Annis Horribilis Or An Opportunity?

Queen Elizabeth II (How often have I referred to her in this blog?) referred to 1992 as an annis horribilis.  Her Majesty likes to project an image of someone not given to hyperbole, so perhaps she was just trying to show her former tutors that she still remembered some of the Latin they taught her.

Now, to be fair, I would think it was a pretty bad year if a fire destroyed part of my house.  And I wouldn't look back too fondly on a year in which one of my relatives, however distant, committed suicide.  But the other "tragedies," which include divorces, infidelities and the like were merely instances of Royal Family members showing that, well, maybe they're not so different from the rest of us.

In comparison, many people--and large parts of the world--suffered real tragedies, mainly as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic, but also because of natural disasters and other disruptions to what was considered "normal."

One can hope that the coming year will be better.  For one thing, Donald Trump lost his bid for a second presidential term.  For another, vaccines against COVID-19 are making their way into the world.  

What really gives me hope, however, is the knowledge that tragedies and disasters are opportunities to learn, and there are always resilient people. (Meeting Cambodians who survived the Pol Pot regime and Greeks who have come through wars, invasions and economic crises taught me much about both.)  One example of resilience includes the people who got on their bikes during the pandemic, when mass transit systems shut down or cut back their services and other forms of recreation weren't available.  I hope that the new "bike boom" shows planners, policy-makers as well as ordinary citizens that the future need not (actually, can't) be as auto- and fossil fuel-centric as the past century or so have been.  

If nothing else, I hope this year helps us to learn that we must--and, I believe, can and will--learn and change.

Roy Wallack R.I.P.

One more day!  

That's what remains, after today, of 2020.  For many of us, this year can't end quickly enough.  In addition to the pandemic, natural disasters and all of the other awful events of the world, it seems that so many people (at least of the ones I know) have suffered some tragedies, disasters or setbacks of one kind or another. Or we had plain and simple bad luck:  After nearly half of century of cycling with no serious accidents (a wrecked bike and a few minor injuries), I was--in little more than three months' time--face-planted  and doored.

The face-plant left me with head trauma that, fortunately, didn't result in permanent damage.  I wish I could say the same for Arielle, the bike that started my Mercian obsession.  The dooring didn't do much harm to Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, but left me with a whole bunch of stitches, a strained muscle and sprained knee.  I'm just starting to get my energy back.

Roy Wallack (right) with Gordon Wright during the 2008 TransRockies Run.

Things could have been worse, though.  On Saturday the 19th, Roy Wallack rode his mountain bike down a steep trail near Malibu, California. He took a fall--no one is sure of how or why, but friends who were riding with him say that it might have been caused by a medical issue.  Whatever the circumstance, the fall resulted in Roy's head hitting a large rock.  

His friends, an EMT and cardiologists who happened upon the scene performed CPR on him until a helicopter arrived.  The rescuers' attempts to save him were for naught.

A terrible irony of that crash is that Wallack hired a personal trainer for his father who "has no disabilities and comes from a long line of centenarians" but whose "problem" was "obvious":  the Easy Boy chair he "hadn't left.. in 30 years (except for Costco and cleaning up in the yard after the dogs)."  The trainer called Wallach's 90-year-old father to urge him onto the treadmill as he's been housebound by COVID-19.

Roy, who intended to ride, run, swim and participate in other outdoor adventures on his way to becoming the latest in his family's line of centenarians, only made it to 64 years old.  But his time was certainly a journey:  While he didn't have the archetypal body of a cyclist or runner, he pedaled Paris-Brest-Paris and many other rides, ran marathons and participated in all manner of outdoor sports, sometimes competitively but more often for the adventure. 

That is what made his writing--for publications such as Bicycling, Runners' World, Bicycle Guide and Outside; and in his books and the Los Angeles Times' Outdoor section--so engaging.  He wrote the way he approached cycling, running and other outdoor activities:  as an adventurer and enthusiast rather than as a "jock." He rarely wore lycra; in the baggy shorts he usually wore, wannabe racers might have seen him as a "Fred."  To me, though, he embodied and expressed the essence of what makes cycling, running, hiking and other outdoor sports lifetime activities rather than games that can be experienced only as a spectator after one reaches a certain age.

Where They Bike More

 Would you bike more in Baltimore?

I would, if I ever get to "Charm City" again--especially after seeing this:

The folks at Bikemore are offering it.  What could possibly be a better name for a bicycle advocacy organization?

I wonder, though, whether they pronounce it as Bike-a-more?

Which Side Of The Gate?

