicycle Company, which took its name from the Ohio community in which it was based.
Another example of such a relationship between a town and a bike-maker is that of Emblem Bicycles and Angola, a New York Stare village 3.3 kilometers (2 miles) from Lake Erie and 50 kilometers (22 miles) from downtown Buffalo.
Unless you are even deeper than I am into pre-War bikes, you probably haven’t heard of Emblem bicycles. Apparently, they began making bikes during the first Bike Boom in the late 19th Century and continued until the eve of World War II. During the 1910s, Emblwm, like some other bike-makers, began to make motorcycles, which hadn’t evolved into their own category. As a matter of fact, Emblem, like other fabricators of two-wheeled vehicles, were identified—and identified by the public—as a bicycle company even when their production of motorized bikes exceeded that of traditional pedaled bicycles.
So, yesterday, when a fire burned in the historical building that the company called home, local media reports identified it as the “historic Emblem Bicycle building “—even though Emblem bicycles haven’t been made there, or anywhere, in about 80 years.
Two dozen fire companies fought and contained the blaze. Fortunately, no one was hurt.
The other day, before I wrote my 9/11 commemorative piece, I took a ride: a ramble through Queens and Brooklyn on Tosca, my Mercian fixed-gear.
My ride included some familiar streets and sights. But I also took in some streets--or, more precisely, segments of them--I hadn't ridden before.
One of those thoroughfares, Carroll Street, spans the breadth of Brooklyn in two sections. The first begins at Hoyt Street, near the borough's downtown hub and cuts through the brownstone neighborhoods of Carroll Gardens and Park Slope on its way to Prospect Park. On the other side of the Park, Carroll continues along through neighborhoods less known to tourists: Prospect-Lefferts Gardens, Crown Heights and Ocean Hill-Brownsville. It was along that second section, in Crown Heights, that I chanced upon these houses:
They combine the brownstone facades one sees on the other side of the park with Victorian-style cornices--and rounded, almost turret-like fronts I've seen only in Ridgewood and a couple of other Queens neighborhoods. That block of Carroll--between Kingston and Albany Avenues--lies in the heart of the Hasidic neighborhood of the Heights.
After I took the photos, I walked Tosca (Carroll is a one-way street) to check out a store where I didn't think I'd buy anything but I wanted to see because it's unlike any in my neighborhood of Astoria, or in most other places.
Turns out, the place moved around the corner, to Kingston Avenue. I peeked in; the young man working in it knew full well that I wasn't from the community and therefore wouldn't buy the mezuzahs (Star of David medallions found on the doorways of homes), prayer shawls or other items ultra-Orthodox Jews use in their daily lives and worship. But he didn't seem to mind my being there and we exchanged greetings of "shalom" on my way in and out.
As I turned to my left, I noticed an alleyway in the middle of the block.
The first painting, closest to the street, seems like a conventional representation of a Torah lesson--until you look closely. But the sky-blue background gives the scene an almost ethereal feel and the rabbi's expression makes him seem, simultaneously, like a relative and an ancestor, as if the kids might be in a room with him or that he might have come to them in a dream or vision.
To their left were two other murals. Is the girl--woman?--in awe or fear? I couldn't help but to think about Edvard Munch's "The Scream"--which, I'm sure, the artist intended. But is it a scream of ecstasy or terror, or something else? I might've asked the same questions about the man in the other mural which, of course, evokes Van Gogh's "Starry Night."
Even though the compositions echo (pun intended) Munch and Van Gogh, I felt that the artist's real inspiration may have been one of the greatest Jewish modern artists: Marc Chagall. At least, the colors--themselves and the way they play off, with and against each other--reminded me of his paintings and the stained-glass windows he created for the cathedral of Reims, France, to replace the ones blown out during World War II. In fact, in walking past the murals with Tosca, I felt as if I were in an open-air temple or synagogue.
On the other side of Kingston is another alley, with this portrait by the same artist:
I thought it was interesting how that artist used blue differently from the way it's used in the painting of the Torah lesson. Here, it makes the man--whom I assume to be, if not a rabbi, then at least some sort of elder in the community.
It never ceases to amaze me how taking a random turn during a ride in my city can take me on a journey!
One of my early posts discussed Beryl Burton.
She was one of the dominant competitive cyclists of her time. Not one of the dominant female cyclists, mind you: one of the dominant cyclists.
Whether or not she could beat most male cyclists of her time wasn't a matter of speculation: It was a settled answer. Among other things, for two years in the late 1960's, she held the distance record for twelve hours. Mind you, she didn't beat the old record by a few yards: Her 277.25 miles was five miles more than any other cyclist, male or female, had ridden over that amount of time.
