Where Are You Most Likely To Lose Your Bike?

 Perhaps no-one would be surprised to learn that, according to the FBI, more bicycles are stolen in California than in any other US state. After all, it is the most populous state and has many active cycling communities.

It probably wouldn’t surprise many people to learn that my home state of New York, with the fourth-largest population, ranks fifth in total bike thefts.

On a per-100,000 people basis, however, neither the Golden nor Empire State is at or near the top. The District of Columbia leads that ignominious list, with 246 thefts per 100,000. The US capital’s rate is nearly double that of the highest state, Oregon, where 128 bikes are pilfered per 100,000 people.

(For reference, the US average is 44 per 100,000.)

Photo by KMGH

Those facts may not be so shocking, given the population density of DC and the bicycle culture in such Beaver State cities as Portland. 

Perhaps the most surprising fact is that Vermont, Montana and Utah—states with lower crime rates than the US average—rank fourth, fifth and eighth*—respectively, in per-100,000 bike thefts.

The Green Mountain and Treasure States’ fourth- and fifth-place rankings might be explained in part by their small populations: a relatively low number of thefts can skew the averages upwards. I have never been to Montana or Utah, but my guess is that they share some other characteristics with Vermont: a significant portion of their populations participate in outdoor activities, including cycling, and, perhaps, a sense of calm that causes people to let their guard down.

Perhaps Kryptonite should re-name their New York bike locks.

*—The District of Columbia (Washington DC) is ranked as a state for this purpose.

He’s Not The Only Culprit

 Eight months ago, Bekim Fiseku struck Amanda Servedio and killed her.

I took that tragedy personally in part because she was cycling near a Queens intersection—37th Street at 34th Avenue—I rode, probably, hundreds of times when I lived in Astoria.

And I was enraged because Fiseku was fleeing the scene of a crime—his—with officers of the 114th Precinct in pursuit. Chases of that sort are forbidden in New York City for the hazards they pose on narrow streets like 37th and 34th Avenue.

Bekim Fesiku

Not to minimize his misdeed, but the cops’ violation of city law is all the more disturbing when one considers Fiseku’s offense:  attempted  burglary from a nearby construction site.

As of yesterday, he faces charges for that—and second-degree murder as well as other crimes related to the death of Ms. Servedio and his fleeing (he blew through a solid red light.

I am glad that he has been arrested and charged and hope that he is punished to the fullest extent possible. On the other hand, I realize that he is not the only guilty party and that the NYPD officers who chased him for a comparatively minor offense may never be held to account.

Midlife Climbs

 It’s noon—and 94 degrees F (34.4C) already. I am glad I took an early morning ride to City Island and Orchard Beach after a cup of coffee and before breakfast!

It’s as if nature were reminding us that summer has indeed arrived. Tomorrow’s weather will be similar; I probably will do another early ride.

The weather is such a contrast to what we had a week ago, when I joked with a neighbor that we don’t have to go to London because its chilly mist drifted over to us. 

That day, and on two others last week, I headed for the hills. In Yonkers and other points north of the city, the peaks and escarpments aren’t very high, but the roads and paths leading to them can be steep—enough so that roadside signs tell drivers to shift gears.

I did all of those rides—and today’s—on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear.  At times I berated myself because I was climbing more slowly than in times past—like, say, when I was in my 20s and 30s. But people applauded and shouted encouragement—“You go, girl!”—and I kept on pedaling.  Tosca has always been a joy to ride, however strong or slow I might be.

Sam, my neighbor and sometime riding buddy, reminded me that other people in our building marvel at what I’m doing. “Well, I’m lucky,” I demurred. “I am not in as much pain as they—or you—are.”

His back has been bothering him. He doesn’t want to “hold me back,” but I remind him that I am riding because I can and want to—and I’m willing to “slow down “ for him and his girlfriend, who has expressed interest in riding with us.

So now a question enters my mind: Why am I willing to “wait for” them but not to meet myself at the stage of my life, and riding, where I find myself? I enjoyed every pedal stroke of the rides I took and felt joy at the end. So what if I couldn’t climb a hill as quickly as I did 40 or 30 or even 20 years ago? As long as I simply enjoy riding, whether solo or with others, why do I need to criticize myself—especially in ways I never would criticize anyone who wants to ride with me?

I am not “too old.” I am in midlife as long as I don’t know when or if I must stop riding. So, I believe, is anyone else who, at whatever age, slings a leg over a bike, for whatever reason. And at any speed.