 We are passing out of this year.  I don’t know many people who are sad to be leaving it, even with all of the uncertainty that lies ahead.

I know there are three more days left in this year after today.  Somehow, though, yesterday—the last Sunday of the year—felt more like the denouement.  In a normal year, not much happens during the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day.  Then again, what has been “normal” this year?

I thought about all of this while riding along the North Shore yesterday.  The funny thing is that I didn’t stop until near the end of my ride.  But I think you can see why I paused in Astoria Park, only a kilometer and a half from my apartment.

As I’ve mentioned in other posts, this bridge is called the Hell Gate Bridge, after the stretch of the (misnamed) East River it spans.

If that is indeed the Gate of Hell, which side of it are we on?

What Should They Be Trained To Do?

 Thirteen is a difficult age for almost anyone.  The body is going through all sorts of changes, so everyone and everything in the world seems capricious, unjust and even cruel.  Sometimes the anger you may have  felt at that age was justified, especially when you're mocked, bullied or punished for, well, being thirteen years old.

My family had recently moved. (I forgave my parents for that when I turned 40. ;-)) As if everything else I was experiencing weren't enough, that Christmas a recording that's still a hazard to my mental health polluted and smothered the airwaves.  Like many other people, I got a kick out of the novelty of dogs barking "Jingle Bells"  for about the first 15 seconds it played.

A few days ago, when I was running some errands, a store was blaring the barking monstrosity in the street.  I might get it out of my ear by Groundhog Day. Aargh!

These days, I own two Christmas CDs: Celine Dion's "These Are Special Times", which my mother gave me the year it came out, and an album of the late, great Jessye Norman's concert with the Orchestre de Lyon in the Notre Dame cathedral.  Other CDs of mine include a Christmas song or two, like John Lennon's "War Is Over."  But if anyone gave me a disc of the Singing Dogs, I'd use it for a coaster or frisbee.  Whoever made and promoted that recording should be indicted for animal abuse!

On the other hand, I want to applaud whoever created this image:

You can buy a print of this on Etsy 

Un-Boxing Day

Today is Boxing Day.  The United States is probably the only English-speaking country that doesn't celebrate it.

According to which accounts you believe, this day originated as a day to give gifts to the poor--or when upper class families boxed up gifts and food for their cooks, servants and other employees, who were sent home (with boxes) to spend time with their families after working on the holiday.

Either story leads me to this question:  How many bicycles are boxed on Boxing Day?

 

From The Washing Machine Post

One blogger documented his un-Boxing Day.  I don't know what day the blogger's Cielo bicycle arrived, but  I'm sure that un-boxing it was at least as eventful for that person as boxing cookies, cakes, leftovers or gifts was for the people who gave them to their help, or to the anonymous poor. 

Cheer

 This is 2020.  So I'm not going to say "Merry Christmas."  Instead, I am going to express the hope that this day--whether or not you celebrate it as a holiday--is as fulfilling or simply restful as you want or need it to be.

That said, I am going to express gratitude for those who gave in great and small ways--from hospital workers, teachers, grocery store clerks and others on the front lines to those who simply bring some joy to what has been a g

Those people include the folks at 21-29 25th Road, just four blocks from my apartment in Astoria:

25th Road is a narrow street and when I rode by it, on Sunday, snow was piled along its sides.  That made it difficult to get panoramic shots--so I apologize for the quality of these images.

A Ride Through Time Before Christmas Eve

 Yesterday, after finishing everything I needed to--and could--get done before the holidays, I went for a much-needed ride.

Why do I need a ride?  Well, for one thing, I'm a lifelong bike rider.  The only other things besides basic bodily functions that I feel I "need" are reading, writing and occasional travel.

Also, even though I know I've done the things that needed to be done, I felt a tinge of guilt that I probably won't get much, if anything, done betwee now and the fourth day of the new year. (New Year's Day, like Christmas, will fall on a Friday.)  But I reminded myself of Congress*, so I don't feel so slothful.

Anyway, I pedaled down to Rockaway Beach, Riis Park and Coney Island.  I saw the sun preparing for its descent in Rockaway:

and exiting in a blaze of glory at Riis Park:

Just as captivating, to me, as the refulgent spectacle were the shifting cloud formations.  I felt as if time were a scrim drifting across the sky and tracing its face on waves of the sea.

By the time I reached Coney Island, the sky and sea were dark.  I didn't take photos because--silly me--I forgot to charge my phone before I went for a ride and it was all but depleted by the time I got to what might be the world's most famous boardwalk.  More people than I'd anticipated were taking walks and rides, men were fishing off the pier and some Puerto Ricans played some traditional music from the islands on their guitars and drums.