I am mentioning her in relation to something that only indirectly relates to cycling or, more precisely, women's cycling. When the US Women's National Team in soccer (football to the rest of the world) won the World Cup in 2015 and 2019, some wondered whether they could beat most men's squads. That question seemed especially relevant given that the team's star, Megan Rapinoe, grew up playing on boys' teams against other boys’ teams.
This year, the team won its group. Last week, however, for the first time in the history of the tournament, the US Team lost in the Round of 16. While self-styled "patriots" like the ones at Faux, I mean Fox, News and Donald Trump are using the occasion to display their prejudice against women, LGBTQ people and "wokeness," the question remains of whether that team, at its peak, could play against the US men, who haven't had nearly as much success internationally. Some also wonder whether teams like Sweden's, Japan's and perhaps those of England, France or the Netherlands might be as good as, or better than many men's teams.
Well, such a question is not new. In fact, another women's team answered it a century ago.
During World War I, large numbers of British men--many of whom just happened to play football--went off to fight. That meant women kept guns, locomotives and other machinery running--and rolling off factory lines. (Think of them as forerunners of "Rosie the Riveter" in World War II USA.) During their lunch and tea breaks, some of those women played pickup games in the factories’ lots.
Some of them became quite good--enough to beat young male apprentices. Such was the case of the women who worked in the Dick, Kerr and Company factory in the northwestern city of Preston, which had a well-regarded men's professional team. An office administrator, Alfred Frankland, recognizing their talents and skills, organized them into a team that played exhibitions to raise money for injured servicemembers.
Soon, spectators weren't showing up only out of curiosity: If nothing else, English fans know when they're seeing good football. They filled venues like Old Trafford (home of Manchester United), Liverpool's Goodison Park (Everton) and London's Stamford Bridge (Chelsea). They beat not only local factory and semi-professional teams, they also took matches from France's national squad during an international tournament in 1920.
Whatever the English fans thought of those women, the sport's governing authorities were not amused. The following year, the Football Association banned its members from allowing women's teams to use their fields. Their stated reason: "[T]he game of football is quite unsuitable for females and should not be encouraged." Some have speculated that the F.A. feared that the popularity of teams like Dick, Kerr and Company would eat away at the attendance--and profits--of men's teams.
The Dick, Kerr women, undeterred, went on tour--to North America. Upon arrival in Canada, that country also barred them from playing. The United States--which was experiencing a brief soccer boom (only baseball, bicycle racing and boxing were more popular) proved more receptive, though there were no organized women's teams. So they played nine games against men's teams of the professional American Soccer League (yes, such a thing existed!). winning three, losing three and playing to three draws.
While public reception of them was generally favorable, some newspaper coverage reflected stereotypes of the time: One account referred to them as "brawny Amazons" and another was accompanied by ads for corsets, skin cream and dishwashing soap. Perhaps the worst indignity was this: The money their games raised was used to cover the expenses of sending the US men's soccer team to the 1924 Olympics in Paris.
But, through such difficulties, the women continued to play, renaming themselves the Preston Ladies in 1926. The F.A. finally lifted its ban in 1971--some six years after the Ladies played their last game.
In the team's history, they compiled a record that I doubt any other team--male, female or otherwise--could boast: They lost only 24 of the 828 matches they played. Perhaps most impressive of all was a record set by the team's best-known player. Lily Parr, a 6 foot chain-smoker "with a kick like a mule" netted 43 goals in her first season. When she retired three decades later, in 1951, she was believed to have scored 900--many more than any other English soccer player of any gender identity. In 2002, she would also become the only female player enshrined in the English Football Hall of Fame's inaugural class.
After a perfect summer weekend, another heat wave has swept over this city.
Now, those of you who live in places like western Texas or southern Arizona might chuckle when folks like me complain about the heat in New York. I’ll concede that we don’t know (at least not yet) what it’s like when your nighttime temperatures are like ours in the afternoon. But our hot days come with humidity that turn our streets into saunas.
Anyway, knowing that we are heading for The Nineties (in Fahrenheit temperature and humidity), I went for a morning ride that took me back and forth between Queens and Brooklyn.
Street destruction (Why do they call it construction?) detoured me onto Hewes Street, one of the narrow, warrenlike thoroughfares in the part of this city that most closely resembles a pre-war stetl: the Hasidic part of Williamsburg, where it borders Bushwick.
One way you know a neighborhood is changing: You see “ghosts.” I can’t help but to imagine the lives that filled and voices that echo walls of bubbling, flaking bricks and shingles. But I also notice another kind of “ghost”: a long-concealed sign or banner from a business that served as past residents whom current residents will never know.
“Ghost” signs like the one I saw today on Hewes Street have led me down a rabbit hole or two. What kinds of “beauty preparations” did Nutrine make or sell? Who used them, and what image of “beauty” were they trying to achieve.
That image, I imagine, might have burned as brightly and hazily as a heat-wave afternoon in the imaginations of those in whom it was inculcated it—and those who inculcated it.