There weren't, however, many people on the Verrazano-Narrows promenade, which passes underneath the bridge.  Most of them were fishing.  I think that most of the fishermen I saw were Latinos and their catch might make up their families' Christmas Eve dinners--which, for Catholics includes fish. 

My family ate whatever fish my uncles caught--or, in later years, what looked good to my mother at the market-- and scungilli: deep-fried rings of squid. That memory, sparked by those fishermen, loped through my mind as I continued through Brooklyn on my way home. 

Those memories, like time, drift through my mind like that scrim of time between the sea and sky.

*--Congress took--how long?--to pass a second coronavirus relief bill.  They didn't accomplish much. The President and his buddies, on the other hand, did a lot--none of it to mitigate the COVID crisis and all of it malignant! (That' not an editorial comment:  It's a fact!)

From A Blocked Path To Latimer's House And Gatsby's Shore

Sometimes art imitates life...

and journalism really conveys what's going on in the world

or your bike ride.

The Post article I referenced in yesterday's post talked about bike lanes that hadn't been plowed. Sure enough, I encountered one. 

What's worse, though, than finding an impassable path (Is that an oxymoron?) is to ride the path for, say, a kilometer or two before it tells you, "Vous ne passerez pas!"

At least I am accustomed enough to riding on streets--and familiar enough with the street in question (20th Avenue, Astoria) that switching over to the roadway felt like a return to normalcy. (Yes, such a thing is actually possible in 2020!)  Even finding snow piled between the parking and traffic lane--which, of course, gives you no room to maneuver--was a return to the status quo of winter riding as I've known it.

All right, I'll stop complaining.  Although the afternoon was the warmest we've had in nearly a week, it was still raw, with overcast skies and damp air.  I actually like riding in such conditions, just as I enjoy riding along the sea through chilly winds, under gray skies:  Few people are out; there is just me, my bike and my ride.

Even after so many years of riding in this city, there are still streets I've rarely or never seen.  I ventured down one, near the Whitestone Bridge and chanced upon this:

I'd heard of  Lewis Latimer  and knew something of his work with Thomas Edison, but I didn't realize he lived in the neighborhood.  It's too bad the house was closed, probably because of COVID.  But I'll return one day.  While people normally associate African American New Yorkers with Harlem and Bedford-Stuyvesant, there have been many others who, like    (and Malcolm X, John Coltrane and Duke Ellington) who lived in Queens.

Some may have even spent time

in Fort Totten Park was, until the 1980s, an active Army base.  Today, parts of it are used for Army Reserve, NYPD and NYFD training, but the rest is a park.

Its part of Queens--Bayside--is near the western end of Long Island's North Shore:  Gatsby country.  If you had one of those terrible English teachers who beat the symbolism of the green light to death, I apologize.  Such a teacher might've taught you that the novel is about the desire to reinvent one's self--and the question of whether or not such a thing is truly possible.  Or, perhaps, you realized as much yourself.  More than a few writers and scholars have argued that raising such a question makes it the "quintessential American novel."

Perhaps it is, but for a different reason.  When I re-read the novel a few years ago, I couldn't help but to feel that it was conveying a profound loneliness. Nick Caraway, the narrator, expresses it, intentionally or not.  Jay Gatsby, the title character, embodies it; other characters are enacting it--unconsciously, I believe.

Perhaps this is the light they were following, even if they were looking for another kind:

Me, that light suits me fine.  At least, it feels about right, for this day, for the times we've been living--and I rode--through. 

 

Has The Blizzard Thawed Their Attitude Toward Cyclists?

The New York Post is not the most cyclist-friendly publication.  So, naturally, I paid attention when they published an relatively neutral, or even somewhat bike-positive, article.

Even the title, while in true Post style, doesn't elicit hostility:  "NYC blizzard freezes out cyclists due to snow-covered bike lanes."

Better yet, the article pointed out that cycling is an important means of transportation because many of us in the Big Apple don't own cars--or even driver's licenses.  And its popularity has skyrocketed during the COVID pandemic because the subways and buses are running on more limited schedules and some of us, whether because we have underlying conditions or simply are conscious (some might say paranoid) about our health, don't feel it's safe to use mass transit.

Photo by Gregory P. Mango

The problem is that most bike lanes run alongside curbs.  That makes it all too easy for snow shoveled from sidewalks or plowed off streets to be dumped into the lanes.  Also, it seems that clearing the lanes is simply not high on the city's list of priorities. Perhaps those in charge still see cycling as mainly a recreational activity.